The Last Sanguimagus

Sarah Apparated to the Forbidden Forest. She lurched forward, falling to her knees, and retched painfully, everything spinning around her. She had taken Goyle's power much too quickly, had not taken enough time to synthesise it properly, and now she was paying for it.

The cold night air filled her lungs and her head began to clear. Her left hand throbbed agonisingly. She could not straighten her fingers. She looked closely. The Painstone had melted the skin of her palm and fingers and adhered itself to her flesh.

She drew her knife and prised the gem from her hand, cutting as carefully as she could in the scant moonlight. Pocketing the knife and the Painstone, she used her wand to cast a numbing charm on her bloody palm, wincing until the spell took effect.

She felt sick again, and waited until it faded. Eventually she was able to stand up again and survey her surroundings. She could still feel the locator spell, faintly pulsing, and she Apparated again, using it as a marker.

Her heart convulsed. Severus was there, a crumpled heap in torn robes, and she knelt down next to him, almost frightened to look. Blood streaked the remnants of his clothing. He was pale and bruised in the moonlight. She took hold of his shoulder and turned him onto his back.

He was deathly quiet, and she touched his neck, feeling for the large artery there.

He was dying. Another few breaths, at the most, and he would be no more.

This can't be happening.

She could feel his blood settling, feel the last of his energy dying with him. An intense frustration began to build. She had just pulled him away from the Dark Lord, used her last nail, stolen him away despite a rampaging manticore and a crowd of Death Eaters, only to watch him die now.

If only she had arrived sooner. If only she had thought to retrieve the potions case. If only she knew more than the most basic of healing spells.

The waste of his dying hurt terribly. He deserves the chance to live. But she would never be able to get him to Hogwarts soon enough; time slipped away from her, and she was keenly aware that she was witnessing his last moments.

She had to save him now, and there was only one way to do that.

Her knife was in her hand again. She lay down on the ground next to him, feeling the length of his body against hers, and she trembled at what she was about to do. The blade was not steady as she cut jaggedly into her arm. She put her knife down on the grass and carefully opened his mouth, holding the cut above it.

Her wand in her hand now, her power coursing through her, charging a single drop of blood, transforming it.

Magic instinctively protected the body it inhabited. Magic could heal, could prevent him from dying, if she had enough. It was not precise or thorough; it was clumsy and painful. But it was his only chance. I can't do this. It's insane.

The drop of blood began to hum as she fed in Goyle's power with as much finesse as she could muster. The night air swarmed with energy. She could hear him drawing a last, soft breath. She let the drop fall into his mouth.

His body spasmed.

She grimaced and began to force her own power into the next drop. Must, she thought vaguely as she pushed in all the drop could hold.

Again his body reacted, and she paused for a moment, gasping. She could feel his blood moving sluggishly. The magic was not healing him quickly enough.

She gritted her teeth and ruthlessly pulled, tearing the magic out of her veins, out of her flesh, out of her bones. The drop of blood absorbed her power greedily as she sank all she could into it. Too much. It fell into his mouth.

She had gone too far. The wand fell out of her hand. A stupid thing to do, after all.

Her mind grew foggy and dark. The end, at last. No more would she worry about the Painstone, the Dark Lord, what would come next. She thought of Severus, and felt a stab of regret.

At least he would live, his debt paid, a new life, free of the Dark Lord. She felt a faint sense of satisfaction as her thoughts spun away into nothingness.

***

Severus slowly began to awaken.

He was on the ground.

There was something warm and wet across his face.

Some new torture, he thought grimly. He opened his eyes slowly. The sky was full of stars; he could see the outlines of trees. He felt very strange. There was pain, of course, but also a curious fire in his blood, a frenetic whirling that was quite unsettling.

Trees. Why had they moved him? He realised suddenly that he was tasting blood. He froze in horror. Had he been turned? Had the Dark Lord made him into a vampire? Panicking, he reached up to clear his face, and touched bare flesh. An arm. His heart, already beating too quickly, gave a jump.

The arm was attached to a body, and as he looked closer, he noticed three marks on the forearm. Three round, bleeding puncture wounds, and a jagged cut closer to the wrist.

Sarah. He nearly cried out in fright, forcing his sluggish body to obey him, turning to look at her.

She lay next to him in the grass, perfectly still. "Sarah," he hissed. She did not move.

He fumbled for his wand, finding it next to him. As soon as his hand touched the wood it gave off green sparks. His mind felt muddled as he gripped the wand tighter. "Lumos," he said, and suddenly the clearing was lit by a clear blue light, harsh and strong. He was nearly blinded. "Nox," he said, and once more it was dark.

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. He could not understand what was happening. Magic surged within him.

"Ennervate," he said cautiously, casting it with less force than he normally would.

Nothing. Not even a flutter of eyelashes. He felt as if his bones were filled with some molten liquid. There was a roaring in his ears. He could not concentrate.

A clear thought emerged. Must get to the castle. He conjured a stretcher as carefully as he could, and was still nearly knocked over from the force of it.

Lifting her magically was nearly impossible; he could barely control the energy that was flowing from his wand. He managed to get her on the stretcher, and made his way to the castle.

***

Harry crept down the marble stairs under his Invisibility Cloak. The Headmaster still sat next to McGonagall, sipping tea calmly. Madam Pomfrey was there as well, fidgeting. They all looked worried as they watched the front doors.

Harry hesitated at the foot of the stairs. He was out after curfew, and he was spying on teachers. If someone caught him he'd be in serious trouble.

But he was filled with curiosity. Snape still hadn't returned, and neither had Tanner. Harry had felt anger and surprise earlier, strong waves from Voldemort that even the talisman had not been able to stop. That's when he'd put on the cloak and dashed downstairs.

He was just in time. The doors slammed open, and Professor Snape entered. He looked awful. His robes were shredded and filthy and stained with blood. His right hand held his wand. His left hand was tightly clenched. Behind him a stretcher was hovering.

"Severus!" said McGonagall, jumping out of her chair. Snape saw them and began to walk forward, looking confused. The stretcher followed him, and Harry could see that the figure on it was Professor Tanner. "What happened?" asked McGonagall as Pomfrey began to examine him.

"The Dark Lord..." began Snape. He looked around again as if disoriented. "They know...they found out."

"You've escaped," said Dumbledore, sounding quite happy.

"Yes," said Snape. "Sarah...I don't know what's wrong with her." Harry had never seen him look so unsure of himself.

Pomfrey murmured a few words, and Snape grimaced. "What happened?" she said, looking at him.

"I woke up..." He rubbed at one eye with the back of his hand. "I'm not certain." He seemed to come to his senses a little. "Enough--I'm fine. Help Sarah." Pomfrey turned to the prone figure on the stretcher.

"She found you," said McGonagall, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. "She found you and brought you back. I can hardly believe it."

"The Dark Lord said he knew where to find the Order," said Snape. It sounded as if he could barely put the words together. "But he was mistaken..."

"Does he know now?" asked Dumbledore gently. Snape shook his head.

Pomfrey straightened up and turned to face them. "I'm sorry, Severus."

"Sorry?" he slurred. "What do you mean?"

"She will not last the hour."

He blinked, twice, owlishly, and Harry would have found it amusing, had the situation not been so serious. Slowly the look on Snape's face changed to shock. "How is that possible? She's still alive. The Salus potion--"

"It won't help," said Pomfrey.

"It has to," he said. His astonishment was visibly turning into fear. "This isn't possible! You're a Mediwitch. She's still alive. You have to help her."

"What is wrong?" asked McGonagall.

Pomfrey turned to her. "If I had to make a guess, I'd say--as ludicrous as it sounds--that she somehow transferred her magic to Severus."

"That's impossible!" said McGonagall.

Pomfrey shook her head. "She's filled him with magic, and it healed him. Roughly, to be sure, but he's alive."

"She can't die," said Snape, and Harry was surprised to hear the note of desperation in his voice.

"There's nothing I can do," said Pomfrey.

"You can't--I--there must be something."

She shook her head. Dumbledore said something quietly. Snape closed his eyes for a moment before replying in a soft, frustrated tone.

"You must come up to the Hospital Wing," said Pomfrey. "You're still not completely healed."

Snape's eyes snapped open at that. There was a wild look on his face. His free hand clenched and unclenched. "No," he said. He turned and walked off unsteadily toward the entrance to the dungeons. The stretcher followed obediently.

Pomfrey made as if to go after him, but Dumbledore stopped her. "He needs to say goodbye," he said firmly. "It will do no harm to let him have this last moment with her."

She clearly wanted to argue, but finally nodded instead. "I'll be checking on him in the morning, then," she said in a tone of finality.

"I'd be worried if you didn't." Dumbledore smiled as McGonagall and Pomfrey walked up the marble staircase, coming within inches of Harry, who held his breath.

"Well, Harry?" he asked quietly when the other teachers were out of earshot.

"He's been found out," said Harry. "What will the Order do now?"

"We will find another way."

Harry nodded. "Will she live?"

"You have heard Poppy's comments," said Dumbledore evenly. "I think you know the answer already. Now you need to get back to your dormitory, Harry."

"Yes, sir," said Harry, turning and making his way to Gryffindor Tower.

He felt queasy. The emotions of the evening had been strong. Seeing Snape in such a state was disturbing.

He wanted nothing more than to sleep, but he lay in bed for some time, his mind remembering the image of Snape looking stricken as Pomfrey told him that Tanner was going to die.

***

Severus was barely aware of anything as he lurched down the stairs. He only wanted to be back in his room, away from the pain and the noise and near a bottle of firewhisky.

He stopped in front of his door, rubbing his temples. His head swam. There was a sudden nudge to the back of his thigh. He whirled around, and realised that the stretcher had followed him.

Hands shaking, he reached down to touch the edge of her robe. The thick material was soft against his fingertips. Just five days ago he had retrieved it from Madam Malkin for her.

Sarah was unnaturally still, her pallor ashen and waxy.

He opened his door. The stretcher obediently followed him in. He closed it behind her and tried to piece together his thoughts.

She was dying.

He tried to remember what Pomfrey had said. His head was a riot of pain. Grabbing the bottle of firewhisky from the desk, he took a long swig.

The harsh liquor was like a Stunner to his gut. It very nearly came back up. What is wrong with me? He looked back at Sarah. She was nearly dead, and he felt like he could pull the moon from the sky. His mouth still tasted like blood.

All at once it snapped into place.

A Sanguimagus spell. She had transferred her magic to him, and it had healed him, and now she was going to die.

The bottle hit the floor and rolled away. "You stupid, stupid, bloody woman!" he shouted. "How could you!"

He sank to his knees, his eyes stinging, his throat raw and burning. She had not moved a muscle. Why had she done this? She could have left him. She should have left him. His skin crawled, her magic within him itching, writhing. If only he could draw it out, give it back to her.

He reached for the bottle again. There was no way to give it back. He gulped down more firewhisky. No spell, no potion existed--

A potion.

He nearly choked as the thought struck his fevered brain. A potion took on the magic of its brewer. If he could concentrate the excess energy--force it into a potion--

It was insanity. It could not be done. But even as that echoed in his mind his thoughts leapt to further heights and he found himself wanting to try.

He took Sarah to his room and left her on his bed, and went back to the classroom.

Standing in front of his worktable, he tried to still his thoughts, tried to calm himself. It was no use. He could not even still his hands, which jumped nervously and shook. Her blood was wild within him, gnawing at him. He did not know how soon it would leave him if he did not bring it out.

He closed his eyes and remembered the potion, the amazing potion that had come to his mind. He drove out everything else, banished the worry, the pain, the dying woman on his bed. He could only think of the potion. Nothing else. He drew on his Occlumency spells, blocking everything else.

He opened his eyes. Never had he been more aware of this room. Never had he been so completely tuned to every ingredient, every cauldron. The wand in his hand was part of him. He had so little time.

He began.

He moved as if a fire had been lit beneath his feet, working madly, his brain bent to a single purpose, his entire being straining over the cauldrons. His hands were in motion, Summoning ingredient after ingredient, pinching and stirring and pouring. Five cauldrons stood before him, smoking, belching fumes, the acrid smoke burning his eyes. He threw in handfuls of priceless powders, set spoons to stirring rhythmically, cast Cooling Charms and Heating Charms, Summoned bottles, throwing them aside after extracting what he needed, heedless of the sound of breaking glass. He needed no measuring scales; he knew precisely the amount needed.

The cauldron on the far left reached the proper consistency; he mixed part of its contents into another and tossed it aside, ignoring the wash of solution and the clanging noise as it rolled on the floor, coming to rest against one of the desks.

He redoubled his efforts, every fiber of his body devoted to the task at hand. Another cauldron was mixed into the rest; it joined its companion on the floor, amber liquid splashing everywhere.

The clouds of smoke and steam were suffocating, and he spared only a moment to send them elsewhere. The last three cauldrons boiled in front of them, and he knew that he only had seconds to bring them together. A few more ingredients. A few turns of a spoon. He lifted the small silver cauldron and poured its solution into the other two.

For a long moment he held his breath as they both turned black. Intense relief filled him as the solution on the left turned back to turquoise, and the solution on the right turned red.

The silver cauldron fell to the floor, unnecessary.

He sliced the last ingredient, barely minding his fingers. It was priceless, rare, something so associated with the Dark Arts that only Lucius Malfoy had been able to procure it for him.

Lucius. He closed his eyes in pained remembrance.

Opening his eyes, he finished cutting, and added it to the turquoise liquid. It turned a pale shade of magenta.

The last step. His carefully controlled burst of energy was fading. His thoughts muddled together. He no longer remembered the basis for the potion; he could barely keep the blackness from closing around him. Exhausted, shaking, he poured one solution into the other, nearly dropping it in the process.

The final cauldron began to emit sparks, silver sparks that stung his face and caught in the fabric of his robes and smoldered. Roiling clouds erupted. He heard the faint echo of thunder. Clutching the edge of the desk, he could only stare in desperate hope as the potion began to form itself. The fresh smell of rain suddenly filled the room.

The smoke dissolved, and the cauldron was empty.

He wanted to scream. A lash of his wand sent one of the desks flying into the others. Chairs scattered everywhere. He panted weakly, trying to regain control.

He felt drained. He grabbed the cauldron, his anger and shame and fright spiraling out of control. He had failed--

No. He had not failed. In the bottom of the cauldron rested three drops of potion. He saw, then, that it was the finest potion he had ever brewed, and he knew he would never be able to brew its like again. He poured the cauldron's contents carefully into a goblet. The three drops swirled, lit from within, tiny sparks humming and striking the metal. It was as if he had created lightning. He stared in amazement.

Sarah. The thought of her cut through everything else, and he ran, stumbling, to his bed, holding the goblet in both hands.

She was still alive. His heart pounded wildly. He opened her mouth gently, setting the now-warm goblet against her mouth and tipping it slowly. The drops flared and sparked as they slid past her lips, illuminating her cheek from the inside for the briefest moment. He took out his wand and relaxed her throat.

He waited, his blood roaring in his ears.

There was no change. Utterly defeated, he sat down on the bed, his vision blurring, his chest aching. He dragged his feet up onto the bed and let his head hit the pillow. Failure stabbed at him. His eyes stung.

She was next to him, cold, distant, and he wished bitterly that he could have spoken to her one last time, and wondered why everything always ended like this for him.

Darkness rushed over him all at once, and he succumbed, letting it pull him down into sleep.