Chapter 2: Awake

After a few hours Snape finally regained consciousness. Before he could open his eyes he hesitantly took inventory of his injuries. He remembered the attack vividly. The feeling of the cut opening on his neck, the fangs of that horrid snake tearing into his flesh, the sensation of blood dripping out of his open wounds. And then the Dark Lord had disappeared. He vaguely remembered that Potter boy collecting his tears, those eyes, the sound of footsteps receding, trying to come to terms with his solitary end, and then the feeling of hands on his wounds. Soft murmering of quiet spells, and all the sudden the oddest sensation came over him. It was if time froze, but kept going all at once.

He had opened his eyes to try to find the source of the murmering. Light brown. His focus had expanded from a pair of beautiful light brown eyes, to a soft face, to the final recognition of the face to be that of Hermione Granger. Before his brain could seek answers to more important questions like what she was doing to him or how he had not yet succumbed to the snake's venom, he had momentarily wondered how she had aged so much in the months since he had last seen her. She had left the previous year a sixth year schoolgirl, yet the person softly whispering healing charms over his wounds was nothing other than a woman. In the haze of lost blood and coursing adrenaline, he could focus on nothing other than the light brown eyes.

Despite his fragile state, his proud nature, and the fact that he was being ministered upon by a student, he had mentally cried out in an involuntary legilimancy with all the primal fears flooding his mind. He had wanted to ask for help, for comfort, for mercy, for something he could not quite find through the murky mental fog, but mostly he had felt an overwhelming desire, no a need, not to be left alone. He had faced almost two decades of spying, darkness, lies, danger, death, and constant uncertainty by himself. Before that he had suffered the loss of his childhood love to at the hands of the leader of his tormentors. All by himself. And now, as he hovered on the brink of death, he was absolutely certain that he could handle no more isolation. He had clung to those light brown eyes like a single life raft that stood between him and whatever cold, dark ocean lay beyond death's doorway. Mercifully they had stayed locked on his until a sound distracted them both and the world quickly spiraled into darkness.

When the light had reemerged and the spinning of what must have been a hasty apparation stopped, he had opened his eyes to find his life raft right where he had left it. He had continued watching the light brown eyes of his caretaker as she murmered spells over him. He had also noted a warm comforting pressure on his wrist. His misty mind could only keep him tethered to consciousness by keeping locked on the eyes of his rescuer, until suddenly the kindness with which they shown was suddenly replaced by uncertainty. He had tried to nod his assent to whatever unspoken question they were asking, but wasn't completely sure if he managed actually to move his body. He had taken a brief pleasure in the relief in her eyes' response, but was then distracted as time in his body had suddenly started up again.

At first he hadn't known what was happening, but all questions were forgotten as the pain of the snakebites and the deep gash in his neck had come back with full force. After a fleeting moment of worry that his fragile hope for survival was nothing, he had felt the agony begin to ebb. His heartbeat had steadied and the pain of just breathing had eased into a deep and calming rhythm. His rational mind had clamored for him to focus on his breathing, take inventory of the status of his wounds, do something, anything, but in the end all he could do was stare at the soothing brown kindness of the focal points above him. The last things he had seen as the blackness of sleep had finally claimed him were the tears sliding down her porcelain face as she monitored his slowly strengthening pulse.

He wasn't sure how long he had been unconscious, or why he was so worried about what would happen when he opened his eyes, but he kept going over his memories of earlier that night to make sure they were not just a dream. The portions in which he was cared for by an ethereal version of a girl who had once been a student of his did not seem to have any passing acquaintance with reality, yet the still-throbbing pain in his neck and in various locations about his head and face convinced him that the attack had in fact been quite real.

Bowing a little while longer to his unexplained yet very real dread of what would happen when he opened his eyes, he used legilimancy -for what he promised himself would be the very last time- to peer into the minds of those he knew were key players in the battle currently raging at Hogwarts. He knew the Potter boy knew how to resist him by now, and after all their torturous practice sessions he had better, but he watched through the eyes of Narcissa Malfoy as the Dark Lord shot a killing curse at the Potter boy, yet for the second time he survived. He felt through the mind of Hagrid as Potter jumped out of his arms to duel once again. He felt the triumph of Neville Longbottom as he grabbed the sword of Gryffindor and destroyed the last horcrux. Finally, he used the sight of the Weasley boy to see the final destruction of the Dark Lord. He kept watching as Weasley turned to get a celebratory hug, but was immediately shunted back to reality at the image of her face.

He knew immediately that every part of the evening as he remembered it had been correct. She was real, and had saved him, and remained so far from the image he had of her as a young schoolgirl. Whatever had happened to her between leaving Hogwarts last year and returning for the battle had aged her into a fully-fledged woman. A fact, he noted with more than a little sadness, that should be not be a cause for relief but a cause for mourning. It should be, but he couldn't shake the unexplainable feeling of relief when he thought about her transformation, or when he thought about her in general. He knew from his intrusion into the thoughts of those fighting at the castle that the light brown eyes would not be there to anchor him when he finally opened his eyes, but he steeled himself for whatever reality awaited him.

It took a while for him to adjust to the brightness that assaulted him as he begrudgingly opened his eyes. His vision finally focused on what appeared to be a piece of parchment floating about a foot in front of his nose:

"Please do not try to move. The house is fully protected from any unwanted intruders. As I am unsure of my healing skills and do not want you to reopen any wounds, I have immobilized you as a precaution. This will also keep you from getting out to join You-Know-Who if you are foolish enough to wish to do so. I will be back to check on you as soon as I can. Stay put. Rest. –Hermione"

He couldn't help but smile as he read the words 'if you are foolish enough to do so". Only Hermione Granger would save and harbor a known Death Eater, bind them to what he could only assume was her bed, and then discuss it as calmly as if it was a decision of what to eat for supper. His brain then experimented with his limbs to confirm that, yes, he was in fact fully immobile. After straining briefly against the charm, he relaxed into the softness of the bed and shut his eyes again.

He knew from the scene in the forbidden forest that the Potter boy had seen his memories in the pensieve, which meant that by know the entire wizarding world knew…everything. Reality set in as he realized that his secret childhood love, confidentially cherished as it turned from a romantic love into an honor-bound mission to cancel out her sacrifice by clandestinely protecting the boy was now spread out for the world to see.

He expected to feel vulnerable, exposed, even violated. Instead, he felt only relief. For a decade he carried on his shoulders an unrequited love. That night in Godrick's hollow, as he held the lifeless body of the woman who died protecting the son she had with his rival, he had set down this love, but replaced it with a mission to repay her sacrifice by protecting her only living relative, the reason she chose to lay down her life; he had to protect the boy. Then, for the next 18 years he carried the even heavier burdens of secrecy, being a double agent, and spending his every waking hour safeguarding the progeny (and near-exact likeness) of his childhood tormentor.

Now that Voldemort was gone (he would never have to debase himself by saying 'Dark Lord' again) and his secret mission was completed, he would have expected to feel empty, but instead he felt peace. His love for Lily had already had time to refine itself into a deep respect and an awe of her bravery and dedication to her family. Since the day she married James he could no longer bring himself to think of her as a romantic object, but the qualities she seemed to possess in spades were those he so deeply feared he lacked. He had strived to carry on her legacy in hopes of becoming more like the Gryffendor girl who had once given him hope for the world. Now, his mission a success and it's existence known to the world, a fledgling hope began to grow that his former status as a Death Eater could someday be overlooked in light of his contribution to the demise of Voldemort. However, this flickering hope was immediately snuffed out by the thought that now that his status as a traitorous Death Eater was known, the remaining Death Eaters would all be hell-bent on seeking him out.

Wounds still aching with agony, reality far too grave to face, he resigned to closing his eyes and feeling the softness of the mattress beneath him. He smelled the faint but comforting scent of lavender and honeysuckle, smiling as he recalled the soft touch of the hands gently treating his wounds the last time he had experienced that scent. He drifted off, wondering if the room smelled that way due to her extended presence in it, or if she somehow derived her scent from something inside the room. And with that, the blackness claimed him again. He dreamt of healing hands and light brown eyes.