The girl looked at the back of his turned head with sympathy. But how do you help someone who doesn't want to be helped?
She stood undecidedly for a moment, her heart clenching for him. When he had let her into his mind, she hadn't just seen, she had felt. The terror, the guilt, the inhuman pain of what he had had to do. The loneliness that had followed, that had always been there, really, but had been alleviated by the valued role he had played as a member of Hogwarts' staff and as a member of the Order of the Phoenix. "It was almost like having friends." She couldn't remember where she had heard the words. Something Neville had repeated to her? But they fit. Not that they had really cared about him, any of them except Dumbledore. But there had been a certain, if uneasy, level of comradeship and common purpose.
And then there had been nothing to keep him except for the truth, which he had hugged to himself like a blanket: that he had done the right thing, at horrendous cost, that he at least knew himself not to be the murderous traitor everyone else had thought him. And cold comfort it had been.
She sat down in the chair next to him.
"Sir?"
No answer.
"Would you like a potion? To help you get back to sleep? Is the pain getting worse?"
"What I would like, Miss Granger, is to be relieved of your irritating presence." The words came out in a sharp hiss, through clenched teeth. "Surely there must be someone else who can perform your duties?"
"I have asked for leave of absence to look after you," she said. "It's the least I can do."
"How very kind of you, but I shall have to decline that privilege. I insist you find a replacement. The sooner, the better."
Hermione could feel the resentment bubble up inside her. She had saved his life, for crying out loud. He'd be dead without her. She had spent every moment of the last four days at his bedside, and this was the thanks she was getting? She swallowed hard, trying to banish the anger. He couldn't know what had happened. He had hardly been lucid at all over the last few days.
"You died, you know," she said conversationally as she stood and tucked the sheet back in around his rigid shape. "We had to resuscitate you twice. It is almost a miracle that you made it."
"How pleased you must be to have kept me alive for the Dementor's kiss." His voice, weak as it was, dripped acid.
That's right. He didn't know about that yet, either. Hermione firmly putting the lid on her annoyance. One couldn't really blame him. If anyone was entitled to be in a bad mood for the rest of his life, it would be him. And why should he be grateful. After all, how many lives had he saved without ever receiving a word of thanks from anyone?
"You won't have to worry about that, I think," she said lightly,
The mystery of that statement was enough to finally get him to face her again. "Explain," he demanded.
"An hour or two after we resuscitated you, the Minister of Magic arrived in a state of considerable agitation, asking if you were still alive. It seems that as soon as your heart stopped beating, a small box materialized on his desk, containing a number of small flasks. Each one contained a memory. Dumbledore's memories." She smiled. "He said that if the memories were proven genuine and untampered with, he would grant you clemency."
Instead of relief and joy at the news that he was 'off the hook', so to speak, that now she wasn't the only one who knew he wasn't a traitor, there was a thin-lipped, bitter smirk on his face.
"That's good news, isn't it, sir?" She was puzzled. "He promised to come back and tell you when they have concluded examining the evidence." She looked at him as if debating if she should go on, biting her lower lip. When she finally spoke again, the words came haltingly. "There is a bit of bad news, though, sir. They rounded up every known Death Eater's possessions and auctioned them off for victims' restitution."
"So my house is gone." Snape looked at her through narrowed eyes.
She bit her lip again. "Well, no, sir. No one wanted your house, I'm afraid." She looked at him apologetically. "But there isn't much left in it. I bought some of your books. – I'll return them, of course," she added hastily.
She held her breath for a moment until the words burst out. "I'm sorry. It's not fair." Her eyes fired up. "I can't believe Dumbledore would wait until you were dead to let everyone know what really happened. This could have all been avoided. That he would have let everyone go on thinking you were the worst kind of wizard, when you were so brave… it wasn't –" She bit her lip again.
Not fair. Not smart. He could almost hear her thoughts. Snape's features hardened. "He could not risk exposing my position."
"Well, he could have had those memories appear once Riddle was dead just as well, couldn't he?" she said rebelliously. "It would have been safe then."
"You speak out of ignorance." His voice was rock hard, derision in every syllable. The sort of magic that involved suspending an object in time and space until the cessation of someone's vital signs required close physical proximity to the person the spell was tied to during the casting process. Dumbledore had not had that sort of access to Voldemort.
He closed his eyes. It sounded just like the old fool to do something like this. He remembered the conversation, after he had finally given in to the old man's constant harangue…
"It is too bad, I suppose, that the world will remember me as The Traitor,' he had said, the words tasting like wormwood. "That when the history books are written, that is how I will go down for posterity."
Dumbledore had cast him a glance of sympathy shot through with sadness. "I promise you, I will not let that happen."
After four years on the run, he supposed he could be forgiven for thinking that the old man had simply not gotten around to making provisions to fulfill that promise. He had waited for a letter to surface, for someone to speak out who had been trusted with the secret, but there had been nothing. And so, at the last possible second, he had taken matters into his own hands.
His face tightened.
"Do you need some more pain potion, sir?" The voice of the girl, full of concern, interrupted his thoughts.
"I do not need your help or your pity, Miss Granger," he said harshly.
He could hear her huff in exasperation, and then it was quiet for a while. Finally. He turned his head again. Maybe he could finally get some more sleep.
Half an hour later he was still awake, every muscle tensed. Whatever pain potion or spell she had used was wearing off, and the up-to-now bearable pain was growing worse by the second, stabbing, stinging, needle-sharp. He drew a hissing breath when a bolt forked through his system, jagged and lightning-hot.
The girl pounced on him. "Sir?" The beading of cold sweat on his face told her all she needed to know. She pulled her wand out and pointed it at his midsection, muttering incantations. The pain lessened marginally, then returned with a vengeance.
"Useless," he gasped. "Give me your wand."
She moved back a step, her eyebrows raised in alarm. "You are not to have a wand until the Ministry says it's all right. I'm sorry. I'll be right back with a potion."
"Or you could trust me." The words came out harshly, challenging, the look in his eyes telling her that right now she would be required to back up her bluster with action.
"I'm sorry, I can't," she said miserably, backing up. "I promise, I'll be right back."
He closed his eyes, bracing against the pain, his lips twisting bitterly. So much for all her words...
Suddenly, he felt something slim and hard being pressed into his hand. He opened his eyes in surprise. "I do trust you," she whispered, and her eyes were bright.
He inhaled deeply as his fingers closed tightly around the wand. It felt good in his hand. As he lifted it and began muttering a sing-song incantation under his breath, she turned and disappeared into the bathroom. He could feel his muscles relaxing, the spasms loosening, as the spell began its work. When he finished, the pain had receded into the distance, and he lay quiet, bone-tired and exhausted.
She returned with a cool, damp cloth in her hand. "You will have to teach me that spell," she said in a casual voice, trying to cover the sudden awkward silence. "When you are better." There was challenge in her eyes now, too, as she, with practiced, gentle motions, wiped the sweat from his face. "Truce?"
The cool cloth felt good against his skin. He closed his eyes as he handed her the wand back, and within a minute, he was asleep.