To Die, To Sleep Part I

"So we are agreed," said the rough, husky voice. "The target must be taken out New Year's Eve."

The four men huddled together in the thickest area of the woods, their black cloaks rustling as they shifted, attempting to warm themselves during this, their final secret rendezvous before their first big mission.

"Rowle, you have all the schedules?"

"Yes," Rowle grumbled.

"Good. Everything must be perfect. That is all, gentlemen. Until we meet again for our first project."

Putting their wands together, the four tips sizzled as they said, their voices conjoined, "The Golden Trio will pay."

0o0o0o0

Severus looked up from his own impeccable dicing to covertly watch Hermione as she carefully stirred the bubbling liquid in one of the older No. 4 cauldrons. Her form appeared to be holding; he doubted he would have to take over for her for another fifteen minutes or so: while her strength was improving, it was not yet equal to the task of stirring one of the longer-brewing potions.

She reached up to tuck a wayward spiral back into her bun, which was already frizzing out around her head like a halo. Careful not to disturb her rhythm, she wiped a bead of sweat off her small straight nose, just keeping it from dripping off and ruining a month's work. Severus smiled slightly. She was getting much better about that.

She looked uncomfortably hot, Severus mused. He would have to make sure she imbibed plenty of cold water during their break, he thought as he regarded the flush in her cheeks. Very smoothly contoured cheeks, they were. Indeed, her features were remarkably even. How had he always thought of her as, if not plain, then uninteresting? Her mouth was perfectly curved, the bottom lip just a touch too full, the only imperfection in her otherwise symmetrical face. Her eyes were wide and well-lashed, and set at a reasonable distance from each other. Her forehead was neither too large, nor too small. She could wear fringe across that forehead if she wanted to, Severus thought, though she certainly didn't need it. Her jaw also was very fine, neither too sharp nor too broad, the planes connecting in a firm chin which supported her full lipped mouth very well. Too, her neck was long, slender and graceful; in truth it looked too fragile to hold up her appalling hair.

In addition to the heat already in her face from the steaming cauldron, an extra tinge of red began slowly to creep up her cheeks and spread to her (perfectly shell-shaped) ears and neck. She had become conscious of his gaze.

Damn. Damn damn damn.

Refusing to behave as though his hand had been caught in the proverbial cookie jar (though, in fact, it had), he calmly resumed dicing.

What the hell was wrong with him?

During their fifteen minute break from the hot, stuffy lab, Severus poured two glasses of icy cold water and shoved one into Hermione's hand. He was determined not to give her any reason to think he admired her. Because he didn't.

Not seeming to notice that he had almost spilled the water down her T-shirt, Hermione said, seating herself at the table and fanning her face, "Well, I think the new LGS potion is coming along very nicely. I was extra careful stirring it today. It ought to be ready for bottling tomorrow."

"Perhaps," he sneered.

She blinked, and he could see the knot forming in her throat where she was fighting back words and angry, hurt feelings. Silently, she gulped down her water.

He forced another glass on her. She took it absent-mindedly.

"Professor, when will I be able to brew a potion by myself?"

"Probably never," he said, ruthlessly.

There was a long, painful pause, while her mouth hung open.

Unable to stop himself, he continued, "A mind saturated so long in the Gryffindor idiocy and clumsiness will most likely never be fit for anything subtler than battle and Quidditch. No matter how much of my blood it may have imbibed."

As she stood up, he just caught the shine of tears as she turned and walked to her rooms, saying as she left in a voice wobbly though clearly trying to be even, "I have a headache. I'll be lying down the rest of the afternoon."

0o0o0o0

Damn it all! He threw his glass into the fireplace in his library, where it shattered very satisfactorily. Waving his wand clumsily, he ignited a much larger fire than he had intended; the flames roaring to life. He strode to the window and slapped the flats of his palms against the panes, staring out at the mocking noonday sun. Swearing again, he flung the heavy winter curtains closed, plunging the room into darkness, save for the roaring fire.

Grabbing the decanter of brandy from his desk, he ripped the top off and threw it also into the fire. Sneering at himself, he said to the fire, "Yes, I do bloody well plan to get roaring pissed at noon. It's about time, too." With that, he knelt rather anti-climactically to the thick carpet and sipped the brandy.

"Truly," he murmured morosely, staring into the fire, unblinking. "Everything I touch turns to dust."

The deeper he drank, the deeper he sank into regret. If only he could change the past... he would never have become a Death Eater. He snorted, choking a little on his brandy in the process. Wiping his nose and mouth clumsily, he took another long pull. No, he would never have become a Death Eater. Not knowing what he knew now. Not at the cost of losing Lily. He growled to avoid sobbing, taking yet another desperate swallow. Not at the cost of killing his best friend. He choked, remembering... "And my soul, Dumbledore? Mine?"

"You alone know whether it will harm your soul to help an old man avoid pain and humiliation."

He had both loved and hated Albus for giving him... a way out. A way out of the guilt for another death. So many deaths he was responsible for, either directly or indirectly, but it was all the same, wasn't it? Was standing by and letting Charity be killed any better than mustering up the hate to power the curse which had ended Dumbledore's life?

But the remembrances didn't stop there...

His earliest memory was of both intensely longing for his father's love, approbation, respect and friendship and vehemently despising and loathing him, of taking blows meant for his mother and subsequent blows meant solely for him. When he found he had a means of fighting back, even if he couldn't always control it, he used it. He spent hours practising, harnessing what he would later come to find was magic, a practise which, had he but known it, would stand him in great stead in later years. It was the beginning of the greatest self-control and thence, the greatest Occlumentic skill known to the modern wizarding world.

He exulted in his newfound defence, using it to protect his mother. When he discovered his gift was shared by his mother, but not used by her to protect either herself or him, it was the last of his hope in people until he met Lily. Unfortunately, Lily, while ultimately the inspiration for his nobility, was not enough to restore his faith. It was up to Albus Dumbledore to plant those seeds.

By the time he made it to Hogwarts, he was the veritable poster child of neglect. Lucius Malfoy, the older, wiser prefect, however, saw beyond the small, almost ridiculously bat-like child in over-large shabby robes, to his enormous, burgeoning talent and control. He took him under his wing. What Severus had thought at the time to be the only blessing God had ever bestowed on him (if such a Being had ever existed - if He didn't, it was surely to spite Severus), proved to be the Devil's own blueprint.

If Severus bore distinctive features in manhood, as a child he had looked positively weird. He was shunned by most everybody for looking weird, for frankly being weird and for being Slytherin. Lucius, and the friends Severus made through him, provided acceptance from boys his own age. When he was introduced to Tom Riddle, he'd thought it was exactly what he'd needed – a father. A mentor. Approval. Affirmation.

"The more fool I," Severus half-growled, half-yelled at the unoffending flames.

He inched closer to the fire.

He had hurt her. He had meant to hurt her. Simply to shield himself from a moment of vulnerability. He was truly damnable. As the paradoxically soggy burn rose in his chest, he tucked his head to his knees and gasped.

"No one should ever have to be shackled to such a broken creature. Especially not her."

Standing up a bit too fast, he stumbled backwards, righted himself, then staggered towards the potions lab. He ought to be able to avoid any tendons and major arteries.

Granted, he was drunk. But he didn't really care.

0o0o0o0

Hermione lifted her face from her soggy pillow and dragged her feet to the mirror. Lifting a soft, folded handkerchief from the dressing table, she began to pat her face dry.

"Bastard," she whispered, the epithet making her feel mildly better.

She had felt him gazing at her earlier. She had flushed heavily, wondering what imperfections he was finding to scorn, either in her appearance or in her stirring technique. Then, trying to brave through that, she had thought to make some mildly amusing chit-chat during the break before lunch, and... the lump rose again in her throat as she wiped fresh tears away. She hated how sensitive she was.

"You're a Gryffindor, for Merlin's sake," she told her reflection, exasperatedly.

The truth was she wanted his approval desperately. She had always wanted it. He was the only professor at Hogwarts to ever not give it to her. He was undoubtedly the most brilliant Potions Master in several centuries and one of the few existing in the western world. This caused her to positively run herself ragged her first few years in Potions. After second year, however, she gave it up, albeit reluctantly, as a bad job. She would have to settle for Minerva McGonagall's and Filius Flitwick's praise.

Once she'd gleaned some of Severus' own talent, however, she'd thought... maybe, finally...

She pursed her lips, shaking her head violently, as if to expel the pathetic thoughts. "Get over it, Hermione," she told herself sternly and proceeded to the loo to splash her face with cold water.

Cold water and her face, however, were not to meet that day. Halfway across the room, Hermione's left forearm began to throb. Startled, she grasped her wrist, examining her perfectly smooth, healthy looking dermis. She paused, confused, gazing blankly ahead, then slowly began moving to the door. Opening it, she broke into a run, sliding across the kitchen floor, flinging open the door to the lab and clambering down the stairs to find one Severus Snape, a small sharp knife in his right hand, dexterously slicing out what remained of his Dark Mark.

Hermione paused, horrified. There was blood... everywhere. Bits of carven flesh lay twitching, scattered across the stainless steel table.

Severus, without turning his attention from his task, said through gritted teeth, "Burn the remains."

"But... but you..."

"Burn them! NOW!"

Hermione quickly grabbed one of the smaller iron cauldrons and reached for the first lump of twitching Dark Magicked flesh, unthinkingly reaching into his blood...

The children screamed as his fellow cloaked and masked Death Eaters laughed loudly. Rowle kept his wand trained on their small heads, forcing their eyes to stay open as Crabbe Crucio'd a man in Ministry robes and Goyle raped a woman with no robes, holding her legs over his shoulders, thumping her back on the cold ground.

"Melissa," the woman cried, "Freddie... I love you. Your father loves you..."

Her voice was cut off, however; Goyle slit her throat slowly as he reached his climax.

Hermione thought she was going to throw up when Lucius touched her shoulder and said, "Severus, it's your turn to cast the Mark."

Her face remained impassive, save for a slight smirk, even as her stomach roiled and tears burned somewhere deep behind her eyes. "Morsmordre," she said, her strong voice sounding foreign to her ears.

"Burn them, girl!"

Hermione's knees buckled, but she grabbed the rest of the former pieces of Severus, tossed them in the bucket and quickly set fire to them with her wand.

She turned to him, the knife buried deep in his forearm, sweat beading his forehead. "Professor, you've got to stop," she protested.

He cut out one more slice, which Hermione grabbed –

"Do you love me, Severus?"

Hermione knelt and kissed the robe of Lord Voldemort, then kissed his claw-like toes. "Yes, my lord. Of course." She made her voice break. "Must you ask?"

"Oh, yes, Severus. I fear I do not trust you as much as I would like. Fortunately, I have devised a way to remedy this..."

"Anything, my lord. Anything."

"Lucius?"

The platinum-haired wizard brought out a young girl of about fifteen. She didn't struggle, oddly enough. She looked Voldemort directly in his red eyes, her face crumpling in a mix of disdain and pity. "I'm not afraid of you," she said, softly.

"You, Mudblood, have no need to be afraid of me." She cocked her head at him. "It is dear Severus you must fear."

The blood in Hermione's veins went still.

Then Voldemort's high, cold voice said simply, "Kill her for me, Severus."

Without a blink, Hermione stepped forward, saying calmly, "Avada Kedavra."

When she came to again, Severus was carving out the last of his forearm. Quickly, she gathered the rest of the carnage and burned it.

"Professor," she said shakily as tears streamed down her face, "tell me you have Blood Replenishing Potion on hand."

Severus nodded his head to a small bottle, letting the knife clatter to the floor, resting his flayed arm limply on the table. Hermione grabbed it. There was only half a bottle left. She tipped it down his throat.

"Professor... Professor, listen to me!" she snapped as his head nodded. She held his head and said, leaning her face close to his, "Did we ship all of our Blood Replenishing Potion to Madam Pomfrey?"

He nodded limply.

Her voice shook as she ground out between her teeth, "You daft prick!"

With that, she Disapparated them both.

0o0o0o0

White-faced and wanting to vomit – but she couldn't, because she'd already vomited everything in her stomach – Hermione waited in Madam Pomfrey's cozy office, pacing slowly. She was too anxious to sit, but her stomach was still too tender to pace quickly.

Eventually, Madam Pomfrey entered, closing the door quietly behind her. Meeting Hermione's tired, worried gaze for a moment, she then closed her eyes and leaned against the door, sighing heavily.

There was a long moment of silence, in which it seemed to Hermione that the ticks of the grandfather clock echoed resoundingly through the room. Finally, Hermione asked in a small voice, "How is he?"

Poppy wiped her brow, coming forward wearily to her desk. "He'll live." She lowered herself to the chair, the effects of rheumatism in her joints evident. "Again." Placing her forehead on the base of her hand, "Severus has more lives..."

"I don't think he was trying to..."

"No. Not that hard, anyway."

"Professor... he... doesn't want to die."

Poppy gazed at her for a moment, then relaxed back into the chair. "Do you have any idea what caused him to do this to himself? Has anything changed recently?"

"We've both changed a fraction every day, I suppose," Hermione began wearily. "But there haven't been any drastic changes... except... well, I suppose this morning, but..."

"What happened this morning?"

Hermione perched on Poppy's side of the desk, facing her. "We've been getting on rather well lately. Quietly, but amicably enough. Neither of us has a strong affection for the other, but I think... I believed there was a mutual, if grudging on his side, respect. Then this morning he scrutinised me for the better part of half an hour, then... before lunch he said some... he said... cruel things. I went to my room and maybe three quarters of an hour later, felt a premonition and found him..." she trailed off.

"I see," Poppy said finally.

Hermione shifted. "May I see him?"

"Yes, I think that would be best."

Choosing to overlook the cryptic statement for the time being, Hermione exited the cozy office and entered the stark, long room full of hospital beds, the one at the far end containing a Severus Snape who seemed somehow thinner even than normally. Hermione attributed it to his blood loss.

"You fool," she said gently to the almost comatose man as she sat down in the comfy chair Madam Pomfrey had placed near his bed for her. Filled with confidence during his slumber, she reached out and placed his right hand on her left, stroking it softly with her other. She shuddered as tears seemed to fill her being. "What would I have done if you had managed to kill yourself, you fool? You bastard? You blockhead?" Replacing his hand, she bent to rest her head by his shoulder and sighed shudderingly. Her voice muffled, she said, "I have something to tell you." She sat up again. "I wish you would wake up, so I could." After a pause and with voice trembling, she continued, "Although, perhaps you might receive it better in your sleep, anyway, so here it is: I forgive you."

"Firstly, I forgive you for saying those nasty things to me today. I have deduced from following circumstances that you had things on your mind and probably didn't really mean them.

"Secondly... Well, something happened, Professor. Yes, I know, how astute am I, the woman you chose to be your apprentice. When I touched your blood, I found myself experiencing one of your memories, not as an observer, but as you. Well, it happened twice, actually," she choked on the tears and snot accumulating in her face, "so I experienced two different memories. And of all the memories for me to experience... I was there with you during two of what have probably been some of the worst things to ever happen to you... some of the worst things you've ever had to do." Her voice broke, then she resumed.

"This is what puzzled me at first, Professor: Why those memories? Why not boring memories of a classroom? Or memories of Order meetings? Why the darkest moments a person could imagine? I have several theories by the way, but we can talk about those later. My ultimate conclusion is that I think I was meant to see those things, because... because they give me the courage to... to...

"I forgive you, Professor.

"I forgive you for all the horrible things you've ever had to do for the sake of the war. I forgive you for killing that brave, blonde girl. I forgive you for smiling while the Death Eaters - those pigs - maimed people's souls. I forgive you for killing Dumbledore.

"I don't know what my forgiveness for all these things can do. What I hope it can do... I hope you will finally exonerate yourself. You've paid your fair share of dues.

"I know, I'm only twenty-one and what do I know of paying dues? That's the point, Professor. I'm linked with you now. What I didn't glean from your memories, I gleaned from your blood in my veins. I know you better than anyone, now, I think. I know your regret. I know why you nearly de-limbed yourself today."

She sniffled. "As the Muggles say, it all 'clicked' for me, just this afternoon."

0o0o0o0

Severus Snape was not asleep. Nor had he been since Hermione had sat down beside him. He had merely been resting his eyes, but when his apprentice had approached, he deemed it better for her to think he was asleep, than to deal with whatever questions she might have.

He also didn't think he could face her.

However, she started talking... and soon he couldn't think of anything but that he must keep his eyes closed so that she would keep talking.

The dichotomy Severus Snape lived with always reared again.

She forgave him!

She forgave him? Who the hell did she think she was? How was her forgiveness supposed to mitigate years of murder, poison, torture, betrayal and double play?

She forgave him.

Even if she did, what did it matter? What did it matter that he had one person's forgiveness?

It mattered infinitely. It mattered that of all people, she forgave him.

He felt tears leaking from under his eyelids.

"No," he said, making his voice hard as stone to compensate for the weakness.

"Professor?" Hermione was surprised.

"You don't know all of it."

She sat silent and reached for his well hand again. He snatched it away from her, finally opening his eyes and meeting her gaze.

"I created the spell, Sectumsempra."

"Yes, I know," Hermione responded, perplexed. Why was he telling her information to which she was already privy?

"I created that spell before you were born. I was sixteen. My heart was full of dark things, disgusting things. I joined the Death Eaters shortly thereafter. Tom Riddle wanted me because of my dark talents."

"Professor..." Hermione grabbed his hand and grasped it tightly, refusing to let go, "I know."

Madam Pomfrey and Minerva McGonagall rushed out of the office and toward them both.

"Hermione, Minerva just Floo'd in..." Poppy said breathlessly.

"Hermione..." Minerva said, approaching her slowly. "It's your parents."