A/N:

Not my sandbox, just my sand castle. I don't own anything from Harry Potter. Additionally, no one has permission to bind and sell my works, fandom or otherwise. I can't believe in this day and age we have to go back to making this disclaimer. Shame on you for exploiting other people's works!

Work is slowing down for me, so my creative muse is coming back! Please enjoy this tiny snippet that my muse has offered as tribute.

This goes up wet, enjoy my mistakes!

Word Count: 485

Disclaimers/Warnings:

Summary: In the aftermath of the Battle at the Ministry, Harry sits by Hermione's hospital bed, refusing to leave her side.

Prompts:

Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Assignment 3

Potions With Professor Bex

Task 2: Draught of Living Death- Write about someone being kept in a coma-like state for their own good.

"She's Still Alive"

Harry refused to leave her bedside. It had been two weeks since the Battle at the Ministry, and Hermione still looked pale and ridiculously fragile in the Hospital Wing bed. School had let out last week, and Harry had refused to get on the train.

Hermione had been injured while following him into a trap, the purple flame curse cast by Dolohov nearly bisecting her. Snape of all people had saved her, muttering the countercurse all while Harry had dashed after Bellatrix Lestrange, intent on killing her for murdering his godfather, Sirius Black.

Oh Merlin, I've already lost Sirius. Please don't let me lose her too.

Everyday Hermione looked a little better, but still she slept, her body unmoving under the covers that Harry knew so well. Madam Pomfrey had mentioned in passing that Hermione was put in a magical coma, to help her body heal the damage that was done.

She was lucky to be alive, Harry had heard Snape mutter to Professor McGonagall the first night they were in the Hospital Wing. Harry had pretended to sleep in his own hospital bed, but his mind wouldn't shut off. The self-deprecating thoughts whirled around him, haunting him with his bad decisions and hair-trigger temper.

It was his fault that Neville, Ron, Ginny, and Luna were injured. It was his fault that Sirius died. It was his fault that Hermione was laying there, her breathing barely existent, the team of healers brought in from St Mungos spelling potions into her to help her recovery.

"Hermione, it's all my fault," he whispered, taking her hand gently, as if she'd break if his touch was too firm. "I'm sorry. You were right. I should have waited. You're always right." He lifted her hand up to place a gentle kiss on her fingers before pressing the back of her hand against his cheek.

Her hand was cold, like every other night he kissed it, and so he rubbed her hand, trying to get some warmth back into it.

"Mister Potter." Snape's voice sounded from behind him, but Harry didn't jump. He'd been expecting the man and his nightly delivery of potions for Hermione.

"Professor Snape." It grated, having to call Snape a professor, but Harry wasn't willing to jeopardize Hermione's recovery by being a prat.

"Please let Madam Pomfrey know that tonight's shipment has arrived. The potions should be administered within the next hour for max potency." It was astonishing to see Snape refrain from sneering. Harry nodded his head, grateful.

"I will. Thank you, Professor."

Snape inclined his head before leaving, his robes billowing in his wake. Harry waited for a moment, to listen for the door to the infirmary closing behind the potions master, before he stood to go find Madam Pomfrey. He wouldn't waste another moment with Hermione's health on the line. He's wasted so much time already. He wouldn't miss another moment with her.