6

The time comes all too soon. Filius lies Stupified on his office floor. At least he can keep Hermione from fighting, keep her safe, if only for a little while.

“Tend to him,” he says. He doesn’t think to wonder what she’s doing outside his office at midnight with the Lovegood girl. It doesn’t do to question such an unexpected gift. “Be careful. Be safe.”

“Are you going…?”

“To the fight.”

She nods, much calmer than she seemed before. This too is a gift. The last moment anyone will find comfort in his presence.

The Lovegood girl kneels beside Filius. “We should lift his feet, Hermione. Everyone knows it's bad luck to wake up in your own footprints.”

“Yes, let’s do,” Hermione says. “That’s a non-magical cure too. We call it treating for shock.”

There are so many things he could say. He lays a hand over his heart, over the pocket containing a small blue bottle--

small blue bottle, Potter, too late…too small blue late Potter bottle…Potter blue…Potter bottle…too blue late, small Potter--

He lays a hand over his heart, over the pocket containing a small blue bottle that—who knows?—might someday save his sorry life. But he doesn’t draw her attention to it. He can't. In a handful of moments, what’s to be done will be done. Even if they find his notes or the half-brewed batch in his lab, the Order won’t trust him or his bottles. But maybe she has it in her to trust herself, the hard bright gem that was her idea. He'd best not remind her then that he, the betrayer, puts faith in it. She’s entirely too by the book with Potions, but the Weasley twins, mad though they are, are an enormously promising pair of brewers. They might find a way to duplicate the formula, improve on it, give a dose to every fighter in the form of a Snakcure Snackcake. He keeps silent. For the sake of the Order. Quiet always, for the sake of the Light.

There are so many things he could say and no time at all. The Lovegood girl will witness everything, which is an unwanted complication. The Ravenclaw wrangles Filius’ boots off and begins to hum an unfamiliar tune. “Brindlespecs are drawn to merriment, and they're the best things ever for a speedy recovery,” she explains. "If we can attract a few, Professor Flitwick will have an easier time when he wakes." The melody is absurdly cheerful.

He’d have strength enough for what’s coming if he was close enough to smell Hermione, all autumn leaves and buckwheat honey. He’ll have to find the strength regardless. “Miss Granger,” he says. It may be futile, but he hopes she’ll have sense enough to loathe him and not herself. “I believe you are destined to do great things for our world.” He should have said these things to Lily too. Every day when she still spoke to him. “You must always believe it is your right to do them.”

He’s revealed too much. No matter that soon no one will believe him capable of saying such things. He draws his wand for an Obliviate. Her expression stops him. That last fleeting gift of a smile. His. He carries it with him step by step by step up the tower…

***

…and he’s lying on cold stones; they smell cold even, cold in the air and dust in the air and probably residual were-dander. Severus is afraid. He’s always afraid in this nightmare excuse of a hovel. Since his fifth year, he’s known this is where he would die. He is dying. He smells blood—his own. It’s too much to hope for that the Dark Lord's—that Riddle’s—been cut. He’s bloodless, Riddle. Venom in his veins, sharp and cold and clear as white wine. Thank the good Goddesses it was only the Snake and not the Wolf come to claim him in the end. The gnashing Wolf, his yellow eyes shot through with veins, his breath fevered with old meat and new blood, and Severus will be meat soon enough, sinew and bone for the Wolf who paces gray and matted and waiting—No! He won’t die thinking of this. Not when the Wolf is Lupin after all and bound to be out there still in the melee, may he tear the voice from Bellatrix’s throat. May he rend Lucius from stomach to—No! These aren’t the thoughts that will bear him through the Veil. Not when (impossible, but there it is) he scents out honey in the air. Buckwheat honey, dark, sweet and with it the tang of smoke and of fallen leaves. And then green eyes. Green? Look at me. He’s dying, not mad. The mind’s still keen. He knows full well that’s not the scent that goes with those eyes. He blinks. Still they’re green. And then he realizes. It’s magnificent; despite it all they’ve found a way to come for him. Both together, those brilliant witches. Lily is Hermione is Lily is Hermione; this is magic after all. There’s a word for her, for Lily-and-Hermione, a word for her in that language he has never spoken. They’ve come to him together to teach him their name. He will learn it and he will leave and he knows their name and knows that they are merciful: they can’t stop his going, it’s too late for that, even if (and, clever girl, she might just) she finds the bottle. They are good, too good to let him leave from here. Not the floor of the Shrieking Shack, somewhere better…

***

…the Forest of Dean. His doe is at the ice lake, watching over the others. No harm will come to them. No matter that Potter only ever thinks two minutes after it’s too late, or that Weasley could draw every ear in the forest with his galumphing about. No harm will come to them. She is watching. And Severus stands shirtless in a snow-hushed meadow, the land bare and white and empty if he looks with his eyes. But his eyes are closed. He presses against the wards that she has cast. She’s cast them well. They crackle against his skin. He feels for her mind—not to possess it, he has never, he would never—just to know that she is asleep and she is warm. If he had time, he could dismantle the protections; it’s easier to do, after all, when one has made love to the caster. But this is war and Severus knows he has little time left, and what time he has will be spent in fighting. He leans forward, her magic lashes then shrouds him. He is glad in his heart he has never seen her cast a Patronus. He doesn’t know its form and doesn’t know what his knowing would do to the doe. He doesn’t know if Lily would understand about Hermione, if she would care even, if she would forgive him at least this sin against her. All he knows is this: as long as he thinks of the scent of honey, there is light enough within him to call forth a Patronus, despite what role he played in darkening the world so that young as they are, radiant as they are, both women have had terrible cause to cast one.

The End

AN: Sigh. I promise my next fic will be a bit cheerier. Thanks for sticking with this and double thanks to all who reviewed and all who ("Imperio!" says madqueenmab) are going to review!

I still own nothing.