Care

My deepest admiration goes to J.K. Rowling, who owns everything you recognise and allows us to take her creations a little further than she ever intended. Thank you, Jo.

I'm reaching the point where there simply aren't enough words to express my gratitude to the fabulous GinnyW for her gentle hand and astute advice. Again, I thank lifeasanamazon for her Brit-picking and beta-work, and last but never least, deemichelle for her sharp eyes and reads. Ladies, I owe you all so much!

59. CARE

They landed on the hard, cold floor of the dungeons where the air still smelled faintly of spearmint and eucalyptus.

He had to—he had to—

He couldn't think—couldn't wonder how Albus had sent them to a place where they couldn't be sent.

He allowed himself to rest his back against the bed, their bed; he did not allow himself to loosen his hold on her in any way.

Her face was smeared with blood and mud and streaked with rain. The hand he used to wipe her cheek clean trembled, but his touch was gentle. She had shadows under her eyes like bruises; her face was drawn and tight. Did she feel pain?

He pressed his lips to her temple and felt the throb of her pulse and drew in a deep breath and whispered a spell.

And it wasn't until that moment when he felt her soften in his arms and mould more completely to him that he realised how depleted his own powers were, when he felt how much that simple spell had taken out of him.

He could only clutch her more tightly to him and relish the warmth and fragility and comfort of her weight against his body.

But—pain.

What was causing her—his Miss Granger—pain? Even as he slipped his wand out and began repeating the series of diagnostic spells he'd numbly watched Albus perform, his mind was already frantic, rushing ahead. If Albus had missed something—if she needed a Healer—what would he do? What could he do? Was Poppy here? Could he even get her to Poppy without being seen?

But he found nothing.

The wound—Sectumsempra, his own wretched hex—was already healing. He knew who must have cast it, and he knew who must have healed it.

Lucius, despite his popinjay airs, had always been a dab hand at Charms.

Lucius. Why?

He couldn't think about that now. And what did it matter? Lucius had saved her for him, and that was all he needed to know.

Cradling her in one arm, he continued the diagnostics and felt a tension he hadn't known he carried ease out of his body.

Not even a glimmer of Dark magic clung to her.

And with his relief came a ridiculous thought and fierce pride.

Nothing Dark would dare cling to her, nor would it cause more than a glancing blow. Not to Miss Granger, his Miss Granger, who was all that was Light and pure and—

Something had caused her pain.

And then he saw it.

So small as to be almost insignificant.

On her left hand, on her little finger, at first disguised by caked on mud.

The small, perfect nail, ripped from the nail bed.

Even as he lifted it gently and began casting cleansing spells and healing spells, his mind overran with an old Muggle expression. More power in her little finger… more intelligence in her little finger… more compassion and love and—

Love.

The word wracked through him. How easily she used that word.

He cupped her hand in his—now cleansed, now missing a nail but no longer bloody or swollen—

He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in her hair.

"Can you hear me?" he whispered. "Listen to me. Hear me."

Her breathing continued, slow and steady.

"You need to sleep," he said, desperate to reassure himself. "Go ahead and sleep," he crooned. "We'll sleep, and then tomorrow…"

Tomorrow, what?

He didn't know.

He lifted her fragile body and carried her to the bed, and with one last gasp of lucidity, Vanished their clothes and surrounded her with his body and his skin and his warmth.

Exhaustion overtook him, but even as he slipped from consciousness, he was aware that she was his, she was alive, and she was in his arms.

Nothing else mattered.

"Sleep," he murmured in her ear, and then, his eyes drifted closed and he joined her.

XX

He slept through tomorrow. Perhaps two tomorrows. He wasn't sure of anything but that her hair clung to the rasp of his beard, and he hadn't had this much hair on his face since—

Since she'd cared for him after he'd spent days recovering from Lucius's retribution.

A lifetime ago.

He rolled her onto her back and checked the pulse at her neck—steady—and the bruises under her eyes and the mud and blood flaking from her and cursed himself for his own exhaustion.

His mouth tasted of rot and he remembered how much she loved his potion, and he hadn't given it to her, and she was dirty and—

He needed the loo. Desperately.

He didn't want to leave her. He didn't want to let her go.

But this was ridiculous and he needed the loo and—he forced himself from the bed and lurched toward the bathroom and the toilet, and as he relieved himself he trembled. Lack of food, lack of water, and any number of things could have caused it but he knew better, he knew he shouldn't have left her; he should never have left her—

By the time he got back to the door he was running—running those few steps, and when he saw her—

He lunged for the bed, for her body.

Sweat beaded her hairline; her skin was cold and faint tremors danced across her skin.

"I'm here," he said hoarsely, "I'm here, I won't leave you, I'm here…." And flooded with relief when she relaxed back into his arms, her breath a soft sigh.

"Hermione…" he breathed softly into her hear.

Bind her to you ssso she'll never leave you again.

The voice hissed in his memory, and he thought of the mockery. They were bound beyond reason, beyond anything rational, and he didn't care, he only knew he needed her more than air and water and by some cruel twist of fate—

She needed him, as well.

She, who should never be bound to anyone so Dark, needed him, and he didn't know how to save her.

"Shhh…" He soothed her, but truly, was trying to soothe himself, as she was already at peace. "I'll wake you up. I'll find a way, my darling girl…."

And a flash of memory—of her eyes, dark and frantic—when he'd called her that and she'd scrambled away from him on this very bed, away because he'd startled her, frightened her.

"You don't say things like that to me. Call me insufferable."

She'd come back to him—oh, so relieved—when he'd done so, and the memory choked him with shame.

"My darling girl," he repeated in ears that might not hear. "I'm calling you that until you wake up and make me stop, do you understand me, Miss Granger? Do you hear me?" He rubbed his rough cheek against her soft one and added softly, "Insufferable little fool." Just in case she could hear him. Just in case.

When his heartbeat had slowed, he rolled over, keeping her in the crook of his arm, and Summoned a series of phials from his cabinet. The first took no thought at all. He poured a liberal amount of his taste potion onto his fingers and slipped them into her mouth, coating her tongue and inner cheeks.

He tossed back a swallow himself and then leaned forward and pressed his lips to hers, simply because he had to—

And felt something within him, something that could only be his soul reaching out and finding and sighing… and when he gently ended the kiss, he found himself watching her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth, for any sign that perhaps Sleeping Beauty had been more than a fairy tale.

He watched much longer than was sane.

And seeing no response, he still felt compelled to press his lips to hers once more, to feel the touching of their souls again, to convince himself it wasn't delusion, and to hope she felt it, too.

Finally he lifted one eyelid and hoped—

But hope died quickly. There would be no Legilimency, not with the fog swirling through her mind.

He felt weak, disoriented.

He needed food.

Immediately, he smelled food.

He turned his head, and there on the table beside the bed was a tray of roast chicken cut into pieces, with bread, with water, with pumpkin juice, with fruit. All things he could eat with his hand without letting her go. He grabbed the goblet of water first and drank deeply, then a chicken leg and tore into it, ravenous, wondering how he was ever going to feed her. And when the worst of his own hunger and thirst was slaked, he cleansed his hand and pulled her more snugly to him, reaching for clarity of mind.

More clarity than maybe if I kiss her she'll wake up like a fucking fairy tale, at the very least.

XX

He lowered her into the bath and wondered if she felt it, the warmth seeping into her, the gentle rhythm of the water agitating around her, and finally, he wondered if she felt his free hand as it swept the flannel over each square inch of her skin, washing away the blood and grime.

He wondered whether she smelled the eucalyptus and spearmint, whether somewhere deep inside it brought her comfort.

He wondered how the bloody hell she dealt with all this fucking hair and stifled more than few curses because…

He wondered if she heard him.

And so he murmured soothing nothings and continued working the suds through her hair until it rinsed clear, and finally, he lifted her dripping from the bath and wrapped her in a large towel and carried her back to bed…

And tried not to remember the first time he'd bathed her and dried her so.

XX

Seventeen. His first cursory listing of any potion that might possibly be used to strengthen (he refused to use the word "recover") magical stores came up with seventeen formulae. Two he had in stock; the stronger ones would require brewing.

Seventeen.

He didn't need to write them down. He knew them; he knew their compounds and their strengths and weaknesses and which ones were most likely to be of benefit and which ones (most of them) were unlikely to do any good at all to an individual whose magical stores were so low (not depleted, he refused to use the word "depleted") as to seem absent.

Seventeen potions, and he had no fucking idea how to get them down her when she was… unable to cooperate. Unable to swallow.

And so, with her sleeping body (she was sleeping, he refused to use those other words) curled into the crook of his arm, he took the first potion and measured it out into a glass then, using his fingertip, painted it on the inside of her lower lip and gently closed her mouth and counted to…

Seventeen.

It seemed as good a number as any.

And then he dipped his finger again, and slid it along the silken skin of her gum again, and closed her mouth again, and counted again.

XX

He didn't know whether it was night or day. He only knew he was half-asleep on his back, with her body stretched out on his, wearing the white shirt, her cheek resting on his chest.

He'd pulled on a ridiculous cashmere jumper the Malfoys had given him years before, just so it would be soft against her cheek.

Idly he ran his hand up and down her side in a manner that had once made her sigh in contentment.

Could she feel it? Did it bring her comfort? She had to know he was there, didn't she?

He pressed his lips into her hair and felt her breath fanning across his neck, soft and steady.

She would come back to him. She had to.

And in the meantime, the first potion had been in her system for almost twenty-four hours with no discernible improvement, and it would soon be time for the next attempt.

From the corner of his eye, he caught the flare of green. He snatched his wand from beside him and aimed it at the fireplace.

He waited.

Twice more, the flames flashed green.

But nothing happened.

He kept his grip tight but lowered the wand.

Someone was trying to Floo, but wasn't getting in.

And they were growing impatient.

He didn't delude himself. It had to be Aurors intent on arrest if he was lucky or an unfortunate "accident" if he was not.

But against all odds, the wards were holding.

Again, he nuzzled her hair, wild and coarse against his face. He'd done something wrong when he'd washed it, because as horrid as it had been before, it had never been awful like this.

Merlin, he loved her horrid hair.

Hunger…

How long had it been since he'd eaten?

Since she had?

He didn't know. He knew that touching him brought her comfort and that if he left her for even a few moments, they both suffered. He knew that he had only to think of food and it appeared. But he didn't know how she was supposed to survive without sustenance.

Again, he thought of Poppy, and again, he knew he didn't dare.

If it was magical depletion… well, Albus just had to be wrong, that's all there was to it, he had to be wrong. But if he wasn't… there was nothing Poppy could do, anyway.

His gaze slid sideways to the table, to the pot of tea, the mug (only one, and that haunted him) and the pile of sandwiches that hadn't been there minutes before.

Carefully, he slid her sideways, his hands gentle as he shifted her to a comfortable position beside him, but still within reach, within touch. He cupped her hand in his and waited, relieved that she didn't react.

The scent of tea wafted toward him, and before he had time to think, he'd snatched up the pot with his free hand and hurled it into the fireplace.

It hit with a loud crash and the fire sizzled and danced.

"No tea," he said. "No tea."

He squeezed his eyes shut and fought the panic growing inside him… and slid down beside her, facing her, stroking her cheek and tickling her eyelashes. "Hermione… please…"

Please what?

The aroma of coffee drifted to him from the table, and he braced himself, grabbed a sandwich and wolfed it down without tasting.

It was time for her next potion.

XX

"Fucking hell. I knew you were an insufferable little swot," he muttered to the sleeping girl in his lap, "but your audacity truly knows no bounds."

There was no way to brew and hold her at the same time unless… well, unless he did exactly as he was doing and perched cross-legged on his worktable with her cradled in his lap. Two cauldrons simmered with stirring rods working on magical timers; a third was already cooling.

He had spread the contents of her rucksack, with parchments piled on either side of him and one pile in front where he could read it.

Many were magically reduced; he'd left them so. He'd attack them later.

But the ones that had been thrust haphazardly in and were crumpled enough to prove it—those were proving to be most illuminating.

Miss Granger had taken it upon herself to write her own entries for some future edition of Hogwarts: A History.

"Unwilling to rely upon the vagaries and prejudices of history and historians, I am recording the events I have witnessed, beginning with…"

And record, she had. Beginning with that fateful day on the Hogwarts Express when she had met the self-important Boy Who Lived, she'd moved forward, year by year .

He'd alternated between annoyance and belated terror (holding her so tightly he wondered if she could possibly not feel him) as he read her crisp, no-nonsense memories. He flew past things that would have once annoyed him (they had been his oldest robes; it wasn't as if he'd wear something fine to a Quidditch match) but found his mouth dry every time her loyalty to Potter landed her in the middle of danger.

How much did the wizarding world owe this beautiful creature in his arms, this creature who had spent the last of her magic in one last valiant effort to rid the world of one of its many evils?

"Insufferable," he repeated, rubbing his cheek against her hair. "Annoying and insolent and—" He broke off, unable to speak, and simply held her, held her….

When he could think again, breathe again, he glanced at the cauldrons and saw everything was in order. He then flicked a finger and watched as one parchment levitated to the side and the next was exposed.

And froze.

The disclaimer at the top of the sheet of parchment was enough in itself to give him chills.

Charmed to prohibit publication until after the deaths of Severus Tobias Snape and Hermione Granger Snape, and only if both parties have signed the accompanying permissions and releases.

She'd written about their marriage.

She'd started, of course, with a scathing and detailed recounting of the Marriage Law.

Her description of the moment when she knew—she knew—she must marry her Professor, Severus Snape, was only marginally less breathless than the letters she'd written him at the height of her distress.

No fucking way he'd ever sign anything that allowed these documents to see the light of day.

He couldn't stop reading.

She even brought in the possible effects—both negative and positive—of Muggle magic, and got so caught up in one theological loophole after another that one sentence finally drifted away without ending.

Frowning, he sent that parchment sailing aside to find one last addendum, and it stopped his heart.

"Professor, if you are reading this I must assume it's because I did not survive to complete it. I'm actually rather horrified that you would see such an early draft (I never let anyone see the first three drafts of anything I write) but I am leaving this for you because I hope—I do dearly hope—that you will finish it. I realise that any account you write will be very different from what I would write, but I trust you and only you to tell our story. I beg you to tell our story. I cannot bear the thought that others will tell it, and say wrong things or awful things or—

It's not just that the facts are important. I remember what happened to that other professor and the girl who loved him so and that their story was lost.

I want people to know the truth. Our truth. And it's not about having souls that joined despite us; it's about what happened because of us.

That in the midst of all the evil and horror that came out of the Dark soul of Lord Voldemort and the Ministry of Magic's machinations, we—you and I—found love.

That no matter what else happened, the love we found—we made from nothing—was profound and good."

That place—that place behind his heart—it was aching, and he thought if he looked there, he might see blood weeping from deep within him.

He couldn't write those things.

He couldn't do it.

He tried to speak, but the words were stuck in his throat. He swallowed thickly and finally managed, "You bossy little swot, you think you can order me about from beyond the grave? Well, Miss Granger, my darling girl, you're going to have to live and do it yourself. Do you hear me? If you want our story written you'd fucking better wake up and write it yourself."

And hoped to fucking hell she could hear him.

He pulled her closer and rocked her gently until he was forced to stop to complete the potions that might—may it please Merlin and may it please the Muggle god—heal her.

XX

She was bleeding.

She was in his arms and she was split open and she was bleeding.

Lucius stood over him, cool and immaculate in the midst of war, and sneered, "Where were you, Severus? How did you let this happen?"

He held her, begged Lucius to heal her because he didn't know how, he didn't know how—

And he knew with sickening pain that Lucius had never let anyone hurt Cissy, never, never, never, and—

Lucius was gone, and the battle was gone, but she was still bleeding, bleeding….

Albus stood over him.

"Save her," he begged him, "you have to save her!"

But Albus shook his head sadly, as if he already knew she was doomed, and said, "You have to, my boy, you have to."

But I don't know how!

He wanted to rage, to hurl fire and venom, but he couldn't move, he could only hold her, hold her….

I'm asleep. This isn't real. I'm asleep.

She had come to him in his sleep.

She had found him and she'd brought him relief and release and solace.

He called her name—Miss Granger, Miss Granger, Hermione, Miss Granger—until his throat felt hoarse even in his dream, but even though she was in his arms, bleeding, she didn't hear him, he couldn't break through, she didn't hear him.

I will save you and you will save me.

But he couldn't find her.

He didn't know how to heal her.

She was dying.

While he slept.

He wrenched awake with a jerk and a cry.

She was in his arms; he was holding her curled against him; she was breathing; she lived.

She was bleeding.

He was covered with it, with her blood, with this sign that she lived and her body was still fighting to live and… fighting, Merlin, he remembered before when she'd raged at him as if it were his bloody fucking fault that she'd bled all over the bed, all over him, all over her white shirt.

He pulled her tighter to him and inhaled hair and the scent of her blood. Rage at me, he thought. Blame me. Make it my fault.

Come back to me.

"Come back to me," he snarled into her ear.

But she didn't.

She was bleeding all over her red sheets and her white shirt and he had to help her.

"Lumos." The candles in the wall sconces flared with flickering yellow light and he rolled her over to face him, so pale and drawn. He stroked his hand down her stomach and felt tension there. Even in her state, she felt it. He murmured the soothing incantation, cupped his hand over her flat belly and eased relief into her.

She softened in his arms.

He ached.

He did a quick cleansing charm to take care of the worst of it. He needed to bathe her, and then figure out something to do about her red sheets—she needed her red sheets—and he needed to find her feminine care items….

Her trunk.

He pulled her with him to the edge of the bed. When he slipped over the edge and crouched low to bring out her trunk, he nuzzled her hand, constantly whispering the words she needed to feel, to hear, so she would know he was there.

The box slid out, heavy, and he opened it.

Her red box was still in it, the box of the items she'd used before, complete with her inadequate potions.

He lifted it free and saw the books beneath it, reduced in size but not in weight. No wonder the box had been so difficult to move and…

So many books. So many things.

Her entire life, it seemed, reduced and packed into one trunk.

He looked around at bookshelves crammed with his own books, at the Spartan room with the single floral chair, two photos and a couple of knick-knacks on the mantelpiece and nothing else of hers.

This girl, this woman, who had become everything to him, had become his very heart and soul—and he hadn't even made room for her. Never once had she complained. She hadn't even asked for space for her things. She'd accepted this non-life, this hole in the bottom of the dungeons, she'd accepted it and never once complained and he'd allowed it, and now it knifed into him, the rage.

This was no way to treat any woman, but certainly not the woman who was his world.

He remembered the scornful face Lucius turned on him in his dream—his nightmare—and thought of how precious Cissy was, how pampered, how protected.

And he had not made room for his Miss Granger. He had left her to find the little corners, the edges of his life and worm her way in, despite his every effort to keep her out.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into the palm of her hand, wanting nothing more than for her to move it, to caress his cheek, to slap his cheek, to rage at him for not being what he should be, what she deserved.

A few small parchments were wedged between the books and the side of the trunk.

He lifted them out.

Her study schedules.

The first was the one she'd devised when she'd started taking private tutorials, when she'd withdrawn from the fucking school.

Beneath it was her original schedule, the one with her classes scheduled in.

And meetings with the ungrateful berks who didn't deserve her, but had won her unwavering loyalty…

And—in green ink, no less—ten minutes here, two hours there, a schedule of events that ranged from, "Prepare Professor Snape's tea" to be waiting for him when he came out of class, to that particular Friday night which had been blocked off with the single word, BREWING.

She'd worked her schedule around his, around caring for him.

One small parchment slipped out of his hand to the floor. He reached for it and saw the title, "Ways to Make Professor Snape's Life Easier."

And the knife twisted in him and he was the one who was bleeding.

He pulled her into his arms, heaving in great gulps of cold air, rocking her and holding her and willing to do anything, anything to save her, to bring her back, to be what he should have been, what she deserved.

And she was still bleeding.

He carried her to the bath and started it filling with steaming water. He sent a couple of fists full of her bath salts into the water and remembered how proud she'd been when she'd used wandless magic to do the same herself.

He knelt by the tub and removed her shirt and her knickers, both blood-soaked, and Vanished his own clothes. And then, holding her in his arms, he stepped into the bath lowered himself until he was cradling her between his legs, and he held her there, simply held her as the water and steam surrounded them with the comfort of their scent and the comfort of memory of another night when she'd pulled him into the bath for healing.

And as he held her against his body, he felt how thin, how frail she was.

The words from his nightmare returned to him.

She was dying.

But even as he felt the panic growing, he felt something deep inside unfurl, and recognised her soul touching his.

She knew him.

She felt him.

She needed him.

He squeezed his eyes shut and reached for calm. There was a way to bring her back and he would find it, he had to find it.

But in the meantime—he remembered her schedules, her ridiculous fucking schedules—and Summoned the N.E.W.T.-level Potions text from her trunk.

And as she curled in his arms, soothed by lapping water and the strength of his arms around her, he levitated the book before their faces and watched the pages flip to the last page she'd studied.

And with Miss Granger sleeping in his arms, he began reading aloud.

Somewhere, she might hear him.

She might.

And with that small comfort, he rubbed his cheek against her wretched, horrid hair and held her more tightly.

XX

He shifted his left leg and the stack of books slid sideways, spilling across the bed. Parchments surrounded them, some hovering in the air for easier reading. If there was anything he hadn't tried, any charm, incantation or even charlatan's tricks, it's because it didn't exist in his vast library.

And he was running out of potions.

He squinted at the list in his hand though he'd long memorised it.

Fifteen potions attempted and failed.

Number sixteen was in her system now.

He tugged her closer into the crook of his arm.

There was no sign it was working, and every sign it was not. Had the blue veins on her eyelids always been so pronounced, her skin so delicate and papery thin? Her clavicles jutted as if they might pierce their way through, and her fingers were almost like claws.

He closed his eyes and shuddered, chasing away the memory of those other claw-like hands.

Her hair had grown duller and drier despite his attempts to keep it clean and healthy.

Her body, despite her brief monthly flow, was loosening its hold on life.

And yet, the stab of pain that thought brought him was matched by a deep pulsing reaction that could only come from her. From her soul. From the very essence that made her everything he lived for and everything he fought for.

He rolled sideways and pulled her body against his, cupping her head in one hand and her hips in the other, and whispered roughly into her ear, "You've got to help me. I can't do this without you."

But she had no answer for him, and he could only stare into nothing, his mind tumbling from one thought and image to a dozen others, with one memory that he kept shoved down, refused to acknowledge, refused to accept, and yet on this day it refused to be denied.

It's her magic. It's completely drained.

Which couldn't be true, couldn't be true, because if it was true—

She was wasting away and he couldn't stop it.

She had chosen this, this end to her life, rather than live without her magic.

He knew this; he knew this had happened, had often happened when a wizard or witch lost their magic. He'd even thought it himself, that he'd rather die than—

"Professor, would you have ever chosen a wife who might not give you magical children?"

"No."

She flinched away from him.

"And it's a moot point. This conversation serves no purpose."

Or had it? Had it served to convince her that she would be better off dead than without magic herself, that he wouldn't want her that way?

"No," he snarled, grabbing her fiercely. "Don't you dare—don't you dare give up on me, don't you dare—" He broke off with a choked gasp, pressed his lips to her temples murmuring the wildest, most desperate incantations, and broke off again. "I need you, Miss Granger. I need you. I need you alive and in my arms and my life and the magic—the magic means nothing, do you understand? Nothing. I'd give it up myself if it would bring you back, just come back, come back."

And still, she didn't answer.

XX

He had dressed her meticulously. He'd found his black shirt, the one she'd worn at the fateful Order meeting, and carefully eased it on her, followed by one of her ubiquitous pairs of jeans that now gaped at the waist. He'd taken his own green dress robes and reduced them to fit her, hers being bloody and shredded after the final battle.

But finally he had her dressed warmly with thick socks and shoes.

What he was about to attempt was sheer madness.

And yet nothing else had worked. He had nowhere else to turn but to her own—

Muggle magic.

He held her in his arms and counted on the fact that the wards would do nothing to stop him and that they were going somewhere at a time when nobody would see them.

He flung Floo powder into the fire, stepped in and announced, "Winchester Cathedral."

He stepped into the flooded crypt, icy water lapping at his feet without getting him wet. He walked through it, past the odd statue of a man and a book, and deeper into the crypt to that place where this had all begun.

Torches lit the black cavern with amber light reflected in the ripples of water. The stone altar was still there. The place where they had stood, where everything had changed.

He turned in a slow circle and felt like a fucking fool.

What had he expected?

And then he heard a gentle cough and turned back to the steps to see a man step into view, the man who had worn a black cassock before but now wore a tatty fleece dressing robe and was stifling a yawn with his fist.

As he drew into the light, it was clear from the vague blur of his eyes that he was more than a trifle confused, but even so, he quickly took in the situation and hurried forward, his brow creased with concern. "Is that Hermione Granger? Dear God, what happened to her?"

"She was—" What? What to say? "There was a battle," he began lamely.

"She should be in hospital! I must call for help—"

"No, she's already been," Severus lied smoothly, desperately. "It's not physical. Her wounds—her condition isn't physical. That's why I thought maybe you…" I'm a fucking idiot, he thought, looking at the wizened old man in his rumpled hair and nightclothes, looking more useless than Binns.

Father Gadbury shot him a sharp look that Binns might not have matched even when he was alive. "You took her into a war zone?"

"She—she followed me."

"Africa?"

Severus stared at him. What the bloody fucking hell was he talking about?

Father Gadbury shook his head and smiled wryly. "She talked of going to Africa, of 'making a difference', even when she was eight years old."

"She would," Severus muttered.

Father Gadbury touched her forehead gently and frowned. "Let us go to my office. It's warmer there."

And so Severus found himself trailing after the priest through the cavernous dark structure, under the suspicious eyes of stone effigies and night-blackened stained glass figures, with only the Father's torch to light the way.

Severus refrained from using his wand. Barely.

Eventually they wound their way to a small cubby-hole of an office, which was immediately lit with a glare of electric light. Father Gadbury took a well-worn desk chair and indicated the only other chair for Severus.

He felt the old priest's eyes on him, and a rivulet of unease trickled down his spine.

What was he doing here? What was he thinking? Weren't these the people who had attempted to wipe his kind—her kind—from the face of the earth?

"There now, isn't this better?" The doddering old fool plugged in a kettle of sorts and fluttered about, readying tea bags and two mugs, and Severus noted with frustration that he, too, used PG Tips. By the time he had things sorted out, the kettle shrieked, and the priest poured the boiling water into the mugs and then sat back, seemingly satisfied.

Satisfied because he had his fucking tea made when Miss Granger was dying before him.

His fingers twitched with the urge to hex.

He shifted in his chair to rise, to leave, to put this insane act behind him—

But the priest surprised him by managing to stop him with nothing more than a gentle hand on his sleeve. "You're here for a reason."

Severus sank back into the chair ungracefully. "I'm not sure what I was thinking," he snapped.

"Then why don't you let me do the things I do best?"

Severus braced himself.

The priest who rose to his feet, who then extended both hands and placed one on Hermione's pale forehead and one—

On Severus's. Before he could jerk away, the old priest was speaking softly.

"Come to me, all who labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."

Severus found himself waiting, his breath caught in his chest, staring at her frighteningly immobile features.

"Grant to Hermione and Severus and all who seek you the assurance of your presence, your power and your peace. Lord, hear us…." He raised his pale blue eyes to Severus. "You can join me, here, when I say, 'Lord, graciously hear us.'"

"No," Severus said shortly.

Father Gadbury just gave a slight nod before continuing, "Grant your healing grace to Hermione and Severus—

"Not me."

The old man fixed him with a hard stare and continued more forcefully, "—and all who are sick, that they may be made whole in body, mind and spirit. Lord, hear us. Lord, graciously hear us."

And then he pulled his hand from Hermione's head and placed both on Severus's and said, "Grant to all who minister to the suffering wisdom and skill, sympathy and patience. Lord, hear us. Lord, graciously hear us."

It was all Severus could do to restrain himself. He wanted to knock the hands off his head, off his skin. This wasn't about him. This was about her, saving her, and he'd come to the old man on the last desperate chance that he could do it, save her, and instead, the old fool was throwing it back at him, making him the healer—

"You have to, my boy, you have to."

Finally, he raised his hands, palms heavenward. "Hear us, Lord of life. Heal us, and make us whole."

He continued softly, but Severus was no longer listening, his mind racing.

She wasn't responding.

Whatever this Muggle magic was, it wasn't working and he was wasting time and—

The priest rubbed a small dab of oil on her forehead in a small cross. It smelled of olive oil and balsam.

To his shock, he felt the flutter, the softest of reactions—but he felt it, deep in his soul. Was it the scent? She responded to scents….

Balsam. He'd try balsam in her bath, or perhaps a massage oil or—

"Milk?" The old man held a small plastic carton over a mug of tea.

"No. I really must—"

The old man handed him the mug, then took his own mug and settled back, it would appear, for a chat.

"I don't believe in your drivel," Snape said abrasively. "I only came because—"

"Why does anyone come to a church in the middle of the night? Because they are desperate. As for believing… I hope I didn't offend you, but you asked me to help her, and it's my experience that helping her means helping you, or at least trying."

Snape stared from the witch in his arms back up to the priest.

"Indeed," Snape sneered. He took a deep drink of tea, despite the manner in which it scalded his tongue, and the strong brew seemed to infuse him with a bit more strength than he'd had a moment before. He set it on the desk with a clatter, and demanded, "How can you be so calm when she's—she's dying before your fucking eyes?"

The old priest cocked his head and looked at Severus with great curiosity. "You realise we're talking about Hermione Granger?"

"Who the fucking hell else would—"

The priest chuckled softly. "This is what I know about your Miss Granger. She appeared before me, the most intelligent and curious child I'd ever been graced to know, but with an incredible gift matched by few of my acquaintance."

A gift.

"Faith. She came into my office the first time and peppered me with questions, and walked out with a stack of books to read because she needed answers. She knew something… something. I don't know what she knew, only that she knew it, as surely as I know you are sitting there and you are not like me, and by morning… I don't think I'll know any of this at all."

Severus remained unspeaking, his arms curling around her more tightly, holding her more securely, raising her in his embrace until her cheek was pressed to his neck and her breath warmed him, and the one word repeated, faith….

"She didn't question. She didn't doubt. She knew. And she was determined to do whatever it took to get to the bottom of what she knew, but never doubt, it was all about faith. Faith, the belief that something exists even if you can't see it, can't hold it in your hand, can't prove it. And if I were to act in any way tonight but in faith that she will recover, I would be betraying the greatest gift she gave me, her faith that I could lead her to answers even as I grew to doubt it myself. I cannot betray that faith."

He took off his spectacles and wiped them on a corner of his fleece dressing gown, and Severus realised that the old man was blinking away tears. But by the time he put his spectacles back on, his voice was smooth again. "And if my faith is misplaced, I will grieve her loss, know that, I will grieve. But tonight, her need for my faith is more important than my need to grieve."

"So you're telling me this—this thing you did, the incantation—it won't work?"

"Of course I'm not saying it won't work. I'm saying that this is prayer, not magic," the priest snapped back at him.

Faith. Magic.

"I had no magic. I would know if I did, and I never had that kind. Until—" Finally, she looked at him, her eyes haunted. "Until you gave me yours. 'With all my earthly goods I thee endow.'" She shivered as she spoke. "You gave me your earth magic." Again, she looked away. "And I—I gave you nothing."

His grip on her tensed as pulled her closer, finding it difficult to inhale.

She'd claimed she'd given him nothing.

But it wasn't true.

From the moment she'd entered his office, even before, she'd charged forwards believing in what couldn't be seen or proven or was even rational.

She'd bestowed her faith in him without hesitation, had hurled it at him when he'd batted it away, had given it to him hand over fist.

And he'd given her magic in return.

This is prayer, not magic.

But he still had magic.

He had no faith. That would have to be someone else's problem.

But he had fucking magic and if he didn't have an answer, he'd create one.

He stood abruptly and was almost out the door when he caught himself and looked back to find the old man wiping his eyes, now that his need to show a stiff upper lip had passed. Severus felt a momentary tug of compassion and said gruffly, "I felt something. When you did what you did, I felt something. It may have… it may have helped."

The old man smiled. "I can't say that I'm surprised. That was the point, after all, but—" He nodded genially. "Thank you for telling me."

Severus nodded in return.

He raised his wand and spoke one word. "Obliviate."

And then he swept down the narrow hallway, into a wider corridor, and finally into the nave where he stepped into a turn and Disapparated.

XX

And so it had come to this.

Potion number seventeen had failed.

All his attempts had failed.

His attempts to get someone better qualified to save her had failed, and in fact had resulted in having the impossible task flung back at him.

"Grant to all who minister to the suffering wisdom and skill, sympathy and patience."

Hadn't that been all he had done for more days than he could number, not knowing how many had been slept away before he'd even begun the attempts? Wisdom, skill, sympathy, patience. What he had to offer hadn't been enough, not anywhere near fucking enough, and now he had nothing left except his own instincts—instincts which Albus knew had been bloody Dark and caused all sorts of evils and yet Albus had refused him, had refused her, had said—

"You have to."

He tasted something bitter in the back of this throat, and it wasn't the Firewhisky he drank from a smoking tumbler. It was rage and perhaps knowledge that as usual, Albus was hiding behind a veil of platitudes and irreproachable stature and leaving Severus to dip back into what might possibly lead to the darkest act of his very dark life.

Her breathing could no longer be termed "gentle" on his bare shoulder.

It was thready.

He kicked the book—her ludicrous book on magical children, on elemental magic—off the bed with a snarl.

He cupped her cheek and stroked it with his thumb and the reciprocal swelling in his breast told him that her soul was strong and sound and reaching out to him. And he would answer, he would grasp her and pull her back from the brink if it took every fucking bit of his own power to do so but—

At what cost?

If he failed… this life might drive him insane.

He thought perhaps it already had.

But worse—if he half-failed…

There would be only one thing left for him to do.

He fingered the dark green phial of poison on the table beside the bed.

His hand slid a few inches to the left, to the other phial, the one he required for this last action, this last anguished attempt.

He wanted to reach for the bottle again, to reach deeper into its depths, to numb himself completely, to buy blissful amnesia, but he knew exactly how much he could drink without diminishing the effects of the bright blue phial now cradled in his hand.

Deep within him, his soul trembled.

He had to try.

Clutching it tightly, he turned his head and thought—one last attempt, one last mad attempt—and pressed his lips to hers, his dark half-prince lips to those of a sleeping beauty, and waited for a pulse of recognition, of awakening, and then fell away with a burst of scorchingly bitter laughter.

He popped the cork out with his thumb and braced himself for the disgust, the self-loathing that he knew would follow.

"Miss Granger," he spoke into hair, her ear, with all the ferocity at his disposal, "they did the worst thing they could do to you when they left you to my mercy…" He stroked her hair away from her face, from her sunken cheeks, and wanted her eyes, her beautiful tea-sweet eyes to dive into, to drag her back out if necessary, or stay there with her forever, but behind those fragile lids lingered nothing but enlarged pupils and fog, and he drew on his rage because without it he could not move forward. "If you hear me, if you fucking hear me, come back, wake up, forget the fucking magic and just come back to me, because I'm doing all I can, more than anybody else would—and I think he knew it, he knew it the fucking bastard, when he left you with me, when he left you in the hands of a Death Eater…."

These weren't the words to bring her back. But they were the only words he had, threats and anger, because if she didn't come back to him, if she chose not to—

He squeezed his own eyes shut.

And then, it was time. Time to remember the incantation that would probably do no good and do the things that might ultimately result in their deaths.

He dredged up enough magic for one simple spell.

"Nox."

XX

Hour after haunted hour passed.

Not even the lure of forgetfulness he could find in the bottle of Firewhisky tempted him.

Instead, he stared into the darkness, the cold, cold darkness, with moisture leaking from the corners of his eyes.

He had failed.

He held her because he had to, because to let go was to lose what few threads of sanity he had left.

But he had failed.

She would die.

And finally he realised the blessing that being soul bound to this most magical of creatures had given him.

He would not have to live without her.

He pulled her gingerly into the cradle of his arms, determined to hold her until the end, wondering how quickly his own end would come, clutching his precious poison in his palm, ready to hasten it if need be.

The strong pulsing ache within his chest threatened to swallow him whole. He did his best to envelop her in his warmth, his touch, to stroke her hair and to reassure her with a low crooning litany of words he now knew she could not hear.

Would never hear.

And the pain deep within him was a ripping of his soul, a horror without end, because she was leaving him, leaving him, and—

"Miss Granger—" he gasped, the words torn from his throat as the pain turned to swelling, a swelling glow that filled him with sweet agony as he felt her essence touching his, her sweet, pure soul reaching out and joining his—

And a stirring in his arms, a pressure against his chest, a hand on his cheek—

And a voice.

A clear, soft voice.

"Professor… are you crying?"

And his world fell apart and was remade.