Chapter Text
Reading the Stories That Scars Tell
Chapter 1- May 2, 1998
Pain.
Desperation.
The searing agony of failure.
No—I’m sorry—not yet—Harry—Albus—it’s too late—we’re lost—my fault—I’m sorry—
Blood. So much blood.
Mine.
Harry!
He’s there, slipping out from under the Invisibility Cloak. The flash of hope is almost as painful as the torn flesh at my throat and the venom seeping through me. I grip his robes with the last of my failing strength.
“Take…it….Take…it….”
The silvery-blue glow surrounding me glints off the flask Granger thrusts into his hand, and relief fills up the space left by my memories pouring out of me. If I had more time or more strength left for control, I might be more careful with the selection I give him, but the paralyzing pain and exhaustion from blood loss robs me of any finesse I may have had. If only he had learned Legilimency, he would see my instructions so clearly…
“Look…at…me….”
Blackness closes in, blocking my view of his wide green eyes—Lily’s eyes. My grip slackens, and I collapse to the floor, my robes soaking up the spreading pool of my own blood. The paralysis settles over me, and I hope that my Portkey works as planned. I can’t see or move, but I can still hear them around me. Mere seconds after the darkness claims me, the Dark Lord’s voice pierces the night, and Harry scrambles to his feet beside me. I hear the Weasley boy and Granger trying to talk him out of giving himself up. Granger suggests going back to the castle, and I pray that they listen to her, so Harry can use the Pensieve and finally understand.
Their footsteps fade away as they leave, and the silence closes in on me, joining the darkness as my jailer. I can feel the venom spreading, though part of me wonders how it can still do so when it seems that all of my blood has drained from me, and nothing should be left to carry it along.
Is this it? Is this how it ends? If my Portkey doesn’t activate soon, I will die here, alone, in pain, and tormented with a desperate hope. As long as it isn’t a vain one, I’ll take it. Damn it! If only I could stop thinking, perhaps the Portkey would work… Unless I’m already dead, and this is what Hell is like… It would make sense if my Hell is like my life… I had hoped… that things would be… different… better…
“Tildy! We is needed now! Bring Binx and Ziller!”
“Here! Careful now…”
Snap! “This one is for drinking—open his mouth!”
Snap! Clink-clink. “Another to drink. Here. Quick! This one needs daubing—hand me the flannel—yes.”
“Oh, it’s so much blood! I’s not liking so much blood…”
“Hush! Clean it up if you doesn’t like it!”
“Look! It’s mending—”
“Good, good. Pour this one in his mouth now. Press harder until that’s fixed!”
“Is it supposed to be smoking?”
“Yes, smoking is meaning it’s working.”
“How long is we having to do this?”
“As long as it takes until Sir is better.”
“What about Master and Mistress?”
“Master is Sir’s friend. We is helping Master’s friend!”
Harry, Ron, and Hermione exited the headmaster’s office, trudging wearily down the spiral staircase.
“Think Kreacher might bring me a sandwich? I mean, I don’t want to have to go down there again, now that people have retrieved all the—the bodies.” Harry’s voice dropped as he faltered over the last word, flicking a guilty glance at Ron’s mournful expression.
Hermione jerked to a stop beside them, making both boys turn to eye her in concern. “But they haven’t… retrieved them all, that is.”
It dawned on them at the same time, and Harry and Ron exchanged a look of dismay before looking at Hermione biting her lower lip in anxiety and shame. Harry was the one who spoke. “Snape. He’s still out there. Nobody else would have known to go get him.”
“I guess we better go let McGonagall know.” Ron’s voice was hoarse with fatigue and grief.
They continued more quickly back down to the Great Hall, all thoughts of eating forgotten in the face of their grim task. Ron stayed in the corridor with Harry while Hermione hurried in and dragged McGonagall out to join them.
“What’s going on?” The older witch’s face was lined with worry and smudged with soot from the explosions and fires.
Harry murmured, “We need to… bring back Snape’s body. He was in the Shrieking Shack. We just can’t leave him there. Not after… everything.”
McGonagall nodded, eyes wide. “Of course. Let’s go on, then. We needn’t excite anyone else about it right now. We can manage ourselves.”
They all nodded and followed her out of the ruined castle and down to the Whomping Willow. A muttered spell to press the knot left the limbs frozen, and they clambered down the tunnel, haltingly warning McGonagall of how Snape had been killed and what the grisly scene looked like. When they got to the end, they all paused, loath to enter the Shack and see Snape’s lifeless body lying there.
Finally, Harry took a deep breath and climbed up. The others heard his shout of astonishment and surged up behind him, afraid he was under further attack. Harry was kneeling in the sticky bloodstain, looking wildly around for Snape’s body. “Where is he? What happened?”
Ron and Hermione dashed around the room, peering in corners and out windows, and McGonagall stood stock-still, staring down at the massive stain in horror. “There’re no footprints, no drag marks… where could he be?”
Harry gripped his hair, his breathing ragged, and left a smear of blood along his forehead. “Who could have taken him? He was… gone… completely still… when we left. He couldn’t have crawled away! This—this can’t be happening!”
Hermione sank down beside him and wrapped her arm around his shoulders. “Shh, Harry, it’s all right. We’ll find him. We’ll let Kingsley know. It’ll be fine…”
Harry curled in on himself, shuddering as he tried to control the panicked sobs that wanted to break free. Ron knelt on his other side and gripped his arm. Huddled between his two best mates, Harry regained his composure and allowed them to lead him out of the Shack and back to the castle.
“Master and Mistress are back! And they have Young Master with them!”
“Good. Master may be able to tells us if Sir is better enough yet.”
“Cobber! What is the meaning of this? What is Severus doing on my kitchen floor?”
“Master, we is so glad you and Mistress and Young Master are home. Is any of you hurt? Does you need mending too?”
“Professor Snape? Father, is he all right? How did he get here?”
“Cobber, I demand an answer right now!”
“Sir gave us instructions about what to do if he showed up here, Master. We is knowing you is friends with Sir, so we worked very hard to help Sir.”
“Master, Sir said he chose here because tiles is easier to scrub than rugs. Sir was very smart—this blood is going to be washing away easy.”
“Tildy, are you saying that Severus told you and Cobber that he might show up near death?”
“Father, look, this is antivenin. Professor Snape kept this around in case Nagini got too rambunctious. And this—this is Dittany! I recognize that and Blood Replenisher from Slughorn’s class!”
“Dear gods, Lucius! What on earth is going on in here?”
“Cissy, it’s all right. Calm down. Binx! Ziller! Clean this place up and see to your Mistress! Fetch her some tea and toast. Cissy, here, sit, darling. Don’t look at it.”
“Father, Potter said he was dead. How could he have ended up here? And he’s not dead—look at him! What happened to him?”
“Draco, you remember what happened to Professor Burbage… I can only assume that the Dark Lord sicced Nagini on Severus. It looks like he nearly bled out. How he came to be on our kitchen floor, I have no idea, but I imagine it will be a thrilling tale. Here, darling, have some tea. Binx, draw a bath for your Mistress! You’ll feel better after you’ve had a long soak and a chance to relax—”
“Lucius, I want you to get rid of everything that vile thing soiled in our house. All of it! Now! I will not put up with any more of this—this asinine Death Eater—shite! Don’t look at me like that! I can swear in my own home if I want to. Draco, is that clear? I did not risk everything by lying to the Dark Lord about Potter to save him! I did it to save my family, and I will not allow either of you to sully our name with more of this blood purity tripe! We will learn to get along in this society without such snobbery and violence! I almost lost you both, and I will not suffer that again! Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mother, of course. Whatever you want. I promise!”
“Cissy, darling—”
“Do you understand or not, Lucius?”
“Of-of course! Yes, whatever you say, my love. Now, please, Cissy, go with Binx and relax. We’ll get this cleaned up.”
“If Severus managed to survive that sadistic maniac, then more power to him. Draco, inform the school that he is in our care for the moment.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Binx, bring that tea and toast to the bath. And I’ll take some elf-made wine once I’m soaking.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Where are you going, Draco?”
“I’m doing what Mother said—I’m going to send a message to the school to let them know Professor Snape is alive. He did say he could even stopper death. I believe it.”
Harry was sitting at a table in the Great Hall, flanked by Ron and Hermione, while McGonagall sent a Patronus to Kingsley with the news that Snape’s body had disappeared. The shock of it had managed to crush Harry’s spirit even more than the Final Battle, coming so unexpectedly after he had thought the tragedies were finally over.
They were all taken by surprise when the Malfoys’ eagle-owl arrowed toward Harry. Frowning, Harry detached the scroll from its leg and spared a glance at its retreating form before reading the note. He shot back from the table, nearly falling backward off the bench, his eyes snapping open wide and his stunned cry startling the others.
“Snape’s there! At Malfoy Manor! He’s not dead!”
McGonagall clapped a hand to her chest, gasping, and Hermione grabbed at the note, desperately trying to read it herself. Ron just stared at Harry in amazement, his mouth hanging open.
Harry released his grip on the scroll and Hermione snatched it, her words tumbling over themselves as she read, “Professor Snape is here, not dead, but in dire need of medical attention. Mother is making Father purge the house of anything related to the Dark Lord and said to let the school know Professor Snape was here. Shall I summon St. Mungo’s for him? Please hurry. The house-elves have him barely stabilized. The Floo is open. Awaiting your instructions—Draco Malfoy. How ever did he manage such a feat? How did he get to Malfoy Manor? And who would have thought Draco would be the one to tell us?”
McGonagall hadn’t waited to hear Hermione’s questions. As soon as Draco’s note was read, she dashed off to find Madam Pomfrey. Harry was cradling his head in his hands, his elbows propped on the table, taking deep, shaky breaths. “We’ll find out later. I can’t believe he’s alive! Thank the gods…”
Ron shrugged and said, “I guess Malfoy finally realized he was on the wrong side. Besides, you did save his arse. He owes you.”
McGonagall returned with Pomfrey in tow and said, “We’re Flooing over right away. Would one of you contact Kingsley and let him know Severus has been found?”
“Certainly, Professor.”
“Thank you, Hermione. You’re welcome to wait for us in the hospital wing. We’ll eventually be there, with or without Severus.”
Harry’s head snapped up and he stared at her in horror.
Pomfrey hastily added, “If we can bring him here, and I can manage him, we’ll do so. But if he needs St. Mungo’s, we’ll take him there first.”
Harry relaxed and nodded, then said, his voice steely with determination, “Madam Pomfrey, please, bring him here. I don’t know that we could trust anyone elsewhere to give him the care he deserves. They may not believe the truth.”
McGonagall and Pomfrey exchanged a grave look but they both nodded. “We must hurry, then. I’ll do my best, Mr. Potter.”
The two women bustled off to the nearest working Floo, and Harry shoved to his feet. “I’m going up now. I want to make sure I’m there when they bring him in. I owe him that.”
Ron and Hermione followed in silence.
Up in the hospital wing, the trio hovered near an empty bed, restless with anticipation. They all jumped in surprise to see a quartet of house-elves popping into existence, surrounding the floating form of Severus Snape. Before they could react to the unusual sight, McGonagall and Pomfrey Apparated nearby, the mediwitch immediately ordering the elves to place Snape on the bed. Gently, they deposited the ashen, unconscious, bloodied man on the crisp sheets, then disappeared with a crack.
Pomfrey was already waving her wand, muttering diagnostic incantations, and the others rushed to surround the bed, staring with worried eyes at the barely discernible rise and fall of Snape’s chest.
McGonagall spoke, but her voice was pitched low in an effort to not disturb the patient or the healer. “Draco said Severus must have instructed the house-elves to treat him, and he showed us the vials of Dittany and antivenin, as well as Blood Replenisher. We’re still not sure how he got there, but there’s a good chance, as he’s managed to survive thus far, that he’ll recover in time.”
Harry wilted in relief, heaving a deep sigh. Hermione gripped his arm in comfort as she said, “Is there anything we can do?”
Pomfrey murmured, “Be a good girl and fetch me the bathing flannels and the antiseptic wash. There’s a dear.”
Hermione Summoned the items and stepped closer to Pomfrey, eager to be of assistance. The older witch Summoned more potions and cast more spells, narrating, “These are to induce a coma state, so his body can focus on healing. It will take a while before the venom is completely out of his system. We’ll have to repeatedly cleanse his blood, filtering out the venom, and the process is hard on the body. It’s best to not have to be aware of it. We can also look to repairing the bite wound and decreasing the extent of the scar. It’s not a curse-scar, so it should respond to treatment at least to some degree.”
Everyone flicked a glance at Harry at the mention of a curse-scar. Hermione said, “So, if Harry’s scar is no longer cursed, then could you erase it?”
Harry blinked at them, his hand instinctively rising to touch the lightning-shape on his forehead. Slowly, he said, “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’d rather leave it there. As a reminder that good triumphed over evil. All scars have a story to tell, and that’s one that I don’t want anyone to forget.”
They all nodded, then Pomfrey began cutting away Snape’s clothing, carefully pulling the mangled, sodden cloth from his lacerated neck. She Vanished the cut pieces with a flick of her wand, leaving Snape bare from the waist up. His torso was as pale as his chalk-white face, marred only by the tint of dried blood. A thin black ribbon was tied around his right wrist, but as it didn’t impede progress, it was left there. Pomfrey scanned him for more injuries, then said, “Hand me the flannel, well-soaked in the antiseptic.”
Hermione did so, and they watched in horrified fascination as she meticulously cleaned the wound, pausing to knit flesh with whispered spells. It must have been painful, because Snape started to stir, rolling his head along the pillow.
“I don’t understand; those potions and spells should have him completely out by now! He’s fighting it…”
Harry tensed. “Something’s wrong. Can you rouse him? What if we need to know something and he’s the only one who knows it?”
Pomfrey scowled at Harry, then glanced at McGonagall. “Poppy, please, if he’s fighting, he must have a good reason. His will to live is stronger than anyone I’ve ever seen.”
Huffing, against her professional judgment, Pomfrey snapped, “Ennervate!”
Snape stirred more fitfully, his shallow breathing suddenly deepening and becoming more ragged. His eyes rolled wildly under his eyelids, and his fingers clenched. Grimacing, he struggled to open his eyes and speak, but the damage to his throat was such that his normal baritone was gone, leaving only a rasp as he tried to form words.
Hermione tried to offer comfort by gripping his hand, and Harry leant closer, hovering over him. Snape’s eyes were bleary as he tried to focus on Harry, lifting his head. His gaze stuttered over to Hermione, and he tightened his grip on her hand, making her gasp. The whisper was barely audible in the strained silence, but he forced out, “Dark… Lord… what…?”
Hermione instantly said, “He’s dead! The war is over. You’re safe, Professor.”
Snape’s grimace smoothed and his eyes rolled back as his head thunked on the pillow again. With renewed effort, he whispered, “How can… certain…?”
Harry grinned in relieved joy and leant closer, one hand pushing his shaggy fringe out of the way and showing the pale scar on his forehead, no longer red and fresh with the curse that put it there. “See? The curse is gone—Voldemort’s soul is gone!”
At the mention of the Dark Lord’s name, Snape twitched, his brow furrowing further as he jerked his left arm up. Hermione maintained her hold on his hand and then supported his flagging strength when she realized he was trying to see his Dark Mark. Her voice trembled with emotion as she said, “It’s gone too. Look! It’s over. All of it.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed as he looked at the pale ghost of a scar on his inner forearm. The blackened brand or the red puckered burn he had sported for nearly two decades had faded and smoothed, leaving an alabaster image of the Morsmordre as testimony of his youthful folly.
Harry added, “You’re safe here, Professor. Madam Pomfrey will get you fixed up, and we’ll make sure no one bothers you or interferes with your recovery. I’ve already told the truth about you working as a double agent—everyone knows how much you’ve suffered to help us win this war.”
Snape’s head fell back onto the pillow again, his eyes closing as he released a shuddering breath. His fierce grip on Hermione’s supporting hand slackened, his eyelids fluttering as he rasped, “At… last…” and a bead of moisture trickled down to his temple as his head lolled to one side.
Hermione sucked in a frightened breath at the sudden change, but when his chest rose slowly again, she exhaled shakily, squeaking, “What happened?”
Pomfrey nodded as she continued her work. “He finally succumbed to the potions and spells. He should be in that coma now—which is good, because we’re about to start the rough stuff. I’m amazed he managed to fight them off for as long as he did.”
Hermione stared down at Snape’s still form. “How long will he be out?”
Pomfrey snorted and said, “As long as I need him to be. Now, I need to concentrate; this is finicky stuff here. You all should run along. I daresay you can find other things that need attending.”
McGonagall cleared her throat and cut a sardonic glance at the other woman. “Indeed, Poppy. Are you certain you can manage?”
Hermione saw Harry’s indecision in his face and said, “I’ll stay. You all go on. Ron, you should be with your family. Harry, you need to go with Professor McGonagall and stave off those who would try to hurt Professor Snape. I’m sure Kingsley will listen to you both. Madam Pomfrey, I’d be happy to help if I can, but if I’d get in your way, I can wait over there.”
Pomfrey glanced up at Hermione’s earnest face and said, “You may stay. Just don’t distract me. All right now, the rest of you—OUT.”
McGonagall herded the boys out of the hospital wing, leaving Pomfrey and Hermione at Snape’s bedside. Hermione whispered, “Am I in the way here?”
Pomfrey shook her head and Summoned a rolling table with instruments on it. Hermione Summoned a chair from against the wall and sank into it, never releasing Snape’s hand. She leant forward, resting her chin on her other hand as she watched the mediwitch, repeatedly looking at Snape’s lean torso, noting how his ribs stood out in stark relief.
Pomfrey hung a length of tubing on a rolling stand, then fitted a needle into one end. With quick, deft movements, she inserted the needle into the inside of Snape’s right arm, watching the blood flowing sluggishly through the tube. As it reached the stand, she cast a complicated spell, using incantations and patterns Hermione had never seen before. The tubing and the stand glowed, and as the blood crept beyond it, toward the other end of the tube, Pomfrey fitted another needle into the opposite end, then inserted it into the inside of Snape’s left arm, making Hermione lean back hastily.
Before Hermione could even gather the courage to ask what she was doing, Pomfrey murmured, “The spell will cleanse the venom from his blood. It will have to continue through it for a long time to completely filter all of the venom. The needles sting, of course, but the unfortunate effect of cleansing the blood this way is that it burns as it re-enters the body. If he weren’t kept sedated like this, he would be screaming nearly as much as if he had been hit by the Cruciatus Curse.”
Hermione gasped, her damp eyes wide in horror and sympathy. Instinctively, she stroked his hand in hers.
Pomfrey went back to work on the raw mince that was his wounded neck, and Hermione watched, wishing she could do more to help. After a few minutes of her gaze wandering over his bare torso again, she blinked and said, “Would it be all right if I were to finish cleaning him?”
Pomfrey grunted an affirmative, her eyes still trained on mending Snape’s flesh. Hermione Summoned the bathing flannel and antiseptic wash—now tinted red—and cast a mild warming charm on them, not wanting to cause him any more discomfort. Gently, she washed away the blood staining his pale skin, noticing other scars marring the smoothness of his taut belly and chest.
I can’t believe he survived! How did he do it? How awful it must have been for him for all these years. And being forced to kill Dumbledore like that—oh, Headmaster, how could you do that to poor Professor Snape?
Hot tears splashed down onto Snape’s belly, and Hermione wiped them away with the flannel. Soon, the bloodstains were gone, but she continued absently swiping the cloth down his torso, smoothing the thin line of dark hair that began between his pectoral muscles and trailed down to circle his navel and disappear beneath the waist of his trousers.
Hours passed before Pomfrey straightened, her back audibly cracking as she heaved a gusty sigh. Hermione blinked rapidly, startled from her sobering reflections.
“There. I’ve done as much as I can now. We’ll just have to let his own body do some work healing before I can try any more.”
Hermione raked her gaze over his face and body, feeling a spark of hope. “He’s regained some colour—that’s good, isn’t it?”
Pomfrey offered a weary smile. “Yes, dear, it’s good. Once we could get some more blood in him, he was bound to pink up.”
Hermione exhaled slowly, letting herself relax. “Is there anything else we can do for him?”
Pomfrey shook her head even as she massaged her stiff neck. “Not yet. He’ll be like this for weeks, until the venom is gone. Then we can work on strengthening him again. You should get some rest too.”
Hermione glanced around at the other beds and said, “I’ll just lie down on one of these, if that’s all right. I don’t want him to be left by himself. Not after all these years of being so terribly alone. You look like you need a good meal and some sleep, yourself.”
Pomfrey quirked a rueful smile and said, “I feel like it too. Fine, suit yourself, young lady. But he’s as fine as he can be given the situation.”
With that, she started to drape a light blanket over him, but Hermione protested. “Oh, don’t! His clothes are still filthy. Shouldn’t we finish cleaning him up before soiling more bedding?”
Pomfrey’s shoulders fell in exhaustion. “Can’t it wait? It won’t hurt him.”
Hermione pursed her lips in indignation. “I’ll do it! He deserves that much.”
Pomfrey sighed again, rubbing her eyes. “Aye, he deserves much more, but I’m at the end of my tether.”
Hermione glared at the other woman, but she relented when she saw how much Pomfrey’s hands were trembling with fatigue. “All right. I’ll take care of him. Where might I find some pyjama bottoms to change him into—I mean, I doubt a hospital gown would work since you need access to his neck and shoulder.”
Pomfrey wilted in gratitude, flicking her wand to send a loose pair of drawstring trousers sailing into Hermione’s outstretched hand. “The privacy screen is in the back, and the sheets and blankets are under the beds. Do you think you can manage changing the soiled bedding without disturbing the blood-filtration? You can just put the bloody things over in that hamper.”
Hermione firmed her courage and nodded sharply. “I can levitate him easily enough, I’m sure. Go get some sleep. You’re worn out.”
Pomfrey held Hermione’s resolute gaze for a moment before inclining her head in a gesture of agreement and thanks. Then, she turned and shuffled into her office and through to her quarters. Hermione immediately turned her attention to the screen at the back of the room and sent it skittering around the bed. Then, she gathered the fresh bedding and dragged a second bed over near Snape’s.
She briskly readied the fresh sheets and pyjamas, expression determined, but she faltered when she pointed her wand at her former teacher to strip him of his bloodied trousers. I hope that coma really is deep. No doubt he would hate me being the one to do this to him. But it needs to be done! I’m sure he’ll be much more comfortable once he’s in clean clothes that aren’t so restrictive.
Taking a deep breath and setting her teeth, Hermione cast a levitation spell on Snape, floating him above the mattress much like the house-elves had done to bring him there. Quickly gathering the stained sheets, she ripped them off the bed and flung them toward the hamper. Just as quickly, she fitted the fresh linens to the mattress, flicking apprehensive glances at Snape’s face the whole time.
His features were slack in his drugged sleep, and his lank black hair dangled below his head, clumped with dried blood. I should wash that out too. That can’t be hygienic. With a deft flick of her wand, Snape’s boots were set near the hamper, followed by his socks. Then, carefully, she aimed her wand at the placket of his trousers, making the buttons pop open. Swallowing hard, she directed them to peel down his long legs, her face burning in embarrassed curiosity about what sort of underpants he wore.
The blood had soaked through his trousers to stain what had previously been plain white boxer shorts and Hermione paused, pulse racing as she debated what to do about that. I—I can’t strip him like that. It’s—it’s indecent! He would loathe me if he knew. Maybe they’ll come clean?
Carefully aiming her wand away from his groin but still on the bloody fabric, she muttered a cleansing charm. It removed most of the stain, but some residue remained. Concentrating harder, she tried again, watching as the rusty tint faded more. I’d try an Evanesco but I’m afraid it would Vanish his pants instead of just the blood…
Taking a different tack, she cast Scourgify, watching in alarm as the sudsy bubbles frothed over his pants, turning the white cotton translucent as it was wet. Icy sweat prickled along her scalp at the clouded impression of dark hair framing his groin and pink flesh pressing against the sodden cloth. Hastily casting a drying charm, she saw that the stain was still there, but quite faint. That’s plenty good enough! Sucking in ragged breaths, she sent the pyjama bottoms sliding up his wiry legs, tugging the drawstring securely where the waistband hung just above his bony hips.
There! Now to clean his hair up, and then I can rest easy. She took the opportunity to walk over to the taps to rinse and refill the basin they had used for the antiseptic, using the task to steady her nerves. Snagging the fluffy towel from beside the sink, she strode back to the head of Snape’s bed, eyeing his long hair critically.
I don’t have proper shampoo here, but I daresay a plain water rinse would get it clean enough for now. Carefully raising him higher with her levitation spell, she moved the pillow and placed the basin there. Summoning a cup from a side table, she dipped it into the basin and poured the water over his hair, watching it run red as the blood rinsed out. Hermione filled the cup again and lifted it under his head, letting the strands sink into the water, since she couldn’t pour water over the back of his head in this position. Soon, his hair was dripping, hanging below him in a stringy mass.
Hermione chewed her lower lip in thought and finally set the cup down. Gently, she smoothed his hair back from his face, warily avoiding coming anywhere near his mauled neck, and squeezed the sodden tresses. More tinted water streamed off the ends, and Hermione decided she needed to scrub the blood out, as it wasn’t draining away on its own. Rinsing her hands in the basin, she lowered Snape’s body more until she could cup her hands and lift the water into the clumped mass, rubbing to dissolve the sticky mess and threading her fingers through to separate the tangles.
After two bouts of rinsing and refilling the basin, the water finally ran clear, and Hermione smiled in satisfaction that Snape was as clean and comfortable as she could make him. She wrung the water from his hair, then cast a drying charm, watching it fluff out with static. She always had the same problem when she tried that on her own hair. Rolling her eyes, she smoothed the clinging, wayward strands back from his face, Banished the basin and replaced the pillow, then lowered him back onto the mattress, where his newly washed hair fanned out, stark black against the white slipcase.
Hermione checked the tubing again, then drew the blanket over Snape, sliding it under his arms but over his bare chest, taking care not to disturb the tube or his neck. Now that she was done, she felt herself sagging with weariness as well, and she climbed onto the bed next to his, inching it closer until she could extend her hand and clasp his as she lay there, wanting him to know he wasn’t alone, even if he was unconscious.
Gazing at him, her eyelids drooping, she realized that he finally looked peaceful. A pleased smile spread her lips, and she fell asleep thinking, Thank you, Professor, for everything you endured for our sakes. You deserve a chance at peace and happiness—just as you said—at last. For now, rest. Heal. Relax. And when you’re strong enough again, I want to know your story. Like Harry said, every scar has its story, and you bear enough scars to warrant an epic tale. You’re like a book I’ve finally been granted access to in the Restricted Section—I’ll be your reader. Tell me your story…