Fifteen

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

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Madam Pomfrey had placed Snape in the very last bed on the right. The walk down the infirmary aisle seemed to be the longest of Hermione's life. Torches flickered ominously against the dim walls. In the day, filled with students who stopped by to seek remedies for their headaches, stomachaches, and Quidditch injuries, the infirmary bustled with life and activity. Even during the aftermath of the war, it had held a feeling of hope, blood-soaked but triumphant. It was only now, in the dead of night, when its utter calm felt so grim that it stole over her heart and chilled it.

She strove not to imagine terrible outcomes that would only upset her unnecessarily, but her mind couldn't contain its frantic speculations. He'd been ill for so long that it could only be a matter of time before his body began to give in. Hermione had never considered herself to be given to superstitions or spiritual beliefs, but she felt, on some instinctual level, that the desire for life had to be present in order for the body to meet the demands of healing spells and potions. What if, despite tireless hard work over the past weeks, he had simply ceased to want to live?

She scolded herself mentally. Betraying fear for his life would not aid the situation. The Headmaster...Albus...had given her a mission, and she was determined to see it through: she would make him understand, somehow, even through the most stumbling and inarticulate of words, how important he was to their community.

Reaching the end of the row, Hermione peered around the sheet divider that had been erected for privacy. Madam Pomfrey was leaning attentively over his bed, murmuring softly as she cast a spell. Her spectacles slid inexorably down her nose, and she pushed them up with an impatient hand as she rose and glanced over in Hermione's direction. Hermione, meanwhile, had immediately identified it as one of the first spells they'd discussed during his initial physical evaluation; dark, macabre color seeped through his body, the damage to the nerves innervating his organs frightening to behold. She sucked in her breath reflexively, and Madam Pomfrey gave her a wan smile.

"Hello, dear," she said softly, pocketing her wand. "I'm glad Albus managed to wake you. He's asleep right now, I'm afraid. We hoped he'd be able to remain awake long enough. He was asking for you." Her white gown, normally starched and pristine, was spattered with blood. Hermione couldn't imagine any situation that would create the particular gory pattern before her but Snape coughing, spluttering blood, and she became terrified.

She didn't know where to begin. Heart fluttering, she asked, "For me? Was he... when he was conscious, did he say...?"

Madam Pomfrey sighed. "Yes. He was quite vehement, though of course it's difficult to understand him. He is undoubtedly in pain. I think the damage to his lungs is becoming too extensive to..."

She curtailed the thought abruptly, gesturing at her soiled clothing, and Hermione saw the tears pouring down her face. Stricken, she allowed herself to boldly walk around Snape's bed and put her arms around the mediwitch. The strength and urgency with which the other woman gripped her, returning the embrace fiercely, were startling at first. Hermione realized with chagrin that so few people ever considered the constant emotional upheaval that characterized the professional lives of medical providers, Muggle and magical.

Madam Pomfrey sniffled, the sound ringing in Hermione's ear, and pulled away. Her tears gradually waned as they stood together in several minutes of companionable silence, regarding him as he slept. "I'm sorry," she murmured, wiping at her eyes. "That was inappropriate of me."

"Not at all. I'd like to sit with him, if that's okay," Hermione said quietly. Madam Pomfrey nodded slowly and patted her on the shoulder before drawing the sheet fully around them, affording Hermione and her professor what little privacy was possible in the infirmary.

Hermione sank gratefully into the chair beside his bed, pressing her fingers into her tired, parched eyelids. She'd been so close to crying herself, but it hadn't felt right: she'd needed to remain strong for Madam Pomfrey's sake. Now, alone with her sleeping professor, it was nearly impossible to keep the tears at bay. The torchlight seemed to lose itself in the caverns of his cheeks and the hollow of his gaunt throat; his skin looked dangerously pale, even beside the stark white of his gown.

Every labored rise and fall of his chest struck her in the stomach. His breathing, even through his nose, was raspy. For a moment she thought his inspirations were shallow enough that he would wake, but he continued to sleep, each movement difficult. Impulsively, she reached out and placed her hand over his, desperate to reassure herself that despite appearances, his skin was still warm with life. His hands were long, and elegantly formed, given their size; his brittle nails were nearly twice the size of hers. For a long moment she lost herself in contemplating his ring finger, then his thumb, wanting to trace the somehow beguiling half-moon shape of his fingernail. It was so innocuous, yet so forcefully male. She allowed her thoughts to delve deeper into fantasy, imagining his arms flesh-toned and once again corded with muscle, the bones of his wrists no longer so protuberant, his fingernails clean and pink and healthy, his hands capable of a strong grip.

Unconsciously, she'd begun to move her hand across his. His breathing halted. Hermione's did the same; she drew her hand back, her skin catching against the dead, dried flakes of his.

Terrified, she leaned forward, watching as his dark lashes fluttered against the parched, crepe-like skin around his eyes. They opened slowly and turned to regard her, but the movement lacked his usual power. She'd never seen him look bleary-eyed, a state she'd only ever associated with adults who were inebriated. She wondered for an agonizing moment if the nerve damage had finally begun to affect his brain as well as his limbs.

"Hello, Professor," she ventured softly. He made a brief movement with his chin, as though trying to rise, and then stopped. She noticed the dusky, shadowed growth of beard that had begun along his cheeks and above his lips and found it perverse and cruel that as the rest of his body died, his hair, fragile though it was, managed to grow on.

"Would you like some water?" she asked, wondering if he wanted to speak but had found his mouth too dry. He nodded, but without curtness. Feeling encouraged, Hermione grasped the glass of water Madam Pomfrey had left on his bedside table. She supposed that in deference to his superior position and pride she ought to ask him first whether he wanted her to hold the glass, but he looked so weak that she couldn't bear to bring it up in conversation. Instead, she waved her wand and brought the head of his bed very gently to an inclined position. With his upper body situated thus, he was able to accept the glass of water from her and drink himself.

"Thank you," he said between coughs, his voice almost indistinguishable from the wracking exhalations. Hermione was both heartbroken and floored. Her only solace lay in the fact that, once he withdrew it, there was no sign of blood on the hand with which he'd politely covered his mouth.

After a moment, he set the glass down, his hand slightly tremulous, and cleared his throat experimentally. Finding his tones stronger, he began, "I apologize for the fact that you were awoken so late, Miss Granger. I did not realize how much time had passed when I asked Albus to summon you earlier."

"Not at all." She yearned to know why he'd asked for her...her, of all people...but good manners compelled her to inquire first if he was feeling any better, as stupid as the question sounded when she'd voiced it aloud. Then, driven to honesty by her nervous need to prattle, she added, "I'm so sorry I didn't clean your laboratory, sir. I placed a stasis charm on the ingredients on my way out, but that's all."

To her amazement, Snape barked an anemic laugh. "It is of no consequence now. I must inform you, Miss Granger, that as a result of this evening's... episode... I now owe you a life debt."

Hermione's blood grew cold. The power and responsibility conveyed by those words in the Wizarding community were indescribable in magnitude. "I... I don't understand, sir. After all, it was Madam Pomfrey who..."

"Madam Pomfrey did her utmost to stabilize and heal me, yes, but only after you had saved my life."

Words failed Hermione. Fumbling, she murmured, "I didn't realize..."

There seemed to be no expression on his tired face, and she couldn't imagine the debt in pride that the admission had created in him. After all he'd achieved, acting in a brilliant and peerless capacity during two grueling wars, owing his life not to either of his powerful masters but to an exasperating, eighteen-year-old Gryffindor know-it-all must be the very definition of unbearable for him.

Mortified, she burst into tears. It was foolish to bury her face in her robe, in hindsight, for that only soaked it and made her feel even more childish. Snape had jumped at the first sound of her sobbing and now stared openly at her, a dumbstruck expression on his face. Had she possessed the ability to see humor, or light, or any form of wry amusement, she might have laughed at the novelty of watching his amazement.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, choking. She couldn't seem to stop crying. Months of what she now recognized as a lethal combination of love, lust, and absolute, gut-wrenching fear boiled over into the most intense sorrow she'd ever experienced.

Finally, after she'd hiccupped self-consciously into her sleeve several times, Snape seemed to shake himself to his senses. "I am not worth your tears, Miss Granger," he said gravely. She tried to meet his eyes, but her vision was still too blurry to distinguish anything but the painfully thin shape of him beneath the gown and bedclothes. Somehow, it made the words easier to vocalize.

"Yes you are," she nearly shouted. Regretfully, she shook her head and stared at the floor until she'd managed to bring herself under control. Breathing raggedly, she swallowed hard and raised her head. He hadn't spoken again, but he was still observing her solemnly.

"You are," she repeated. "And I don't want your life on my hands. I don't want your life debt. I revoke it. I refuse."

Again, Snape laughed, though there was a bit more genuine bemusement in his current expression. "You cannot refuse a life debt, Miss Granger. Surely your voracious need to consume every written word placed before you has apprised you of that fact."

Hermione hiccupped again, thoroughly ungracefully. "Can't I return it?" She was afraid her voice verged on comical.

Snape chuckled, a wonderfully rich sound that seemed magnified by the austere stone walls, sinking languidly into her bones. "No. Such powerful manifestations of magical bonds do not operate in that way."

Hermione had never thought of a life debt as constituting a bond. Magical bonds, to her, were reserved for those creations of beauty and grandeur such as weddings and childbirth, the events that were not only happy occasions on an emotional level but truly physically life-altering. In considering a life debt, she'd always imagined a gruesome sort of servitude and an obsequious need to remain in the bearer's good graces from the point of its creation. It seemed, to her, a veritable hell.

"But how do you know the life debt even exists?" she wondered aloud. "Perhaps I didn't save your life. Perhaps that's just Madam Pomfrey's assumption when in fact..."

"There was no need for Madam Pomfrey to inform me of the fact, Miss Granger," he countered smoothly. "I knew the moment I awoke."

Rubbing at her moist eyes, thinking that she must look a flushed, splotchy fright, Hermione was forced to succumb to intellectual curiosity. "How?"

"I can feel it," he replied simply. She felt sucked into the intensity of his gaze. "A life debt is one of the rarest and most powerful forms of magic. I knew the moment you awakened me."

As the gravity of the situation settled onto her shoulders, Hermione nodded slowly. "I... Well, thank you, sir. I appreciate your... informing me."

Snape was now staring at the wall ahead of him, seemingly lost in his thoughts. He nodded and reached again for the glass of water, his grip marginally steadier.

"I..." She took a deep breath, willing into herself a little more poise and control. "I didn't ask Madam Pomfrey how long she thinks you'll be in here, sir, but I'm happy to finish the potion myself tomorrow after my classes. And I could bring it up here for you to take if..."

"That won't be necessary," he replied, his voice suddenly flat.

"Of course, if you would rather wait until Saturday when we planned to add the third ingredient..."

"That will also be unnecessary, Miss Granger."

She closed her eyes, understanding dawning. "You don't want to keep trying, then?" She'd been afraid of this since the moment Albus had assured her he was still alive, if she were totally honest with herself.

Snape was silent for a long moment before replying, his voice haunted, "I am not otherwise a fatalistic man, Miss Granger, but there comes a time when one must accept that it is one's lot in life to die."

Hermione could feel the tears coming on again, so she bit her lip. Snape wouldn't meet her eyes. She wanted to rail at him and call him a coward, but he, of all people, was anything but. "Please don't give up," she whispered. "You're too young, sir."

Snape snorted. "So proclaims the eighteen-year-old."

"What does it matter how old I am?" she exclaimed, her control fraying. "You're still young. Anyone can see that. And even if you weren't, no one deserves to have their life brought to this kind of end. You've worked so hard for us, and you have years ahead of you to achieve anything, whatever you've always dreamt of being able to do when your life and time were finally your own."

She bit her lip again, fearing she'd overstepped her bounds. Snape didn't seem upset, however; an oddly poetic look had crossed his face as he again stared at the wall, contemplative. "Well put, Miss Granger," he finally conceded with a slight nod. "However, my physical state does not now, and may never, allow me to do as you've stated."

"Aren't you willing to try?" she pleaded. "It may work."

His head swiveled toward her. "If I refuse, will you call upon my life debt?"

Hermione felt her skin blanch. "No!" she gasped, horrorstruck. "I would never... Your life is your own, sir, and I respect that. I just want to make you understand what a terrible tragedy it would be for all of us if we were to lose you; and if this potion should work, if I knew in the aftermath that it might have been able to help you...

"We all..." She wasn't thinking of any others. The love and concern of Madam Pomfrey, the Headmaster, Professor McGonagall and everyone else who had worked with and invested their hope in Severus Snape had faded from her mind. The manner in which they loved him wasn't hers, and she was at a loss to speak on their behalf when all she burned to do was say, simply and sincerely, I love you.

"We all want you here," she said finally, dreadfully afraid that the words were inadequate. "Truly, we do. We admire you and appreciate you more than you'll ever know. And if all you want for the rest of your life is to be left in peace to do your work, then, sir, believe me, we understand. Let us give you that chance." Let me.

Hermione had never seen her professor cry, but she was gratified...and heartened...to see a wistful look come over his harsh features. "Very well," he murmured, almost a croak. "You may complete the potion and bring it to me tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir," she whispered. An embarrassed and pregnant silent fell between them. Desperate to be of use, she handed him his water glass. As he raised it to his lips for the third time, she rose, feeling the fatigue and stiffness settling immediately over her limbs. "I should let you rest, sir. Please don't..."

Snape read her mind. "I have given you my word, Miss Granger. If you prepare the potion according to the specifications previously agreed upon, I will take it."

Weak with relief, Hermione simply nodded and left him.