Chapter Text
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The noise. It was overwhelming.
The smell of burnt hair and blood. Burning wood and skin. She felt numb. It was over, but it wasn’t. The end did not feel like a victory. Destruction lay in every which way. Bodies littered the ground: some dead, some wounded. Wails kept breaking out as wizard and creature alike discovered friends among the dead. Turning around, her eyes fell upon Hogwarts. What had been a home for so many years, no longer resembled the familiar comfort. The skeletal remains brought a solitary tear down her cheek – she was too exhausted for more. It was as if the events of the last seven years began to collide and her legs began to move away. Away from the noise. It was all too much. Harry had disappeared after speaking with Dumbledore’s portrait concerning the elder wand. Ron had returned to his bereft family sitting stunned in the hall. They had left her alone.
Her feet led her down the sloping hill, no longer a luscious green full of summer memories, but a brown torn muck. The faded green felt apropos to her childhood – where had it all gone? When had she become this woman who had already fought in a war? She had been running for so long. Her body was spent, her thoughts fluttering as if on a broken rolodex.
Spinning.
Spinning.
Stop.
She reached the Whomping Willow. Her brain registered that the willow wasn’t moving, but her usual curiosity was muted. She ducked into the tunnel, her body in continuous haggard motion as though an inferi. The coolness and warped sense of the quiet underground enveloped her into its welcoming depths. She stepped onwards.
If she had stopped at any point in the tunnel under the willow, her mind’s grasp of the last forty-eight hours would have detonated. She had never stopped during her time at Hogwarts: the perfecting of her education, the rescuing of the boys, hunting horcruxes, saving Harry, researching, surviving, sacrificing her youth towards Voldemort’s demise. The tunnel led on and on – her back stooped from the weariness of her short life. It had been too much to ask of any school-aged child to handle. Suddenly, the tunnel veered and she came once again to the Shrieking Shack. It was surreal seeing it twice in one day.
She stopped.
He was still there, Professor Snape, prone as his blood collected around his head and neck, resembling a grisly halo.
She collapsed to her knees against the hard floor, the pain not registering. Eventually she sat down, unsure if she would be able to stand again. As her eyes took in the man on the ground, his once impressive robes laying in black ripples around his torso and legs like a black sea, Harry’s words to Voldemort looped through her mind: He had been loyal this entire time. She reached towards him, cradling one of his fists, small scrapes and bruises decorating their knuckles. Sitting in the silence, Hermione began to hum. She didn’t know why – whether to comfort herself or the body near her. The professor’s hand was surprisingly still warm and his fist remained tight, but her hands continued to hold the closed fist.
A touch of something cool brought her from her stupor. Looking closer she glimpsed something dark peering from between his fingers like blood. She began to arduously pry the long pale fingers apart, only to reveal a single vial. The nudge of possibilities began to tick: had he known about the possibilities of a snake attack? Could it be an anti-venom? Blood-Replenishing Potion? Was it the right colour for a Blood-Replenishing? The viscosity correct? She uncorked the vial and took a sniff. Had he been attempting to drink it?
Bugger, she cursed at her dilemma.
A second later, Hermione impulsively leaned forward and tilted down Snape’s chin. Down went the potion into his open mouth. For a moment nothing happened. Then a small gagging occurred along with a trickle of blood from one of the puncture wounds on his neck. The blood wove its way down to the floor. He was still somehow alive. Or at least barely. She didn’t know, but suddenly, the details no longer mattered. She remained still a moment before raising her wand and pulling that happy moment from the top of her mental book shelves. The incantation left her lips as her familiar otter floated next to her curiously, “Find McGonagall. Professor Snape’s alive. He’s at the Shrieking Shack.” The ethereal mustelid bounded off.
For the umpteenth time that day, she fell into action. She peeled off the stiff remains of her yellow jumper, the camping and battle had not been kind to it. Pressing the jumper against the professor’s neck wounds, she wondered if she had any more Essence of Dittany… Her beaded bag was summoned and the remnants of her healing supplies unceremoniously Accioed onto the floor. A few drops of the precious Dittany remained in her flask. She eased up her jumper from the professor’s neck and gently smeared the last drops onto the puncture wounds that littered his pale neck. There was still so much blood on the floor. Placing her ear to his chest, she listened. Nothing. Well maybe something? Quickly she rummaged through his robes and found nothing.
With none of her prior regard or fear for her professor, Hermione pushed off his robes to expose the infamous black frock coat – buttons and pockets littering its front panels. She began to reach into and pat the various pockets looking to see if there were any more hidden potions. Her hunt proved worthwhile, finding two more vials and a small knut wrapped in a torn piece of cloth. The potions, to her estimate, were a Blood-Replenishing Potion and another vial same as before. They followed the path of the first: down the professor’s throat. Still, no changes were apparent. She listened for another heart beat or murmur or something.
What was she doing? Her hands shook as they lifted to his chest and began to attempt muggle CPR. She was at her end. The heaviness of the day undammed, pouring through her till even her fingertips ached. Sobs escaped her weary soul as she pressed rhythmically against his chest. Not another body. Not another body, please. Her mind kept remembering Remus’ peaceful face laying there in the Great Hall.
Listen. Sob. Chest compressions.
Listen. Sob. Chest compressions.
She listened again: there was a faint beat.
Regular. Faint. But there.
Leaning back on her heels, she took a breath. She gazed at the slight rising of his chest. In. Out. In. Out. The vials lay on their sides next to her beaded bag and the knut. She needed help, but she could barely move. Her head weaved tiredly to rest on her bag, her hand extending towards the bare patch of Snape’s wrist. His slight breathing was the only sound breaking the Shack’s silence. Near his wrist underneath the folds of his robes, she noticed the end of a wand. She removed it from the floor, a slight warm buzz forming along her fingers where they grasped the handle. Hermione placed the ebony wand in her bag for safe keeping. Once more, the knut garnered her attention as it lay out of place between their bodies. Why had it been wrapped up? Her free hand slowly reached for the wizarding coin unprepared for the next moment.
The instant she touched the knut, the familiar tug behind her naval gave way, just missing the returning tabby patronus. Hermione’s body collapsed in a heap next to the professor’s. The hard floor was situated in a dim room. Boxes filled the walls, looking as though someone were either arriving or leaving. A dilapidated couch sat behind her. It looked sadly alone in the bare room. Her eyes closed as she passed out. Her hand remained at the professor’s wrist.