Sectumsempra

4: Sectumsempra

He wasn't in their house. Of course not.

So he would be at Hogwarts, down in the dungeons.

Hermione wasn't really stable on her feet – she felt quite terrible, not only because of the previous night but because she had left her daughter behind and because she feared the worst for Severus. Had she known he had been that seriously injured, she would have stormed out of Harry's house the minute she had woken up; instead, she had wasted time by explaining and telling and revealing the truth to people she had called friends, but who hadn't it found necessary to take care of one of theirs. Severus had been serving the Order's cause for years, and still they hadn't even thought of the possibility that there might be more to his story than he had told. Although he had never failed them, they had believed the worst of him, and at the moment Hermione wasn't sure if she could ever forgive them.

Right now, though, this was unimportant.

Staggering towards Hogwarts, she was determined to find Severus. She would find him – he had saved her and Sasha, and now it was her turn to save him. "Damn spell," Hermione whispered. "You should have never invented it." But he had; and now it was killing him.

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Snape guessed he was dying, but didn't care – what was death to him after last night? He had found yet another quiet place, unable to recall how he got there, feeling awful in general and immensely guilty at the same time. The knowledge of what he had done, of his unforgivable actions, was omnipresent; it whispered into his ears, stabbed his heart, tormented his soul.

He had recognised the way to his private rooms in the dungeons only because he had lived there most of his adult life and would have found it under any circumstances. That it was dark and cold down there didn't bother him; he just stumbled in, slumped in his armchair and was glad that he didn't have to walk or stand anymore.

The idea that he should take some potions to support the healing process Ginny had initiated had been wiped out of his mind completely; that he was burning with fever and shaking from exhaustion, that he wasn't even thinking clearly, was something he was completely unaware of. Sitting in his rooms down in the dungeons, he just listened to his own laboured breathing and his pounding heart. He listened to the pain that sang in his body and embraced every single note.

Sectumsempra, as Snape could have told anyone who would have asked, was an awful spell, not only designed to slash the victim, but to severely confuse it as well. How proud he had been when he had invented it as a teenager, how proud that he had managed to add both aspects, body and mind, to the curse. It messed up the mind, caused hallucinations, ripped reality into little pieces. Snape knew that, of course. Or had known it before the spell had hit him. It worked fast, this spell of his. Too fast to remember much after one got hit.

Ginny hadn't known which spell had hit Snape and therefore had just used the common counter spell to heal the wounds, not the specific one Snape had created. She hadn't known that there was a mental component as well.

Even now, hours later, he could only think of one thing: of his wife and daughter, lying bleeding on the floor, and that he had done nothing to help them.

He tried not to hear Hermione's screams, but couldn't block them out.

He tried not to see Sasha's bruised face and her small, white hand with the broken fingers, but couldn't block those pictures either. I thought I loved them, he wondered. But you don't watch someone you love getting tortured, so obviously I didn't care.

He saw himself, back in the house with Avery and Goyle, talking and waiting. He smelled the food again and his stomach cramped in protest at the memory. Wrapping his arms round his waist he pulled his legs up and lowered his head onto his bony knees.

Hermione was screaming; she flinched away at his sight; her eyes were big with fear when he had knelt in front of her. She had been scared of him; there was no other explanation for her reaction. Possibly he had been angry; possibly he had decided to teach her a lesson for not trusting him and had left them as toys for Avery and Goyle.

He had waited for ages, hadn't got his wife and daughter out of there as soon as he had realised who the victims of the evening were. Why hadn't he protected them?

Ah yes, now he remembered – because he couldn't be bothered. Because they hadn't been worth it. He had said so, to Potter, so it must be true. He had abandoned his family and this was his punishment. Quite fair, actually, he thought and raised his pounding head, staring at the walls without seeing them. His ashen cheeks were wet from tears; he didn't notice that he was crying, though.

Gods, what a worthless bastard he was. Maybe he had even enjoyed the evening – he was a Death Eater after all, wasn't he, and Death Eaters lived for torture.

He tried to forget that he hadn't helped them, but couldn't. Their beaten faces haunted him, and the screams he heard in his mind made him wish he were dead.

Minutes ticked by, followed by eternities. Snape sat in his chair and stared into the darkness, unaware of the fact that the spell that had slashed his flesh had torn his mind to pieces as well. If he had been able to tell Ginny which spell had really caused his wounds, she would have been able to reverse it. But by then, when he had reached Grimmauld Place, it had been far too late for him to give any useful information – Sectumsempra had already claimed Snape's mind and ever since held its victim tightly in its cruel arms. And so his thoughts went in circles and didn't make sense at all. He was caught in a nightmare of guilt and pain and considered it only just that he suffered for something he hadn't done.

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Getting inside Hogwarts was easy when one was married to the school's Potions master: he had long ago shown Hermione how to get in and out unnoticed, as otherwise they wouldn't have seen each other half as often as they needed to. He wasn't a man who could be home for dinner every evening, and her job as a bookbinder demanded various journeys. She would usually sneak in after their daughter was safely asleep, knowing she could be back in a few minutes if the little girl woke up. "Praise be to long-distant, magical baby-phones," she once had joked and had taken pleasure in finding the most complicated ways into Hogwarts.

This morning, Hermione naturally used the easiest and fastest way in. It was the summer break, and no students would be around to see her or question her presence; she could neglect the need not to be seen. And even Filch would be home, visiting his sister. So Hermione just had to escape Peeves and his nasty little tricks and limericks, as he would only slow her down. On the other hand, she would have hexed the poltergeist into oblivion had he dared to get in her way.

She hastened down the empty corridors, ran downstairs on unsteady legs, found the dungeons and Severus's private rooms. Hogwarts, she knew, was in many ways more home to him than their house at Spinner's End where they spent the few weeks during summer together when he was not at school and she didn't have to tame books. She wasn't surprised that he had come here – he always had been able to find his way back to Hogwarts even in the dark times when Voldemort had found it amusing to torture his followers no matter how devoted they seemed.

The wards around his rooms recognised her and she pushed open the heavy door. Entering the dark room quietly and carefully, Hermione saw her husband sitting in his armchair in front of the cold fireplace. Immensely relieved that he was at least alive, she quietly slipped in, knelt down slowly beside his chair, and looked into his face.

Grey skin; closed eyes; beads of sweat on his forehead. His breathing was too fast and too uneven, she could feel the heat of his skin without touching him, and that he hadn't heard her coming in was scaring her as much as the obvious signs of his illness.

She whispered his name. And he just opened his eyes and turned towards her, frowned at her cowering figure as if surprised to see her. Well, he was surprised – he had supposed she would be at Potter's house where no further harm could befall her, harm he had brought upon her in the first place. Why would she be here if... Of course. She was here to tell him how much she hated him.

Waving his fingers unsteadily, he lit some candles with the movement. His eyes showed slight concern towards her, but no more than that. If she hadn't already known better, she would have said that nothing was out of the ordinary. Maybe that he felt a bit unwell, but nothing that couldn't be helped with a few hours sleep. No wonder Ginny didn't even consider making him stay, she thought wearily. But she just said, "I'm glad I found you."

"I must admit, I didn't expect you to come after me," he remarked coolly. "You are pale, you are shaking, you are clearly in no condition to wander through dark corridors only to tell me how much you despise me." Slightly amused, he considered the possibility that she had brought Potter and Weasley in case he would try to cast a Cruciatus Curse at her. Hadn't he done something similar not only too long ago? That he hadn't held the wand didn't count – he hadn't stopped it.

Whatever her reasons, it was still very wrong that she had come. "You shouldn't be here," he concluded calmly. "You could have sent Remus to make sure I don't escape your revenge. You should be at home with..." He hesitated and couldn't say the name. "Be with your daughter," he finished. "Or... did she die?" The thought that his daughter might be dead only occurred to him the moment he said it. So far, it was the most dreadful thought that had jumped at him. He began to shiver, from fever, from self-hate, and mostly in fear of her reply.

Hermione didn't know how to react – that he just sat there and expected her to be filled with hate and disgust pained her beyond belief. He didn't even know... "Sasha's fine," she said firmly. "She's fast asleep in Harry's house – like I was until about an hour ago. Ginny healed her bruises and the broken fingers. I will pick her up later – when I'm done with you." There was a growl in her voice, and it surprised her as well as her words, but then she realised that she was getting angry, massively angry, with him. "How dare you leave me behind?" she nearly shouted, holding back her anger only in the last moment. "How dare you hide here – you are dying, don't you realise that? You should have stayed in Harry's house with us; they wouldn't have slaughtered you!"

It seemed as if he hadn't heard her; at least, he didn't say anything to answer her accusations. But the knuckles of his hands stood out when he fastened his grip around the armrests. "Sasha's alive." Her words seeped into his mind, echoed in his soul, and chased away his biggest fear.

"I want you to come home with me," Hermione said sternly and more calmly, and reached out to touch his hand. He was radiating heat; to stabilise his condition he needed Ginny's potion more than anything else. But Hermione didn't dare to force him – Merlin knew what he would do if pushed too hard. If she got her wand out now, he might even think she was here to fight him. Especially because she had just shouted at him.

"Come home with you? What for?" he asked mildly. "Finish me off, here and now – I won't hinder you. Merlin knows I have earned it."

Her jaw clenched at his words. "You are not yourself, Severus, and it's because of this spell. Do you remember at all that you got hit with Sectumsempra? It has messed with your memory and with your mind, you don't know what's real and what's not, and I want you to come home. This has to end here – you need medicine; you need a bed; you need to rest and to heal." She phrased her words carefully despite her anger and fear; she didn't want to say something wrong and felt like a hunter chasing his prey.

"Go home without me," he growled. "And don't mock me by saying you want to help me; I know you don't. I know what I have done." He couldn't go back home ever again, he was certain of it.

"I don't mock you, and it's not home when you aren't there," she snapped.

"Don't be pathetic!" he hissed, scowling at her for that ridiculous statement. "I did not save you; I failed you. I want you to go. Now." He turned his head away from her so he didn't have to look into her accusing eyes. He remembered kneeling down in front of her; he remembered that he had been close to passing out when he had realised who she was. And then he had got up and had made a joke. She would never forgive him for that.

"No, you don't want me to go!" That damn spell. She could hear in every word he said the influence that Sectumsempra had on him. "I don't know why you think I came, but certainly not to 'finish you off'. I'm only here because I love you, because you need help, and because you will die if you continue to fight me!"

He flinched. If she insisted on arguing with him, he would lose simply because he was too weak to talk. But he had to make her understand why she had to leave him. "Go back to your friends," he managed. "They'll look after you. They'll make sure that you will be fine. They'll protect you... better... than I can. Than I did."

Damn you, Severus, why do you have to be so immensely stubborn even when half dead, she thought in despair. "At least they'd try," she said aloud, having decided out of a sudden impulse to change tactics.

His head snapped up. Self-accusation was in every word when he said, "I should have done better. I should have rather died than... than..."

Unexpectedly, the spell loosened its grip for a brief moment and Snape couldn't finish the sentence. Nausea washed over him. What exactly did I do? he wondered. Have I or have I not failed her?

Hadn't he saved her? Hadn't that been the point, saving her no matter how cruel it was to wait for a safe moment? No matter that it had torn him apart?

Fever and blood loss, pain and fatigue – he couldn't tell the difference between reality and nightmare, but he nearly choked at the guilt that threatened to strangle him.

Suddenly, memories dropped into his mind, awful memories, and he got lost in them. The screams in his head became louder and he buried his face in his hands. He shuddered at the intensity of those memories.

Hermione got up and reined in her urge to touch him, to embrace him, to comfort him – she didn't know how he would react. If he pushed her away now, she might not get another chance.

He looked up at her, right into the eyes of his wife. If I have failed her, he wondered, why is she here?

It had been hours since Dolohov had cursed him, and even the worst spells lose their power eventually. More memories flashed through Snape's brain: the most brilliant one was the picture of his daughter, pushing his wand towards him.

The look of confusion in his face deepened, then subsided slightly. It occurred to him that maybe things weren't as they seemed to him. That maybe he had had reasons for his unforgivable decisions.

Something she had said struck him. "Sectumsempra?" he asked hoarsely. "Are you sure? Because this spell needs immediate treatment or it fucks you up completely."

"Does it, really?" Hermione replied wearily. "Well, it was that spell, and you are in a lousy condition, and you will tell me now what you think you have done so I can tell you what really happened." Suppressing the hope she felt wasn't easy when she saw emotions fighting in his face: guilt, doubt and fear, mainly, but also the faint knowledge that he might have overcome some major obstacle.

Snape studied the worried face of his wife and came to a conclusion: there was with absolute certainty no hate in her eyes. "I was unable to save you," he said, frowning. "I was there, I remember it. You... screamed, and I didn't stop them... If I had blocked the Cruciatus Curse, if I had acted sooner... But I told Potter that... you weren't worth it."

With immense will she ordered her voice not to tremble. "You are talking a lot of old rubbish, Severus."

Putting both hands onto the armrests of his chair, she towered over him; he had no other choice but to lean back and look up at her. Her fingers lightly touched his hand. Small comfort.

"Rubbish, Severus," she insisted. "And if you weren't in such an awful state, you would know it. If it hadn't been for this dreadful spell of yours, you would know." She pushed his long dark hair out of his worn face. "We are only alive because you got us out of there, because you stayed calm and because you knew exactly what to do and when to do it. Everyone can die, love. It's pretty easy. It doesn't require any skill. You just need to be stupid enough to do the wrong thing at the wrong time. Like lose control. Panic. Act before it is safe to act. Ask Harry, he can tell you a few things about it."

Very gently she touched his cheek. His eyes widened as the spell now rapidly continued to lose its power and he was, bit by bit, able to really recall the events of last night.

Unfortunately, the fresh, new memories were no better than the older ones. "You were scared of me," he bit out, but pressed his face to her hand, not really believing that she was actually soothing him. "You flinched away, and there was fear in your eyes."

She swallowed hard. "Because you were so close to touching Sasha, and Goyle was waving his wand right behind your back, and I feared if I allowed you to touch her you wouldn't be able to hold up your mask." Tears ran down her cheeks when she said it. This small movement had been one of the hardest she had ever had to make. "You saved us, both of us, and yourself as well. No one else could have done that. You protected us from Dolohov; the Sectumsempra spell hit you instead of us, and as a result you weren't even able anymore to tell Ginny what was wrong with you."

He tried hard to remember - it still wasn't easy. "I... weren't I? I mean... I haven't told them? Really not? How stupid of me."

Hermione was barely able to stand upright anymore, but she had to give her husband a wide, happy smile. "Really not," she confirmed. "And yes, how very stupid. You told them nonsense – quite convincing nonsense, though – you left, you came here. You are wounded, ill, and out of your mind, in case you haven't noticed. But Sasha and I, we need you. Alive. And your daughter will ask for you as soon as she wakes up. So let me help you!" She let her hand slide down to his neck and refused to break connection with his troubled eyes.

He stared at her. Then, suddenly, he loosened his grip around the armrest and took a deep breath. Out of nowhere came another memory: he clearly remembered now carrying Hermione and Sasha in his arms, Disapparating with them, taking them to Potter's house, to safety. "You are not here to blame me for what I have done, are you?" he asked, his voice just a little bit dubious. "You... do you hate me?"

"Maybe next time, if you ever dare to run away from me," Hermione growled.

A small, hesitant smile sneaked onto his lips. Blinking his eyes, Severus ran a weary hand over his face as if to try to rub off the last of the spell. Like missing pieces of a jigsaw, the last remaining memories of last night fell into place and revealed the whole picture. His voice was unsteady when he asked, "Sasha... she really... is she alright?"

Closing her eyes momentarily with relief, Hermione only nodded, not trusting her voice.

He relaxed a bit more, and like a wave of ice-water, relief washed over him, overwhelmed him, calmed his hammering, frightened heart. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so very sorry."

"What for?" she asked carefully.

"For being stupid, of course. For not staying with you. For having forced you to come after me."

Bending lower, Hermione carefully embraced him and bushed her husband's forehead with her lips. "I have found you," she said. "That's all that counts."

"What a lousy, awful, catastrophic night," Severus murmured, his eyes dropping closed. "Please, let's never have a night like that again." Leaning his head against his wife's shoulder, he took a deep breath.

Carefully, Hermione took the opportunity and finally dared to open the buttons of his shirt. He didn't resist, couldn't have hindered her anyway – his arms felt like jelly. "Dear Merlin, Severus," she breathed a moment later, shocked at the sight of the only half-healed wounds. "Even considering the spell – how could you have been so stupid as to leave Harry's house like that?"

"I guess... It seemed a wise move at the time," he said weakly. "Potter was about to kill me. Or something like that... I think." Somehow, he was quite unsure about it. The events of the past hours were now appearing in a different light entirely, not only concerning his own actions, but mostly those of the others as well. After all, they had only believed what he had told them.

"You imagined that," she answered, feeling light-headed and ridiculously happy given the fact that they both were barely able to keep their eyes open. "They might have thought about it, and I can't really blame them – you told them barely more than lies – but they wouldn't have harmed you. Goodness, I wonder how you managed to talk me into marriage – you're not even able to look after yourself properly!"

"It was your parents' idea," he murmured, his head now resting heavily against the back of his chair.

She felt him drifting into unconsciousness and finally dared to get the phial out – he wouldn't fight her anymore. Carefully, she dipped her wand into the liquid and then pressed its tip into his wrist. His skin darkened momentarily when the potion seeped into his body.

"It works best when it's consumed, but well, can't have everything, and I don't want you to throw up Ginny's precious medicine," she grumbled.

He chuckled faintly at her words. "One of these days I will teach you respect," he murmured, his voice already slurry from the sedative Ginny had mixed into the healing potion. He reached out and made sure by touching Hermione's cheek that she was still there, right in front of him. Made sure he hadn't lost her.

Silently laughing at that old joke between them, she knew she only had to get him to bed now. "Can you get up?" she asked, and he obeyed. She helped him get out of the chair, wrapped her arm around his waist and led him to his bedroom, fearing his legs would give way any moment. But he made it, and slumped heavily on his bed. Only moments later she slipped beside him, pulled the cover over both of them and was asleep before her head had properly hit the pillow. Her arms were wrapped around his waist, her head was pressed against his back, and even in her sleep she could hear the slow, steady pounding of his heart.