Of Purest Blood

AN: This is my first HG/SS story, and my first story here on AFF. Please read and review. Thanks!

---

C H A P T E R O N E

---

Clack-ka-dack, clack-ka-dack, clack-ka-dack... the Hogwarts Express sped toward its destination, as it had done for more than a century. The symphony of soothing monotony began to lull Hermione into a state of semi-consciousness. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass of the window, thinking of the year to come. It was unlike her not to be taking the opportunity to study on her way to Hogwarts, but she had been unlike herself since the War, and this would be unlike any other year.

For one thing, she would be repeating her seventh year-- the last half of it, at least. As the wizarding world had descended into chaos, Hogwarts had closed its doors for sixteen months. Since Voldemort's demise, the damage to the castle had been repaired, and Hogwarts' battle-torn halls had been restored to their former glory. There was to be a grand re-opening ceremony. Headmistress McGonagall was welcoming back any students who wished to complete their abruptly truncated educations. Special curriculum would be provided to meet each student's needs.

There were two equally important reasons for this: good faith, and good publicity. This year's crop of first-years was the smallest in two hundred years, and the school had to recoup its budget somehow. The grant from the Ministry of Magic had barely covered the new wing.

Hermione had been asked to host the unveiling of the Potter Wing, and had declined. It had been over a year since Harry had sacrificed his life to destroy Lord Voldemort, but it was still too raw in her mind, too painful. Harry had been her dearest friend. They had never been lovers, but their bond had been far deeper than one forged in a cauldron of seething teenage hormones. She could not bear to see his essence reduced to a portrait containing a hollow kernel of his personality to taunt her grieving heart.

She'd written to Ron imploring him to return to Hogwarts with her, explaining that he simply must finish his education. Perhaps she should have told him the real reason she wanted him to come back: she needed a friend. She needed someone to talk to. Ron assured her that he'd visit often, and she didn't doubt he would. It wasn't as if running Weasley's Wizard Wheezes with his brother was grueling work. Still, it would have been nice to have him around.

Ginny would be there, of course, and so would Neville Longbottom, to whom she'd grown very fond. Neville had completed his studies, but was returning for training as a teacher. He'd be apprenticing under Professor Sprout. McGonagall urged him to study Defense Against the Dark Arts, but he'd had quite enough of that, thank you, and fancied himself settling into a quiet life as Professor of Herbology when Sprout retired in a couple of years. He would likely get his wish.

Hermione's eyes were following rolling hills hugged by low, dark clouds when a shadowy reflection in the glass alerted her that she wasn't alone in the compartment. She straightened up in her seat to address the man now sitting across from her.

"Professor. I'm sorry. I didn't -" She blinked several times. "But you're-"

"Dead?" said Severus Snape, frowning. "It seems the popular consensus, though I find it rather insulting."

"Sorry, sir. I was just wondering how you were able to survive."

Snape sneered at her. "That's hardly any of your business, is it, Miss Granger?"

"I suppose it isn't," sighed Hermione, slumping in her seat.

"What, not going to badger me with questions? You've given up that easily? I seem to have misjudged you. I thought perhaps for once, I might reward your insipid curiosity, but if you're not even going to try ..." He rose to leave.

"Professor," murmured Hermione, looking out the window again, "I don't care how. I'm just glad you didn't die. Please don't go."

Snape cocked his head to the side in curiosity. "Don't... what?"

"Don't go," said Hermione, looking up at him. "You're the only person who's spoken to me since I got on this train, and I know you've got better things to do than chat with a student, but you did sit here for a reason, didn't you?"

"Hm." he said, looking as if he were biting back a snide comment as he again sat in the seat facing Hermione.

"Professor ... it's different, now, isn't it?" ventured Hermione. "I mean, why should I quake in fear at your presence? We've been through a war. We've both lost--"

"You haven't the vaguest idea what I've lost, you insolent child!" Snape whispered menacingly, pointing a pale finger and rising from his seat.

By now, Hermione had thoroughly outgrown being flustered by Snape's intimidation tactics. "I'm not a child," she said, calmly, "And two people comparing the depth of their loss after the whole world's just gone through hell is patently ridiculous."

She waited for him to say something derisive and insulting, but Professor Snape stayed his sharp tongue, heaving a melodramatic sigh. Clearly, something was on his mind.

"Let's ... start again," said Snape, settling back into his seat. "You are astute in assuming there is a reason I chose to accompany you in this compartment. Loathe as I am to admit it, I require your assistance, and yours alone. Will you hear me out?"

Hermione blinked. His 'Will you hear me out?' was more of an order than a question. What on earth could Snape need her for? He'd never indicated that he thought of her as anything but a pest in the classroom, and even her dealings with him in the Order of the Phoenix had barely been civil.

"Of course, Professor," she said, finally.

"You completed your potions requirement before Hogwarts closed, and passed with high marks, as I recall. I am not your professor anymore... Hermione."

If he'd meant to unnerve her, his strategy had worked. Hearing the four syllables of her name on his lips sent an unanticipated quiver up her spine, the nature of which she couldn't place.

"Erm, If it's all the same, sir, I'd prefer not to get too casual," she said. After all, she couldn't imagine ever calling him "Severus."

Snape quirked a brow. "Fair enough, Miss Granger." A small smile curled the corner of his mouth. He knew he had her attention, now.

"As you can see," he began, "I did survive, but only just. The bite of Lord Voldemort's beast caused me to lose blood rapidly." He lowered his voice. "From that, I was able to recover, however, Nagini's venom still poisons my veins. I require Inversitoxin potion daily to ... continue to... be".

Hermione's eyes widened. "Professor, you mean you're-"

"Dying. Unfortunately, the traditional draught, owing to its heavy reliance on noxious ingredients, has weakened my heart. I've spent the last six months experimenting with new formulations, but none have been as effective. As I'm sure you remember, a key component to Inversitoxin is the recipient's own blood."

"But yours isn't working anymore because of the level of Inversitoxin already in your blood. If you aren't able to find a suitable substitute, you'll ..."

A thick silence followed. There was nothing to see outside the train except the spatter of cold rain and water vapour rising from the tracks, but both of them looked out the foggy windows, searching for words.

It was the potions master who spoke next. "I don't expect you to agree to what I'm about to ask, and I will not be offended if you refuse, but please do not say anything until I have fully explained the circumstances."
Hermione nodded slowly, still gazing through the condensation at the ghosts of mountains and little villages.

"After much research, I have determined that there is a substitution for my own tainted blood, but it requires ... it..."

Hermione turned her head to face Snape, now taking note that his skin seemed more sallow than usual-- jaundiced, really-- and that the dark circles beneath his eyes dipped past his sharp cheekbones. The furrows between his brow and bracketing his hooked nose had deepened, and his hair had thinned. Even his lips had a bluish caste, and it was evident that he'd lost weight. All his layers of buttons and billowing black could not hide the fact that he was a shade of his former self.

"Sir, whatever it is, I'll--"

"Speaking out-of-turn as always," he interrupted. "I must ask you to please refrain from agreeing to anything before you have a full understanding of what I am asking you to do. May I continue?"

Hermione nodded, biting her lip.

"I don't have to tell you that the idea of 'Pure Blood' is a farce. As my parentage became known to every blessed soul in the Wizarding world before the war-- damn my youthful arrogance-- you know that I am neither pure blood nor Muggle-born. Sociopolitical ramifications aside, and speaking purely in terms of alchemical properties, the fact is that magical blood becomes diluted with each generation. So, in the distillation of a potion such as Inversitoxin, the purest and most potent blood would, theoretically, come from a first generation witch or wizard. You may now draw the obvious conclusion."

"So what you're saying is that the blood of a Muggle-born is --"

"Not just any Muggle-born, Miss Granger. A true, first-generation witch or wizard. Someone with absolutely no history of magic use in their entire genealogy. The Death Eaters killed Muggle-borns because they feared you. They had good reason to. Do you really believe your stellar performance in my class was due to your intelligence or obsessive study habits?"

Dying or not, this was still Snape. She ignored the back-handed compliment and dove straight to the point.
"You need my blood."

Snape clasped his hands together, and she saw his knuckles go white. He would not look at her, and spoke very quietly. "Muggle-borns are scarce. Many died during both wars. I wouldn't ask you if you weren't the only viable candidate, and I wouldn't blame you at all if you refused."

Hermione closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, considering the situation carefully. This was Professor Severus Snape. He wasn't kind, endearing, or pleasant in any way she could think of. Yet, despite his personality defects, the man before her had risked everything and nearly sacrificed his life for Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix. She couldn't even venture a guess as to how many times she probably owed him her life, directly or indirectly. Now, she carried in her veins the key to saving his life. She had to help him. She knew what her answer was, but for several long moments she could not bring herself to speak.

"This is not ... this is not any easy thing for me to do," said Snape.

She nodded. "Yes. I --"

"Don't say you understand," he whispered sharply.

She pressed her lips together, mustering her patience so as not to begin a petty argument over his assumption. After a breath, she finished her thought.

"I meant that yes, I will help you. But I have a lot of questions."

"Of course you do," he muttered. "And before you ask, I wish to assure you that you will not be harmed beyond which is... necessary... for obtaining the needed component. I am reasonably adept as a healer, but if you should require any care beyond my abilities -- which you should not -- "

"Professor, I'm not worried about that. I'm worried about you. Are you sure it'll work?"

Snape raised his onyx eyes to her amber ones as a seer might gaze into a crystal ball. She knew he was searching her for any sign of hesitation, any hint of insincerity. It wasn't Legillimency, but Snape's unique brand of ascertaining others' intentions wasn't to be trifled with.

"No," he said, at last, without breaking eye contact.

"I still want to try," said Hermione, swallowing her fear.

Snape closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose, relaxing against the back of his seat. She hadn't noticed just how tense he'd become.

"Thank you," he breathed, "Thank you, Hermione Granger."

Clack-ka-dack, clack-ka-dack, clack-ka-dack... The two faced each other in silence for the rest of the trip, both allowing the sound of the train to momentarily drown out their anxieties.