It was nearly an hour later when Hermione entered the kitchen.

“How is he?” Harry asked immediately.

Hermione had been preparing herself for this conversation but the look of hope and trust on Harry’s face made her falter. It was a hard enough conversation to have with strangers, much less friends.

“He’s not well,” Hermione said, sitting beside Harry and accepting the mug of tea and the sandwich that Ron offered. “In fact, he couldn’t be much worse.”

“But you can heal him, right?” Harry asked.

 “Physically, I can heal him,” Hermione confirmed. “But that is the least of his problems right now. His magical core is severely depleted and his body is shutting down. Unless he gets an infusion of magic, he will die within a fortnight.”

Harry choked on his sandwich and Ron looked stunned.

“How can we fix his magical core?” Harry asked.

Hermione met Harry’s gaze, refusing to look away or be anything less than honest. Sugarcoating the truth would help no one. “It takes a very powerful wizard to do a magical core infusion.”

“I’m a very powerful wizard.”

“Yes, you are, Harry,” Hermione said, hesitating.

“So how do we do it?” Harry asked, setting down his sandwich as he leaned toward her, his gaze filled with determination.

“It’s not that simple,” Hermione said with a sigh. “There are spells, enchantments, but they are ancient and the risks are very high.”

“What risks?” Ron asked.

Hermione hesitated. “Very few magical infusions have been successful, likely because few witches or wizards have enough magic to share. In most cases, the person trying to infuse their magic with another’s ends up draining their own core.”

“What happens then?” Harry asked.

“They die,” Ron stated grimly.

“They both die,” Hermione clarified.

Harry looked undeterred. “Tell me about the successful ones. How do they work?”

“Well,” Hermione said, taking a sip of her tea. “In order to do a magical infusion, the witches or wizards must be bound together. This involves a complicated ritual involving bodily fluids. Lovers accomplish this by mixing semen or vaginal secretions during intercourse. Family members or comrades in battle typically use blood. The stronger the bond, the more likely the infusion is to succeed.”

“So we could use blood, then,” Harry surmised.

“No, Harry, you couldn’t. Blood works between individuals who are already related by blood. It can work for close comrades who were injured together in battle, making them similar to brothers. The close bond would have to already exist, and they’d have to have been injured in a shared experience that could drive the bond.”

“So, if not blood, then what?”

Ron coughed and looked away.

Hermione stared at her cup of tea in silence.

“Hermione…” Harry said, his voice demanding answers.

The young witch took a deep breath. “The best chance of a ritual working between two non-related wizards where no close bond already exists would be an exchange of life-giving fluids. As you would be the one seeking to give Snape your magic--and, in essence, to give him life--" Hermione paused, biting her lip. She was under no illusions as to how Harry would receive her next words. “It would mean your semen, Harry. It would mean penetrative sex on your part. With Snape.”

“No,” Harry said immediately. His eyes were wide and pleading, his bearing one of distress. “Hermione, you know what happened to him. I won’t do that to him.”

“I know, Harry,” Hermione said softly, covering his hand with hers. “I know.”

Harry swore. The events of the day, not to mention his utter fatigue, were making his emotions run high. “He’s not dying. He can’t be. I just found him!” Harry slammed his fist on the table. “If he was meant to die, why not die there, in that horrible place? Why…” Harry’s voice broke as his eyes filled with tears. “Why let me find him just to have him die anyway?”

Hermione pulled Harry into her arms. “I don’t know,” she whispered.

Ron pulled out the chair on the other side of Harry and sat down, patting Harry’s back. “Maybe it was so he’d know he wasn’t alone. If he has to die, better he does it surrounded by people who care.”

Two years. Two bloody years. He’d never had any hope of surviving. Everyone thought he was already dead. The fact that no one would have been able to find his body meant nothing when there were three eyewitnesses to his death--and the Golden Trio, at that. No, he was certain he’d die in that hellhole. It was just a matter of time.

To be rescued at the eleventh hour, and by Potter no less, only to realize that he’d die anyway due to his diminished magical core was beyond ironic. His mouth twisted in wry acknowledgement of his predicament. Some would find his torture and death justice for the sins he’d committed. It didn’t matter that he’d repented, that he’d done his best to keep the boy safe, to feed Dumbledore information so that the war could be won. The mark on his arm, on his very soul, could never be erased.

The only consolation in all of this was that he would die in considerably more comfort than he would have otherwise. He’d have sustenance and pain potions. He wouldn’t die alone. That had to be better, didn’t it?

Severus watched as Potter entered the room. His eyes looked puffy and red. His shoulders drooped and his back was bowed as he hunched in on himself. He nodded once at Snape and then averted his eyes, as if the very sight of his former most-hated professor in his home disturbed him.

“Harry, you need to sleep,” the Granger woman said, following him into the room.

“I…” Potter began, but Granger’s face took on a fierce expression and pointed to the bed.

Potter glanced between Hermione and Snape, and then, shrugging his shoulders, he kicked off his shoes, shrugged out of his jeans and jumper, and crawled into bed on the opposite side in his boxers, his back to the other occupants in the room.

Granger went over to him and whispered a few words that Severus couldn’t hear. She stroked his hair and kissed him on the temple, looking like a mother soothing a child.

Severus frowned, wondering what was wrong with the man. Potter had looked well enough earlier.

“Is there anything I can get you, Professor?” Granger asked, coming to stand at his side of the bed.

“Tea,” he forced out, his throat aching from having spoken so much in the last couple of hours. He had said more words in that time alone than he had in the last year.

“Of course, Professor, I’ll be right back.”

The sound of Potter’s uneven breathing filled the room and it took Severus a moment to realize the young man was weeping. Confused, he glanced over, watching as the man’s shoulders shook. Severus wondered more than ever what had happened.

Granger returned, carrying a tea service, which she set down carefully on the bedside table.

“Let me help you sit up,” she said, sliding an arm behind his back and adjusting the pillows. “Would you like milk or sugar in your tea?”

Severus shook his head and then gestured to the other side of the bed. “What’s wrong with Potter?” he forced out, his throat protesting.

Granger looked between the two of them, her expression sad. She studied Snape a moment longer, then sat on the bed beside him. In a quiet voice, she whispered, “He is upset about you, sir. He feels terribly guilty that he didn’t search harder for your body. And he also feels guilty that he wasn’t able to clear your name afterwards.” Granger glanced at the young man again.

“He tried, Professor. But he was having a hard time of it after the war, and the Press and the Ministry were hounding him constantly. It was all too much. He… well… he had to take a break for a while. He bought this place and fixed it up and shut himself away from the world. Eventually, he did return to complete his Auror training. But things haven’t been going well there, either. He was on the verge of quitting when he found you.”

Granger paused, handing Severus his tea and helping him to hold the mug. “When I told him of your condition…” She grimaced at the words before continuing. “He doesn’t want you to die, sir.”

Severus was shocked. Potter was mourning him? “Why would he care?”

“After he saw your memories, a lot of things fell into place for him,” Granger said, as Severus sipped his tea with Granger’s help. His coordination wasn’t what it used to be, what with his disfigured hands.

“He mourned you then, too, sir, when we thought you were dead. He thought he failed you. And then finding you alive only to realize that you cannot survive in your present condition…” Granger glanced over at Potter. “He feels as though he’s failed you all over again.”

Severus took another sip of his tea, his hands shaking with the strain of holding the cup. He was completely dumbfounded. He’d never liked the boy and had made sure the boy didn’t like him as well. To think that Potter had forgiven him so easily, and grown into a man that cared whether he lived or died, was unthinkable. Staring now, he realized that Potter’s breathing had evened out; he’d finally fallen asleep.

Granger’s words pulled him from his thoughts. “He won’t let you go easily, sir. He’ll want to do everything he can to try and give you a second chance at life. He worked a double shift, so he hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours, but once he wakes up, I imagine he’ll be like a crup with a bone.” Smiling sadly, Granger said, “You should probably rest while you can.” Then she winked at him.

Harry lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He had wanted to brainstorm ways they could help Snape but Hermione wouldn’t hear of it until he’d had some sleep first. Harry had thought briefly about sleeping in one of the guest rooms but, in the end, he’d collapsed on his own bed next to Snape. It was a huge bed, so it wasn’t as if they were crowded in there together. Ron and Hermione could have slept between them with room to spare.

As morning light filtered into the room, Hermione had Snape sitting up in bed as she fed him porridge and spoke softly to him. Snape’s gnarled hands were clenched, a sour expression on his face, the keloid scars standing out rigid and white against his neck. Harry knew that Snape must absolutely hate being in this situation, stuck in his former most-hated student’s home with said student’s best friend spoon-feeding him. It would have been amusing if the situation weren’t so dire. Harry didn’t dare glance over at them. He didn’t want to add to Snape’s humiliation.

Closing his eyes once more and feigning sleep, Harry wondered if Snape was as at peace with the thought of dying as Dumbledore had been. Perhaps after all he’d been through, he was tired. Perhaps he was ready to shed the body that had been so abused and move on. If that was the case, was Harry selfish to want to save the man? Was he doing it for altruistic reasons, as he liked to think? Or was he really doing it as a means to assuage his own guilt over abandoning the man that had saved his life more times than he could count?

Groaning in frustration, he punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape and rolled over, away from Snape and Hermione. He needed to talk to the man, see what Snape wanted. And if it was Snape’s wish to die, then what? Could Harry just stand by and let that happen? Keep the man comfortable until his body shut down? It was a cold, awful thought: one Harry didn’t wish to dwell on. Swallowing against the lump in his throat, Harry reflected that there was nothing worse than feeling utterly useless.

“Blood, sweat, and tears,” Harry said. “And we’d have to live together, for life.”

“Don’t forget semen,” Ron added, and Harry was reminded of Fred and George, having a laugh at his expense.

“And saliva,” Hermione added.

“You said blood wouldn’t work,” Harry commented, “and semen is out,” he said, giving Ron a censuring look. “Sweat would be difficult to obtain in any quantity. Tears might work, though. Or saliva.”

“I’m not sure saliva would be strong enough. There’s no emotional connection with saliva.”

“Tears, then,” Harry said.

“Except I don’t see Snape shedding any tears over you, mate,” Ron said.

“Snape could use saliva,” Hermione said. “It’s Harry’s offering that needs to be as powerful as possible as he is the one who is sharing his power. Snape just needs to accept it.”

Harry frowned, contemplating his options. “What else does the bond require?”

“There is a proximity requirement,” Hermione said. “So living together, yes, but also you couldn’t travel independently of each other, at least not very far and not for very long. Eight to twelve hours in completely different locations would probably be about the most you could manage.”

“What happens if we exceed that?”

“Oh not much,” Ron said, leaning back in his chair. “Just that your magical cores will get ripped from your body in an attempt to connect with one another. What’s a little pain when it’s for the git who made your life hell for seven years?”

“Ronald,” Hermione scolded.

“What?” Ron said, sitting forward. “Harry is considering giving his life for Snape of all people. He should know what he’s getting into!”

Harry grimaced. “I know you think I’m mad, Ron. But Snape saved my life more times than I can count. And you didn’t see his memories.” Harry shook his head. “He’s a braver man than I could ever be, and he doesn’t deserve to die.”

Ron clenched his jaw and pressed his lips together. Clearly he wanted to argue.

Hermione leaned forward and placed her hand over Harry’s. “Are you sure about this?”

Ron pushed up from his chair and went to stand by the sink, staring out the window.

“The thing is, Harry, it’s not just a matter of rebuilding Snape’s core. You will be bonded to him for life. There’s no undoing this once it’s done.”

“He’s suffered more than anyone should. First from Voldemort--which admittedly was partially his own fault…”

“Partially?” Ron stuttered.

“Everyone makes mistakes,” Harry continued.

Ron snorted with disbelief.

“But after that, he did what he could to make up for it, even if he wasn’t very nice about it. And Voldemort tortured his most loyal of followers. I can’t even imagine what it was like afterwards, when we all thought he was dead. Snape knew that no one was looking for him, and no one ever would.”

Harry shuddered. “He didn’t deserve that. He has a right to a life. And if I can give him a chance at that, I will.”

Ron turned back to face Harry, his arms crossed over his chest. “Let’s say you’re right, mate. This thing works. Then what? It’s not like Snape can go walking around Diagon Alley. He’d be thrown into Azkaban the moment someone saw him.” Ron raised a finger into the air. “And then, you’d both die an exceedingly long and painful death because you couldn’t remain separated for that long.”

“Ron’s right,” Hermione whispered, squeezing Harry’s hand.

“One problem at a time,” Harry said. “Snape could disguise himself. Or he, we,” he corrected himself, “could leave England. Go to the Americas, or Australia, or somewhere.” Turning to Hermione, Harry asked, “Do you think tears will be strong enough?”

Ron swore and turned his back on Harry.

Hermione took a deep breath. “I don’t know. But before we get too far into this conversation, we need to ask Snape what he wants. If he’s not willing to do this, it’s a moot point anyway.”

Harry nodded, and seemed to have deflated some.

Ron turned his back on the window, his arms still crossed over his chest. “I’d love to hear that conversation. So, Professor,” Ron said, mimicking Harry’s voice, “I was just wondering if you wanted to bond with me so you could live. I mean, I know how much you like me and all. I’m sure you’d really love to spend the rest of your life with me.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s not like that, Ronald, and you know it. It’s not as if they’d be mated or something.”

“Maybe not,” Ron said, stepping forward, more serious now, “but they’d be bonded just the same. And Snape could mess with Harry if he wanted. Screw with his power, take more than he needed. Drain him even, if he wanted to be a right bastard.” Ron nodded at the startled look Harry gave him. “All I’m saying is, you better be damn sure you know what you’re doing, Harry, before you put your trust in him.”

Silence lingered as everyone digested Ron’s words. Then Hermione sighed. “Even if Snape does agree, there’s no guarantee this will work. I haven’t been able to find enough about the enchantment, outside of lovers, relatives, and comrades in battle, to know if other bodily fluids will even work. It seems as though they should, but this is old magic. There’s no way to be sure without trying it.”

“You’re a better man than me, Harry,” Ron said. “I wouldn’t bind myself to that git.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t save your life several times over,” Harry replied.

“True, that,” Ron said, dropping back into his seat at the kitchen table. “Now the question is, who’s going to break the news to him?”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance.

“I’ll do it,” Harry said. “It’s me he has to bond with. Might as well be me to tell him.”

“I’d love to be a kneazle in the room for that conversation,” Ron said.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I could go with you to discuss the finer points of the ritual,” Hermione offered.

Harry shook his head. “That can wait until after. If he agrees.”

“Better you than me, mate,” Ron repeated.

Harry pushed to his feet with a sigh. “No time like the present.”