Professor Snape was lying on the floor, face-down, shuddering and bucking uncontrollably. A broken potion-phial lay in his outstretched, trembling hand, the remnants of an evil-looking green fluid leaking out of it.
Gods, she thought, what had happened here?
"Professor?!! Professor," Hermione shrieked, rushing over to kneel at the cold, shuddering form.
She looked from Snape's pale, deathly face (paler than usual, her mind, unbidden, supplied in black humour) to the crushed phial in his hand. She cautiously picked up a tiny shard of the glass and sniffed it.
Immediately recoiling, vaguely recognising the pungent stench – that smell, what was it? -- she remembered that she'd read about it somewhere…Mor, no, Mortus?...no, wait…
"MORTOXIS!-
"Oh Professor, oh gods, what have you done??" Hermione whispered in growing horror.
She gently turned Snape's (now gently-trembling) body over, starting at the anguish in his obsidian eyes.
"Leave me…" he wheezed, grimacing slightly at Hermione's emphatic "NO!".
"Girl…" he whispered, painfully, breaking down into hoarse, jagged coughs.
"Please, professor, tell me the antidote-"
"You tell me something worth living for."
"Well…" oh, gods, she couldn't say anything without sounding pathetic and ridiculous...
What could she say? Quick, she berated herself, he's dying…
"Me," she squeaked without thinking, "me," she said again, louder this time. She cringed, fully expecting to be laughed at by her dying teacher, but instead was surprised by his reaction. His face inscrutable, he winced "page 1060 of Moste Potente Potions".
Hermione couldn't move fast enough, flicking through the pages of Snape's well-worn, leather-bound tome, reaching for the ingredients in his supplies-cupboard.
She suppressed another flash of black humour; the last time she'd been scrabbling through the professor's cupboard so frantically had been back in 2nd year – when she'd illegally brewed the Polyjuice potion.
Hurriedly slicing, crushing and juicing ingredients, she began making the antidote potion. Leaving it to simmer while she turned back to Snape, she realized that his breathing was softer, slower than before. Shit. She needed to hurry – she pulled his head into her lap and checked his eyes. His pupils were dilated, but he still seemed to be conscious.
"Professor Snape, sir?"
He blinked and muttered something unintelligible.
"Sir, just wait, I'm making the antidote…and I know it sounds corny, but…hold on."