'I'm not sure that I trust you.' She heard herself say. 'But I can try and make it not so difficult on you.' She watched his lips twitch, pulling tight for a second before he managed to school his features once more. 'I won't fight you.' She saw him nod. 'I'll let you do what you feel you need to. You have don't nothing since I've been here to earn my distrust.' She saw his eyes squeeze tightly shut.

'But I've done nothing to earn your trust either.' His voice so unusually small for force he was normally to be reckoned with.

'I'm sorry…'she started softly, unsure exactly what it was that was compelling her to apologize.

He interrupted her then, his eyes catching hers and holding her gaze. 'You have nothing to be sorry about Hermione. Nothing.'

Chapter 9

Hermione blinked, breaking eye contact with him. 'I don't understand.' She shook her head, her confusion evident in her expression, in the way she picked at a thread in the soft sheet he had pulled up over her.

'Of course you don't.' He smiled sadly at her then. 'I never expected you to.' He shifted to sit on the chair beside the bed, his exhaustion catching up, but knowing his time for rest was well and truly over another day was beginning and very soon he would be required to make an appearance in the Great Hall. He rested his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands as he continued. 'Not yet anyway.' He nodded slightly, knowing she was watching his every move. 'But you will. Soon.' He sat upright then. 'When I have done what I have to do. In the Great Hall.' He turned his face towards her. 'And when you have rested. I will tell you everything you need to know.' He smiled, the expression sincere, softening his features as he looked at her. 'I will even answer every single bloody question you have.'

She was thrown by his tone, teasing as it was and the way the years, the sternness had melted off of his face with a simple honest smile. 'I really can't leave here can I?'

He stood then, preparing to take his leave. 'No Miss Granger.' He shook his head. 'You can't.' He walked towards the bathroom door, stopping as he reached the threshold to turn back and face her. 'What you can do is rest. Let your body recover.'

'And what about you Sir?' She boldly dared to question, noting his stooped shoulders, his dark-rimmed eyes as he stood in front of her.

'What of me?' He gave a reluctant shrug of one shoulder. 'I shall do as I usually do. I shall go to breakfast, where I shall be glared at with enough animosity to make a lesser man shrink into obscurity. I will then precede to teach dunderheads who want nothing better than to harm myself in rebellion for things beyond their control and understanding. After that, perhaps I will then return here to endure the wrath of the girl currently held prisoner, as she will, if she follows my instructions and rests, be at her very peak by the time my day comes to a highly anticipated end.'

'I promised to not fight you Sir.' Hermione spoke quietly as she attempted to offer a reassurance she was unsure she was able to actually keep.

He had the audacity to smirk then, a brow raised. 'Let's see how you feel once you discover I have placed wards around that prevent all entry and exit,' he stressed the words, over-articulating every syllable, 'to these rooms unless cleared by me.' He turned then, 'Rest now.' he threw over his shoulder, walking into the bathroom closing the door, physically separating himself from her ire.

He heard the sound of her slamming her body down onto the bed in frustration, the soft gasp informing him the jarring of her injured body enough of a punishment for her actions. He leant on the back of the heavy door, taking a breather, a moment to steel himself for the day, before he shifted, removing his black pants and headed for the shower stall.

Standing under the water, letting the heat beat down over his head, his tired muscles, he made a quick check across his occlumency walls ensuring nothing would slip. That much was imperative. No matter how much he wanted to collapse into a ball of sobbing flesh in the bottom of his shower recess, no matter how much he wanted to avoid what was to follow he knew he simply, as with much of his life, had no choice. He rocked forward, his forehead finding the glass of the shower stall, the cool a contrast to the hot water acting as a soothing force against the pounding in his head, working in juxtaposition to the heat currently pouring down onto the tense muscles of his neck and shoulders. He took a few deep breaths, schooling his emotions, reigning in all the rogue thoughts of running, of freeing the girl to deal with the consequences of not being dead, of being number two undesirable once more, of simply turning his back on everything he knew to be wrong, escaping the country and living his life in the blessed, albeit lonely solitude of eternal hiding.

He let his mind wander back to how he had ended up right here right now, standing, hiding for all intents and purposes in his small shower, hiding from the world at large, hiding from the recovering girl in the room next door. His mind, cruel at the best of times, perfectly adept at subconsciously torturing him when he needed no assistance, let images of her injured, naked body assail him. He squeezed his eyes closed, attempting to block the cascade of memories; her wide terrified eyes as she stared up at him, pleading him to release her. The smell of the blood, the sound of the crowd baying for more. The fact that he very clearly overshadowed her, in magical ability, in height and in weight. She was no match for him, injured or not, and the crowd knew it. He could still remember the split second of relief he had seen on her, the relief he had shattered with his very first words, his tone, his sneer. He could still remember exactly what he had said, welcoming her back, asking if she was having a nice time, all the while knowing she was most assuredly not enjoying herself and that she hadn't for some time now, the bruising, the blood, the tears all testament to that. He remembered goading her, ordering her to fight him, to hit him, hoping above anything that she would see the message hidden in his words, that she would realize that every single line he had uttered had held a double meaning; 'I am so looking forward to giving you exactly what you deserve' His attempt to let her know he was doing his best to save her, that what she deserved was freedom. 'I need you to do exactly as I say Miss Granger, can you do that? I need you to defy me. Miss Granger. Can you do that? Can you be the insufferable-know-it-all for me?' Calling to her very nature, her desire to please so intrinsic to her personality, her actions allowing him the opportunity to put his plan into place. Her small acts of encouraged violence giving him all the justification he required to see his plan to fruition.

His mind betrayed him then, pulling him from the thoughts that were bordering on his good deeds and turning him to the death he had been forced to finalize. He had not caused it, the days of torture, of rape, of misuse had brought that about, but he had seized his opportunity and capitalized on it. He could so very clearly see the small teenager, clinging to life, her pulse barely existent as he had hefted her into his arms and forced the polyjuice potion down her throat. He could still feel the barely-there weight of her, as he had held her against his chest, a thumb rubbing against her throat coaxing her to swallow. He could remember the relief he had felt when she did, that despite being moments from death her instinct was to remove the liquid from her mouth, her airway. He could remember too how he had stroked her straight black hair away from her face as he had whispered words of reassurance and comfort, assuring her it would be all over soon, that her fight was done, that she would be safe and pain free, all the while knowing it would be he who cast the final blow and rip her from this world. He felt the tears well as he recalled just how young and innocent her face had been, despite the damage. He slammed a hand onto the shower stall as he tried in vain to stop the sob before it began. His failure echoing around the shower stall, muffled by the water yet amplified by the tiles, his distress making him oblivious to the fact that could most likely be heard by the girl in the next room.

He felt his body collapse under the sheer weight of the knowledge that he had chosen one life over another, that he had sacrificed one to save another, that it was he who made the call despite the fact that he was not God, Merlin or even Dumbledore and that in all reality who was he to be making that decision. He let his hands slide down the glass as he fell to his knees on the tiled floor under the stream of water, his only comfort coming from the fact that the water was washing his tears away as fast as he could cry them, dragging them down the drain with the very last scraps of his self-respect.

He knew what the world thought of him; Severus Snape, ugly, impossible, cruel. Death Eater. To be despised and feared. And he had done what he had needed to perpetuate the myth. At the behest of Dumbledore. To assuage his guilt. A few barbed words deliberately uttered and the students trembled at his name. But to what cost? He had been, until this moment, all alone in his suffering. Save for a select few he let close; his Elf, free to choose where she served, and yet Sage had chosen to serve him. And of course he had Onyx and Lu-blu. And that was it. Until now. Now he had opened himself up to assistance or scorn from two very formidable witches; Minerva McGonagall and Poppy Pomfrey. He knew that his moment of weakness, his desire to see Hermione healed overshadowing his caution as he summoned the Deputy Headmistress had opened him up to even more suspicion, or quite possibly absolution.

He shook his head, finally reigning in his raging emotions, letting his brain cling to the possibility that he would be for once given the benefit of the doubt, that he would be granted the reprieve he so desperately desired. Now was not the time to second guess his choices. They had been made, and while he was loath to use the epitaph, they had been made for the greater good. God he hated that phrase.

He used his hands, one against his knee, the other braced against the glass to lever himself off of the hard tiles and out of the shower. A flick of his wrist saw the water shut off. He reached that hand then for one of the towels on the shelf. As he patted his chest and torso dry he stepped in front of the mirror. The red-rimmed, black-shadowed eyes that started back at him screamed for sleep, for rest, for the very least a glamour. He turned then, disgusted by what he could see and strode quickly to the door. He paused as his hand caught the knob remembering that the girl was still out there, how could he forget, and that he had failed to bring clothes into the bathroom with him. An oversight he was going to have to rectify in the future, his carefully planned routines now being thrown into disarray. He wrapped the towel securely about his hips, knowing he had been clad only in his pants before his shower, hoping that the girl was asleep, but resigned that if luck was not as per the norm on his side, she would have to take him, scars and all.

He opened the door slowly, letting it swing a fraction to allow him to see into the still darkened room. Her small figure was curled onto her side, unfortunately for him, facing away from where he stood, her line of sight directly to his wardrobe, to where he would need to dress. He took a deep breath, his head falling back on his neck, his face to the ceiling as he cursed whatever god deemed it necessary to mess with him as much as it had in the past twelve hours, knowing that his day was only going to get progressively worse from here on out. Exhaling he let the door swing fully open, watching the girl for signs of her stirring, of her awareness of his presence. When she failed to move he took tentative steps towards his wardrobe, towel wrapped tightly about his hips, slung low, held protectively in the front by his left hand, his right ready to react, to pull his wand and defend himself should the need arise.

Once in front of the cupboard he opened the door, wincing as it creaked in the silence of the room. He paused, listening for movement behind him. Satisfied she was indeed asleep he set about dressing, keeping his towel in place as he buttoned a white dress shirt about him and then proceeded to pull his underwear and then trousers up, maneuvering the pieces under his towel before he then relinquished the item, banishing it to the bathroom to dry.

Hermione lay quietly, in absolute stillness the moment she had heard the door to the bathroom open. She had heard his emotional outburst through the door, his distress, his sobs ripping through her, unsettling her and forcing her to contemplate just how much of what he had insinuated was true. Was he what he was trying to tell her, an agent for the side of light? Was he misjudged and treated horribly as a result? Was his entire existence a misunderstanding? His uncontrolled tears in the solitude of his own private bathroom could certainly be an indication of that. But then, she thought, it could just be the symptom of a vain, controlled, private man being held accountable for his misdeeds, his privacy shattered, his mistakes called to the forefront for examination. He could be panicking, now he was to be held accountable. Or he could merely be a consummate actor, letting her hear and see exactly what she desired to see, what he would allow her to, in order to manipulate her compliance.

She glanced up as he crossed in front of her, his movement stirring the air in the room, his body causing a shadow to pass over her face as he crossed in front of the fire. She watched as he stood in front of his wardrobe, her eyes falling on the broad expanse of his back. She caught the gasp, silencing herself as she found herself face to face with the very real evidence of torture, his body littered with scars of varying depth, width and discoloration. She wondered for a moment, who would have done this to him. And then her mind brought to her attention her recent treatment at the hands of his supposed friends, his Death Eater allies. A wave of sympathy washed over her as her eyes roamed over his back, his sinewy muscles drawing her eye as much as the scars and abrasions did. She couldn't help but marvel at how fit, how well-proportioned he was, not at all like the girls had joked he would be, all the talk of skinny, underweight, unhealthy dissipated from her mind as she watched him quietly dress with the precision she had come to expect from him, his deft movements clothing him, his modesty, or hers she supposed, protected by his towel and his careful movements.

She closed her eyes almost completely as he turned and crossed the room to take the seat beside the bed. She heard him pull his boots on, the clip of the buckles closed on the dragon hide boots punctuating his activity. She watched through hooded lids as he stood then and retrieved his frock coat from where it was folded over the back of the chair. She couldn't help but notice that with each button secured, his face became more closed off, his emotions now tightly reigned in, his expressionless face frightening in his absolute lack of reaction.

With his armor, his black frock coat buttoned to just beneath his chin Severus resumed his Headmaster Snape persona, his emotions tightly under wraps, buttoned down and secured safely in the confines of his costume, his alter-ego. He let his eyes fall to the sleeping girl and for a second let his control slip. He shifted to lean over her form, his hand gently brushing her hair from her face as he looked down at her. His thumb lingered for a moment, lightly resting on the bruise still marring her cheek. 'I promise you are safe.' He whispered. He ran his hand over her head once more. 'Just trust me Little One. You're safe here. Safer than I am.'