A/T/N:

This story was written in Spanish by JuneCooper, and translated into English by Qala-Chaki. You can read the original--Raso Blanco, Seda Negra--here:

.net/s/5476764/1/Raso_Blanco_Seda_Negra

Special thanks to exartemarte for the occasional Britpick.

Everything you recognize belongs to JKR. We just take her toys out of the box and make them do naughty things.

The sun blazed fiercely through the window, directly into his eyes. He blinked a few times, trying to dispel the glare, but it refused to dissipate. His first thought was that there must be an afterlife after all, and he was filled with surprise and an uncharacteristic hope; but a second later, when he tried to move, every cell in his body exploded with pain.

Oh, no, this wasn't heaven; it was just the sun through the window. How anticlimactic. All he had wanted was to die and rest in peace—he hadn't even considered an afterlife. He had just wanted to disappear, be nothing, feel nothing . . . but instead what he found awaiting him was a life even more miserable than the one he had left, filled with the most excruciating pain imaginable. And now the very sun was mocking him to his face!

He heard familiar voices, talking about him with a mixture of repulsion and pity. He was used to the repulsion, but the pity was something new. He only managed to hear a little.

"In the end they were able to repair the vertebrae, but I don't know if he'll be able to walk . . . poor man, sometimes I wonder if it wouldn't have been better if . . ."

"Close the curtains, Poppy, he's waking up!"

At least Minerva had realized that the sun was painful to his eyes; soon the room was dark enough for him to open them. The two women appeared in his range of vision, their brows furrowed with concern.

"Severus? Can you hear us?"

"Don't move, Professor—it would not be advisable."

Move? With this horrific pain gripping his neck? He tried to make an appropriately sarcastic comment, but when he opened his mouth and tried to speak, he managed to produce only a pathetic groan and a burning sensation in his throat. Merlin, this damned thirst, and he couldn't even ask for a glass of water!

"Oh, I'm sorry, Professor, but we haven't yet been able to completely heal your wound. The phoenix tears accomplished a great deal, but the wound was . . . at one point we thought the even with the phoenix tears we wouldn't be able . . . so we're grateful that they've worked even partially," explained Madam Pomfrey, patting the back of his hand gently. "But we're doing everything we can."

"I suppose you're wondering what you're doing here at Hogwarts instead of St Mungo's," added Minerva. "We thought about transferring you, but your condition didn't permit moving you from where you were, so the Healers from St Mungo's come here every day to see you."

Every day? thought Severus. Well, bugger me, I've suddenly turned into someone important.

"You'll be wondering about the outcome of the battle. We won, Severus."

He rolled his eyes. Wasn't it obvious they'd won? Were it not so, he would hardly have been in the Hogwarts hospital wing talking with Minerva McGonagall.

She took his hand, her eyes filling, and went on. "So many died: Lupin, Tonks, Fred Weasley. But Harry and his two friends survived. Those three came through pretty well unscathed. We're all trying to rebuild what we've lost."

And I didn't have the good grace to die, right? No matter; I'm sure the Wizengamot will take it upon themselves to make what life I have left a nightmare. Imbeciles.

"Kingsley, Harry, Ron, and Hermione are preparing your defense, aided by your memories and the evidence that Albus prepared for you in the event you survived the war. In any event the Wizengamot won't require you to appear until you've recuperated sufficiently; we think that by then we'll have proved your innocence. You've nothing to worry about—we're taking care of everything."

"The Healers from St Mungo's will be here later to transport you—"

"NO!" He tried to shout, but all that came out of his throat was a hoarse grunt. No way would he let them take him to St Mungo's, where anybody might lay hands on him. Most people still believed him to be a Death Eater, and it was not outside the realm of possibility that someone might try to settle accounts with him . . . because despite being ultimately on the side of the angels, he had been forced to do quite a few nasty things in order to maintain his cover. No, St Mungo's was most definitely not an option.

Minerva and Madam Pomfrey looked at him. Voice or no voice, he was making it quite clear that he did not want to go to St Mungo's.

"Well," Poppy conceded, "now that the worst is over, I don't really see why we couldn't take over his care."

Severus closed his eyes in relief, and moved his hand towards his neck. He felt so weak—as if his bones were made of cotton—and his muscles screamed with pain at the effort. Even so, his hand reached his throat, where he found a bandage big enough for Hagrid.

"Don't touch the wound!" snapped Poppy. "We haven't got it to close completely, and you'll start it bleeding again."

She lifted a vial to his lips and poured a potion into his mouth, and the world turned black once again. Blessed oblivion, blessed nothingness.

When he awoke much later the sun had disappeared, but the relief this brought him was short-lived. He realized that there were now three people surrounding his bed—the three people he least wanted to see. Like a hammer-blow to his head, the memory of his last conscious moment after Nagini's bite assaulted him. Thinking that his hour was upon him, he had given Potter his memories. The love he had felt for Lily; his promise; his sacrifice. And now Potter stood before him, and Severus thought he might die of humiliation. But on seeing those green eyes, he thought: "I did it, Lily; I protected your son."

When they saw that his eyes were open, the three approached his bed.

"Professor," said Harry tentatively, "we heard that you had recovered, and we came to . . . to say hello."

He snorted. Potter, always so eloquent. Now that he knew the truth, he'd probably be hanging about all the time, trying to prove his "gratitude," when all Severus really wanted was to be left in peace. But he couldn't speak; how frustrating.

The Granger girl spoke. She was holding a bouquet of red roses.

"We came back to finish our studies. There's a special program for us seventh-years, so we can take our N.E.W.T.s without having to repeat the whole year. So we'll be around for a while. We brought you these."

Drawing closer to the bedside table she picked up a glass, transformed it into a vase. Casting a quick Aguamenti charm to fill it, she set the flowers in it.

Ron tried to say something so as not to stand there mute. "We wanted to bring some sweets as well, but—" He would have done better to keep his mouth shut, but didn't realize it until he saw three pairs of eyes looking ceilingward.

"Professor." Potter turned away from his friends and leaned over to whisper in Severus's ear. "I know you don't want to hear this, but I need to say it anyway. Don't worry, I won't speak of it again. I thank you with all my heart for what you did for me, for my mother's memory. I know she's grateful as well, wherever she is. I owe you so much that I doubt I'll ever be able to repay you, but I'll do whatever I can, for the rest of my life. I know you don't like me or want me around, and I'm not going to annoy you with my presence any more than necessary. But I'll be around. For whatever you need me for."

Severus was momentarily nonplussed. His emotions were still raw from the aftermath of the war and his brush with death, and he was wholly unprepared for accolades. Fearing that his eyes would fill with tears, he closed them, hoping that the students would think he was tired and wanted to sleep.

"All right, you lot, let the professor rest. Come on, outside with you." He heard Poppy's voice and opened his eyes. She had a bowl of broth in her hands, and the aroma flooded over him: he'd had no idea how hungry he was until he smelled food.

The students left, and Poppy raised the head of the bed with one pass of her wand so that he was in a position more suited to eating. Severus realized that she meant to feed him as if he were a baby; humiliating, but he was so hungry and weak that he let it pass.

The first spoonful of broth was like manna from heaven in his mouth. He had never tasted anything so delicious in his life, even if it was only warm chicken broth. Poppy saw his expression and smiled.

"Good, isn't it? The healthier patients don't share your opinion. Ingrates."

"Erm—Madam Pomfrey?" Hermione stuck her head in through the doorway. "Could you come here, please? It's an emergency. There's been an accident in Potions class . . ."

"Oh, dear! I'll be right there," she said, crumpling the linen napkin in her hand. "I'm sorry, Severus, I'll be back later to give you your soup."

Severus couldn't repress an anguished groan. Just his luck—he was doomed to wait for everything, even a bowl of lukewarm soup when he was on the brink of starvation. And of course it was down to the stupidity of some imbecile student!

Poppy departed, leaving Hermione standing in the doorway. Seeing the way the professor's eyes were fixed on the bowl of soup, she tentatively approached the bed. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she walked resolutely to the bowl and picked it up.

"I won't tell a soul," she said, and sat down facing him on the edge of the bed. She held the spoon to his lips, and to her surprise, the professor opened his mouth.

Too right you won't, thought Severus.

Spoonful by spoonful, Severus obediently opened his mouth and ate his soup. His raw throat was grateful for the warm liquid, and his stomach sang with happiness, his hunger and thirst both satisfied at once. Hermione was amazed that he was allowing her to feed him. He must really be starving, she thought. When the last spoonful was finished, Hermione looked for the napkin, but remembered that Madam Pomfrey had been holding it in her hand when she left; instead she lifted the sleeve of her robe to the professor's lips and blotted them delicately.

He closed his eyes. "Thank you," he said, his voice rough with disuse. The warm broth had relaxed his vocal cords enough for him to speak those few words.

"It was nothing," she said, lowering her eyes in embarrassment. After all he'd done for them, for everyone, helping him to eat seemed a small thing indeed.

Madam Pomfrey appeared at the door.

"Oh, I see you've been assisting the professor! Thank you so much, Hermione. There's so much to do here that sometimes I just run out of time!"

"It was nothing," she said again.

"Actually… I wonder if you'd like to lend me a hand with him . . . . . . it could be very useful experience for you."

For a second, Hermione was at a loss for words. She assumed that Professor Snape would no more desire her company than that of Harry or Ron, but on the other hand she didn't want to insult him by refusing. And then there was the matter of her proposed study of magical medicine: if she could tolerate Snape as a patient, she could put up with anyone.

She turned around to look at her professor and gauge his reaction. She saw his horrified expression and could practically read his thoughts: You wouldn't dare.

Wouldn't I? Well, watch this, she thought.

"I'll have to check my schedule, but I'd be delighted," she answered with a smile.