Can't Make A Fire Without A Spark

By Pigwidgeon37

She had watched Apocalypse Now when she was far too young, simply because she had liked the title. The helicopters, backlit by the rising sun and orchestrated by the Ride of the Valkyries, had been impressive. The rest had given her nightmares. She had seen Platoon and Born On 4 July and The Thin Red Line, and other films about the Vietnam war. She had been deeply moved.

But those had been films.

And she would never have imagined how an eighteen-year-old war veteran really felt. She would never have believed that a war could become the meaning of one’s life, and once it was over the life was utterly meaningless. She would have shaken her head in incomprehension had anybody told her that, after the end of three years of merciless war, those who had been liberated might want to celebrate, but those who had fought, stood in the line of fire, could only shake their heads. Wearily. Astonished. In disbelief. And without joy.

The worst was that she seemed to be the only one.

The others… They were only beginning to trickle in. Hogwarts had momentarily ceased to be a school and been turned into a kind of giant field hospital. But what was it with the others? They had lived more or less the same experience, so why were they cheerful? They had lost more friends than she had—after all, Harry and Ron were almost unscathed. Padma had lost her twin sister, for heaven’s sake! Colin had lost a brother. Sirius had lost the last of his old friends. Lost, lost, lost. So many deaths. Did they really not mind? Or were they just infinitely better actors than she?

Didn't they dream?

Voldemort had been defeated only two nights ago, and only last night had she finally found sleep; but only to be mercilessly flung back right in the centre of the battle, among the screams and the helplessly rolling eyes. Was she so extraordinarily susceptible? She had only been grazed by a curse and refused to spend time in a hospital bed. But the things she’d seen… The way sufferance disfigured and humiliated; it was capable of reducing a human being to a screaming animal. And she had seen death.

Real death looked so different from movie death.

Because the skin didn't remain the same colour. You could see that it had been touched by icy, spidery fingers, because it took on a greyish-blue hue. And those empty eyes. She knew she would never forget the eyes of the dead.

Hermione snapped out of her mental wanderings. She had completely lost any notion of time. Somehow, it didn't seem to have any importance anymore. Not for the dead. And she felt close enough to them, closer than to the happy survivors. Only she couldn't go on like that. Because she was alive. Or was she? She looked at her wristwatch—surprisingly, it had survived the battle—and saw that it was 5 p.m. Too early for dinner, too late for… a giggle, the sound of which she didn’t like in the least, escaped her lips. What was it too late for? What was there to do?

She had nothing to do.

Once it was clear they had won the battle and thus the war, once the danger was over, the helpers had crept out of their burrows and taken over responsibility. She had offered to assist the mediwizards and had been kindly, but firmly and a little impatiently, waved off. She had ventured that she might watch the herds of small children—sons and daughters of helpers and those who had come seek asylum at Hogwarts lately—but those better qualified than she had already organized that task. There was no school, no homework… she stood empty-handed.

Some part of her brain that had evidently remained connected to the world outside her supplied the information that Harry was in the Hospital Wing. More for precaution than for anything else, of course, because he hadn't been gravely injured. But it was out of the question to incur even the tiniest risk where the health of Hero Number One was concerned. In the giant hospital Hogwarts had become, the Hospital Wing was the space reserved for the Selected Few. The real heroes, placed under the care of Madam Pomfrey. Harry was likely to be there, and so she decided she might just as well pay him a visit. He ought to be bored out of his wits by now, or maybe even depressed, as she was. Perhaps she could share with him.

She had taken a shower some time in the morning and then sunk back on her bed, clad only in her bathrobe, forgetting time. Out of the reach of time. Well, if she wanted to visit Harry, she had to dress now. Never one for dressing up, now she cared even less. The only thing she knew for sure was that she wasn't going to put on her school robes. So she selected a simple pair of blue jeans, a white blouse cut like a man's shirt and trainers. Almost reluctantly, she grabbed her wand and tucked it into her left sleeve. No need to bother with her hair—it had been cut rather short some time ago, as a mere safety measure. Long hair was too easy to grab for an opponent, or might fall over her face and obstruct her view during a duel. Ready to face… the enemy, she thought bitterly. Whatever lay outside this room was more real than her immediate surroundings and therefore hostile. But it had to be faced, better sooner than later. At least, that was what her ratio told her. So she opened the door.

Only to stumble over a heap of flowers, letters and small parcels. Almost as if her room were a tomb… But she was a war hero, too, she remembered. What an utterly shallow notion, she thought while stepping over the offerings, the sweetish smell of which was giving her nausea. She had fought to preserve her own life, and killed a lot of people in the process—what was so heroic about that?

The corridors were full of people, running here and there, apparently knowing exactly what to do and where to hurry. Doors to classrooms stood half open and revealed the beds inside; a tang of disinfectant and healing potions wafted towards her whenever she passed one of the makeshift wards. People were breathing raggedly, moaning or screaming inside, and she hurried on, as if driven by demons. Finally, she reached the Hospital Wing.

Two Aurors were standing guard left and right of the door, stern and imposing. But they recognized her, smiled, sketched a salute and let her through. The door closed behind her, and she was grateful for the sudden silence that drew her into a reassuring embrace. It was broken by Madam Pomfrey's hurried footsteps.

“Oh, it's you!” she said, abandoning her threatening posture. “I thought one of the journalists might have managed to get past the Aurors.”

Hermione forced herself to smile. “I had nothing to do and thought I might—”

The matron nodded grimly. “Yes, now that the danger is over, they have left the safety of their warded houses. To come and take from our hands what we need most: hard work, so that the mind can heal while the body is occupied.”

Her words unexpectedly undid the knot that had been tightly binding Hermione's emotions. Staggering under their assault, she tried to breathe so hard that she almost hyperventilated. Eventually she managed to regain a minimum of control over herself. “You…” she croaked, “you understand…”

Then the floodgates broke. For a long time, Madam Pomfrey held her in a firm embrace. “Cry, child,” she murmured, “It won't really help but you’ll feel relieved.”

When she could speak again, Hermione said “They don't seem to mind… they just… just celebrate… where there is nothing to celebrate.”

The matron gave her a small smile. “Not all of them. But those who feel like you don't want to spoil the others’ fun, I suppose.”

She conjured two cups of hot chocolate, which they drank in companionable silence.

“Harry?” Hermione ventured, putting down her empty cup.

“Back there, in the private ward. I only have two patients, but I certainly don't regret it. Enough to provide a pretext for staying away from the all-over festivities.”

“Two? Who’s the other one?”

Pomfrey gestured to the far corner of the room, where a small cubicle had been created by means of white curtains. They were drawn shut.

“Who is it?” Hermione asked.

A shadow crossed the other witch's face. “Severus,” she answered, her voice slightly hoarse.

“Professor Snape? I thought he was… he was…” She couldn't even pronounce the word. It would have brought back the image of those glassy, empty eyes.

Pomfrey made a noise that could have been a chuckle or a sob. Hermione was pretty sure it was the latter. “Maybe he would have been better off,” she said.

Not sure whether she would be able to stand hearing of yet more pain, Hermione asked all the same, “What is it, then?”

A heavy sigh. “He's in a coma.”

“And you can’t…”

The matron shook her head. “I tried everything.No, I can't.”

“Do you have any idea when—”

“No,” Pomfrey said sharply, and then, more softly, “No. I don't even have any idea if, let alone when.”

Inwardly gaping at herself in surprise because of her request, Hermione asked, “May I see him?”

“Why not?” Now tears were running over the mediwitch's cheeks. Almost angrily, she wiped them off with her right wrist. “It won't make any difference.”

He looked… like dead people in movies. White and black and still. And so very distant. Peaceful, too. It was difficult to imagine that this man had enjoyed making Neville's life hell. Pettiness had no room in this still form. Neither the heroism he had shown; not only during the battle, no, during the last years… he had shielded Dumbledore from Lucius Malfoy's curse, two days ago. Not only was Malfoy dead and thus couldn't tell anymore which curse he had used; what struck Hermione as somewhat more tragic was Dumbledore’s absence.

“The Headmaster…” she begun but was lost for words. Who was she to accuse the wizard whose strategy had probably saved them all?

The two women exchanged a look. It was enough to tell Hermione that they both had the same thought but were wise enough not to voice it.

“Do you think it might do any good if I came here from time to time to sit with him?” she asked.

The matron patted her arm. “It most certainly won't harm him, and it will be good for you,” she said.

Hermione felt something click into place. A task. She had a task. How many times had she read wondrous stories in Muggle newspapers, about people who awoke after ten years of coma and swore that the presence of their beloved ones at their bedside had reached them through the layers of unconsciousness! Now, she was certainly not somebody the Potions master loved. But considering that he seemed to loathe everybody, she was as good as anybody else. Maybe she might be able to help. Thee were some Slytherins left, those from non-Death-Eater families—she could ask them to keep him company, too. And… the library was undamaged. Perhaps, if she read up on the subject…

“Quod erat demonstrandum,” said Madam Pomfrey, who had been intently watching her face.

~     ~    ~

The Boy Who Lived was comfortably propped up against a pile of resplendently white cushions and watched, obviously fascinated, as the fireplace spat out presents, flowers and get-well cards at a delirious pace. Ron was busy piling up the offerings, separating them into neat heaps.

“Hello, you two,” Hermione said, closing the door.

Both grinned at her, and she felt irrationally angry.

“Mione! Where have you been?” Harry asked.

“Recovering,” she answered simply.

“And?” Ron inquired, narrowly avoiding a particularly large bunch of red roses, which the fireplace had burped into his face. “I hope you are fully recovered right now. Because we have to celebrate, you know?”

Harry nodded vigorously. “I’m so fed up with being relegated to this bed. I want to get out of here and have fun. I mean, what is the point of having won a war unless you can enjoy the victory?”

Suddenly, her throat felt as narrow as it had been before she had left her room.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Ron said, carefully putting another parcel on top of the dangerously swaying heap, “There’s going to be an enormous party tomorrow night!”

“A party!” Hermione was, to say the least exasperated. “So many are dead, it's… it’s a sacrilege! We’ve lost—”

“We must move on, Hermione.”

Harry, oh Harry. Was this his coping mechanism? That pathetic commonplace? That flimsy pretext for being superficial instead of allowing one's emotions to take over?

“Harry is right.” Of course, Ron, of course. He always is, isn't he? Harry would be right if he tore you limb from limb and fed you to an Acromantula. “We shouldn't dwell on the past. It’s no good. We are young, and it's our right to enjoy life.”

No, Ron. It is our right to grieve as long as we need to. But nobody wants to see our grief. Heroes don't cry; their admirers don’t want to see tears but teeth. The more, the better.

“Have you seen Snape?” she asked.

“Yessss!” Ron replied, in a tone of deep satisfaction, giving her a conspiratorial grin. “Once I’ve finished here, I’m planning to go out there, stand at his bedside, and call him everything I’ve wanted to call him for almost seven years. And he can’t talk back!”

She didn't know whether she was more disgusted by his words or by Harry’s laughter at them.

Aloud, she said, “I’ll see you later then,” and turned to leave the room.

“Mione, what—”

“Hey, you can’t—”

But she was already gone.

~    ~   ~

Wondering at the fierceness of her instinct to protect a man who had done nothing to deserve it, she told Madam Pomfrey not to let Harry or Ron near Snape’s bed, got a determined nod and left the Hospital Wing for the Library.

It was probably ridiculous. But she felt how huge a change had taken place when she opened the library door and was not greeted by the familiar sight of Madam Pince sitting behind her desk. If that could happen, anything could. For a while, she just stood and gazed around the room, feeling as if she were doing something very forbidden. Like snatching a golden ring from a corpse when nobody was looking. After she had successfully wrestled the sensation back to where it belonged, namely into the mental dustbin labelled ‘Overwrought Nonsense’, she proceeded to the medical section, searched, found, and started reading.

Only when her shoulder was touched by a gentle hand did she realize that her eyes were burning and her shoulders aching.

“You should be sleeping already, Hermione,” Dumbledore’s voice admonished her, more gentle than scolding.

She looked up into the blue eyes where the twinkle that had been so rarely visible during the past months had again claimed its place. “I know, Headmaster. But this is far more important.”

His bony old hands glided over the books. “The Labyrinth Of The Subconscious,” he read aloud, “Bonding Beyond The Borders… I’m afraid I don't quite understand.”

He didn't understand? Omniscient Dumbledore? When it was as clear as daylight? Hermione felt a jolt of disappointment stab at her stomach. “Professor Snape,” she said.

She didn't like his tiny, resigned smile when he said, “It is useless, child. This is no ordinary coma.”

Her chin went up defiantly. “So what? I can try, can’t I? If it doesn't help, it certainly won’t harm him.”

“No,” he agreed gravely, “It won’t harm him. But it might harm you. You ought to choose another task. One that helps you get over—” he made a sweeping gesture that struck her as oddly helpless “—all this.”

“No point in dwelling on the past,” she said, wondering whether he’d catch the biting irony.

He didn't.

“I am afraid it all comes down to this, yes,” he said.

Tears of rage welled up in her eyes. Snape had saved him! She had been there, she had seen it. The cruel, greasy Potions Master hadn't even wasted time thinking before he had thrown himself between Dumbledore and Malfoy's curse. And that was all he got in return? Being categorized under ‘Past—useless to dwell on. Move on’?

During the more than six years she had spent at Hogwarts, she had learned more than the subjects her teachers had taught. She had learned that, once Dumbledore's mind was made up, it was totally pointless to argue with him. So she simply said, “I suppose you’re right, Sir. I’ll just replace these books and then retire to my room. I’m very tired.”

The ancient wizard's gaze rested pensively upon her. “I am glad you see it this way, Hermione. Good night.”

Maybe the hat should have sorted her into Slytherin, she thought while shrinking the books she had piled up on the library desk and putting them into her pocket.

~ ~ ~

She refused to be called a hero only because she had followed her instinct of survival. Heroism in itself, though, was not a concept she rejected. With the years, her idea of heroism had changed a little. It was not to be confounded with recklessness. To take an intelligent, calculated risk could be far more heroic than the seemingly great but essentially foolhardy gesture.

After a sleepless night of reading—she was in her seventh year now, and didn’t have to read the entire book anymore, as she had become an expert at skimming and pouncing at what she needed—she knew her possibilities. And her risks. To enter the mind of a comatose man was nothing short of lunacy. It was a one-way street. Getting in was not difficult if you knew the right spells. Unless the patient cooperated, though, there was little chance of getting out. Because he had to take the lead.

It was feasible, easy even, if you knew the person. With somebody as impenetrable as Snape, the probability of remaining forever entrapped in his subconscious was very high. So she had to take some precautions.

The Victory Party was going to take place tonight. There simply was no better occasion than this to sneak away very early, go to the Hospital Wing and try. It would guarantee her precious time. How much time did she need, though? First and foremost, she had no idea where exactly he was hiding. What did his subconscious look like? It might take her ages to find him. The book said that it was possible to wield magic while in other people's subconscious. So she might perform a locating spell. Even under the most adverse circumstances, one hour would be sufficient to find him. If she gave herself a total of twenty-four hours… Provided the others left her in peace… If she didn't succeed in persuading him in twenty-three hourse, she might just as well leave him be. 

She was going to need all the strength she could get, though. She had to sleep. But before she let herself become ensconced in Morpheus’s arms, she was going to write them that letter. She was just in the right mood.

So Hermione sat down at her desk and wrote:

To whomever reads this:

You are already guilty of having abandoned Professor Snape. I, however, have decided not to follow your example. Yes, you should feel guilty for having simply given up on him. Not only guilty. You should feel really, really bad about it. You have a chance, though, if you giveme a chance: Let me stay with him until exactly 7 p.m. of 29 May, so that I have 24 hours at my disposal. Unless both of us have returned to consciousness by that time, you are allowed to call me back, using the counter-spell on p. 318 of Roaming The Labyrinth.

~    ~   ~

It was good to have escaped the chaotic noise of the feast. The speeches had made her ill, the laughter had almost driven her crazy. There was silence in the Hospital Wing, blessed silence. The man, lying motionless, covered by white linen sheets, was even more silent.

Hermione touched Snape’s hand. “What a pity,” she whispered, “What a pity that you used to treat me like shit. The book says that the procedure is easier if the visitor loves the one he visits. I certainly don't love you, Severus Snape. I must admit that I’m surprised because I don't hate you. I just want to get you out of there. So we can fight on equal terms. I’m not as childish as Ron: to insult a comatose teacher doesn't send me into ecstasy.”

She lay down beside him, drew her wand and frowned in concentration. Pointing her wand at Snape’s heart—the biggest of risks; after all, who knew whether he really had one, she thought with a smile—and then at hers, she muttered, “Cor tuum meumque, legamen fiat inter illa!”

To her great satisfaction, something like a ribbon made of golden sparks appeared out of thin air and vibrated between the spots she had touched on his and her chest.

“Da mihi accessum ad profundissima tuae mentis secreta!”

It was more or less like using a portkey, she thought while being drawn onto—or was it into?—that sparkling golden bond that seemed now as broad as a street, shimmering within a complete, velvety darkness. Gingerly, she moved one foot and found that either the golden pathway was solid or her state had changed to immaterial; however, she could walk on it. First hesitantly, then more and more confidently, she made her way towards the unknown that was awaiting her.

The darkness remained as it had been, impenetrable but by no means hostile. “And how long exactly is this road?” she muttered to herself.

Her voice sounded as always, which she found reassuring. Nevertheless, she firmly clutched her wand. Her wristwatch told her that she had been walking for ten minutes when she arrived at a door. Or was it a wall? Difficult to be sure—the book had given no clear indication. People’s minds and protections thereof were too different, there simply was no common denominator, however small. So she took the wand between her teeth, in order to have both hands free, and, feeling oddly ridiculous, began to sense her way over the obstacle before her, as if she were blind. It was solid, and cold. More similar to metal than brick or wood. Structureless. No door then; this was definitely a wall, and not one to be climbed easily.

“Now let's see whether magic really works here,” she said.

Pointing her wand at herself, she pronounced “Wingardium Leviosa!” and, to her great satisfaction, started floating upwards along the wall, letting her free hand glide over it all the time. It was very high. Not exactly afraid of heights, Hermione by no means liked them and felt her heartbeat gradually accelerate while she rose. She didn't have to stay up there for very long, though—the wall was only high, not thick—and let out a sigh of relief when her feet touched the ground on the other side. She was in. First step successfully completed.

It was still pitch dark. This fact in itself didn't surprise her, as the books had explicitly told her that the outskirts of a comatose person's inner landscape were always shrouded in blackness. The deeper the coma, the farther the light had receded. And all the texts had warned about the use of light: a lit wand, or conjured fire, might frighten who was hiding there and drive them deeper into withdrawal. But Hermione wasn’t a Muggle-born for nothing. She had grown up with fairy tales and, later on, read what Jung had to say about collective archetypes. And she'd be damned if she didn't use that knowledge to her advantage.

A simple spell made her skin, hair and clothes glow with a soft, iridescent light, just enough to cast a feeble shine around her. It revealed nothing but blackness. Barren blackness. Crouching down for a moment, she tentatively felt the ground she was walking on: it was the same material as the wall, and icy cold. Hermione sighed, this time in frustration. This was bad. Even a desert would have been better, but there was nothing, and Merlin only knew how long she would have to walk through this non-landscape until she found something. Time was an important factor in her plan, and she hoped she wasn't going to lose too much of it. She got up and muttered “Inveniatur Severus Snape!”. Following the direction her wand was pointing into, she began to move again.

It took her a full two hours until she felt the ground under her feet change. Looking down, she felt a jolt of compassion rush through her: It was ice, the kind you found on glaciers. Not recently fallen snow, powdery and evoking images of skiing and Christmas. It was old, scarred by crevices, and harder than rock. The temperature, which hitherto had been as nonexistent as the landscape, was dropping considerably. Hermione shivered. Her trainers crunching over the ice orchestrating her progress, she moved on. After another half-hour, the quality of the darkness changed almost imperceptibly. Not that it lit up, but it became less dense—it was more a physical than a visual sensation. Hermione shook her head in frustration. Almost three hours had gone by, and she hadn't even seen the man, let alone talked to him. To fight the acute sensation of tiredness, she fished a cupcake—courtesy of Dobby—out of her satchel and ate it greedily. It made her feel a little better. The slightly sticky paper frill was still in her hand, crumpled, and she couldn't resist giggling at the thought of how many points Snape would probably take from Gryffindor if she soiled his subconscious by leaving a trail of litter in her wake.

This thought, exhilarating as it was—and Merlin knew that she needed a moral boost—made her momentarily lose her concentration, and she bumped into something very solid. Hermione hardly ever swore, but that didn't mean she was ignorant of the oaths. Rubbing her forehead, she uttered a string of invectives that would have cost Gryffindor more points than a ton of rubbish deposited in the no-man's-land of Snape's subconscious, and looked at the obstacle. Another wall!

“Damn you, Snape,” she muttered, “You’re even more complicated than I thought. The book mentioned only three cases of patients with two walls.”

This one looked more traditional, though. It was a simple stone wall, albeit without a door. Silently thanking Professor Flitwick, she conjured a ladder, climbed up, hoisted it over the wall and climbed down on the other side. It was still dark, and this was not a good sign. But it was not the worst. The books had been very precise on the subject of an eventual second wall: It was negative, insofar as it presented another obstacle. The positive aspect was, though, that behind it one could be sure to have reached the inner core, the very centre of the patient's personality. There should be light, and a landscape, or interior, or whatever. Most importantly, the person in question should be hiding there.

There was nothing.

Valiantly trying to fight back her rising tears, Hermione bent down again to feel the ground. She closed her eyes in frustration and horror. This time it was earth, but that was by no means more comforting than the ice she had encountered previously. No real earth could possibly be so barren, or emanate such a sense of hopelessness, so strong that it was almost tangible. This was worse than a desert. This was the epitome of sterility.

Momentarily overwhelmed, Hermione sat down on her haunches and allowed herself to cry. It really didn't matter if she lost five minutes in the process, and she would feel relieved.

Some tears fell on the arid soil and vanished immediately, without a trace. They didn't even leave a moist patch, nothing. Gone. Sucked in. Oh, Gods.

Hermione's heart almost stopped beating with shock, when she felt a touch on her shoulder. Because it didn't have to be Snape. It could be anything—a wild beast, some diabolical device, anything. Wand clutched firmly, she looked up. And into the face of a small, black-haired boy. He was five years old, maybe six. And he was unmistakeably Severus Snape. Maybe she wouldn't even have recognized him, had it not been for his eyes. Black and fathomless, but not yet cold. She smiled.

“Hallo,” she said.

The boy tilted his head and remained silent.

“Are you Severus?”

The child nodded.

Her knees were aching, but she thought it wiser to remain in her position—had the situation not been so precarious she might have wanted to tower over him, just this once, but this petty satisfaction certainly wasn't worth risking the outcome of her mission. The boy's eyes widened imperceptibly when he looked down on the ground. Following his line of view, Hermione saw that, where her tears had touched the ground, small flowers had sprouted from the barren soil.

“Do you want one of those?” she asked.

The child nodded again. Carefully, she plucked one of the flowers—they looked a bit like edelweiss—and put it into his hand. The child smiled at her.

And now what, she thought. She had never been good with children, but now she had to find a way to communicate. It seemed a bit early to touch him. It might frighten him, if he was anything like the adult Severus Snape. And her knees hurt. Hermione decided to simply sit down, carefully avoiding crushing the flowers. She would almost have crushed her satchel, though, and moved it out of the way in the last moment. This gave her an idea.

She fished for another cupcake and held it out to the boy. “Would you like this? It’s good, really. The House Elves made it.”

Quick as lightning, a small hand shot out and snatched the cake. Then the boy retired a few steps and sat down, mimicking her position.

“You know,” she said while watching him eat, “I was wondering whether you might want to show me your house.”

The child stared at her. The Snape Glare, she thought, it was already there. The boy shook his head.

“No? Don't you want me to see it?”

Finally, he spoke. Hermione's stomach gave a lurch of relief. “You can't get in,” he said.

“Why not? I’m a witch, you know, I can open almost every door by magic.”

“No,” he said firmly, “he won’t let you in.”

“Oh.” Short silence. “What a pity. But, whoever he is, maybe he would want a cupcake, too?”

The child licked his fingers thoroughly before he answered. “I don't think so. Who are you, anyway? You’re too big for a fairy, but you look a bit like one.”

“I’m just an ordinary witch. And… a friend. Who is he? The one who won't let me in, I mean?”

“I don't know,” the boy said. “All I know is that I want to get in there but he won't let me. He shouts at me and tells me to stay away.”

A suspicion began to form in Hermione's mind. “How does he look?” she asked.

The boy's lower lip quivered slightly. “Not nice,” he said. “He’s tall, and black and… bad.”

Hermione nodded. “I think I know him. Does he have a pale face, hooked nose, long black hair?”

“Yes, that's how he looks. But it's his eyes…” The voice faded away.

“Cold, aren't they?”

“Yes,” the boy whispered. “Cold and cruel.”

“You know what?” she said, trying to sound encouraging, “I’ll try and speak to him. Will you take me there?”

The boy eyed her doubtfully. “It’s very far…”

“I could carry you,” she offered, rising from the ground.

The child held out his arms, beckoning for her to pick him up. With a furtive glance at her watch, she saw that she had already spent four hours in here. But now she could at least be sure to meet his older self. Although what the child had told her didn’t sound good… she bent down and lifted the boy, shifting him a little so that he was resting on her left hip.

“Let's go,” she said, inhaling his child-scent.

~    ~   ~

He was heavy. And he clung to her. Her back ached, her legs ached, her shoulders ached. She was tired. And she began to have serious doubts whether she was going to be successful.

They didn’t talk much, just the odd word now and then. For the last hour or so, there had been complete silence.

“There it is,” the boy said suddenly.

She had been keeping her eyes fixed on the ground—her shoulders and neck ached less when she was looking down—and now she slowly raised her head. They had arrived at something that looked vaguely like an enormous block of granite, dark, forbidding and stern. Painfully rectangular, it stood out against the darkness, looming and dangerous.

“Is he… in there?” she asked, breathlessly.

The child nodded.

“I’ll put you down, then, and try my luck.”

The boy sat down where she had put him, and stared up at her. She smiled at him and began to walk towards the block. Rounding the corner, she glanced back at him. The boy had raised his hand and waved at her. The gesture looked oddly final.

~ ~ ~

It was what it seemed: a solid block. Maybe of stone, maybe of some other material that existed only in Snape's mind. No windows, no door. And he was in there. But, Hermione thought logically, if the little boy had told her that the man didn’t let him in, the child had to have seen an entrance. Maybe it had vanished because of the coma.

She tried a few unlocking spells, but to no avail. Back to simpler methods, then.

She took a few steps back and called out, “Professor Snape, can you hear me?”

At first, there was nothing. Then she heard a faint sound from inside… footsteps? Part of the wall became transparent, so that a narrow path of light unrolled on the ground. It stopped right before her feet. Behind the wall, in the eerie silver-blue shine, stood Professor Snape.

“Miss Granger,” he said, sounding surprised but not unfriendly. “What are you doing here?”

“May I come in?”

She could not make out his face too well, as it was in the shadow, but she thought she saw him smile.

“That… depends on you,” he replied, “If your will to enter is strong enough, you can pass through this wall.”

No shouting? No lashing-out? She was astonished, almost shocked. But she did want to enter, didn't she? Her hand tightening around her wand, she moved towards the wall.

“Yes, I do want to get through,” she said, more to the wall than to him.

It was the same feeling she had experienced the time when Peeves had passed through her. Like a bone-chilling, insubstantial shower. But she got through all right.

“Why don’t you—” she began, but corrected herself. “There's that boy outside,” she said, looking up at him, “He guided me. And he told me that you wouldn’t let him in.”

Still remaining immobile where he was standing, Snape nodded. “He could come in now,” he said, “Only he doesn't know. Things have changed.”

“The curse…” she muttered, and he nodded again.

“Yes, the curse. A dark one, very dark. But it… freed me, paradoxical as that may sound.”

“I’m tired,” she said. “I’ve been walking for more than ten hours, and carrying the child. I need to sit down.”

“Come,” he said, taking her hand. “It’s not very comfortable in here, but you can at least sit on the floor.”

His hand was warm, and soft. His grip gentle. Hermione let herself be guided further into the space, which was empty. A large hall, so high that she couldn’t see the ceiling, bathed in that dim, silvery-grey half-light… empty. She would have to make a last effort and conjure a chair. Two chairs—no, she was sure she couldn’t do it twice. A couch, then. Concentrating hard, she produced an acceptable Chesterfield and immediately slumped down on it. To her amazement, he sat down beside her.

Now that she could see his face, she became aware that things had, indeed, changed. “You look different,” she said.

“Do I? If you say so. There is no mirror here, so I have to believe you.”

“Yes… you look… softer. Less tense. And you smile.”

“Why shouldn't I? I have found my peace.”

This acutely reminded her of the purpose of her expedition. “Professor,” she said, sitting up a little, as if to lend more emphasis to her words by uttering them in an upright position, “I need—”

“Considering where we are,” he interrupted her, “I think you may just as well call me Severus. That's who I am, after all.”

Yes, she thought, that sounded reasonable. And if this was who and how he really was… “Severus. I have undertaken this journey to bring you back.”

He scrutinized her face attentively. “I assumed as much. Only I have to admit I’m astonished that you are the one who came after me. I would have expected…” His voice faded.

“Dumbledore. So would I. He was… hesitant, though. Or more realistic, perhaps.”

“Or very relieved to have been freed of my annoying presence,” he said with a wry smile.

Hermione's throat felt so narrow that she could only shake her head in silent denial. “No,” she finally managed to choke out, “never relieved. Never.” And she took his hand in a wordless plea.

“Maybe,” he said. “But why did you come after me, Hermione?”

“Because I had to,” she stated simply.

“You had to rescue your hated Potions Master?”

He had left her his hand, and now she gave it a squeeze; more to reassure herself than him. “I had to because nobody else seemed to care. Except for Madam Pomfrey. She cried.”

“Ah, Poppy. Yes, most people underestimate her. But I suppose she had to look after Potter.”

Not even when he pronounced Harry's name was there any trace of venom in his voice. Change indeed…

“That as well,” she conceded, “but I don't think she has any experience with entering the mind of comatose patients. I had to read a whole lot of books on the subject…”

“Of course,” he agreed. “I would have expected no less. All the same, I am not sure whether I want to go back.”

This was the point she had dreaded. Because now she had to decide whether to tell him that he didn't necessarily have to go back, only to enable her to return. Emotional blackmail or free will? It was easily the most difficult choice she had ever faced in her whole life.

“You don’t have to,” she finally said.

He gave her a surprised look. “Not that I don't enjoy your company, Hermione. But I can’t keep you in here.”

So she told him about the letter she had left.

“How very thoughtful of you, Hermione. And I appreciate that you told me the truth.”

His hand was still in hers. And without noticing, she had begun to gently stroke it. “I… it’s difficult to explain. All this seems so unreal, and you are so different… I know I’m being redundant,” she said, glancing at his face. His expression was serious, a little stern perhaps. But he didn't scowl at her lack of words. “I can't blackmail the person you are now into accompanying me back. It would feel wrong.”

A long silence followed.

“What happened?” he asked finally.

“You mean the battle? Oh, it was…” The words threatened to get stuck in her throat. “We won. He's dead, for good this time. Like so many others…”

“You can tell me, you know,” he said, pulling his hand out of her grip and taking hers instead. “No need to cheer me up. I can see that you are suffering. What is it?”

Yes, he would understand, she thought. Somehow, she knew that for sure. And he was, of course, right—she had to be honest with him; to lure him out under false pretexts was infinitely worse even than blackmailing him. If he chose to come with her, he had to know what was awaiting him.

“It’s their eyes,” she said and suddenly began to shiver. “Their eyes and their screams. I… I will never forget them. They haunt me… they were there last night, in my dreams.”

“Come here,” he said and pulled her closer to him. “Let me hold you while you talk.”

And so she scooted over, till she was sitting close, so close that their bodies touched. His arm came round her shoulder, and with a heavy sigh she let her head rest on it.

“Lupin’s eyes,” she began after a short pause, “They had that golden sparkle. And then it was gone, frozen, like a piece of amber under dirty glass…”

She continued talking for a long time. He held her, sometimes stroking her hair or brushing a tear off her cheek. She had changed her position a little, so that now her head was resting on his shoulder, and she could hear his heartbeat. Steady and reassuring. Something she needed, she realized with growing anxiety. How was she supposed to go on without this comforting rhythm that soothed her wrecked nerves? She looked at her watch. It was 5 p.m.

“Severus,” she said. “Will you… have you already made up your mind?”

His chest rose in a deep sigh. “I am not sure. There’s nobody waiting for me.”

She shifted a little and put her arm round his waist. “I am.”

The uncertainty in his voice made her cringe. “That’s what you think now, Hermione. Once you’re back outside, it will be different. I will be different.”

“I know,” she said. “But I also know that I met you, the real you, and that it exists. I might try to… well, to lure you out of yourself.”

“That would be a very difficult task for someone so young. And why would you…” He didn't finish the question. “Don’t tell me that you would do it because you have to.”

“You would think me incredibly stupid if I told you that I’ve fallen in love with you, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, “I would indeed think you incredibly… not stupid. Sweet, and young, and inconsiderate. You’ve been hating me for years.”

“Fear and hate are not the same things. Sometimes, I hated how you behaved, mostly to others though. To me, you have always been more or less decent, except for a few occasions.”

“The teeth,” he said, laughter dancing in his voice.

“And the Potions accident last year. The rest was, well, bearable. Not to mention that in the last months my view of you has changed rather drastically. Bravery is a quality that impresses a Gryffindor.”

“I might be a brave man, although I strongly doubt it. But I am also a very difficult man. Not to mention the opposite of an Adonis. Don't forget dominant.”

“You don't seem very dominant right now.”

“No,” he conceded, “Not in here. And maybe I might also change a little, narrow the gap between the self hiding in here and the one I show to the world.”

Following a sudden inspiration, she pulled up his left sleeve. His forearm was white and unblemished. Hermione drew a sharp breath. “Did you ever have it in here?”

“Of course,” he said. “Or did you really think that this darkest of Dark Magic doesn't penetrate the very core of one's inner self?”

She remembered the non-existent landscape, the ice, the barren earth. “It was the mark that destroyed everything in here, wasn’t it?”

Her arm was still draped around his waist, and she felt him shudder. “How perspicacious you are, Miss Granger.” He stroked her hair and brushed his lips over her forehead. “Yes, in the very moment it was burned into my arm my self was destroyed.”

“Irrevocably?”

“I have no idea.”

Trying to imagine how it must feel to be permanently imprisoned in a desert of ice and desolate infertility, her thoughts wandered back to where she had first met his younger self. Her heart began to hammer in excitement. “I think there might be hope,” she said and told him about the flowers.

“You cried because of me?” he asked.

“I would have to have a heart of stone if that hadn't made me cry. Although I have to admit that it was partly out of frustration.”

“Unfazed Gryffindor honesty indeed.”

They sat in silence again.

“Would you have behaved the same way to Professor Dumbledore?” she asked, trying to get to the important point in a roundabout way.

Now he chuckled. She loved the sound of it, and the pinpricks of excitement it sent down her back. “Can you imagine Albus cuddling up to me?”

“The question is whether you would want him to.”

“This is a question I can honestly answer with no.”

“And… if Madam Pomfrey had come instead of me?”

“Your attempt at subtlety is charming but not very successful, Hermione. But the answer is no.”

“And if—”

“No.” It sounded final, but the laughter was still lurking in his voice.

“You mean you actually like me?”

“Maybe a little more than that.”

“Come back with me,” she whispered, looking up at him. “I need you out there, you know? Everybody else is so far away…”

“It seems so, because you’re so deeply troubled now. When you’ll have gotten over it, the world will readjust around you. Everything will be back to normal, believe me.”

“You know what ‘normal’ means for me, don't you? It means that I’m desperate for somebody who’s there for me, who understands me and to whom I can talk. Really talk. No chatter, no superficial small talk. You did notice that I’m not really close to anybody, didn't you?”

“Well,” he said hesitantly, “I thought that with Potter and Weasley… And you have your parents.”

“It’s nice to be with Harry and Ron. They are good friends, but most of the time it's like having two slightly annoying little brothers. And you know nothing about my parents. But in spite of all this, if you come I want it to be for yourself, not for me. Although… it would be most overwhelming if it were also for me.”

~    ~   ~

“You have to get her out of there, Headmaster! Now!”

“Mr. Potter, you may have vanquished Voldemort, but I am still in charge of this school and its students. And I will respect Miss Granger's wishes.”

“But she might be in danger!” Ron shouted, “You have no idea what that greasy git—”

“That's enough!” Madam Pomfrey’s patience was clearly exhausted. “Leave my infirmary, or else I swear I’ll stun you!”

“You can’t—”

“Yes, I can. It’s a medical necessity. One, two, three…”

“Okay, okay,” Ron muttered. “I’m leaving. You coming, Harry?”

Visibly swallowing his fury, Harry nodded. “Yes,” he clipped, “And I’ll be back at 7 p.m. sharp. If anything happens to her, though…”

The matron's angry glare silenced him, and the two young men stomped out of the Hospital Wing.

Dumbledore heaved a deep sigh and massaged his forehead. “Thank you Poppy. I was about to explode. Of course they care for her, and so do I. But I know her well enough to dread the consequences if I pulled her back too early. She would simply wait a few days and then try again, this time without doing us the favour of leaving the counter-spell.”

None of them admitted it, but both were at least as anxious as the two boys. Horrible things could happen to Hermione—knowing Snape, it was more than probable that his inner self was well-protected.

“She’s stable, though,” the mediwitch said, after performing some diagnosis spells on the immobile forms of Potions Master and student. “Not a single sign of stress or abnormal brain activity.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “I think I could use a drink. We still have more than half an hour to go. Am I right in assuming you might have a bottle in your office?”

“Uniquely for medical purposes,” Madam Pomfrey replied, her tone deadly serious but her eyes glinting mischievously. “Come on then, Headmaster, he hasn't strangled her so far—why should he do so now? I think we might leave them alone for five minutes.”

~    ~   ~

“Do you think he’ll like staying in there?” Hermione asked when they had almost arrived at the golden path.

“Considering that it might become more comfortable in the near future, I think he’ll be quite happy. Don't forget that he’ll have company.”

They stopped walking and looked at the path before them. “This is the point of no return,” he said. “Are you sure you want me out there with you?”

“Come,” she said and took his hand.

His grip was almost painful, but he followed her.

~    ~   ~

When Harry and Ron barged into the Hospital Wing at precisely seven o’clock, all they found was an empty bed and a very confused-looking Headmaster. Madam Pomfrey was sitting in her usual armchair, raptly gazing at a tiny object in her hand. It was a flower with a silvery-white, star-shaped blossom.

THE END