Snape

Chapter Two: SNAPE

527 days. It was odd that he had kept track, but he found that all he did lately was measure time, so why should this be any different? Sitting by her bedside and drinking the hot tea that Nettie so cordially left for him every evening did nothing, really, to provide him with any other distractions. He had nothing to do but think and calculate and conclude that his life was jinxed by the number eighteen.

He had been eighteen when he had taken the dark mark. Eighteen years, again, as a death-eater – reformed or otherwise. Eighteen days in the infirmary after the final battle, unconscious. Eighteen days, again, after he woke up before he remembered what had happened and who it had happened to. And, irony of ironies, she had been eighteen when she had saved his life and, effectively, ended hers.

He wondered what the meaning behind it all was, and if he would need to sit by her bedside for eighteen years before being released from this strange thrall that propelled him to her day after day.

He knew Potter no longer visited her, not that he could blame him. As much as he disliked the boy, he understood. It was hard for Severus to see her like this – unchanging, empty-eyed and lifeless – and he had never been her friend.

Every visit he would silently vow that he wouldn't return, that he didn't owe her anything – not even his thanks. He hadn't asked her to save him; hadn't even hinted that he would want her to waste her brilliance on his worthless hide. It had been her choice and she had made it without discussing any of her plans with him. He should just get on with his life and forget about her.

Problem was, he couldn't. He almost wished he could go back to those first eighteen days in the Hogwarts' infirmary, when he had initially awoken from his coma and been blissfully unaware of the role Miss Granger had played in his survival.

It was a long time before he was able to open his eyes, and when he finally did, he wished he were dead. Bad enough as it was, lying suspended over a bed in the school's infirmary, with Poppy Pomfrey doing her best to twitter him to death.

He wasn't sure how long he had been incapacitated, but it seemed the outcome of the war had been positive. If it hadn't, Poppy's incessant queries as to how he was feeling and if he was in any pain would have been the least of his worries. Voldemort did not suffer traitors lightly.

In the following days he found himself hating everything about the situation he was in - unable to move, his burns constantly being slathered with a thick purple potion he knew he had never produced, and Albus popping by every so often to offer him candy and inquire how the hero was doing in an overly jolly voice. It was hell. Hell with lemon drops.

He had never for a single moment believed that he would survive the final battle. Waking up to discover that he was, indeed, still alive, had been a shock. The fact that he was being billed as a hero, along with the Boy-Who-Annoyingly-Lived-With-Horseshoes-Up-His-Ass, was a hitherto entirely unwanted addition.

It was days before he was able to verbalize these thoughts, however, as Poppy had rendered him speechless with a 'Vox Reparo' potion so bitter it was hard to believe it would actually help repair his hex-damaged vocal chords.

He had managed to overhear her twittering at Hooch, of all people, about him. 'Can you imagine Snape without that voice?' she had whispered, apparently aghast, 'It would be like taking away a lion's purr.'

'You mean a snake's hiss, don't you Poppy?' Hooch had smirked back. 'I doubt he'd like being compared to the symbol of all things Gryffindor.'

It was yet another few days before he actually had the stamina to demand to be released on his own reconnaissance back to his dungeons. Poppy had merely tutted at him in that annoying way of hers, before cackling at Dumbledore that he would be quite the site, lurching about the castle in his medical wrappings.

'I wouldn't want to confuse the children, you know – they already think he's a bat. Putting him out there dressed like a mummy would only scare the poor dears.'

He had vowed to get her back for her little remarks, some time in the future when his skin didn't feel quite so new, nor his fingers more brittle than a dried out will-o-wisp wand

The actual events leading up to his incapacitation had been, mercifully, blank. Albus would ask him on occasion what he remembered, but since he couldn't remember much of anything nothing ever progressed from that line of questioning.

It never occurred to him to question why he was still alive. He attributed it to his own damnable luck, or lack thereof. He also never thought to ask Dumbledore who else had survived. He knew that Potter had, of course. He had ears and they worked perfectly fine, despite all the bandages Poppy had wrapped around his head. It was hard to miss all the Potter-induced rapture that seemed to attach itself to every conversation he had the misfortune to hear in the infirmary. It never occurred to him that Granger or Weasley would be anything but sound and whole and basking in the glory-that-was-Potter. They had been an untouchable triumvirate since year one and he didn't imagine anything would have changed that.

He didn't think twice about it, in all honesty. He was recovering nicely, if Poppy could be believed, and he had hopes that he would be permitted to leave the infirmary within the next few weeks.

It was a particularly normal day, if being wrapped head to toe and lying in an infirmary could be called normal, when it happened. Albus was there for his daily chat, smelling of mothballs and lemon drops, and so falsely cheery that it was giving Snape a headache. But, despite all that, things were actually not unpleasant for a change. Until Poppy ran over, looking distracted and upset, and loudly informed Albus that 'they'd found her in a muggle hospital, and Harry was bring her here right now.'

And then it all clicked. Hermione Granger. They had found Hermione Granger. She was not safe, here at Hogwarts, as he had assumed. She had been found. And she was coming here. She was found, and she was coming to the infirmary because of him. She had saved him.

He had started then and looked up at Albus, realizing how sad the old man suddenly looked.

"Albus?"

"I must go, Severus. I'll be back."

The problem with remembering things is that you cannot chose what to remember and what to forget. It's all or nothing. In Snape's case, it was all. He felt like he was drowning as images and noises from that last battle finally broke free of the barriers his mind had placed on them.

Curses were flying everywhere - bolts of green, blue and red light flashing around him. He remembered twisting and ducking and shooting off curses of his own, moving closer and closer to the Dark Lord with every step, keeping his eye on Potter as he did so.

He collapsed under her weight as the force of the curse threw her into him. He could feel some of the silver tendrils of light hit him from around her slight body, but she had taken the brunt of it. Potter was screaming 'No' as he saw Hermione fall, even as he drained Snape of the last of his magic. The air turned purple, than orange, in a conflagration of hate and love and death and redemption as Voldemort exploded. His skin was melting from his bones, but he didn't care. Granger was dead and she had died saving him. He felt the concussive blast of Voldemort's death carry him away, rolling him down the field of death as his skin melted from his bones. He held onto her as long as he could, before finally sinking into oblivion. The last thing he remembered was her hair melting from the heat surrounding them, and her eyes, wide and brown and empty, staring into his.

So Hermione was being brought back to Hogwarts and Potter was coming with her.

However the moment the boy entered his wing of the infirmary, Snape wondered if his stay at the hospital was due to be extended another few weeks. The child looked absolutely murderous. Albus' calm interference had been the only thing potent enough to diffuse the situation before it got out of control.

"Professor Snape saved your life, Harry. If it wasn't for him, you'd be dead and Voldemort would have won."

Harry had cried against the older man then, hot and bitter tears, before he turned from the two men and went back to Hermione.

Snape agreed with Potter however. He didn't deserve her sacrifice. He didn't deserve to live.

"So, you remember now?"

Snape frowned at the headmaster. "I remember. What in the world possessed that stupid girl to go jumping in front a curse meant for me? And what has she been doing in a muggle hospital all this time? Didn't she realize people would be concerned about her? Of all the selfish, ungrateful...."

"She's in a coma."

Albus' words stopped him dead, mid-tirade. A coma. He blinked, than sneered. It appeared he wasn't the only one who couldn't die properly.

"Severus, do you remember Malfoy's curse? If we knew what the problem was, we might be able to fix it."

Snape frowned, "Animula somnus – living sleep. I don't know what it is."

Albus sighed, "We'll figure it out." There was a brief pause, before he looked at Snape again, concern dampening the twinkle in his blue eyes. "I suppose that we should test to see if you still have your magic. Now that you remember what happened, it seems the next logical course."

Snape hadn't known what to say to that. As he hadn't remembered before that he had given Harry his magic during the fighting, it would never have occurred to him that his magic may be gone.

Albus had produced a wand – Snape's own, surprisingly. He had assumed it had been lost on the field, and was happy to see it had managed to survive relatively unscathed. He let his fingers slide against the familiar wood, remembering the sucking, hollow feeling of the spell and how he had wondered if he would be reduced to the level of squib, and was suddenly nervous.

"Now, now, Severus. Don't be nervous – just twist and flick. Lemon drop?"

Snape scowled at the older man, who for all the world looked as if he was expecting some grand show. "I hate lemon drops. Evanesco!"

His new skin, still pink and tight, tingled painfully as magical energy ran through his blood, filling him up power. Albus' lemon drops vanished with a loud pop, and Snape allowed himself to smirk when the man looked at his hand, slightly disconcerted to realize it was empty.

He still had his magic.

After a moment of silence, Dumbledore smiled at him beatifically, reached into one of the myriad pockets of his billowing robes and pulled out another bag of candy.

"If only Miss Granger was as easy to fix, Severus. Gum drop?"

And that was that. They had refused to let him see her, saying it would be too much right now, and that Poppy had everything under control. He didn't know whether to be relieved or angry about this. He really didn't think he wanted to see her. His last memory of her was burned in his brain and all he had to do was close his eyes to see her brown ones, empty and lifeless, as her hair melted like a nimbus around her. At the same time, he wanted to see her; she had saved his life, after all. He owed her a life-debt.

Before he actually convinced himself he should go see her, she had been removed to St. Mungo's. Poppy could do no more for her.

When Potter had asked who would look after her while she was there, Poppy had replied that her sister Nettie was being assigned, at Dumbledore's request, as her personal medi-witch. Snape had been relieved by this – he didn't like the thought of her being alone with no one to look after her, even though he knew the girl wouldn't even realize it if she was.

He was determined to put her out of his mind the day she left. Potter, however, had shown up to ruin it all again.

"They won't let her hair grow back," he had cried. "She doesn't look like Hermione without her hair, and they won't let it grow back."

The more Potter told him, the more agitated Snape became. While he and Potter would never be friends, they had become somewhat reluctant compatriots. Snape had shared his magic with the younger wizard, and they both shared Hermione as a common bond between them.

That day, Hermione's first day in St. Mungo's, a truce of sorts had been formed between them. He and Potter would never be enemies again.

Upon arriving he had vowed that his first visit to St. Mungo's would be his last. He couldn't stand hospitals and being cooped up in the infirmary at Hogwarts for more than three months had pushed him to his limits. He would do what he had come to do and then he would leave, and that would be the end of it.

The giggling medi-aides did little to improve his mood, nor did Nettie Pomfrey, standing there gaping at him like he was some murdering psychopath.

His tried not to let his reaction to Miss Granger's appearance show on his face as he looked at her for the first time since the final battle – she looked more fragile than spun glass; easier to break than fairy wings. He wished Poppy had been able to figure out how to close her eyes – it was beyond disconcerting to feel like she was looking at him when he knew she couldn't be.

"Well, Miss Granger, even incapacitated as you are, you are still causing me trouble." A long box was removed from his cloak and placed gently at her side. He continued to stare at her, scowling, as he waited for Nettie to leave, before finally snapping at her to do so.

He waited a few moments to make sure she wouldn't return, before opening the box. It was full of wildflowers.

After Albus' tests were met the day before, he had left the infirmary over Poppy's protests and apparated directly to Holly Meadows, the scene of the final battle. The crater in the center of the field was where Voldemort had died. Albus had told him that immediately upon his death, everyone with a dark mark had simply melted. The skin and muscle had slid from their bones, starting at the dark mark and moving outward. Snape had been the only one to survive.

He picked his way gingerly through the field, looking at the greasy black marks where bodies had been, amazed to see little green shoots of wild flowers and grass poking their way up through the charred earth. Even the frailest of life could survive, if given half the chance. He had gathered the flowers he could find into a small bouquet and taken them back to Hogwarts with him.

After arranging the flowers in a small vase and placing them by her bedside, he allowed himself to look at her again, without benefit of an audience.

Her hair, as Potter had indicated, was extremely short. He allowed himself to reach forward, his fingers skimming through the soft strands, amazed at the tensile strength he detected. Without her overabundance of hair, her small body seemed remarkable frail and her eyes overly large. They were still as empty as he remembered.

He found himself cursing her for her foolishness once again. This – her lying here unable to talk or think or communicate – was such a waste. She was still just a shell of the girl she had been. The emptiness of her eyes reminded him of all Voldemort had taken from him – the irritating girl he professed to detest, the brave intellect he had admired even as he tried to deny it.

He missed her endless questions and hand-waving. He missed the way his blood would surge hotly when she got on his nerves, as she invariably did, the way her eyes would snap with anger when he insulted her. She had made him feel things other than fear and despair. She had reminded him that there really were things worth fighting for, and she had somehow made the role he played in the war more bearable for the knowing. He wanted her back.

He grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it up beside her bed, adjusting his robes around him before sitting down gingerly in the seat.

"Miss Granger," he murmured softly, even though he knew she couldn't hear him, "You are by far the most insufferable, silly girl I have ever known."

One of his hands lifted to touch her head, fingers brushing through the short strands, which seemed to him to grab at his digits as they passed across their shorn lengths.

"I thought you might like to have your hair back. You look more like a cub with your hair as it is and not like the lioness some people have come to expect you to be."

He muttered softly under his breath, infusing his touch with magic, and felt her hair spring to life under his hands. As the curls grew, they clung to his fingers, tangling in his hands as if clinging to him as he had often thought they might, and found himself cursing the irony of it all.

Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.

When the hair had grown to a length that seemed satisfactory to his memory he pulled a small green ribbon from his pocket, tied off a small section of hair, and cut a lock of it for himself. With another charm he tricked the mass of curls into being impervious to anyone who might try and cut her hair.

She looked more like herself now, with her hair flowing in disarray over her shoulders. He allowed himself to sit by her side a few more minutes before standing. Of its own accord, his hand gently patted her crown one last time. "Despite how pathetic this sounds, I will do my best to save you, Miss Granger."

Now, a year later, he was glad he had not been so foolish as to promise a specific date when the problem might be fixed. He was no closer to figuring out how to counteract Malfoy's curse than he had been at the start. Despite all his research he had thus far come up empty. He knew he didn't need to see her to continue his research, but couldn't bring himself to stop these visits. She was a reminder to him – a reminder that at least one person had wanted him to live.

He found he couldn't abandon her.

He wanted to live too.