SNAPE

Chapter Seven: SNAPE

He should never have gone back. It wasn't as if he had needed to see her, not really. And his chest was aching. Apparating from Hogsmeade to St. Mungo's and then back again had almost killed him. Sitting in the dark in his study, he frowned. Perhaps the ache in his chest could be attributed in part to the Old Ogden's he had tossed back moments ago, but he didn't think so.

If he was being perfectly honest with himself, he didn't even really think the pain was from his still healing lungs. He felt as if someone had just ripped his heart out. He would not be going back.

Taking another sip of fire whiskey, he winced against the burn of it sliding down his throat and wondered how much of it he would have to drink before he forgot about her.

He was depraved. Any illusions he had about the kind of man he really was had just been shattered beyond all recognition by a girl who would never comprehend what she had done to him.

It had been a hell of a week.

He remembered waking up in the infirmary the morning after the explosion, feeling as if a herd of wild hippogriffs had run rough-shod over his chest. Poppy was in her element, twittering over him indulgently, like he was a child. He abhorred being bossed, especially by nosey old gossips who felt they could call him by his first name and tease him unmercifully.

After shoving another dose of last night's vile brew down his throat, she had smiled at him, 'Nettie flooed me this morning to see how you were doing. I told her you were fine, dear, but that you wouldn't be visiting Hermione anytime soon. She told me to tell you not to worry – Miss Granger will be the same as when you left.'

He tried his best to ignore her, as his silent glares in her direction had failed to incinerate her on the spot as he somewhat hoped they would.

After a forced morning nap, and dreaming another disturbing variation of Hermione dying in his arms, Albus had come by to visit, bringing with him a copy of the Daily Prophet. The gossiping rag had, in its usual hyperbolic way, managed to both praise and condemn him within a couple of pages of each other. Where one article had focused on his quick actions in saving the life Dennis Creevey, another had managed to insinuate that Snape had set up the explosion to provide himself with a little excitement now that his days as a double agent were over.

Dumbledore had been unhappy on Snape's behalf, but Severus himself had merely shrugged. If he had been paying attention in class and not thinking about his personal problems, the accident would never have happened. Luckily, Creevey had survived despite his inattention. He shuddered to think of the amount of paperwork he would have had to fill out if the dunderhead had actually died. Poppy had laughed at him, when he said as much to Albus.

'We're onto you, Severus. We know how much you like your students.'

Snape decided that prolonged bouts of crucio were preferable to putting up with her inane comments and innuendo any more.

The next morning Poppy had finally allowed to let him leave the infirmary on the clear understanding that he was to take meals in his room and keep away from fuming cauldrons; she had also commented lightly that he was permitted to visit Mr. Creevey if he wished to. When Snape had looked at her blankly, demanding to know why he would have any interest in visiting the idiot child that had almost killed him, she simply smiled.

'You visit Hermione.'

But he didn't visit Hermione – not for the rest of the week. For one thing, physically he just couldn't do it. His chest still ached every time he breathed and the thought of apparating without splinching himself was, frankly, terrifying.

On top of that, he did not want to provide any gossip for the rumor mill of Hogwarts. There was absolutely no reason for him to visit Hermione at all, so he wouldn't do so.

He hadn't counted on the dreams. That first night of dreaming in the infirmary seemed to have opened the flood gates. It was as if each time he closed his eyes, a dream centering around Hermione would take hold of his mind.

At first, the dreams had been of her dying – whether on the floor of his classroom, or on the battlefield as she lay limp in his arms. But over the course of the next few days, they changed into something else completely. And though it sounded even more cruel of him than usual, he wished for the dreams of her death more than these dreams of things that could never be.

In one of the dreams he had been in his chambers, alone, with the light of day gleaming through the windows. But the dream had shifted almost unnoticeably, day turning to night and the awareness of another presence in the room trickling through his mind. He'd turned to his sitting room, and to his surprise, found someone sitting in his favorite armchair in front of the fireplace, an open book between their pale hands. Without seeing her face, he already knew who it was, the feeling coming from somewhere deep in his gut. Her hair had glowed like a halo around her head, the warmth of the fire bathing her in a golden aura as she had sat up and smiled at him.

'No exploding cauldrons today? That's good,' she'd said, and her voice had been something caught between a child's high pitch and a woman's lower timbre. In retrospect he really couldn't say if it had been her voice at all - it had been so long since he'd heard it.

In another dream he'd found himself walking away from the school on a crisp, autumn day, his stride much shorter than usual and his footsteps accompanied by another pair. A dainty hand was tucked into the crook of his arm and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he and Hermione had discussed potential improvements to the wolfsbane potion. The wind had picked up, blowing leaves and cold air around them, and he had gallantly offered her his muffler to protect her throat. The dream had faded away with a strange, impish smile on her lips as she transfigured the green and silver stripes on the scarf into the red and gold of Gryffindor.

Those and many more visited him during his nightly slumbers, their memory clinging to him so strongly he was grateful for not having class to teach for the week; he feared these would drive him to distraction even more than his previous thoughts had. Each morning always came bright and clear, leaving him feeling empty and bereft. She would never smile at him on their way to Hogsmeade, or wear his scarf, or hold his hand in companionable silence. She was still in hospital and he was the man who had put her there.

After four nights of dreaming and nearly a week away from her, he returned to St. Mungo's. It was an early afternoon when he finally decided to visit her again. He needed to see with his own eyes that she was still there, that she had not turned into some ghost set out to haunt him.

Earlier in the week, he had vowed that he would not return to see her until he was sure he had a cure. He vowed to never again let thoughts of her distract him - bad enough that it had gotten to the point where he'd almost lost a student, but he most certainly did not wish to provide his colleagues with any more reasons to resume their interest in his dealings with Hermione. The best way to accomplish these tasks was to stop his visits and put her out of his mind.

The problem was, he couldn't. Between his dreams and the time he spent during the day thinking of her while he was recuperating, she was never far from his thoughts. Over the course of the week, he found himself missing her – missing the hour or two he would visit with her – yearning for the tranquility he enjoyed just from sitting by her side. He tried to deny this was so; refused to let the times he spent with her, regaling her with anecdotes about his day, to take on any sort of significance.

Time and again he rejected the notion that Poppy had been correct – that he had, indeed, developed feelings for the girl. Because, if that was the case, how pathetic would that make him? A man whose only close companion was a girl half his age; a girl who could never talk to him, or smile at him, or even recognize his presence.

He was so caught up in his thoughts that it took him a few minutes to realize that Nettie Pomfrey was also in the room with Hermione when he arrived, just rinsing her hair free of soap. The bedridden girl was wearing little more than a sheet, tucked firmly under her arms across her breasts. He could see the fragile beat of her heart in the little hollow of her clavicle and he'd stood, transfixed, for many seconds before he had been able to spin away from the sight.

The medi-witch had quickly finished Hermione's ablutions, bothering him with her inane chit-chat, until he had snapped at her to leave. It wasn't until the woman had bustled from the room, cheeks slightly tinged from his stinging remark, that he allowed himself to turn back towards Hermione.

Her hair was still slightly damp, even though he had heard Nettie mutter a drying charm over her. She had been changed into a white nightgown, serviceable and plain, but her arms were still bare.

Standing gingerly at the foot of her bed, he looked down at her and sighed. He was glad to be back. The empty feeling he had experienced all week seemed to diminish at the mere sight of her.

Moving to her side he sank down into the chair beside her bed, before turning to face her again. Her skin seemed almost as pale as his own, translucent over her cheekbones. Her arms were long and thin, but still with good muscle tone. He supposed Nettie Pomfrey was physically manipulating them to keep the muscles from atrophying, recognizing grudgingly that she did a good job. He looked down the sheets at her hands, noting how small they were. Her fingers were slender and he suddenly remembered, almost as if it had actually happened and he hadn't just dreamed it, the feeling of them pressed into the crook of his arm.

For the first time all week, he felt himself relaxing, and it was with a muttered sigh that he dropped into the chair next to her bed. His chin came to rest upon his hand and it didn't take long before his shoulders began to slump of their own accord, his eyes growing heavy with each passing second - until, quite soon, he was fast asleep.

He was in his quarters but they were changed somehow. There was the definite feeling of space being more cramped than usual, probably caused by the extra wardrobe against the wall and the books stacked high on either side of the bed. He was puzzled, but started at hearing a noise behind him.

'Severus...'

"Professor Snape... Professor Snape? Are you all right?"

Snape snapped awake with a start. The muscles of his chest screamed in protest as he sat up too quickly, his head rising with a sharp jerk from the side of Hermione's bed. He had fallen asleep beside her, his body slumped into an awkward, half crouching position. He could feel a slight crease in the skin on his cheek from her bed sheets, and felt himself pale in embarrassment as the subject matter of his dream came rushing back in a torrent.

At the foot of the bed, Nettie Pomfrey regarded him with some concern. "You look paler than normal, Professor Snape. Does Poppy know you're here? I bet she doesn't. I daresay it looks as though you need a few good hours of sleep."

Snape had glared at her, a dull flush slowly working its way up his neck, the heat in his face only matched by the heat of his temper. He couldn't quite recall how he had responded to Pomfrey's concern, but he knew he hadn't been pleasant.

When she had stopped him in his flight to inquire when he would be returning, he'd had to grab the doorway to support himself against the flaring pain in his chest. 'I will not be,' he had growled, trying to squelch the sudden urge to scream in agony. He could not allow himself to see Hermione...no, Miss Granger... ever again.

Damn Poppy and her interfering; her damned innuendoes and her teasing! It was her fault he was dreaming of Hermione – she was the one who had planted the suggestion in his mind that he might have feelings for the girl. He would never have thought of her in that way otherwise. He was as depraved as everyone thought, secretly lusting after the girl he was trying to save, dreaming of her soft hands and gentle smiles, the private conversations that were all their own.

Somehow, despite all attempts at denial, he could no longer fool himself into thinking otherwise. He did care for the girl, more than he should. He thought he might even – love her.

* * * * *

Old Ogden knew how to make fire whiskey and Severus was truly grateful. The burn of it sliding into his belly became a welcome pain over the course of the next few weeks. He had not returned to Miss Granger's side, despite his almost compulsive need to do so. He refused to give into his baser instincts and go see the girl. She was better off without him.

His temper, always quick to fly, had become even worse. Students and colleagues alike muttered that he was even more foul and loathsome now that Voldemort was gone than he ever had been before.

The whispers made him smirk darkly, 'What else would they expect? I am a degenerate of the worst sort.'

During the day, he taught his classes with a single minded ferocity that burned everything in its path. His students were scared to so much as breath the wrong way; terrified that he would let loose a stream of invective so hurtful and profane it would incinerate them were they stood.

Snape was pleased. There were no further accidents of any kind in his classroom.

His colleagues steered clear of him, treating him as they had before he had become a 'war-hero', ignoring him as much as they could and keeping any conversation with him as brief and to the point as possible.

Even Albus seemed to be giving him space, for which he was truly grateful. Snape couldn't stand to face the older man's disappointment and disgust in him. For what else would he feel, when he realized that Severus had abused his trust – had come to care for young Miss Granger in a way wholly inappropriate for a professor to feel for a student.

And, if sometimes a little voice would remind him that Hermione was no longer a student and hadn't been for quite some time, he would squelch it ruthlessly beneath a torrent of self-loathing and disdain so deep it would eventually drown.

Snape had tried everything he could think of to stop the dreams, but nothing seemed to work. Even the dreamless sleep potion was not strong enough to drive Hermione from his mind. So, he numbed himself nightly with Old Ogden's and tried to stay awake as long as he could. His dreams of Hermione were killing him.

It wouldn't surprise any who knew him that he was a man of deep passions and emotions. They would be surprised, however, that all his passion – the breadth and depth of his feelings – had, over the course of his visits to Hermione, become solely focused on her.

He had never felt this intensely in all his life, had never hated himself more. He had taken his intentions to save her, a completely altruistic move on his part, and perverted them into something base and shameful. He wondered if he was doomed to always destroy every good and pure thing in his life; to taint his every effort with the evil he knew dwelled within.

If Hermione had been truly whole, she would have run screaming in the other direction the minute she even suspected the way he felt about her. She would never welcome him the way she did every night in his dreams; with smiles and soft words, gentle caresses that turned him to dust at her feet. He was an animal. He stayed away from her for her own good and tried to drown himself in drink.

Several weeks after his final visit Potter had come pounding into his rooms. The young man didn't even have the grace to wait for an invitation to enter, and if Snape hadn't already finished his second glass of whiskey he might have decided to hex the boy.

As it was, he merely cocked an eyebrow at him, 'Potter. What an unpleasant surprise.'

Harry had thrown himself ferociously into the armchair opposite Snape's own, noting with a scowl Snape's redolent sprawl. 'A little early on a Saturday to be drinking, isn't it Snape?'

'Sod off, or pour yourself a drink. I care less, either way.'

'You're a bastard, you know that?' Potter had hissed, as he poured himself a drink.

'You're just realizing this now? Tut, tut, Potter. I always knew you were slow. To what do I owe the displeasure of your company?'

'I can't believe you didn't tell me about Hermione!'

Snape sneered, 'I didn't realize we had become confidants. Why should I tell you anything about Hermi... Miss Granger?'

'Because she's dying, dammit! Nettie Pomfrey told me she's dying, and there's nothing I can do about it!' The younger man was shaking with anger, his green eyes swimming with unshed tears. 'I went to see her today and she...she...' his voice broke suddenly, the tears free, 'she's the only one I have left, and I'm losing her. I can't believe you didn't tell me!'

'What do you mean, boy?' Snape felt suddenly cold, as if he had just been submerged in ice water. The muscle that passed for his heart started beating painfully against his chest, 'What do you mean, she's dying?'

'How could you not know? You see her every day – Albus told me, several weeks ago, when I asked him what you were doing. He said you were trying to find a cure for her, aren't you?' he demanded hotly.

'I have not been to visit Miss Granger since the week of Creevey's accident,' Snape hissed. 'Now, why does Nettie think she's dying?'

'It's everything,' Potter whispered, 'her hair is falling out, and her body – she's all curled up and her skin is so gray. I went to visit her this morning and she looks like a cadaver. I... I couldn't... the last time I saw her, she looked like she always did, and that was just two weeks ago! Now, she looks like she's made of twigs.'

Snape stood, dropping his empty glass on the stone floor and listening to it shatter with an odd detachment. 'I must go.' He looked at Harry, at the boys' tears and pallor, and realized he actually felt a strange kinship with him. 'Go get Albus, tell him to meet me at St. Mungo's.'

* * * * * * * *

He didn't know what to expect, but the still body lying on the bed was not it. She was even more far gone than Potter had described. She looked worse now than she had the first time he had seen her at St. Mungo's, when she had been practically bald and as frail as a kitten.

Over the course of the last year and a half, she had managed to regain the look of health and vitality he had come to associate with her. He supposed it was one of the things that made it so hard for Potter to visit – she still looked just as she had before falling into this coma – almost as if she might sit up at any moment and start asking any number of questions that would probably piss him off in the long run, even if he would enjoy the challenge.

But now – sweet Merlin! Her skin, normally a healthy pale honey, was whiter than that milk-toast Poppy had forced him to eat when he had been in the infirmary. Underneath her skin he could see the sharp angles of her bones. The firm muscle tone that had been present only two weeks ago had deteriorated, and she was curled in an almost fetal position on her side. Her glorious hair – the hair he had dreamed of curling around his hands - was lank and lifeless; straw-like and brittle – not the untamable mass of curls that grabbed his fingers and clung to his skin the few times he had allowed himself to touch it.

Nettie Pomfrey was looking at him with something akin to pity as he gaped at the broken form of Hermione.

'Why is she laying on her side?' he demanded, 'Why are her arms and legs curled like that?'

'It happens when patients have been in prolonged comas for too long. The tendons lose their elasticity and shrink.'

Snape didn't reply, just stepped closer to the bed and reached out his hand. 'She's lost so much weight. She looks like a single touch could break her. What happened?' His tone was not sarcastic, or demanding, but sad and almost pleading.

'I don't know,' Pomfrey replied. 'She started going downhill after your last visit. There's nothing more I can do for her.'

'I can't accept that,' he murmured. 'Dear Gods above...'

He felt himself crumble to his knees at her side, his hand reaching out and gently brushing her brittle hair away from her eyes.

They hadn't changed at all. They were still wide and empty, the color of mud, where once they had been cinnamon and gold, snapping with an intelligence he suspected could equal his own. He became caught in her gaze, mired in her eyes. Their very emptiness mocked him; accused him. He had failed her, despite his promise.

An incredible weight settled on his chest, suffocating him. He could practically see the shaded nimbus of death hovering over her, and it occurred to him suddenly that if she died a part of him – one he was just starting to recognize – would die with her.

He looked into her eyes again, remembering them as they had been – determined that he would not let her go. He felt himself falling into the brown, sending his mind into hers as he did so, calling her name. He could hear his voice echoing down the empty hallways of her mind and the very bleakness of the sound made him shudder. He had been mad, to think he would find any remnant of the girl he once knew, here.

She was gone. His last chance at redemption, and she was gone. He was a fool.

His hand reached out and cupped her head, feeling the fragile bones of her skull under his palm, 'No,' he pleaded into her mind, 'No!'

It was then that he felt it, just the slightest brush of - something – against his thoughts. The touch was tantalizing, so gentle he was afraid he had imagined it. His gaze focused and narrowed, his mind suddenly reaching out and probing, 'Miss... Miss Granger? Hermione?'

He chased the feeling down hallways that were crumbling to dust around him, pushing past great overgrown trees and stepping precariously over bricks and broken mortar. Ahead of him he could see a vaguely familiar black door, half-rotted and askew on its hinges.

It took him a while to get there, to push the door gently open. It crumbled at his touch, the dust sifting through his fingers and disappearing before it touched the stone floor. He blinked against the sudden grit, barely daring to breathe. He could hear crying. 'Hermione?'

For a moment, there was only darkness, before it broke wide open in a kaleidoscope of colors. His knees buckled under the sudden barrage of emotion he was feeling – anger, pain, loneliness, despair – a depression so strong that it nearly overwhelmed him and threatened to suck him in.

'Severus?' her voice was the voice of angels, the voice of mercy, the voice of atonement and salvation, 'Is it really you? Is it really you?'

He collapsed to his knees in front of her, trying to tell himself the moisture in his eyes was caused by the dust from the door. 'It's me, Hermione. I'm here.'

She slid off the large chair she had been curled in, throwing her arms around him and burying herself against his chest. 'Severus, where have you been? I've missed you so much!'

In the broken down Potions class, through the cracks in the stone floors, flowers began to bloom.

A/N redux: This chapter was written while I listened, over and over, to Don McLean. I've noticed a disturbing proclivity on my part to listen to really, really sad songs lately. If you find this story angsty and emotional, blame the music! In particular, blame this song:

Crossroads - Don McLean

No matter what we may have planned.