A/N: This does not belong to me. The characters, world, and backbone belong to JK Rowling. Some of this chapter contains direct quotes from Chapter 32 of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. Sorry for the sluggish updates.
CHAPTER TWO
Hermione Granger sat in the Hospital Wing thinking. The war had been done for some hours now, she had gone to the feast, mourned over the dead. Heard the whole story from Harry, seen the portraits applaud, and the Elder Wand repair the unrepairable (at her hands, she still berated herself). It was late at night now and she had not spoken to anyone for a while; Ron had gone with his family and Harry was sleeping in the cot next to her. For one of the few times in her life, words and tears were not enough. She ought to be filled with joy, and part of her was. They had won. Harry had not died. Ron had not died. She had not died. But so many had.
This world that she had been made a part of the day Severus Snape himself came knocking on her door to show her magic for the first time, was saved. She had played her part, done her best to help her friend as he filled out his destiny. She did not know where to go from here, though. She had half expected to die at Harry's side. Or maybe a house elf's. Now she was free to live her life, choose a career and live without fighting evil incarnate every year. Despite that relief, she felt the scars of the war; she no longer desired the life she had planned in the hopes she would survive. The gloves that had fit before she started living in a tent for a year would no longer slide onto her changed hands. For the first time in her life, Hermione Granger was without a plan.
She was supposed to give a report to the ministry as well as give over memories of consequence, to be deposited in the pensive provided. It floated beside her bed now. She had slowly and painstakingly been sorting through her mind, removing the memories and swirling them around with her wand. She sighed, removing the one of Snape's death.
She should have known he was innocent. Should have known to trust Dumbledore's judgment. Of course, part of her riled at Dumbledore's blatant manipulation of the man; for one mistake (enormous as it was) he was to be denied peace and freedom till his gruesome demise. But that was for later reflection. There were so many clues to his innocence, really. Harry's hatred had blinded him and his version of things. Perhaps if she'd figured it out, Snape would be alive. Perhaps many others would be too. She sighed, leaning over the pensive. Something was nagging her about the death, something about how his gaze had fallen on her and she felt unnerved. She decided it must be something, because when she got that tickling feeling in the back of her brain there always was. So, she thought hard and placed her wand at her temple, pulling the silvery-blue memory into the pensive.
With a breath, she plunged in.
She stood in the shrieking shack, watching Voldemort and Snape have their last conversation, then Naigini was rolled onto his shoulders and blood was everywhere and Voldemort was gone. There he was, bleeding, gurgling and shoving his memories at Harry. Then he looked at her (or, the other her), stared at her as he was supposed to die. This had been so unexpected and strange, every nerve in her body had tingled. Why did he look at her? Perhaps she was just in his line of vision. He was dying and she hadn't helped, too consumed with the war, her fear for Harry and Ron. She walked over to him, watching him sadly, tears in her eyes. This had been a bad idea. She could see nothing but notice the strange expression on his face; it was more closed in than she had ever seen but he didn't look dead enough.
She wiped at her tears in frustration, it was getting hard to see. She knelt next to him, wishing she could do something. Then as the trio exited, his hand moved to put something in his mouth and his corpse swallowed. Her tears stopped immediately and she was suddenly jerked out of the memory.
What had Professor Snape eaten? Could it have been a bezoar? Could he have been that prepared? Well, obviously, she reprimanded herself. He had been a spy for years, knew he was under constant threat. A bezoar or two would be a very practical thing to keep on his person incase he was poisoned or bitten. Its not like Nagini was an unusual means of execution for Voldemort. He would likely have bled to death, though … She stopped mid thought and threw herself onto the floor, grabbing her beaded bag, searching through it in a frenzy. She could save Snape. She could save him!
Finally, her hands re-emerged and she held up a tiny hourglass on a long gold chain. The time-turner. He had stopped the poisoning, now she could stop the blood. He would have stayed alive long enough for her to come. She ran barefoot over to the stores of the hospital wing, alohomoraing the cabinet open. She gathered all the blood-replenishing potion and draught of living death she could hold, as well as materials for a suture, and anything else that could possibly ever be helpful. Then she bounded over to the bed where Harry was snoring. With rolled eyes (despite her urgency), she deposited her armful on the foot of his cot, she rummaged through his belongings until she found the invisibility cloak. She threw it over herself and tore out of the Hospital Wing, out the ruined school, past the curse marks and the blood and to the Whomping Willow.
With shaking hands she clicked it back three and a quarter turns and felt the world spin.
***
Hermione was already invisible when she saw herself, Ron, and Harry crawling into the tunnel at the base of the Whomping Willow. She squeezed in after them, taking care the cloak did not snag on a root. It was a long crawl and she knew what would be coming next. They stopped and she craned her neck to see the silver light ahead around Harry.
"The Cloak! Put the Cloak on!" she heard herself tell Harry. Then they silently made their way behind the crate and she saw Nagini in her silvery sphere.
Her stomach lurched when she heard him speak, begging to seek Harry out himself. She berated herself briefly, he was still alive after all. And they might have had a very different finish to the war if Snape had found Harry. She bit her lip to keep from crying out as she heard what was coming, the calm sibilant lilt of Voldemort's voice as he prepared to kill Professor Snape, albeit indirectly. Voldemort was alive again and she felt slightly nauseous.
She waited as the scene occurred in front of her for the third time and watched from her crannied viewpoint as the starry sphere enclosed Snape from his shoulders up and he was bitten by the snake instructed to kill. His scream was piercing and she saw herself shrink back. She heard the dull thunk as Snape hit the floor, blood gushing from him. Then, Voldemort and Nagini left to continue the war that she had lived through the ending of already.
"Harry!" she heard herself say again, and off the three of them went, her following a few steps behind. She saw herself conjure the flask, the blood kept pouring out of him with his memories.
"Look . . . at . . . me . . . ." were Snape's last words as he dropped his head and stared at Hermione. She remembered being so unnerved by his dead stare falling on her, but had been unable to remove her eyes. She had only looked away when she heard Voldemort's shrill voice echoing through the room, through everywhere. She saw him raise his hand slowly, sure no one was looking, and swallow the stone. Then he stilled completely.
Get out! She thought desperately at herself and her friends; then she heard herself wildly announcing the need for a new plan and retreating. She had just left him. Ron followed suit. Only Harry, who hated him more than any one, had looked back. Then they were all gone.
Hermione tore off the invisibility cloak and quickly scanned Snape for vitals. He was alive. Barely. They had to go someplace safe. Someplace where she could treat him outside of where the war was still in full force. She uncorked the draught of living death and poured it between his lips. She wrapped her arms around him and thought.
***
She opened them again and was in the middle of her parents' living room, abandoned since she had moved them away, clutching onto a profusely bleeding man, a plethora of medical vials, and an invisibility cloak. She levitated him to the bedroom and began immediately pouring the blood replenishing potions down his throat. He had turned a sickly grey color.
Please, she thought, please work. When she had given him what she hoped was a proper dosage (he had lost so much blood! Did he need more?) and began to suture the two holes where Naigini had sunk her fangs into his sallow flesh. She worked all night, applying pressure to the wound and feeding him blood-replenishing potions whenever he looked grey. She didn't remember falling asleep, but she woke with a start when she felt a hand twitching in hers. She looked up, her eyes watery (had she been crying in her sleep?) to see him staring at her crossly.
"Why," he croaked, "are you holding my hand?"
