He had been floating for a while now, drifting in and out of white fog and dark patches. Sometimes, he thought he heard voices, but he never was quite sure if there was really someone there or if it was only his imagination.

One time, he thought he recognized the voice that was speaking. Harry Potter, the 'Chosen One'. Drifting lazily through space, he thought with detached amusement that if the hereafter involved the voice of Harry Potter, God had a mighty peculiar sense of humor. But then, it probably meant he had been sent to the Other Place – a distinct possibility, given the way he had lived…

He strained to listen.

"So you are saying the git isn't guilty? I tell you, I was there. I know what I saw. That's just fact, Hermione."

"Well, we wouldn't want the truth to get in the way of your 'facts' now, would we?" the voice of a girl snapped back. "Talk to Scrimgeour. I'm sure you will be able to get an audience with him."

"Scrimgeour? What the hell has he got to do with anything?"

"Honestly, Harry, I don't have time now. It's still touch and go. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

The impatient voice of the girl faded as another patch of dark caught up with him.

*.*.*

Some time later, he became aware of the voice again, the girl's voice, trying to reach through the fog.

"Sir, can you hear me? Sir?"

Grimacing, he tried to focus.

"I think he is responding," he heard another voice, deeper, lower. "Try again."

"Sir? Professor Snape?"

Professor…that had been him, a long time ago, hadn't it? He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids wouldn't cooperate.

"Here, drink this, if you can." He felt something cold and hard against his lips. His mouth, he suddenly became aware, was dry, and he was quite thirsty. Yes, he wanted a drink. Simply trying to open his mouth took all his concentration. The hard thing tipped up, and then something was in his mouth. He grimaced, gagging on the bitter liquid.

"I know, it's terrible stuff, but it will make you better." There was sympathy in the voice, he noted with disjointed surprise before he drifted off again.

The next time he woke up, he came to the certain realization that he had not died. The vicious pain that pushed him to consciousness required a living, physical body, of that he was certain. A low moan escaped him, and then there was a cool hand on his forehead, and the voice of the girl muttering incantations. The pain lessened, and there was more bitter liquid, and a return to oblivion.

He could not have said how many times the cycle repeated, but over time, the lucid intervals increased until a moment came where he knew himself and his surrounding and knew that somehow, in spite of everything, he had survived. He opened his eyes warily, his eyelids still feeling heavy, and winced as the bright light made his head hurt.

"Professor." The voice of the girl. He groped around in murky memories. Miss…Granger. Yes. That was right.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. His tongue felt as if it was glued to the top of his mouth, his lips dry and cracked. Instantly, a hand slipped around his neck and lifted his head slightly, and at the same time, the rim of a glass touched against his lips. He grimaced.

"It's just water this time, Professor." The voice was soothing, quiet.

The cold water ran pleasantly down his parched throat, and he drank greedily. Even so, that small action had already exhausted his supply of strength, and he fell back on the pillow gratefully, closing his eyes against the light and his returning memory.

Why hadn't he died? He should by all means be dead now. He was only too aware of the extent of the injuries he had sustained. He had been so sure of certain death that he –

He flushed hot with the returning memory. He had shown her everything, memories that no one except Dumbledore had known about. Dumbledore, the wizard who had been the closest thing he had ever had to a father, the wizard he had killed, for whom he had lived the life of an outcast from that moment on. Who had trusted him, and whom he had trusted in return.

And now the girl knew. Not just the truth about what had happened, but why. About Lily. About the reason he had become Dumbledore's man. About Godric's Hollow.

Inwardly, he cursed his dying vanity. Why had he not been content to let the truth die with him? His damnable pride, intent on leaving behind even the smallest legacy, of wanting to ensure that at least one person knew - how he regretted that moment of weakness now.

"I think he might be running a temperature again," the voice – Miss Granger's voice – said, and he felt her hand on his forehead again. "I think I should…"

He didn't hear what exactly it was she thought she should do, as he, his strength exhausted, fell back into a deep sleep.

*.*.*

The next time he awoke, it was night. Or so he deduced from the fact that the lights in the room had been dimmed, and it was quiet on the ward. There was no window. He turned his head with difficulty, noticing that he was in a proper bed now, not the cot he had been dumped on originally. The cot was still in the room, however, and someone was sleeping on it, back turned to him.

Gingerly, he attempted to raise himself on his elbows. A stifled cry escaped him as sharp, knifelike pain shot through his chest and abdomen. Immediately, the someone on the cot got up and hurried over.

"You shouldn't try to do that yet," she said reproachfully, brushing bushy hair back from her face and eyes. "You have been quite ill, and you're still far from well." With practiced hands, she settled him back on the pillow.

"What are you doing here, Granger?" To his satisfaction, his voice, even though it was still rough and raspy, had obviously decided to cooperate this time around.

To his surprise she flushed. "I work here," she said, not meeting his eyes. "I am a Healer now."

"Is it customary for hospital staff to sleep in the patients' rooms now? How very touching." More likely that the Ministry had ordered him under constant surveillance.

She ignored his comment and put her hand on his forehead again. He turned his head away irritably, dislodging her hand in the process. "Well, it sure looks like you are feeling better," she said, a hint of amusement in her voice.

He looked at her with resentment. The smile on her face died away.

There was, then, a look of pity in her eyes that made his face burn again. He had, for just a moment, hoped that the recollection he had of sharing his memories with her had been part of his fever-induced delusions, but that look on her face put that feeble hope to rest once and for all. Nothing else could explain that soft, pitying look, aimed at the most hated man in the post-Voldemort wizarding world.

Even worse, looking into her eyes, he saw that she knew exactly what he was thinking at the moment.

"Don't worry," she said softly. "I won't tell anyone. Not about that, at least."

Not about Lily, was what she meant, he knew. Not about that pathetic, hopeless love he had harbored for so many year; the scrawny, ugly, greasy boy in love with the most popular, pretty girl in school. If she had laughed at his ridiculous ambitions, it would have been easier to take than the pity he saw instead. If only he had his wand, he could Obliviate her…but that recourse was denied him. In mortification, he turned his face towards the empty wall on the other side of the bed.