Disclaimer: Anything you recognise belongs to the immeasurable genius of JK Rowling; I just like to borrow them and play with them.


Chapter 25

"Miss Granger, Severus is dying."

Dying. The word echoed in Hermione's head as she stared at the Headmaster in disbelief. She took a step back from him and his gnarled hands dropped from her shoulders.

"I am so very sorry," he said softly, looking for the first time as though he had lived every minute of his one hundred and fifty four years.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "You're wrong. There must be something you can do, something someone can do. He can't be... not now... not after... not now..."

"Miss Granger."

"What's wrong with him? Where is he?" she continued, looking around the room until her eyes fell on the closed bedroom door. "Is he in there?"

She moved towards it, her heart beating a frantic cadence in her chest. He was just the other side of the door. She knew it; she could feel it... feel him.

"Miss Granger, wait!" Dumbledore's voice was firm, but Hermione paid him no mind, and she shrugged off the cautionary hand he placed on her shoulder as she opened the door and stepped into the room.

She stopped just inside the door, though, staring at the tableau before her.

The heavy, velvet curtains were drawn across the window, the only light in the room emanating from torches set in two wall sconces, the flames throwing shadows across the rough stone walls and a soft, warm glow across the bed where the Potions master lay.

Fawkes the phoenix sat perched on the corner of the bed head, and the bird lifted his head from where his gaze had been fixed on the prone man to watch Hermione move further into the room.

Snape's eyes were closed; the only signs of life were the faintest rise and fall of his chest and the pained expression on his face that gave away his consciousness. He was lying on top of the dark blue duvet, but a matching sheet had been draped loosely over his legs, which still appeared to be clad in his usual black trousers. They were the only clothes left on his body.

As Hermione moved around the side of the bed, something glinting in the firelight caught her eyes, and she drew her gaze down Snape's pale, exposed torso. She gasped softly as she saw the intricate silver handle of a knife protruding crudely from beneath the ribs on the right side of his chest.

There was no blood around the wound, only a dull bruising that seemed to radiate out from the knife in a vein-like pattern under the skin. She reached out a hand involuntarily to touch it, but was stopped at a sharp sound from the Headmaster, who had moved to stand across the other side of the bed.

"Why is it still in him?" she asked shakily.

"I cannot remove it," Dumbledore said.

At the sound of their voices, Snape opened his eyes and, after a moment, he turned his head slightly and focused on the Headmaster.

"Albus," he greeted weakly, the usual timbre of his voice roughened with pain.

Dumbledore smiled grimly at Snape, and then glanced at Hermione. The Potions master followed his gaze, his dark eyes meeting hers only for a moment before he turned his head away again.

"Why is she here, Albus?" he said resignedly. "She doesn't need to see this."

"You would deny her the chance to say goodbye, Severus?" the Headmaster said softly.

Snape closed his eyes again, in pain or shame, and Hermione was unable to hold back the sob that had been building in her throat at the realisation of why Dumbledore had brought her.

"There must be something we can do," she said tearfully.

The Headmaster shook his head sadly.

"Do you know what that dagger is, Miss Granger?"

It did look familiar, now she looked at it again, but she shook her head.

"It's called a Consanguinus Blade," Dumbledore said gravely. "An extremely powerful implement, and one only created through dangerous, Dark magic."

"Consanguinus," she repeated slowly. "Blood… something?"

"Blood loyalty," the Headmaster confirmed with a nod. "Only a blood relation of the one who inflicted the wound can remove it."

"Successfully," Snape rasped, and then lifted his head and coughed harshly, biting back a cry of pain as the action shifted the blade within his body.

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, watching as Snape sank back into the pillows again, a sheen of sweat shining on his forehead.

"If anyone else removes it, death will be instantaneous," Dumbledore said.

"And save this pointless waiting," Snape bit out, clenching his jaw tightly as another wave of pain hit him. On impulse, Hermione reached forwards and grasped his hand, futilely wishing she could help. He twisted his hand around to reverse their positions, and it was her turn to bite back a cry as he gripped her hand tight enough to crush it.

When the pain dulled again, he released her and closed his eyes, breathing unevenly.

Massaging her hand a little, and fearing the answer to the question she knew she had to ask, she said, "Who did it? Who stabbed you?"

"Voldemort," Snape spat, and the strangeness of hearing him utter the Dark Lord's name for the first time was overshadowed as she realised the dire situation they faced. Did the man that had once been Tom Riddle even have any blood relations, let alone one who could help them?

"Does he have any-" She broke off since the Headmaster was already shaking his head.

"None that I know of, and I would be surprised if any have escaped my knowledge," said the Headmaster.

Hermione bowed her head and swallowed thickly, the lump in her throat refusing to go away.

"There is, however," Dumbledore continued, "somewhere which will answer the question once and for all. It is the other part of the reason I have asked you here, Miss Granger, to stay with Severus while I go."

Snape gave a faint snort, and Hermione saw the ghost of a sneer on his face as he said, "It seems Albus is more afraid of my dying alone than I am."

"Shouldn't he be in the Hospital Wing?" she asked Dumbledore, frowning at the Potions master's morbid sense of humour. "What if something happens while you're gone. I'm not-"

"Madam Pomfrey can do nothing for him," the Headmaster said. "The Hospital Wing is too exposed. I would prefer word of what has happened not to leave this room, although that may be out of my hands. I do not know that we are safe from prying ears, even here."

Hermione furrowed her brow in confusion.

"Who could overhear us in here?"

"Pettigrew," Snape said, his face contorting again in a grimace of pain.

"Wormtail?" Hermione exclaimed. "But what... wait... he's the spy?"

"I'm afraid so," Dumbledore said, "though I'm at a loss to explain how he has evaded us. Somehow, he has been able to access Grimmauld Place, and found his way into Severus' lab to spy on him at Voldemort's bidding."

The noises. Hermione cursed herself silently for not having mentioned it to Snape earlier, for not having insisted he do something about whatever it was.

"I don't understand," she said after a moment. "I've been hearing those sounds for weeks. Why did he wait until now to expose you?"

"Wormtail has been feeding the Dark Lord tales of my deception for months," Snape explained, stopping to draw as deep a breath as the stabbing pain of the knife would allow. "Christmas was a test, which I managed to talk my way out of. The attack on the Muggle school was my final test. It confused the Dark Lord when I succeeded, and he demanded Wormtail provide him with absolute, definitive proof of my betrayal."

"What proof?"

"The instructions for making the Cruciatus antidote."

"You couldn't find the notebook," Hermione said, all the pieces suddenly falling into place. "That was the first night I didn't hear noises in the lab after you left."

"So now," Snape continued, "the Dark Lord has the means to brew the Cruciatus, the only decent description of the preventative potion, and the Order has no spy to bring warning of any attacks."

"That's not what is important now, Severus," the Headmaster said.

"Of course it's bloody important, old man. There's-" He broke of as a particularly strong spasm of pain wracked his body, and he gasped, fisting his hands in the dark blue duvet below him.

"I must make haste," Dumbledore said, glancing worriedly from the Potions master back to Hermione. "I hope I won't be long."

Dumbledore raised his arm, and Fawkes flew gracefully from the bedpost to land gently on his sleeve. The Headmaster left the room quickly, closing the door behind him, and Hermione turned back to Snape.

He'd closed his eyes again, a faint grimace of pain still lingering on his face. The strange, web-like bruising on his chest seemed to have spread, and the skin around it was deathly pale, the old claw marks on the other side of his chest standing out starkly.

She didn't need a Mediwitch to tell her he didn't have long, and if Dumbledore failed to find whatever he was looking for... she sank down into the chair that had been placed beside the bed and finally allowed her tears to fall, bowing her head as they ran silently down her cheeks.

"Hermione."

His voice was barely a whisper. She looked up to find him watching her, and a look of despair crossed his pale face as he saw her tears.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I'm just... I can't..."

How could she say what she really felt? It would only hurt him to know the pain he was causing her, losing him now after she'd only just really come to know him... to like him... to love him.

She couldn't tell him that, though. Not now. Not ever, a small voice said in the back of her mind, even though she knew he felt something in return.

Finally, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she said aloud, "Is there really no hope?"

"Very little," he admitted weakly. "Fate seems to be playing a cruel trick. I never expected to survive the Dark Lord's second reign; I was lucky to survive the first unscathed, really. Now, just when I've realised that perhaps living wouldn't be such a terrible burden after all, it seems my decision has been made for me."

She looked up at his face, and his dark eyes locked with hers. Dare she even imagine she played a part in his want to survive, or was she reading too much into his words, hearing what she wanted to hear?

"I don't plan to turn all sentimental, even if this is – and it looks very much like it will be – my deathbed," he said, the corners of his mouth quirking up momentarily in the smallest smile, "but it would be a disservice to you if I didn't tell you how thankful I am to have had your friendship these past months."

"And you'll continue to have it," she said firmly, her Gryffindor determination suddenly kicking in. The Headmaster might have all but given up, and Snape might have given up, but while he was still living and breathing she wouldn't give up hope... she couldn't.

"Hermione, don't fool yourself," he said softly.

"Dumbledore said there might-"

"Albus doesn't want to acknowledge the fact that he cannot protect everyone, that he is powerless to stop this. It is why I was sent me back, to mock his failure. Would the Dark Lord have risked it if there was the slightest chance I might survive?"

"He's made mistakes before," Hermione insisted. "There must be a loophole-"

"Don't be stupid," he scoffed. "This is ancient, powerful magic. There are no loopholes. If the removal of the blade doesn't kill me, the poison will. It's already taking effect, as you can see it."

She glanced down at his chest. What she'd taken for bruising had spread again, the longest tendrils reaching up to his shoulders and down his left arm to the reddened outline of the Dark Mark. It wasn't bruising at all, she realised with a start, but the poison invading his body.

He coughed again, and gasped as the heaving movement of his chest brought a fresh wave of pain with it. Hermione leant forwards and grasped his fisted hand, prying the tightly clenched fingers apart and allowing him to grasp her hand again.

This time, when it passed, he retained his grip on her hand, breathing harshly.

"I need you to listen to me, Hermione," he said urgently. "Albus is going to need your help. The Wolfsbane – you've made it before, and you're going to have to make it again."

"Not if you can still do it," she said stubbornly.

"Dammit, Hermione, wake up!" he shouted hoarsely. "I'm as good as dead! You have to do this."

Hermione readied herself to shout back that he wasn't dead yet, but relented when she saw how the effort of his harsh words seemed to exhaust him. He lay his head back, closing his eyes again, and Hermione noticed his breathing had suddenly taking on a rasping quality, as though he had to make a conscious effort to force air into his lungs.

"Tell me what I have to do," she sighed, adding silently, just in case.

"The antidote. The Dark Lord has the instructions for the Cruciatus potion, but you might still have a use for the antidote. Can you follow my original notes to make it? They're still somewhere on the desk in the lab."

She nodded.

"Good," he said, breathing heavily. "You'll need more droppings for the next batch. Visit the moonfilly; she'll trust you."

"What about the charmed antidote, the preventative?" she asked. "Do you still have your old notes for that, too?"

"It's all there," he said, "but they're a mess."

"I think I could make it if I had some help," she said hesitantly. "Not as well as you could, obviously, but I think I could do it if I had to."

"I have no doubt you could, Hermione," he said, his voice suddenly taking on a strange quality as he opened his eyes again, the flames of the torches reflected in the dark pools. "You are an extraordinarily determined young woman."

She felt tears prickling the back of her eyes again, but forced a small, sad smile onto her face and said, "Is it any wonder, then, that I won't give up on you?"

"That, I'm afraid, is a lost cause," he said, clearing his throat with some difficulty. "I'm sorry you have to witness this."

"You'd rather I not be here?" she asked, hurt. "You don't think it would be worse if you... if I didn't have a chance to say... anything?"

"And what would you say?" he enquired softly.

"I..." She stared into his eyes, and the room was silent but for the soft crackle of the torches on the wall and his laboured breathing.

"I don't know," she admitted softly after some time. "Or, I do, but I don't know how to say it."

"Then perhaps it is better left unsaid, for both our sakes," he said, turning his head from her, a pain in his eyes that she suspected had nothing to do with his wound.

There was silence again; Hermione watched Snape's face as he stared unseeing across the room, away from her. He was masking his pain well, but a thin sheen of sweat had broken out across his forehead in the last few minutes, little droplets running down the side of his face and into his hair.

Hermione pulled her wand from the pocket of her school robes and conjured a cool, damp cloth. He started slightly at her first touch, but then relaxed and turned his head into her hand, watching her as she gently wiped the sweat from his brow and pushed the damp strands of hair back behind his ears.

"Thank you," he said softly as she finished.

"I wish I could do more," she replied, folding the cloth and placing it on top of the chest of drawers behind her.

"I always thought," he said, his eyes open but staring at the canopy over the bed, "when I was finally discovered it would be in a confrontation... the so-called Final Battle, if you will. At least that way, when I died, I could have taken a few Death Eaters with me."

"And everyone would see you for who you really are," she murmured.

If he died now, he would forever be known as a traitor to both sides, with very few knowing the truth of his toils. The Order would know, of course, but if Moody was anything to go by there was little trust for the former Death Eater, even amongst those with whom he worked side-by-side.

It troubled her greatly that no one would ever truly understand the sacrifices he had made so they might live, and who would believe her if she tried to explain it to them? The persona he presented to the outside world was so at odds with the brilliant, tireless man she knew... she wouldn't have believed it either, six months ago.

He made a small grunt of discomfort and she reached out to take his hand again, but at that moment the door opened and Dumbledore re-entered the room. Hermione rose from her chair, watching him expectantly. Snape seemed to be holding his breath.

Dumbledore walked to the foot of the bed and stood looking down at the Potions master, his eyes shadowed by the angle of his head.

"I'm sorry."

Hermione sat down quickly, the wind knocked out of her as though she'd been hit by a Bludger.

"How long?" she said, unable to disguise the tremble in her voice.

"A day, at most," Dumbledore said heavily. "The poison is already active."

Hermione blinked, trying to clear her eyes as well as her mind. Swallowing to dislodge lump lodged thickly in her throat, she latched onto the least emotional thing that crossed her mind.

"Where did you go, sir?" she asked Dumbledore.

"To the National Wizarding Archives at the Ministry of Magic," he said. "A registry of all magical persons and their relations, dating back to the 12th century. I had hoped there might have been a line of Tom Riddle's ancestors that I had previously overlooked in my own research. Unfortunately, it was not to be. He is, as we had feared, the last of his family."

"Is there nothing else that can be done?" Hermione persisted. "No way to... undo the charm, or fool it into thinking one of us is related to Voldemort?"

"This is no mere charm, Miss Granger," the Headmaster admonished. "Blood magic is a most potent form of magic, and when combined with Dark spells it has strengths unknown."

"Are there any books that speak of it?" she continued. "Surely how to create one of the daggers is documented somewhere. Maybe that will give us a clue as to-"

"This is Dark magic, Hermione," Snape said. "Not something for children to play about with. I doubt there is even mention of it in the Restricted Section."

"I gave Harry a book on Blood Magic for Christmas," she said. "Maybe there's…"

Her eyes went wide and she gasped as a sudden thought hit her. The magic of the blade wasn't concerned with relatives of Tom Riddle, it was likeness of blood that dictated a relationship. Shared blood.

"Harry!" she exclaimed. "Voldemort has Harry's blood!"

Dumbledore actually paled and grasped the bedpost for support. Snape stared at her, and hope flickered in his eyes momentarily before fading as he said, "The Dark Lord only took a small amount from Potter. I doubt it's enough to even register a likeness."

"On the contrary, Severus," Dumbledore said, his face suddenly alive with anticipation. "Tom used Harry's blood to bring himself back to his body. Harry's blood and Wormtail's blood, to be exact. By rights, the blood in his new body was created from Harry's blood."

"It would depend," Hermione said slowly, thinking, "whether the dagger was created before or after he returned to his body."

"If it was before," Snape said, catching onto her line of thinking, "it won't work because Potter's blood wasn't present in him at the time."

"Chances are, though, he came upon it after his return," Dumbledore said. "Severus, have you ever seen him use it before?"

"No."

Dumbledore paced at the end of the bed, deep in thought. Hermione's eyes drifted from him back to Snape. The sudden excitement seemed to have exhausted the Potions master, and he looked paler than ever.

"Sir, we don't have much time," Hermione said urgently. "How will we know if it's going to work?"

Dumbledore stopped pacing and glanced at Snape, worry etched on his features.

"There's no way of knowing," he said. "We can only try."

"If it doesn't work, I'm dead anyway," Snape murmured. "At least this way will be quick."

"What do you mean?"

Dumbledore sighed. "If Potter isn't recognised by the magic, the blade will disintegrate."

Hermione stared in horror from the Headmaster to Snape, who looked remarkably calm, given the gravity of the situation.

"It's worth a try," he said softly.

She nodded, sitting down again. "How are we going to explain this to Harry? He's not going to do this without some explanation."

"I shall fetch Mr Potter now," Dumbledore said. "Perhaps, Miss Granger, you might speak to him when he arrives."

Hermione nodded again, and the Headmaster left the room. As the door closed behind him, Snape suddenly gasped and fisted his left hand in the bedclothes. Looking down at his arm, Hermione saw the outline of the Dark Mark suddenly turn black.

"Is he calling you?" she asked in disbelief.

"No," Snape said through gritted teeth. "He's checking whether he can still sense me... whether I'm still alive."

Sweat was pouring down his face again, and Hermione retrieved the washcloth, repeating her earlier gesture while the pain of the Mark subsided.

As she drew away, he took her wrist in his hand and pulled her down slightly so she was forced to sit on the edge of the bed. Balancing herself gingerly so as not to cause any undue pain to him with the movement of the mattress, she stared at their linked hands, unwilling to meet his eyes.

"Hermione."

He repeated her name once again, and she looked up at him then. His dark eyes were grave and serious.

"I want you to listen to me," he said. "Whatever happens, you cannot blame yourself if this doesn't work. You've given me a chance, which is more than I had before, and we are only prolonging the inevitable in doing nothing. Either outcome will be a release for me, you know that."

She nodded, blinkly rapidly as her eyes filled again.

"Please don't," he said softly, squeezing her hand as a wry smile crept onto his face. "It will work, knowing my luck, and I'll owe another Potter a life debt."

Hermione choked out something halfway between a sob and a laugh, and said, "It would be worth a hundred life debts to save you."

His raised a surprised eyebrow and she ducked her head, blushing.

"Well, I think so, anyway," she murmured softly.

After a moment, she felt his hand brush her jaw, the pad of his thumb absently brushing away a stray tear as it traced its way down her cheek. She raised her gaze to his face, and there was a strange, faraway look in his eyes.

"If you'd only been born twenty years ago," he murmured, "how different my life might have been."

Her eyes widened, then spilled over at his heartfelt pronouncement, realising it was perhaps the closest thing to 'I love you' she could ever hope to hear from him.

She raised her own hand to cover his, pressing it into her cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin and a faint tremor as another ripple of pain passed through him. Her tears continued to fall, running down in between their entwined fingers and into the sleeve of her jumper.

She had no answer for his declaration, even if she could have found her voice, and so they sat there for some time, just... together.

Hermione was startled out of her reverie as the Headmaster opened the door, and she released Snape's hand, letting it drop from her cheek as she untwined her fingers from his other hand, still resting on the duvet.

Dumbledore, saying nothing though she knew he'd seen them part, beckoned Hermione to the doorway. She stood up carefully from the bed, and when she reached him, he said, "Harry would like to speak to you."

She nodded, and exited the bedroom for the sitting room. The Headmaster closed the door softly behind her.

Harry was facing the huge windows, staring out across the grounds. He turned to face her as she walked over to him, and took in her puffy eyes and tear-streaked face.

"Hermione," he said, pulling her into a hug. She wrapped her arms around her best friend and finally let out everything she'd been holding back in the other room, sobbing into the soft fabric of Harry's school robes.

It felt different to the scratchy fabric of Snape's frock coat, she noticed, and that comparison made her cry even harder, knowing she might never have the chance to embrace her other friend again.

"It must be bad," Harry joked half-heartedly, "if Snape needs me to help. What's going on?"

Hermione pulled back from her friend, ignoring the wet patch across the shoulder of his robes.

"Professor Dumbledore didn't tell you?"

Harry shook his head. "He just said he needs my help. I'm assuming it's got to do with Snape – these are his rooms, aren't they?"

Hermione nodded and walked across the room to sit on the edge of one of the armchairs by the empty fireplace.

She took a deep breath. "Harry, Professor Snape has been discovered by Voldemort."

Harry let out a long, low breath and moved to sit across from her. Hermione knew there was still great animosity between her green-eyed friend and the Potions master, but Harry had grown up immensely in the past two years, and he recognised the importance of Snape's position with the Death Eaters, his value to the Order, and the consequences of him being found out.

"How bad is it?" he asked after a moment.

"He's dying," she said softly. "Dumbledore can't do anything for him; none of us can, except you."

"Me?" Harry said. "What can I do that Dumbledore can't?"

Taking another deep breath, she explained as briefly as she could what had happened. Harry paled as she explained what she knew of the Consanguinus Blade, and he made the link to his blood without her assistance.

"Will it recognise my blood, even if I'm not actually a... relation... of Voldemort?"

"Professor Dumbledore seems to think so," she said. "It's blood magic, after all. Other genetic similarities don't seem to matter."

Harry nodded, his expression unreadable. "And if we're wrong?" he asked.

She lowered her head and heard Harry murmur, "I see."

"I know you don't like him, Harry," she said desperately. "God knows he's never been fair to you, and I won't try to make excuses for that. He's sarcastic and short-tempered, and he has no patience for the weak-minded or the undisciplined, but he's also brilliant and witty, determined to make right what he can of his past, and dedicated to bringing Voldemort down – a dedication which might have cost him his life."

She broke off when she realised Harry was staring at her oddly.

"What?" she said.

"You really care about him, don't you?" he mused in slight disbelief.

"He's my friend, Harry," she said. "Just like you and Ron. I know it's hard to reconcile that with the man you know, but that's not who he really is; that's who he has to be. Do you understand the difference?"

"Yeah, I do," said Harry, looking vaguely surprised. "Sort of like the, uh, Boy-Who-Lived versus just Harry, right?"

"Exactly." She smiled at her friend, but then sobered, adding, "You're the only hope he's got, Harry, and we've lost enough good people to this war, haven't we?"

"You're right," Harry said after a moment, fixing a steely resolve on his face. "Tell me what I have to do."

"Thank you." She stood up and pulled her friend up from his chair, enveloping him in another quick hug before leading him to the bedroom door.

She knocked softly before opening the door, and Dumbledore glanced up as she entered the room, Harry close behind her. The Headmaster rose from where he'd been sitting in the chair next to the bed.

She approached the left side of the bed and looked down at Snape. His eyes were squeezed shut, all pretence of comfort gone, and his breath was coming in short, wheezing gasps. The poison had spread, the purple pattern of veins snaking across every part of exposed skin Hermione could see but for his face.

"Severus," she said softly, reaching out to lightly touch his pale cheek.

He opened his eyes a fraction, but his gaze moved past her to rest on Harry, standing at the foot of the bed, watching the exchange with that same, unreadable expression as earlier.

"Potter."

"Hello, sir," Harry returned. "Never thought I'd see this part of the castle."

"Take a good look," Snape rasped out between pained breaths. "It's the first and last time you'll ever be here."

"Severus," Dumbledore said reproachfully as he moved to stand next to Harry, then said seriously, "We should get this over with, if you're ready?"

"Of course, don't want to keep the Grim Reaper waiting," Snape said in a last attempt at making light of the situation. When he looked at Hermione, though, the depths of his eyes were filled only with acceptance and resignation.

"I..." Suddenly everything she wanted to say came flooding into her mind, and her throat tightened as she tried to speak.

He shook his head slightly, gaze softening as he said quietly, "I know."

She reached out to take his hand, instead, squeezing it tightly as much for her own reassurance as his.

Harry moved around the side of the bed closest to the dagger, eyeing it with a mixture of revulsion and fear. Dumbledore, still at the foot of the bed, also looked like he was about to speak, but Snape again shook his head.

"Do your worst, Potter," he said, his gaze drifting to Hermione one last time as he closed his eyes.

Harry glanced at Dumbledore once, and when the Headmaster nodded he reached forwards, gripped the handle of the dagger tightly in both hands and pulled.

For the barest instant, Hermione thought it had worked.

Then, Snape face contorted in a terrible grimace of pain, and his hand ripped free from hers to claw at the wound as a howl of agony tore from his throat.

The hairs on the back of Hermione's neck stood on end as a strange, magical energy crackled about the room, and the torches on the wall suddenly seemed veiled as a strange gloom grew around the bed.

Where the tip of the blade should have come out cleanly, tendrils of what Hermione could only describe as pure darkness were wrapped about it, twisting their way up towards the handle of the blade.

Harry's movement faltered, and he struggled as though some invisible force was drawing the blade back into Snape's body.

"It won't come out!" he cried, pulling harder still as Snape's hoarse screams reached a crescendo. The blade tip suddenly sprang free from the wound, and in the same instant Hermione was blinded as a sudden, howling wind came from nowhere to whip her hair into her face.

The black tendrils reached the hilt of the dagger and crept onto the handle, wrapping around Harry's fingers.

"Get them off me!" he yelled, his eyes wide and terrified as he struggled, jerking his arms roughly backwards.

Snape screamed again, and his whole body convulsed up off the bed as more strange ropes of darkness sprang forth from the wound.

"Help him!" Dumbledore bellowed from over the roar of the unearthly wind, and Hermione, not knowing whether he meant Snape or Harry, reached forwards to still the Potions master's clawing hands.

Before she could touch him, though, she found herself bound still, unable to move her body. Her eyes could still turn, though, and she looked to Dumbledore in a terrified plea for help, but he, too, was similarly frozen.

"What the hell is this?" Harry yelled, leaning backwards and using the weight of his whole body to fight the strange magic of the dagger.

"Keep pulling!" Dumbledore called, and Hermione realised she still had the use of her voice, too.

"I'm trying!" Harry yelled, stumbling backwards a few steps across the room in renewed effort.

The Potions Master's howling screams were growing weaker, and Hermione could see bloody tracks across his torso from his own nails.

Underneath the skin of his chest, the vein-like pattern of what she'd first mistaken for bruising, and then poison, was writhing, moving slowly back towards the wound. Every time Harry gained ground it moved a little more, and Hermione realised it was the magic of the blade, which had somehow been spreading itself through Snape's body.

If Harry could extract it all, would that save him?

"Come on, Harry. You can do it!" she shouted, unable to offer any other assistance, frozen as she was.

The light in the room seemed to grow dimmer still, loose tendrils of darkness breaking off from the main rope between Harry and Snape to coil about the bed. The wind intensified to a shriek, and tears stung Hermione's eyes; even Snape's cries of pain were drowned out by the noise.

Hermione could see the end of the strand of magic in his body, writhing just under the surface, close to the wound.

"You're almost there, Harry," she cried. "Just a bit more!"

Harry had backed halfway across the room by now, keeping the string of magical darkness taut, lest it smother and consume him. One stray tendril was still latched onto his hand, wrapping itself around his wrist, trying to dislodge his grip on the dagger.

Steeling himself, he gave a sudden, violent yank, and the whip-like end of the coil sprang from Snape's chest as a shockwave of magic exploded across the room. Hermione just had time to witness the cloud of darkness form into the smoky shape of a skull, before an invisible hand slapped her in the chest and flung her back across the room.

When she opened her eyes, the air had cleared and she found herself free to move. She saw the Headmaster shakily picking himself up from near the door.

Getting to her feet, she saw Harry, too, gingerly standing up, leaning against the far wall, exhausted.

The light in the room had returned to normal; there was no sign of whatever magical anomaly had just taken place, but for the dagger clutched firmly in Harry's hand.

Approaching the bed, she fixed her eyes on the prone form of the Potions master, lying completely motionless in the centre of the bed, his hands still clenched into fists.

The wound in his chest had all but disappeared, a thin, red line like a newly healed scar the only sign of it ever having existed. Was it her imagination, or was his chest rising and falling? It was so faint she couldn't tell if she was seeing things, phantom movements fuelled by her desperate hope that he was still alive.

Out the corner of her eye, she saw Harry and the Headmaster approaching the bed, too, and she reached out her hand gingerly to touch Snape's face.

It was warm and drenched in sweat, and her fingers became sticky with it as they trailed down to find the pulse point at his neck. Barely daring to breath herself, she pressed firmly against the pale skin.

A quick, faint pulse met her fingers, and she collapsed on the edge of the bed in relief.

"He's alive," she choked out, not removing her fingers from his neck for a moment, reassuring herself the beat wasn't merely a product of her hopeful imagination.

Dumbledore came up the other side of the bed and drew his wand, muttering a spell Hermione had heard Madam Pomfrey use before. A soft, blue orb sprang forth from his wand and hovered over the Potions master's chest for a moment before forming into a strange series of runes. The figures hung in the air for a few seconds and then faded.

Dumbledore lowered his wand, frowning, and turned to Harry.

"Well done, Mr Potter," he said. "It seems you have succeeded."

"Succeeded?" Harry said, disbelieving. "All you told me I had to do was pull the knife out. What the hell was that... that thing!"

"I don't know," Dumbledore said gravely. "I've never seen anything it before."

"Will he be okay?" Hermione asked, looking down at the man next to her. She could see him breathing more clearly now, but he showed no signs of waking.

"I hope so," the Headmaster said heavily. "Whatever happened just now, I cannot explain it beyond the fact that there was some powerful Dark magic at work; more powerful, perhaps, than the blood magic of the dagger."

"Are you okay?" Hermione asked, looking to Harry.

Her friend nodded, staring down at the dagger clutched in his hand. "I think so," he said shakily. "I just... that was... intense."

"Hmm," Dumbledore said, appraising Harry carefully. "You should see Madam Pomfrey, for a Pepper-Up Potion at the very least, and come to me immediately if you experience any strange symptoms. For now, though, I'm afraid it will be best if you return to your classes, so as not to arouse suspicions of your whereabouts."

Harry nodded, but Hermione said, "Headmaster, can't I-"

"Not you, Miss Granger," he said. "I would ask that you remain here. There are many things to be done, but I am reluctant to leave Severus alone."

Hermione nodded thankfully.

"I'll let you know when he wakes up," she said.

The Headmaster hesitated as if he were about to say something, but then appeared to change his mind. "I shall return when I can, Miss Granger. Harry, I'd like a word. I shall wait for you in the other room if you'd like a moment."

The old man left the bedroom, though it seemed to Hermione he wasn't as happy as he should have been, given that they'd just saved Snape's life.

Harry came around the side of the bed on which Hermione was sitting, set the dagger on the chest of drawers nearby, and then leaned down to hug her.

"Thank you so much, Harry," she whispered, hugging him fiercely back.

"You're welcome... I think," he said, glancing over her shoulder at the unmoving Potions master. "I hope he's all right, and I'm not just saying that, either. He's... I guess I've never realised what he goes through..." he trailed off.

"I'm sure he'll be horrified to hear of your concern," she tried to joke, earning a half-hearted smile from her friend.

Harry murmured a soft farewell and left the room, pulling the door over behind him but not quite closing it.

Hermione turned back to Snape and drew a deep, shaky breath. His breathing was still faint and shallow, and as she watched him she saw a shiver run through his body.

She straightened the sheet over his legs where it had become twisted, pulling it up to his waist. Then, settling more securely on the bed next to him with her legs folded underneath her, she reached up and rested the back of her hand on his forehead. It was burning hot, and faint, red spots had appeared high on his cheekbones.

Out in the sitting room, she could hear Harry and Dumbledore talking in low voices before they departed. The Headmaster was probably cautioning him – unnecessarily – about the need for discretion.

Hermione reached behind her to retrieve the washcloth she'd conjured earlier, dampening it with a flick of her wand. She wiped away the sweat that had beaded on Snape's face again, before folding the cloth carefully and draping it across his forehead, pressing down gently.

Glancing down, she saw his hands still clenched tightly into fists, a tiny rivulet of blood running from the left one where his nails had broken the skin.

Conjuring another cloth, she took his left hand in her own, frowning as she gently prised his fingers apart with some difficultly, the skin slick with sweat just like his face.

Once she'd exposed his palm, she pulled his arm over to rest in her lap so she could heal the small nail marks. Picking up her wand again from where it sat beside her, her eyes fell on the pale skin of his inner forearm.

Her cry of surprise brought the Headmaster and Harry running in from the other room, Dumbledore with a pinch of Floo powder falling from one hand.

She stared at them, wild-eyed, and then back at the Potions master's arm, still cradled in her lap.

"The Dark Mark," she whispered in disbelief. "It's gone."


To be continued

Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter. Well done to everyone who guessed Harry would play a role in this chapter. I suppose the question now is, was it enough?

Consanguinus is my terribly bastardised Latin which translates roughly into Blood Loyalty.

Also, thanks to Potion Mistress, who always picks up my pesky, rogue typos and beats me, er, I mean, them, into submission... :P