Heart of the Guardian

3. Awakening

After an eternity, Snape found himself well and truly... awake? his eyes opening to mere slits after minutes or hours of effort. It was dark. Still night? The same night? A dark blur resolved itself into a Someone who sat next to him. He was too weak to cry out in fear – the Dark Lord returned, he supposed, to be sure his servant was dead, or to taunt him with his victory over the boy. He braced himself, accepting that his work was not done, that his punishment was not yet over, and worked his way up – torso, chest, shoulders, neck, chin, lips – moving, though he could not make out the words – and finally eyes. Impossibly green eyes, framed by a black, mussed tangle of hair, a stark red scar barely visible beneath the fringe. The boy, illuminated in the glow from his wand tip, was watching him so intently he felt burned anew, but he could not turn away. Not. Possible.

But he devoured the boy with his eyes. Delusion or no, he wanted this. He needed this. He's alive. He's safe... safe... safe. Potter...

"Is it..." His voice was hoarse, papery thin, barely audible even to his own ears.

"It's over. Riddle's dead," the boy murmured in the darkness.

"How long?"

"Four weeks."

He tried to sit up, but the boy pushed him back on the pillows, and he was shocked to find he could not – did not want to – resist, Potter's face so close to his, determined. He could not turn away, could not keep from watching the boy. He was safe... safe... safe...

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his rasping voice nearly undone by the tears constricting his throat.

The boy looked at him, startled. "You saved me," the boy said. His eyebrows drew down in a frown of puzzlement – or wonderment. "You spent half your life saving me. You nearly died to save me. What do you have to be sorry for?"

"Lily... James... Black... Dumbledore..." the litany of those he could not save rose like a black cloud to overwhelm him, and sobs shook him.

"It's all right, Professor... It's all right... Go back to sleep," Potter whispered, and brushed the dank hair away from his brow with a gentle hand, something the man did not understand, a puzzled frown relaxing from his face as he fell back into sleep.

His fear drove him to the surface time and again. He fought his way awake, for what must have been the fourteenth or fifteenth – or fortieth or fiftieth – time. I must get to the boy. I must save him. The boy was always there – reading silently, curled up asleep on a chair at his bedside, murmuring to unseen others. But no matter – he had eyes only for the boy. Alive. Safe.

Potter slept curled on a chair next to him, one knee near enough to touch. Snape reached out a hand – Is that my hand? – to assure himself that the boy was real. Warm flesh met his touch, and holding onto that truth, he fell back into a dreamless sleep.

And then, sun flooded the room, warming him where he lay, and he came to, gradually alert, aware that he was... alive, awake, hungry... and needed to go to the bathroom. The boy was gone, and he nearly panicked, thinking it all a dream, a delusion, and struggled to sit up, shocked to find himself too weak to manage even that.

"Severus!"

Poppy strode over to him, relief and concern warring with each other on her face. He flinched at her touch, fearing what he would see in her eyes – what he had seen in everyone's eyes this past year: hatred, condemnation, judgment – no more than he deserved. But tears flooded her eyes, and she patted him gently on the cheek. "It's so good to see you awake, Headmaster. I'll go get Potter."

"No!" He suddenly panicked for a different reason. He did not want to see Potter, did not want to face that condemnation.

"He'll want to know, Headmaster. He's just gone to lunch. I promised I would let him know if you woke up."