Final Battle Day by roozetter Title: Final Battle Day Author:roozetter Rating: PG Pairing(s): Severus/Harry Word Count: 6,070 Warnings: War, angst, repetition. Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The characters and their worlds belong to their original writers and no copyright infringement or offense is intended. No money was made from this story. A/N: Written for the Reviving Severus fest for severus_sighs. Also, the title comes from the fact that I shamelessly ripped the idea of reliving the day over and over again from the movie Groundhog Day. Only Severus is less entertaining than Bill Murray. Ed snow: Yes, but Severus is far sexier (unless you count that scene in Ghostbusters when Bill is trying to reason with Zuul, which I don't). Many thanks to atypicalsnowman and faeryqueen for the beta! xoxo Summary/Snippet: Severus vividly remembers having his throat ripped out by Nagini. This memory becomes frequently less pleasant the more he has to relive it.
Final Battle Day
Bellatrix stares down at her sister and the traitor in shock as the last vibrantly red beam shoots from her wand and wraps around their joined wrists, sealing the Unbreakable Vow. Now, if young Draco doesn’t manage to kill Dumbledore ... Snape will do it in his stead.
She knows Severus Snape, has known him since he was a sallow-faced, greasy-haired boy on the cusp on manhood. She watched him grow and mature, remembers his attachment to little Reggie and that mudblood Potter bitch. Remembers him sweeping into the Dark Lord’s home, so sure of himself, after her Lord removed her from Azkaban and returned her to his side.
And she remembers from before, her shock when Snape was painted a traitorous spy and cleared from Azkaban. The tingle of the wards on her skin as Aurors located her at a place only the Dark Lord’s most loyal knew about and took her down, sentenced her to Hell with Dementors breathing on her and raping her mind.
There is no way that Severus is this loyal.
Cissa is weeping, throwing her free arm around Snape’s shoulder and babbling out her gratitude, obscuring the blotchy complexion and greasy hair with her shimmering cascade of golden locks. It takes but a moment to cast her spell, to watch the icy blue tendrils of her curse sink into the dark folds of Severus’ robes. By the time Narcissa pulls away from her childhood friend, laughing and apologetic and wiping at her eyes, Severus’ face is once again a picture of composure and the Vow has been secured.
Bellatrix smiles at them both.
~*~
The first indication Severus has that something is amiss, occurs when he wakes up.
Namely, that he wakes up.
His hands fly to his neck, feeling the smooth, unbitten tendons of his throat, the prickly stubble on his jaw line. Laying in his bed in the Headmaster’s quarters, the first tentative strands of murky light just brushing the edges of his comforter, Severus assesses the situation: Throat intact, cock half-hard, limbs still curiously heavy with sleep and the warmth of cotton sheets. Stone walls of the castle intact, air reeking of incense and herbs instead of bitterness, grief, and ozone.
Has it been but a dream? A premonition of things to come?
Severus scowls as he throws back the comforter and climbs from bed, bare feet cold against the stone floor as he pads to the bathroom and prepares to start his day. If he is going to be forced to endure such Divinational nonsense he shall fire Sybil, no matter a war is raging outside his door.
By the time he is dressed and striding into his office, the sun has crested the hills and glitters against the curious silver instruments Albus is so fond of that he can never bring himself to part with, no matter the Dark Lord’s displeasure.
“Good morning to you, my dear boy!” Albus beams from his portrait, blue eyes twinkling spectacularly. “I have the feeling today is going to be instrumental.”
Only it is exactly what Albus said to him in his dream. Severus stops walking halfway across the room and turns to Phineas.
“Still no word,” Phineas says without preamble, thin lips pressed in a furious, worried scowl. “But there were a lot of raised voices and my frame has been jostled quite a bit of late. I will strive to discern their location, Severus.”
The dread that has only half-left him since waking pools in his belly. Severus crosses his arms tightly about his chest and closes his eyes, forcing his breathing to regulate.
“Severus?” Albus has that tone in his voice. Severus knows without opening his eyes that he will be peering at Severus over the rim of his spectacles.
“It will be today,” he says at last, calmly, after only a few moments of deep breathing. The portraits look back at him in silence and it is comforting, knowing that they will never disparage him for this moment of weakness. “The final battle.”
Armando Dippet sits up straight in his throne-like chair, smoothing down his fluffy white beard with restless fingers. “What do you know?”
But it is harder than Severus thought it would be -- this strange sense of familiarity, of knowing that the end of the day will result in death and pain. All he can do is shake his head, throat swelling with useless tears, and turn away to start his day with the thick silence of the portraits ringing in his ears.
And just like he imagined, like he dreamed, his day unfolds. Minerva glares at him at the breakfast table, he passes Longbottom ducking into an unused classroom while patrolling the hallways in-between classes, the Carrows mutter about detentions and spilling tainted blood at lunch, and Hagrid gives him a look of profound disappointment when he says nothing to interfere. By the time the Dark Lord summons him to the Shrieking Shack it is a relief, a release, not to be hampered by this deadening sense of impending doom. He is almost grateful for the pain, the white-hot agony of fangs piercing his flesh, the warmth of blood soaking into his hair and clothing, the familiar desperate gleam of tear-filled green eyes as he spills his memories like the good tool he’s been trained to be.
“Look at me,” he begs, clinging to Harry with fading strength. He wants the boy to see, to know, that. That he is sorry, so sorry, that he tried to teach the boy that emotions are weapons that can be used against you. That he is another in a long list of people who have failed this child, shattering his innocence and abusing his dreams.
“I see you,” Harry says, in a voice trembling with emotion. His fingers grip Severus’s arms tightly as his eyes beg for this not to be happening.
He doesn’t see Severus, not really, but it is comforting to hear. Reminds Severus of his mother coming to his bed at night with dried blood on her face and a weary smile, wishing him sweet dreams and telling him tomorrow will be a brighter day.
This - it is all such a waste. Harry is so young, has never had the opportunity to truly experience life, and is going to die just so his friends can live. Though perhaps if there is an afterlife Severus will be afforded the opportunity to apologize to Lily and Harry both. So he smiles, faintly, as much as his spasming muscles will allow, and closes his eyes.
And then he wakes up, hands flying to his neck involuntarily, as the first tentative strands of murky light just touch the edge of his comforter.
~*~
The first few weeks pass in a blur, a delicate balance of not upsetting the order of his day and devoting countless hours to research. He skips meals, buries himself in the Restricted Section of the library. Scours his personal collection of Dark Arts materials and every book Albus kept locked in the office. After two weeks of this he realizes he is likely cursed. A derivative of the Moris family, if his research is not failing him.
This curse is willful, premeditated. There is something he is supposed to know, some vital information demanding acknowledgement that he needs in order to find peace. But for the life of him he cannot figure out what it is.
He tries being kinder to the staff. Compliments Filch on his ability to maintain the castle. Breaks into the hiding spot of the student-run DA and, after eviscerating their dismal attempts of defensive magic with a single curse, compliments them on their survival instincts by hiding in the castle instead of trying to hide in the real world. Standing in front of the point globes, he assigns points to every house and loudly proclaims the benefits of loyalty and teamwork.
Then he stops trying to be nice and interrogates Sybil under Veritaserum until her nose is bleeding and she flinches every time his robe rustles. Kills the Carrow siblings in cold blood in an attempt to keep the Dark Lord from storming the castle. Sets the Forbidden Forest on fire and orders the inhabitants to protect the castle in return for sanctuary.
But it doesn’t matter. No matter what he does he wakes up, relives the same day, does his duty, directs Harry to his death, and dies.
After months of this, he is over death.
It becomes hard to look people in the eye. A spy is capable of many things, of projecting conflicting emotions and facades, of calculating odds and conceding a split second before the situation spirals out of control. But not knowing who lives or dies in this battle, aside from both him and Harry inevitably dying, is an agony he never expected to bear.
Some days he doesn’t bother getting dressed, coming down to breakfast in his bathrobe and slippers. He takes up smoking a pipe, puffing in dignified silence as he reads the same articles in the newspaper while the rest of the Great Hall watches him in shocked speculation.
The crazier he behaves, the friendlier Minerva acts toward him, like his emotional breakdown makes it impossible for her to remember she is supposed to hate him. Sometimes she goes so far as to touch his arm lightly at breakfast, look at him with her mouth pinched just so, and it cheers Severus to no end. Yet will this proud Scotswoman be subjected to the delights of feral Death Eaters? Does she survive to run the school the way she should have been doing all along, or will her body be found broken and bleeding amongst the ruins of the castle?
He takes lunch with Hagrid -- does this friendly half-giant perish in the battle? Will he wade through remains with a howl of rage and pain, acquiesce to the darkness inherent in his giant heritage? -- and reminisces about all the times the half-giant has carried his broken body from the edge of the wards to the sterile safety of the Hospital Wing. Hagrid gets all teary-eyed, blows his nose into a handkerchief and slaps Severus on the back. Tells him he always thought Severus was a good lad and tries to feed him deplorable rock cakes. When Severus feels particularly adventurous, he actually nibbles at one.
Longbottom serves as an endless source of entertainment. An idle flick of the wand sets the unused classroom on fire and brings him scurrying out to safety. It amuses Severus to petrify the little menace and drag him to the Headmaster’s office, releasing the spell once the wards are secured and impenetrable, just to watch the play of emotions across his round little face when he sits behind his desk and offers him tea.
After the second time, he remembers to take Longbottom’s wand first, wondering when the roly-poly first year grew up into an almost reputable young adult. Is this the preconceived notion he needs to dismiss? That Longbottom is a waste of space and wizardry?
Potter deserves a contemplation all his own. He catches the boy outside the Ravenclaw dormitory, sends Lovegood away, and interrogates him to his hearts content. He learns far too much about Horcruxes and Potter’s activities this way, can only speculate the horrors Potter has been forced to see both inside and outside his head.
It is difficult to maintain his objectivity with Potter, not that he ever had much to begin with. But the knowledge that Potter will be dead by the end of this day shatters something inside of him, pierces the walls of his heart with sheer desolation. Lily sacrificed her life so that seventeen years later her proud, strong, brave child can sacrifice his.
After six months, he kisses Potter.
“What are you doing,” Potter moans, tilting his head back and tightening the hand gripping Severus’ hair. Severus angles his head obligingly, placing sucking kisses and nibbing bites over the smooth column of Potter’s throat. He reaches a spot that has Potter gurgling, pressing against him urgently, and smiles as he digs his fingers into Potter’s skin and relearns the shape of his body.
“Petrificus Totalus!” If he could sigh he would, Severus reflects grudgingly, before his frozen body hits the floor. Of course the Know-It-All and the Weasley child would search out their friend.
By nine months he learns that if he slides his hands over Potter, the boy will writhe and fight and then melt under the caresses. There is a sick thrill to be found each time he captures Potter’s unskilled mouth with his own and teaches him how to kiss.
He stops keeping track of time some time after that, resigned to this odd half-life.
Sometimes, when he’s bored, he’ll do whatever comes into his mind without considering the consequences. Like setting the Great Hall on fire. Gifting the giant squid to Gwarp for dinner. Spiking the teacher’s goblets with Amortentia.
After he goads the Dark Lord into killing him, painfully and messily, before Harry and his friends have even entered the school through the secret passageway, he wakes in the morning feeling impossibly old and resigned.
There’s a growing desperation to his actions, an urgency, a feeling of wrongness that keeps building and building inside him. He wakes in the morning sweating and shaking and borderline delirious. Always naturally paranoid, the itching under his skin becomes unbearable. He nearly kills a student when the insolent whelp glares at him after being asked to send a note to a teacher.
Minerva finds him huddled in the corner of his office, curled up into as tight a ball as he can manage, trembling. “Severus?” Her voice is soft, uncertain, her steps light and wary as she crosses to his side.
But he can’t move, doesn’t trust himself to speak. It’s too much. He’s done. He’s done. He’s done.
“What is it, Severus?” A gentle hand on his shoulder makes him flinch. The hand pauses, then settles back on his shoulder a bit more firmly. He hears cloth rustling, her walking cane scratching lightly against the stone as she sits next to him on the floor. She slides her arms around his shoulder, pulls gently until his body caves under the pressure, and cuddles him like he’s a distraught first year. “Tell me.”
The pitiful whine that emerges from his throat sounds like a wounded animal. He shakes against her. “I just want to die,” he rasps thickly. He can’t swallow properly, his throat seizing around the Avada Kedavra he shot above the student’s terrified head. If he hadn’t jerked his arm up at the last second ...
And now he’s gripping her arms, holding onto her, feeling the tenuous grace of bone and muscles and magic humming under his hands. “Please just let me die.”
She sucks in a breath, whether startled or in pain from his grip he doesn’t know. But she doesn’t fight him off, simply sighs into him and wraps her arms around him. “Oh, Severus,” she says at last, so much sadness in her tone it rips into him and he can feels himself bleeding under the force of their combined sorrow. “Severus, Severus, Severus.”
In the morning she sits next to him at breakfast, sniffs like she has smelled something particularly foul, and glares as she asks him to pass the salt.
Something has to give.
He can’t. There is no surviving this. It is awful and frustrating and useless and he just can’t.
So one day he doesn’t tell Harry.
Doesn’t bat an eye as the Dark Lord wins the war, as the foundation of right and wrong he has cultivated for the better part of his life crumbles into dust. Bellatrix Lestrange stands over the deceased bodies of Ginevra and Molly Weasley, giggling her maddening giggle and petting their silky red hair like they are dolls brought in strictly for her amusement.
Oliver Wood stares from the corner with blank eyes and bloody hands, and Severus remembers with broken detachment that he never learned how to properly throw off the Imperious curse. He does not know what became of Longbottom or Granger. And he certainly does not gaze at the broken, bloody body draped across the Head Table like a sacrifice laid upon the alter.
“Severus.”
He sinks to his knees as the first syllable of the sibilant hiss reaches his ears, bows his head differentially. “My Lord.”
Cold hands caress the side of his face, settle under his chin and lift until he is staring into burning red eyes. “You have served me well. Your fealty shall be richly rewarded in the new world.”
The Death Eaters cheer. Severus lowers his eyes, offers his thanks, kisses the hem of the dirty, bloody robe, and thinks of twinkling blue eyes and a kind voice telling him not to give up on hope.
This time when he wakes up, his hands still flying to his neck involuntarily as the first tentative strands of murky light just touch the edge of his comforter, he weeps.
Sitting in his office later that morning in a rumpled robe half-unbuttoned, fingers buried in sleep-tangled unwashed hair, an open decanter of Firewhiskey at his elbow, he wipes the tears from his face. “Albus?”
“Yes, my boy.” His voice is kind, concerned. Severus is filed with such a longing to hear that voice again face-to-face that fresh tears seep down his face.
“What.” Severus pauses, clears his throat, sits up half-heartedly at the desk. “What would you do, if you had your last day to live over again?” And over, and over, he thinks despondently.
Albus seems startled by the question, taking a moment to pluck off his half-moon spectacles and wipe them against his robe. It’s not until he is straightening them on his nose that he speaks. “Absolutely nothing different than what actually happened.”
Severus snaps his head around to look at the portrait. Albus smiles kindly. “I did the best I could to help and impart hope, and lived as I always did: with a sense of urgency, as though it were my last day.”
He shrugs, selects a lemon drop, pops it in his mouth with a broad smile. “The fact that it just so happened to be my last day is entirely inconsequential.”
~*~
Something is different when he wakes up this time. He lay in bed puzzling over the sensation, before deciding he is simply going to do what he has aways done in times of strife. He will take Albus’ advice and live this day like it is his last. On that note, he gets out of bed, takes an indecently long, hot shower, and dresses in his proper robes for the first time in seemingly months.
“Good morning to you, my dear boy!” Albus beams from his portrait, blue eyes twinkling spectacularly. “I have the feeling today is going to be instrumental.”
“It will be today,” he says without preamble, straightening the cuff links on his shirt. “The Final Battle.”
Albus loses his twinkle and sits up straight in his chair. “Severus?”
Ignoring him for the moment, Severus turned to a portrait of a wizened old man wearing stiffly formal black robes. “Everard?” The man watches Severus intently. “If you can go to your other portrait at the Ministry of Magic? Be discreet, but spread the word to those you know to be safe.”
“Of course.” Everard nods decisively before slipping from his frame.
“Dilys?” Severus turns toward the portrait of a woman with long, scraggly white curls wearing a white Healer’s hat. “If you will?”
“Absolutely,” she said firmly, striding out the side of her frame and heading for her portrait at St. Mungo’s.
“Shall I alert the other portraits and Professors?” A man with a pointed jaw stares at Severus from behind eye spectacles, one hand nervously stroking the fur lining of his robe.
“If you would, Professor Limebert,” Severus agrees graciously. He holds up a hand when Limebert moves to flee his frame and quietly adds, “With the exclusion of the Heads of Houses and the Carrows, if you please.”
“I’m not dense, dear Severus.” Limebert sniffs, holding his head high as he marches from his frame.
“The children,” Phineas Nigellus interrupts, mouth set in a grim, worried line. “I do not know their current location, though my portrait has been jostled rather severely of late.”
“Keep trying,” Severus says grimly, touching the large emerald on the corner of the desk and summoning the Heads and Madam Pomfrey to the office. “If at all possible, tell them to reach Aberforth before nightfall.”
The gargoyle at the base of his office growls as the stairs begin circling upward. “Don’t you dare,” Severus hisses at Albus’ portrait as he immediately tried to walk away. Albus stops and gives him a sharp look. “I need you present today, Albus.”
Minerva gasps as she enters the office, the rigid disapproval melting from her face as she sees Albus awake in his portrait for the first time in months. Pomona and Poppy seem equally affected, Filius tensing but remaining quiet as they assemble before him.
“There is no time,” Severus says curtly. “The Final Battle will be today.”
Scowling, Minerva crosses her arms over her chest. “Just who’s side are you on now?”
Eyes narrowing in speculation, Filius tilts his head to the side and studies Severus soberly. “Why warn us?” he asks simply. He does not ask how Severus knows this information, and for that Severus is grateful. He doesn’t think he can begin to explain.
“There is nothing I can openly do to dissuade the Dark Lord from coming to the castle.” Minerva’s eyes narrow, her mouth opening on a sharp retort. “Especially considering Harry Potter and his motley friends are on their way as well.” Her mouth snaps shut, eyes widening in her pale face.
“But the children,” Pomona moans, wringing her hands together anxiously. “They’ll be caught right in the middle of it all, Severus.”
“Every class you teach today comprised of first through third years is to be brought to my office and dispatched via Floo to the Hog’s Head.” Severus informs her crisply.
“To a pub?” Filius stands up straight, looking more curious than angry. It is times like this that Severus is pleased to know a half-Goblin. Their ability to reason instead of merely reacting is never more invaluable than now.
“One operated by the brother of Albus Dumbledore,” Severus agrees. “Where would you have me send them?” He asks Poppy as she scowls and opens her mouth. “St. Mungo’s? The Ministry of Magic? Name one public location aside from the Hog’s Head not under The Dark Lord’s thumb and I will happily oblige you.”
“Those with no homes will require relocation,” Minerva says thoughtfully, lips pursing. Her eyes flicker to the wide-awake portrait of Albus and her mouth softens just that little bit. “Shall I contact the Order?”
“Yes, do.” Severus straightens his cuff links and tries to remember every detail from this day. “And then either you or Pomona should contact the rebels hiding out in the Room of Requirement and inform them they will have guests later.”
“Allow me, Severus,” Poppy says briskly. “I’ve been dying to check them over for a while now.”
It doesn’t surprise him in the least that his staff is aware of the children's location and had no desire to inform him of it.
~*~
Days begin to fall into a routine.
Waking up in the misty pre-dawn light, discussing plans with his staff, passing on instructions to a frequently less-hostile Harry Potter, the biting agony as venom soaks into torn flesh. And waking up to do it all again.
“But, sir, what am I supposed to do?” Pansy Parkinson stands before him with red-rimmed eyes and a pale face, clutching desperately at his sleeve with a white-knuckled grip. “You don’t know what... You can’t know.” The thought that he might know what she’s trying to say proves to be too devastating to consider, and she trails off into silence.
“Please, sir,” Blaise Zabini stands just behind her, tense and silent in the shadowy hallway as the rest of Slytherin house reluctantly follows the other professors toward the Headmaster’s office. “I’ve no loyalty to the Dark Lord. Let me stay and fight for Hogwarts.”
Pansy nods frantically in agreement. “If I go home I’m dead,” she whispers hoarsely. “Let me stay. I’ll fight. I’ll ... I’ll be the most loyal fighter on your side. I’ll be a Gryffindor, if need be.”
There’s such desperation in her plea that Severus is stunned silent. All these months spent reliving this day and it is only now that he begins to fully understand the great disservice he is doing to his Slytherins. Treating them with the same prejudice that he always resented being treated with - that being a snake means being Dark.
“Crabbe and Goyle have already gone through the Floo,” Draco says shakily from behind him. He looks horrible, dark shadows under his eyes, hair rumpled, too pale and too thin. “They’ve been shadowing me all year,” he continues quietly, gray eyes disproportionately large in his face. “They’ll tell of my hesitation to leave to the Dark Lord.”
“The Weasley twins aren’t the only ones who know the weak points of the school,” Daphne Greengrass points out smoothly, all sharp eyes and demure expression like a proper Slytherin should be. Her eyes dart to his side, just once, and Severus reflectively tightens his hand around his wand before turning.
The twins are standing directly behind him, Fred with arms crossed over his chest and George wearing a French buret with a firecracker where his left ear should be. They exchange a look, shrug, look back at Severus and grin. “We don’t mind playing with the snakes,” they chorus.
He’s outmaneuvered but oddly at peace with it, curious to see where this break in the ever-evolving routine will take them. Nodding his head once, he spears them all with his best glare, gratified he still has the power to make them quake. “Watch each other,” he says curtly, before spinning on his heel and striding away.
~*~
It never ceases to amaze him how quickly Harry succumbs to his kisses. How fast he goes from hisses and punches to melting against him, opening his mouth and fisting his fingers into Severus’ lanky hair. And Severus convinces himself that he’s not taking too much advantage, not really, as he will do this all again tomorrow and Harry will remember nothing.
Severus runs his hands down the bumpy column of Harry’s spine, digs his hands into the surprisingly round globes of his arse and thrusts against him. And Harry moans, wraps his legs around Severus, and kisses back as desperately as he can. It’s only after, once he’s brought them both off in the privacy of his rooms, that he takes Harry into the office proper and shows him the necessary images.
Harry doesn’t seem to know where to look once they emerge from the Pensieve, staring thoughtfully down at the carpet while he runs his tongue over his swollen bottom lip. The portraits are empty, the previous headmasters and headmistresses having scattered to various points throughout the school to watch over the children and sound the alarm at the first sign of distress.
“I have to die,” Harry says thoughtfully, quietly.
“If there was a way.” Severus stops and lets his eyes close, speaks with a candor he normally sneers at. “More than any result I hope for this day, I wish for you to live.”
He looks up finally and his green eyes are swimming with emotions that the foolish Gryffindor never has learned how to suppress. “I need to talk to Ron and Hermione.” He winces, then, but Severus has no need to question why as the mark on his arm gives a violent flare at the same time.
Striding forward, Severus fists his hands in Harry’s robe and hauls him up, brings him close for a hard, desperate kiss. “Stay,” he starts to hiss angrily, pulling back just far enough that he can look into Harry’s eyes, their breath mingling and fogging up Harry’s glasses. “I just—” It’s not like him, this loss of words, and judging by the wide eyes Harry is just as surprised as he is. “I need to know, just once, that you survive.”
That sounds too ominous and Harry’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Snape,” he says flatly. “What are you - What are you going to do?” He’s confused and overwhelmed and Severus wishes that just once in the endless repetition of this miserable day that the last look he shares with Harry won’t be one of such horrified confusion.
“Promise me,” he snarls, bringing their faces even closer together. “You have to live.”
A warm, calloused hand slides over his, smaller and paler but just as strong as his own. Harry looks at him steadily and slowly nods. “I promise,” he whispers. “You too. OK?”
Severus presses their foreheads together, wincing as the pain in his arm burns brighter. Straightening his robe, he nods his head once before turning and striding from the room.
~*~
He wakes as the light of day trails its warm fingers against his face, glowing red against his closed eyelids and teasing his senses just enough to annoy. Something is different in the air. His bed less comfortable, the air cooler and smelling of bitter herbs instead of incense and dust.
Perhaps - Has he finally been able to find peace? To die?
“... Your own fault, Mr. Creevey.” Poppy is saying briskly from somewhere to his left. “I distinctly remember you being expelled from Hogwarts this past year.”
“But that’s not fair!” Severus can tell by the whine in the voice that it is the camera-wielding menace. Though he does not agree with the Dark Lord’s policy of expelling the Muggleborns, he has enjoyed not having to deal with Harry’s fan club. “The wizarding world is my world, too! I had to help!”
“Another four inches to the left and your contribution to the war would be your death,” Poppy snaps in return. “You will lay here and take your medicine or so help me I will turn you into the martyr you are so desperate to become!”
He can just imagine the look on her face, that curious blend of fiercely protective and livid that marked his years at Hogwarts. It is clearly as effective on Gryffindors as it is on Slytherins, as Creevey emits a squeaking noise and subsides to his bed with a hasty rustling of sheets and a sheepishly muttered, “Yes’m.”
This is far enough from his normal routine to convince him he is not dreaming and he struggles to open his eyes, looking around the Hospital Wing with blurry, confused eyes. His bed is tucked in the corner with the wall to his right, the smooth, cold stones familiar against his fingertips as his arm twitches.
Fred Weasley is sitting in a chair next to his bed, booted feet propped on the mattress by Severus’ knee as he snores. He looks like he’s been there for a while, his robe wrinkled and filthy, discarded candy wrappers and a half-drunk goblet of pumpkin juice at his feet.
Lupin is sleeping in the bed directly to his left, thick bandages soaked in a pulsing purple potion layered on his chest. The potion is off, Severus can tell at a glance. The purple of the potion not consistent, hues varying from deeply blue to pale lilac instead of maintaining the true royal purple necessary for optimum healing.
It’s not until he’s mentally gone over the steps of the potion, reflecting upon the inconsistencies -- The Ajwain seeds steeped too long, their oil losing the proper consistency -- that he realizes this shouldn’t be happening. And that his throat is on fire.
Unable to speak, he moves his leg, knocking Fred off balance and sending him to the ground with a crash and the sound of colorful swear words.
“Mr. Weasley!” Poppy bustles around the corner with a scowl, wand in hand. “What have I told you about your jokes? My patients need rest not --” She breaks off abruptly when she sees Severus trying to glare at her from his bed and hurries over.
“Oh, Severus!” She waves her wand over his body, watching the results with a gimlet eye even as she reaches out and pats his hand. “I told Mr. Potter you would be waking any day now.” Severus narrows his eyes at her, the line between his brow relaxing as whatever spells she is waving over him eases the constricting pressure on his throat. “Luckily for you Miss Granger and Mr. Zabini followed you to the Shrieking Shack and were able to bring you back to us in time.”
“I took the liberty of awarding points to Gryffindor and Slytherin,” Minerva says crisply, entering the Hospital Wing with a slight limp and a firm grip on the walking stick she hasn’t really needed to utilize for the last two years. “Not that it matters, with the tables broken and the gems spilled about.”
“Thought Harry and Oliver were fixing that today?” Fred groans as he sits up, rubbing the back of his head and smiling cheerfully at Severus. “Good of you to finally wake up, sir.”
Severus narrows his eyes and intensifies his glare as his heart begins beating faster. “You’ve been asleep for five day, Severus,” Poppy says gently as she guides a potion to his mouth. He eyes the bits floating in the potion, snorting at the evidence of an improperly strained mixture, but swallows the concoction down obediently.
It’s dark the next time he opens his eyes. The Hospital Wing is still full of patients, Poppy and several others bustling from bed to bed. Lupin is still out cold in the bed next to him, fresh bandages laying wet and odorous against his chest and neck. But this time it is Potter watching over him, sitting on the bed watching him with frank, somber eyes.
“You kissed me,” Harry whispers. Severus gazes at Harry blankly. He well remembers doing quite a bit more than that as time wore on, and evidently Harry remember this too, judging by the blush staining his cheeks.
“I did.” It comes out barely more than a hoarse, raspy whisper and Severus frowns, hands flying up involuntarily to touch the thick bandages against his neck.
“Don’t,” Harry chides, sliding his hand over Severus’ and gently pulling their fingers away from the bandages. His hand is warm and calloused against Severus’ and Harry blushes again, clearing his throat and reaching for the goblet of water on the bedside table.
The water is cold and refreshing, but Severus can only drink half before it hurts too much to swallow. Harry doesn’t comment over this, just frowns slightly, replaces the goblet, and resumes twisting the blankets with his hand.
“We won,” Harry announces abruptly. “In case you didn’t know.” He glances around the Hospital Wing at all the full beds, eyes lingering heavily on Lupin. “Parkinson saved Remus,” he whispers, “but Tonks didn’t make it.”
Severus nods slowly. “You lived,” he rasps out after a few minutes of silence.
Startled, Harry seems to snap back into focus, looking back at Severus. Then he smiles, just a slight, crooked grin that softens his face. “Well, yeah,” he says teasingly. “You told me to.”
Fingers twitch against the comforter until Severus is able to slide his hand over Harry’s. He’s not quite sure what finally changed about the Final Battle day, what he’s finally managed to do to break the vicious cycle, but he’s not going to question it over much. “I thought it would never end,” he admits wearily, closing his eyes as weariness sucks at him again.
“Me too,” Harry sighs. “Me too.” He turns his hand over and intertwines their fingers, grounding Severus as he drifts back to sleep.