Perdition

Characters are property of J.K. Rowling and the Harry Potter Universe. Thankfully, she allows me to borrow them for a bit of fun.

Resonare Mortis

Chapter III

Perdition

I see myself out of the castle, thankful that the evening meal has sequestered everyone in the Great Hall. Being tossed out of the library without time to properly process everything I have discovered has put me in a fetid mood, and the only thing on my mind is getting home to sort out details. Heidegger's journal feels heavy in my hand as I make my way to the front and out to the Apparition point, but I refuse myself the time to dwell on those thoughts. Splinching would put a damper on my already foul disposition. As soon as I exit the gates, I feel the familiar yet unsettling tugging that seems to come from every direction, and I'm gone without a trace.

The chilly evening air hits me and I know I've arrived. I have Apparated behind the building that houses my favourite Chinese takeaway restaurant, knowing I'll have neither the desire nor time to do any cooking when I finally get home. The alley behind the building is deserted, save for the stray grey tabby cat rummaging behind a nearby rubbish bin. The nameless animal I've seen countless times before pays me no mind as I make my way around to the entrance. I'll have to remember to leave his dinner before I start home.

The restaurant is almost empty which means minimal waiting time. I order my usual fare of sweet and sour chicken and a side of king prawn for the alley cat. He seems to prefer that to anything else I've ordered for him in the past. Once my order is placed, I take a seat near the door to wait. I retrieve Heidegger's journal from my pocket and run my fingers along the brittle edges of the paper. I wait a few moments, then, with great uncertainty, I open it to the page I've marked with a torn sheet of parchment and begin to read.

Rumors abound; the woman's spirit lingers in the house where she was murdered – wailing in agony and begging for mercy. I plan to visit soon to see for myself if there are any signs of Resonare Mortis.

The thought of whether or not he ever visited flashes through my mind. Absently, I start to turn the pages, searching for any evidence or lack thereof of his encounter with the tortured English witch.

Ana

The unsuccessful search left me flustered, and I returned to the sitting room and took to a chair that looked as if it might support my weight. While sitting in the chair, coolness seemed to envelope me the way a swaddling cloth blankets a babe. Though I was completely free to move about, the air felt constricted and heavy, as though something was descending upon the house. Knowing it would only be a matter of time, I sat, hardly breathing and my movements static. It was not the freezing air ambushing me from every angle that caused the gooseflesh to appear and the hairs on my arms and neck to stand on end, but the chilling scream that rang down through the planked floors above. The wailing continued, high-pitched and piercing and, for a moment, I felt as though I was trapped in the agony..."

"Order for Hermione Granger!" I start at the shrillness of the voice, slamming the book shut. Stowing the journal in my satchel, I look to the counter to spot a woman of short stature glaring at me from behind the till. She holds my food out at arm's length with a hand resting on her plump hip. Apparently, I've done something in the ten minutes that I've been here to offend her, as she doesn't respond when I say 'thank you' or leave a tip in the nearly empty jar on the counter.

As I leave the shop, I pull the container holding the steaming prawns from the bag and make my way toward the alley. The cat sits patiently on the edge of the rubbish bin, his dishevelled tail curled around his front paws. Giant, yellow eyes follow me with interest as I carefully place the clear, flimsy container on the ground. He makes no effort to come closer than his usual spot. He never does, but we understand each other all the same. "Enjoy your supper," I say, prying open the lid. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the cat has jumped down and is now eating. I can't help but smile as I start my short walk home.

My small, terraced flat isn't far, so I make it home before my food can become too chilled by the night air. I lay Heidegger's journal on the coffee table, far away from any stray bits of sweet and sour sauce that may try to defile it. Minerva would have my head if I brought it back in less than perfect condition. Despite being covered with parchments and pots of ink, the kitchen table is where I decide to eat my dinner. The sight of my work strewn about makes me anxious to start reading again, and before I know it, I'm scraping the last bit of sauce from the takeaway container with the tip of my chopstick. I'm sure the food was good, but I hardly remember tasting it. I never thought I would see the day when I could eat fast enough to rival Ron's best efforts in the Great Hall. Tossing the empty bowl in the rubbish bin, I waste as little time as possible cleaning the kitchen before going back to the sitting room and opening the journal. Once I find my place, I continue reading:

... I felt as though I was trapped in the agony. The screams seemed to encase the entire house, but it was clear the second floor was the epicentre of the activity. I half-ran, half-fell, my way up the dry rotted stairs in attempt to reach the soul, but once I was close enough to the second floor landing, it was painfully obvious the wretched sound was coming from the room at the end of the corridor...the room I had vacated not an hour before. With each step I took, the screams grew louder, more defined, and before I found myself standing near the entrance, I heard a call for help.

I am certain of it.

And I am certain I've just read an excerpt from a horror novel rather than the experiences of a scholarly man. I close the journal and carefully sit it on the table, as though I might become trapped in its grotesque pages. Bringing myself to read any further is a lost cause, because a reasonable part of me finds it to be too incredibly far-fetched to believe. I cling miserably to that reasonable side as I turn off the table lamp and make my way to my bedroom, knowing full-well that I am ridiculous.

During the night, I wake no less than three times from half-remembered nightmares. Screeching witches and ghastly spectral images of Severus Snape haunt my dreams, making it impossible for me to rest. Every time I close my eyes, I'm transported to the rickety house somewhere in eighteenth century England that once played host to a trapped soul. If it isn't the house, it is Snape. I see him, quite plainly, coming back to life on the dirty floor of the Shrieking Shack, his clouded, half-dead eyes full of reproach. It is madness, and after lying awake for an hour or so, I finally untangle myself from between the blankets and go back downstairs.

With no particular destination in mind, I amble through the sitting room and into the kitchen, the thought of a fresh pot of tea suddenly sounding like a brilliant idea. I don't see the bag sitting on the floor that contains all of my work until it's too late. My foot catches the strap and sends parchments scattering all over the tile floor. Parchments belonging to me mix with ones from the Ministry, making a giant mess. I know I could easily wave my wand and sort it straight, but instead, I sit cross-legged in the middle of my kitchen and start sifting through the files. It is tedious work, but I find it oddly comforting. It keeps thoughts I have no desire to think from worming their way into my head. Of course, that is until I find the Auror's report detailing the investigation on Professor Snape's death. For a split second, I consider filing it the Ministry folder, because I know what it will say. However, my curiosity ultimately wins out and I start reading.

The report details the Auror and Unspeakable assigned to the case. Neither of them sound familiar and their work is cursory at best. I almost can't bring myself to finish it, but something near the bottom of the report nearly causes my heart to stop. The words 'Shrieking Shack' seem to come off the page like they have a mind of their own. I scan the page, fearing the worst.

On Thursday, May 28th 1998, at approximately 4:38 in the afternoon, Senior Auror Augustus Strout and Unspeakable Alistair Clagge travelled to Hogsmeade Village to investigate a possible magical disturbance at the abandoned home known as the Shrieking Shack. Unspeakable Clagge performed the necessary enchantments to detect the phenomena known as Resonare Mortis. Lack of sufficient evidence obtained by Unspeakable Clagge suggests the area is clear. Auror Strout deemed the home safe and ready for permanent closure. The Shrieking Shack was secured at approximately 4:53 P.M. and permanent closure will occur once findings have been approved and finalised.

The paper falls from my grasp, and I find I'm on my hands and knees frantically digging through parchments. "Where? Where? Where? Where is it?!" It's useless, like looking for a grain of sand in a bed of dirt. There must be at least two hundred sheets scattered across my floor. I pull my wand from the loose knot in my hair and wield it in a wide arc over my head. "Accio autopsy report."

The document erupts from somewhere near the bottom of the heap and nearly smacks me in the face as it rockets upward. I snatch it out of the air and turn to the last page, the page containing the addenda. No matter how many times I read it, it always says the same thing.

Addendum Three (added 06/01/98): Findings from the Ministry of Magic show no evidence of a Resonare Mortis. The location, the tunnel leading from Hogsmeade Village to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, has been secured and deemed clear by Ministry officials for permanent closure. Final conclusion: Case 426513 closed by The Ministry of Magic, June 1st, 1998.

Somewhere, in the midst of all the chaos following the end of the war, someone made an error. The grievousness of said error remains to be seen, but it is an error just the same. My first instinct is to send for Harry, but considering the lateness of the hour, I decide against that idea. As much as I would like to talk to both the Auror and Unspeakable myself, I know I can't. The Healer assigned to Snape's case is out of the question as well. These files should have never left the Ministry, and they certainly shouldn't be scattered like confetti all over my floor. I make up my mind that the only solution is to investigate myself. The prospect of having an experience similar to Heidegger's sends shivers down my spine, but, I tell myself, there is really no other option. After I use my wand to sort all the papers into their proper folders, I head back to bed, hoping that by some miracle I can fall asleep and get a few hours of rest before I potentially face one of the most uncomfortable ordeals of my life.

*****

At dawn I lie in bed, watching the first faint hints of the new day peek through the window above my head. As I study the tiny particles of dust floating in and out of the light, my mind wanders to Ana, the poor witch in Heidegger's journal entry. His account of Ana made her seem much more than a corporeal manifestation. She appeared to be fully alive and completely cognisant of the luridly violent situation unfolding around her. Heidegger carried on complete conversations with her, and when he reached out to touch her, he felt skin rather than air. If she had been trapped by the magical bond for only six months and carried such a vibrant illusion of life, how would a soul trapped for years appear? I shuddered at the thought. My only hope is that I won't have to find out.

As I go through my morning routine, my mind is largely absent from the clothes I select and the breakfast I eat. All I can thing about is Snape. A sense of dread descends on me that I cannot shake. I gather my things, making sure to get Professor Snape's autopsy report. If I see him and can talk to him, I'll need some evidence that he has passed on or he'll find the notion preposterous. I check and double check to make sure I'm not forgetting anything and am prepared to Apparate when a thought occurs to me. I should probably tell someone where I'm going in case something goes amiss. I scribble a note to Harry. I use his home address so that he won't read it until late this evening. I want him to know where I'm going, but I do not want him to try and stop me, which I'm certain he'll do if he finds out soon enough. I send my owl on her way with the letter and gather my nerve to set out for the Shrieking Shack.

In an instant, I am standing right outside the building thought to be the most haunted in Britain. I am about to find out just how true that rumour is. The Shack is roped off and a sign forbids me entrance. Making as sure as I can that I am not being watched, I duck under the rope and cast a quick unlocking spell on the front door. As I step inside, I am confronted with a deluge of memories associated with this place. I remember coming here in my third year when we all thought Harry was being hunted by Sirius. Snape was here then, too, watching dutifully over Harry. The next time I saw him here was much darker. The day he died – or at least the day I thought he died.

I make my way through the Shack to the place where the tunnel begins. I feel my knees begin to wobble and my heart begin to race. Every instinct I have tells me to leave this place, to get back to my flat where it is safe and away from this house where the dead live on. But I know I can't. I swallow my fear and open the door that leads to the underground passage where my Potions master lost his life.

The feeling I get when I walk into the concealed cavern is unhinging. I find myself ill at ease in the claustrophobic yet eerily hallow tunnel. It's obvious no one has been in here for quite some time. The smell is maddening; a sticky, astringent odour of rotted plant matter and stagnant water seems to assault every breath I take, causing my lungs to burn. It's slowly being returned to nature, but that does little to ease my apprehension. I regret the decision of coming down here alone, but it's much too late for that now. Pushing that thought aside, I charm the door back into place over the entrance before creeping down the narrow passageway.

The channel between the Shrieking Shack and Hogwarts is more treacherous than I remember, but I find myself making good time despite the rubble that occasionally catches underfoot. I spend my time concentrating on my steps rather than the fact that I can feel the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The moment I begin to contemplate turning back, my trainer catches on a jagged stone and I find myself sprawled facedown, staring into a puddle of partially congealed blood just inches from my face. A startled yelp sweeps past my lips as I realise it doesn't belong to me. The stench is overwhelming and I recoil immediately, feeling the rocks scrape my knees through my denims. Trying to control the shaking in my limbs, I press my back against the wall and close my eyes.

The words I read yesterday evening come flooding back through my addled mind, and I can make very little sense of them. This shouldn't seem this real to me. I push off the wall, refusing to give into this unexpected streak of cowardice. Approaching the puddle with a sense of loathing, I'm determined to prove it is nothing but a figment of my overly imaginative mind. I don't hesitate as I reach down and swipe my hand through it. It's not only wet but tepid on my skin. The urge to heave surges through me as a deep retching noise vibrates within my throat.

I draw my wand, pointing it toward my soiled hand and say the incantation that will wash it clean. The words fall from my mouth, rushed and shaky. For an instant I think I've cast the cleaning spell incorrectly. All I see is red. I swallow hard, trying to calm myself and try again. Just as before, nothing happens. Before panic can sink its fangs into me, I quickly rub my hand over the wall, watching in horror as the blood smears across the grey stone. All I can do is gape at it. Then, suddenly, the vague, chaotic thoughts I have churning in my mind are gone when I hear the faint sound of fabric being torn.

"Move," I whisper to myself as the ripping grows louder, more defined. I do as my voice bids and crouch down as close to the wall as I can get. Thankfully, part of the tunnel seems to have collapsed close by, and it offers some concealment. What do I do now?

The thought of running flashes across my mind for an instant, but my feet can't seem to find tread as a groan slashes through the air. The sound is close, too close, and I realise someone...possibly Professor Snape ...is no more than twenty feet from where I am. Taking deep steadying breathe, I force myself to regain some sense of the nightmare descending around me. The book mentioned something about not allowing yourself to be overcome should you find yourself in the presence of an echo. The thought seems to reassure me and, mustering up some of that renowned Gryffindor bravado, I peer around the slab of giant rock.

I stare at the man in front of me uncomprehendingly. Sure enough, it's Snape, and he looks real, solid even. Despite what I read in Heidegger's journal, part of me was expecting him to take on the appearance of a spectre, but he looks... human. Everything about him is just as I remember it. His hair...pitch black and to his shoulders...covers part of his face, but I can see his pained expression. A new kind of horror begins to rise up inside me as I edge closer to him, seeing the blood and sweat glistening on his face. There isn't a book in the entire world that could have prepared me for this. I clap my hand over my mouth, but my squeak of disbelief manages to slip through before I can contain it.

Professor Snape begins to stir at my voice, trying to determine who he shares the confined space with. The sudden movement, I notice, causes fresh blood to leak from the wound on his neck, discolouring his soiled undershirt even more. He says nothing as his dark eyes search the darkness in my direction. I don't dare move or breath. I sit stock still trying to be inconspicuous while my mind wrestles with the image in front of me. Not wanting to meet his cold gaze, I stare at the wand in my trembling hand before I carefully stow it inside my sock. Having it, I feel, will only cause more problems considering it can't help him.

Either I have forgotten what I thought I saw all those years ago in the Shrieking Shack, or this is the first time I've ever truly seen the wound he sustained. Nagini's fangs have pierced his neck just below his jaw, but the tear was anything but clean. The sight of the flayed flesh is nearly enough to cause me to faint. For a moment, I wonder how he is even able to function with such an injury, and then I see him down the contents of two small phials: Blood-Replenishing Potion possibly or an insanely powerful Invigorative Draught. He tosses the phials to the side, and the sound of the glass clattering on stone rings through the cavern. With a hiss, Snape yanks hard on the sleeve of his frock coat. The sleeve, partially torn, breaks free from the garment, and he slides his arm through to remove it. I watch, dumbstruck, as he ties the torn sleeve around his neck in an attempt to stop the bleeding. It surprises me how nimble his hands are despite the obvious shaking that plagues them.

Once he's finished with his makeshift bandage, Professor Snape's eyes shift, once again, in my direction. "Come to finish me off, have you?" Snape's voice is raspy, like he had just been roused from sleep. It takes me a few seconds to realise he's talking to me, but I don't answer. I can't make my mouth move. "Show yourself before I drag you out. Neither of us will enjoy it, I can assure you."

Now what? My mind races to recall the plan I had developed. The full impact of the situation hits me, and I realise I won't be able to wait in the wings for the cycle to end, especially if Snape knows he's not alone. I take a few seconds to calm myself, even going so far as attempting to tame the unruly curls caused by the dampness before I show myself.

Perhaps he was expecting a Death Eater or Lord Voldemort himself, but his wide-eyed expression tells me that I was the last person he thought to see stepping from behind the pile of rubble. "Granger..."

It feels as if my complexion is roughly the same as his as the colour drains from my face. He recognises me. "Professor Snape."

Snape's expression hardens for the briefest moment, and then a sneering grin appears on his face, as though he is trying to make me uncomfortable. "Going to give me over to the Order? Better yet the Ministry? Perhaps they'll give me the Dementor's kiss and be done with it." His voice is harsh, but I expected that much from him.

"I'm not here to turn you in." I notice his posture stiffen as I near. Does he truly not trust me?

"Why wouldn't you be? You've every reason to think me worthy of the kiss."

"You are no threat to me, and you need help." I point to my neck, seeing his black eyes narrow in disbelief or resentment. It's hard to tell.

"How could you possibly help me, Granger?" His voice is incredulous. "There isn't any magical remedy that you know of that I haven't already thought of and I highly doubt you have the strength to pull me out of this hole."

"You're right. I can't do that Professor," I admit, the hopelessness in my voice undoubtedly becoming conspicuous.

"Then stop wasting your time and get back to Potter." His voice tells me that he has had his fill of this conversation. He's clearly dismissing me.

"Harry can manage well enough on his own," I counter, fumbling for a believable lie. "Besides, he told me to stay with you while he looks at those memories you gave him."

"Did he now?" Professor Snape's voice has a sceptical note to it, but he says nothing else. Instead, he seems to get lost in his own mind. I take his silence as an invitation, deciding to sit some distance beside him so as to ease any duplicitous notions he may have. All I receive is a look filled with loathing, but I suppose it's as good a start as any.

When my hands hit the stone to support my weight, I feel the glass phials he had discarded only moments before. Thankful of the darkness, I allow the tip of my finger to graze the rim of the phial. The residual potion coating the glass is sticky and slightly viscous. I bring my hand to my face, as though wiping a stray hair from my eyes, but my every move is centred on finding out the contents of the phial.

"Blood Replenishing Potion," he says just as I deeply inhale the sickly metallic smell.

His words confirm what my senses tell me, but my hand freezes just under my nose, and I find myself staring into his half-closed eyes. "I'm sorry, what?"

"On your finger...it's Blood Replenishing Potion. You could simply have asked." He sounds irritated but, even in this weakened state, it is clear nothing slips his notice.

My tongue seems frozen to the roof of my mouth, but I know that can't be the case as I can hear my voice echoing down the tunnel. "I just wanted to be sure." How convincing, Hermione. You'll have to do much better than that. "I saw you drink the contents. I... I was curious."

A deep scathing noise, similar to that of a scoff, seeps from Professor Snape's lips. "She says I'm not a threat, though she treats me as one."

I can't deny his avowal, because it's true, albeit not in the way he believes. It's going to be difficult to keep the reality of the situation at bay until the time is right. I am going to have to win Professor Snape's trust, and I'll have to do it soon in order to break the bond when the time comes. At this rate, it is unlikely he'll believe a single word that comes out of my mouth. As I wipe the remaining potion on my denims, I decide the best course of action is to remain silent until the opportunity presents itself.

Professor Snape seems content with the arrangement and, for the longest time, all I can hear is sound of his shallow breathing and my heart thumping in my ears. To pass the time and silence, I study Severus Snape through the faint shafts of sunlight coming through the cracks in the stone. He looks much older than I remember, although I'm sure that has something to do with the magical bond his soul is currently trapped in. Despite looking generally worn into the ground and in a substantial amount of pain, Snape appears very much alive. The Blood Replenishing Potion has brought some, though very little, colour back to his face. Given the state of him, I decide his soul is in the very early stages of an entirely new loop. It's going to be a while, a very long while.

Sometime during the study of the unfamiliar gauntness of his face, Severus suddenly became aware of my scrutiny. His black eyes lock on mine, but I can't bring myself to look away. "We thought you died in the Shack," I say instead. The words, I hope, aren't too entirely telling, nor are they a farce. We truly thought he had died. Slow and steady. "That's why Harry sent me back for you or...for your body rather."

"So he could spit upon my corpse, or use me as an example?" The words seem to be an effort for him, but it's hardly difficult to miss the vitriol. "Your precious Potter thinks I am a murderer. I would imagine mercy would be hard to come by, even beyond the Veil. Tell me the truth," Snape demands with a guttural hiss. "Why are you here?"

Obviously I can't tell him the truth without risking the destruction of what's left of his mangled soul, yet his persistence is making that task a bit of a quandary. Could I really bring myself to lie to a dead man, albeit not just a dead man, but a dead man in immense suffering? I had struggled to answer that question before coming here, and it becomes painfully obvious as his hooded eyes search mine for deception that I am still doing just that.

"I came on my own accord," I say, hoping Snape can detect what little honesty coats the words.

"Why?"

"Because I could not leave you there, especially after what you said to Harry. Something didn't seem right." As soon as I hear the words leave me, I realise I have decided my angle. Lying, or rather strategically withholding bits of the truth will be the only thing that will work to my advantage and ultimately his. I don't like the thoughts of it, because I haven't the slightest idea of how long I will be able to do it convincingly. I am not a Slytherin after all. The most gnawing feeling is that it doesn't feel right, almost as if I am doing him some sort of injustice. Relax, I scold myself as I push that thought as far back in my mind as it will go.

By the look on Professor Snape's face, he remembers what he had said but he doesn't offer to speak it again. We both know he doesn't have to. Instead, he rests his dark head against the rough stone and sighs deeply. "Leave me be, Miss Granger. I am in no need of whatever you think it is you can offer me."

His tone suggests he is yielding to any notion that I've returned to betray him or turn him over. He still doesn't want to be bothered, and I can't blame him for wishing to be left alone. Still, Professor Snape isn't going to get his wish. "I can't leave you here alone. Not after what happened to you. You're lucky you made it this far with that wound."

"Idiot girl, I am hardly lucky. The venom," his surprisingly mellifluous voice says, "are you aware of what it does?"

"It prevents the wounds from healing." Fifth year, I remember, watching Arthur Weasley at St. Mungos, the bandages on his face and body becoming saturated with the slightest movement. Swallowing hard, I finally meet Professor Snape's gaze. "Without Blood Replenishing Potion or an antidote death is... imminent."

"Imminent is far too strong a word for my liking, Miss Granger." He scoots himself up the wall with a wince. His hand goes to his ribs...three broken according to his autopsy report...where it rests gingerly. "I have absolutely no intention of dying in this God forsaken rat hole."

His declaration startles me, and all I can do stare at him. I knew he wouldn't realise that he's already deceased, but to see that he is so adamant that he will survive is more than I expected. The thought baffles me and, for a moment, I'm speechless. "You've the antivenom, then?" I finally say, trying to hide my uneasiness. I know he had acquired it and that he has probably taken it already. I also know it won't be enough.

His eyes narrow and his thin lips press into a harsh line. "Do you really think me that stupid?"

I look away, shaking my head. "No."

"Go on!" Snape barks suddenly. I jump, my mouth hanging open from the shock. Professor Snape's hand goes to the side of neck where he very delicately touches the fabric concealing the damage. When he pulls back his hand, I can see blood on the tips of his fingers. "No need to pussyfoot around the question you're trying very hard not to ask."

The calculated expression on his face makes me choose my words carefully. "I don't understand why it isn't working." My gaze travels to his blood on the stone beneath us and, as my eyes catch the smears of crimson, I realise the air is filled with its rusty stench. There is too much for the antidote to be working.

"It is working, but it is unfortunately not instantaneous. Have you thought of how I am able to speak? It has taken hours for my voice to return. The antivenom must become infused with the tainted blood that flows through my veins. It takes time."

I hear Snape's words, but they make very little sense to me. It seems like such a thing would never work, because his neck is still oozing as we speak. "How could that possibly work when you are wearing most of it?"

"As astute as ever," Snape snaps. "The Blood Replenishing Potion keeps me from bleeding out before the antivenom can close the wound. The blood is a vessel; it carries the antivenom to the lesion, or in my case lesions, and closes them by destroying the toxin that prevents healing."

"How long could it take?"

"Hours or days perhaps, depending on the nature of the injury sustained."

Hours. Days. It seems unfathomable. Now comes the real question that has been tormenting me since I found him. "Why are you waiting here? Why do you not get help?" The only response I get is silence, although I can tell by the glinting of his eyes that he has already answered the question in his thoughts.

"Do you know what happens when you exert your body in anyway?" Snape asks instead. I open my mouth, but he doesn't give me time to respond. "When you move around the heart starts to pump blood faster, harder. How far do you think I'd get before it starts to squirt out of the side of my head? I've only got so much of the potion, and it is not enough to get me through this damned tunnel let alone a battle at the castle."

"So you're just going to sit here and let yourself die?" Anger finds its way to my voice, and Professor Snape's frown tells me I've overstepped not only my bounds but his patience.

"I hardly see what I do with my own life is any of your concern, but to set your mind to rest, no. I value myself more than you think."

"You said that it could take days for the gash to heal itself. You have to..." I can't seem to finish the sentence, my desperate plea for him not to make this fatal mistake. Calm down, I command myself. You cannot change this. This has already been decided.

"How many phials are left?" I squeeze my eyes shut, as though trying to wake from a bad dream. Part of me has no desire to hear his answer, but in order to finish this, I need to know. His count will help me determine how much time he has left, how much time I have.

"Six."

"Do you think that will be enough," I inquire, unsure of what to say. Of course it isn't, I know, but what else can I say to a dying man?

"If I didn't think it was enough, I would have brought more," Severus grinds out. "Besides, I've already taken eight."

"You must carry an entire apothecary in your cloak." A quick broken laugh tumbles out soon behind the words. It's a pitiful attempt at levity, but it's all I've got. "It's almost as if you knew you would be bitten."

Severus glares at me icily, clearly not amused. "That obvious, is it? I knew that once the Dark Lord went on his quest for the Elder Wand that my days were numbered. Once he figured out that he was not the true master of the wand, he would deduce that I was, and he would kill me without a second thought."

"But he thought you were one of his most loyal servants," I object, probing for more information, "and one of the most skilled as well. How could he just get rid of a valuable asset?"

"Once I killed Dumbledore, he had no more use of me. I became a pawn in his game, worthless and expendable. He knew that I could no longer spy for him, since the Order would kill me given half a chance." There was touch of melancholy in Snape's voice, which was unusual. I had never heard emotion of any kind in his voice before. "Dumbledore was the only one he feared. With him out of the way, he believes there is no one that can stand in his way."

I become aware of the shaking in my hands when I clasp them together in my lap. I had not expected his response to be so forthcoming, nor had I expected him to sound so much like a Death Eater. Why is he still playing this elaborate game I know nothing about? "Why...why are you telling me this?"

"Have I made you uncomfortable?" he asks. The familiar sting has returned to his voice, but that does little to help me relax. "Perhaps you should learn not to ask questions you don't want the answers to."

What an understatement that is. In fact, the longer I sit in this enclosed space with him, the more I realise that I don't want any part of this situation at all. My face stiffens and I fall silent, waiting for him to speak. He doesn't, of course. In fact, Professor Snape looks at me with a hint of muted fascination in his cold, reproachful gaze. It is almost like he is waiting for me to flee, and that's when I realise that fleeing is exactly what he wants me to do. We remain locked in this impasse of him staring at me, and me staring at the ceiling until he says something I do not quite catch or expect.

My head snaps up in his direction, and I see him studying the worn leather on the toe of his boot. "Excuse me?"

"I said, 'I told him to look at me,'" Snape tells his shoe, refusing to look at me.

My brows are tight and I bite my lip, afraid to ask any sort of question. If he feels like talking, I'm going shut my mouth and let him. "I remember."

"And those three words meant enough to you to prove my innocence," he says, still not looking in my direction, "enough to give you the inkling that something wasn't quite right?"

For the first time, I am thankful I don't truly know the contents of Professor Snape's memories. I doubt I could keep from talking about them which would not only prove that I'm terrible when it comes to lying, but also prevent me from doing what I came here to do. "It wasn't just that. I... we were there the whole time. You kept pleading for the Dark Lord to allow you to find Harry..."

It's clear that this was not something Snape was expecting me to say given the way his eyes finally locked on mine, unblinking. "Perhaps that was to save my own skin, to buy myself more time."

A weak smile slides across my lips, although fleeting. "Possibly, but I don't think so. It was almost as if you needed to get to him before he got to the Dark Lord. You proved it by giving him your memories," I add with a soft voice. "You were doing your duty to Professor Dumbledore, or that was the way it seemed at least."

Professor Snape's dark chuckle morphs into a violent cough. When he brings his hand from his mouth, a sticky spray of red is splattered across his palm. He tries to wipe away the evidence of his trauma, but it's too late because my eyes are trained on his hand. Snape, ignoring my look of shock, simply reaches into his robes and retrieves another phial of Blood-Replenishing potion. Popping the cork, he looks at me and raises the phial in the air, as if toasting some great achievement. "To duty," he growls, and then tosses the concoction back like a cheap shot, grimacing as the metallic tang assaults his taste buds.

"Enlighten me, Miss Granger, as to what exactly your duty has been through all this." His voice shifts from inquiry to accusation. It surprises me that he doesn't know, that Dumbledore never mentioned why Harry, Ron and I went into hiding after the Dark Lord's rise to power.

"I was helping Harry." Gauging his perplexed reaction to my response, it's obvious he hasn't the slightest clue as to what I was helping him with or why. "We were looking for pieces of the Dark Lord's soul. Horcruxes, they're called. Once we found them, we had to destroy them. Not any easy thing to do considering that the things seemed to have a mind of their own."

Professor Snape's nostrils flare as he listens in silence. As I recount our task of hunting down the six unknown items, he seems to be only vaguely present, offering stiff nods to show he's still paying attention. I start to think his mind is elsewhere until he holds up a single hand for me to stop.

"These Horcruxes," Snape says with a wince, "Dumbledore told Potter what they were and where to find them?"

I shake my head, remembering the endless days of searching with only whispers of leads and even less luck.

"Stolid man," he says, his voice dangerously guttural. I shrink back against the wall, hoping to melt into the cold stone. I watch him with anxious eyes, waiting for the explosion of vitriol I know is coming. With no warning, Professor Snape suddenly grasps my hand with brutal force and the look on his face tells me he is either about to faint or collapse, overtaken by some sort of wild fit. "The Dark Mark! Some...something is happening. Please..." His words never finish as they are choked out by a pained, animal-like howl that causes the fine hairs on my arms and neck to stand on end.

Adrenaline takes over and I clamber over him, trying to manoeuvre whilst still under his vice-like hold. With each passing second, his grip seems to strengthen, and I am fighting to keep myself composed while I wrestle the sleeve of his white shirt up his arm with my free hand. The sight that greets me is one I'm sure I will never be able to erase from my memory. The Mark is bleeding like saturated paint off his flesh. The ink, steaming and violent, runs down his forearm, eating away his skin like its acid. When the blackened liquid hits the stone floor beneath us, it sizzles, creating wisps of black smoke. The Dark magic seeping from Snape's body is almost too much to bear,and I feel my bones turn to ice, watching helpless, as he is slowly swallowed up by the agony the same way an ocean consumes a single grain of salt.

I sit by his side with his hand in mine, trying to control the panic that was boiling just beneath the surface. Aware, that if I gave into the nightmare around me, I would lose myself completely in this disaster. How easy it was to forget that this isn't real. It had been at one point, yes, but this precise, horrifying moment I find myself in is not real. Each time I try to tell myself that, however, Severus seems to squeeze my hand as another shudder rolls over him. It's hard to think of this as anything but real when I can hear him as he cries out or feel him growing colder under my touch.

Severus releases my hand without warning, and I watch as his breathing becomes laboured, every muscle in his body tensing. I fear this is it, but the ear-shattering scream that fills my ears seconds later tells me otherwise. For a split second, his entire writhing body seems to be lifted off the ground. That's when I notice the blood dripping down his hands and between his fingers. I seize his hands in mine and force his balled fists apart, revealing the bleeding cuts caused by his own fingernails. My mind immediately travels to his autopsy report. There are scratches on the skin of the palms of both hands, measuring varied lengths and depths. These wounds are also self-inflicted as evidenced by the subject's blood under the nails. I won't let him hurt himself again because of this madness. Lacing my fingers through his, I can feel Professor Snape's blood, warm and slick, on my palms as I press his hands to mine. I have no idea what I'm doing, but I pull him toward me, hoping the closeness of another will provide him with some comfort.

When the final shuddering wave crashes over him, Snape rolls over on his side curling into the foetal position. His head is almost resting on my leg. I look down at him and a single tear escapes my eye. I wipe it away quickly before he can notice it. I don't want him to see me cry. Instead, I try to reassure us both by slowly running my hand over his lank hair.

"He's gone," he whispers finally, his voice hardly a wheeze. "The Dark Lord is done."

I bite my lip to keep from sobbing. He must mistake my sound of distress for that of relief because he squeezes my hand gently as if reassuring me. "Yes he is," I say once I find my voice. "And all because of you, Professor."

Snape makes a small noise of amusement but doesn't speak. He doesn't understand the role he has played and, for an instant, I want to tell him everything. I want to tell him about the Order of Merlin First Class he receives. I want to tell him about his portrait. I want to tell him how I plan to set the record straight in my book, but I can't seem to find the will to form the words. All of those material things turn trivial and asinine when it occurs to me that he will have no use for any of them.

So, instead, I sit with my back against the wall with his head resting in my lap. The placid expression on my face is forced, and I wonder for a moment if I look as uncomfortable as Severus undoubtedly feels. He doesn't seem to notice, but I can't seem to decide if that is for his sake or mine. After a while, he points weakly to the breast pocket of his frock coat... to the few remaining phials that will prolong his life a while longer.

Professor Snape lost more than the vile tattoo marring his arm when the Dark Lord met his end. The sudden spasms of pain had increased his heart rate enough to send what little blood that remained in his system rushing out. I am the furthest thing from a Mediwizard, but it doesn't take someone skilled in the medical arts to see the gleaming red evidence all over both of us. It seems, even in death, Lord Voldemort would find a way finish his most loyal after all. I find myself hating the red-eyed monster that had barefacedly called himself a great wizard more than I thought possible.

Severus tugs on his coat, fumbling for his liquid lifeline with little success. I do it for him instead, and he doesn't protest as I invade his personal space. We're well beyond that point at this juncture. My shaking hands remove the cork, and bring the crystal phial to his lips. I could cry, watching him as he drinks every last drop, and then drown myself in my tears. Pretending to help only serves to make me feel worse.

Soon enough, the grey, corpse-like colour of his face is replaced with slightly warmer tones. He feels warmer, though it could be my overly hopeful mind deceiving me. Severus Snape will never be warm again, no matter how much I wish it. His shivers only prove to drive that point home, and I find myself wiping the blood off my hands to keep from falling to pieces.

"I was always on his side. Potter's," Snape tells me unexpectedly. "I was always fighting for him because of her."

I remain silent, stunned that he would bring up something so terribly personal.

"It was like looking into her eyes every time I saw him. I hated him for it, but I fought for him anyway."

"People make mistakes," I say. "The point is that you did the right thing."

A withered smirk appears on his shallow face only to be replaced by a grimace. "Did I?"

"You did what you had to do. Harry will understand." I can't tell him that Harry now considers him one of the most courageous men to ever come into his life. I can't tell Professor Snape that Harry holds his memories with strict confidence, his only lasting tribute to the man he never truly knew, but admires all the same. "Harry always understands."

After that, I watch him as he drifts in and out of consciousness, either from exhaustion or blood loss. It's hard to tell at this point. Professor Snape's sleep is restless given the way his face shuffles through mixed expressions. I wonder briefly what's going on inside his head, if he is remembering things the way they were or as they are now. Dreams and nightmares, they plague the dead as well, only it is much more heartbreaking in this case. Snape will never wake, not truly.

I look away, shamefaced, thinking of how this could have all been prevented, how he could have been spared this horrible fate.

Author's Notes: The previous warnings still apply. This story is rated mature for a reason, as there are strong images of death throughout. Again, a very special thank you to Meladara and Anoesis! As always, reviews are welcomed and greatly appreciated!