Hermione rested her forehead against the windowpane as she stared glumly out into the rain-lashed beyond. She watched a drop of condensation running down the inside glass, racing itself in fits and starts.
"Pathetic fallacy," she muttered half to herself, stopping the fat globule with her finger.
"I beg your pardon?" Snape said testily, raising his head from a productive study of the grain of the table. He would rather she were not here at all, that he had been left to contemplate the outcome of the evidential hearing alone, rather than pent up in a holding cell in the Ministry of Magic with an unwelcome audience analysing his every move. He tugged at his chains irritably. They had not allowed enough slack. Even here, surrounded by a whole department of law enforcement wizards, they would not relax their hold.
"The weather," Hermione explained, turning her head over her shoulder to address Snape. "It seems designed to fit the mood."
Snape harrumphed indeterminately, finally succeeding in manoeuvring one hand onto the table. He resisted the urge to drum his fingers.
"Still, it's an auspicious sign in some cultures," Hermione said brightly, leaving her post at the window and walking over to the table. She paused when she caught sight of his hand resting on the table, mesmerised by the strange elegance which starvation had bestowed on the long white fingers. She almost fancied that she could imagine their tender touch before her gaze raised to Snape's thunderous expression. She hovered for a moment behind her chair, flexing her hands before walking off to pace the small room restlessly. "The Wizengamot have been deliberating an awfully long time, haven't they? I mean, at this stage they're only deciding whether the writ should run, not actually judging the legality of your imprisonment. It should be really straightforward," she chatted nervously.
"Granger, if you don't sit down this minute I swear that your behind will be the first benefice of my restored wand," Snape growled between clenched teeth.
Hermione stopped dead, mouth opening in a small 'o' of surprise before widening into an uncertain smile. "Sorry, I seem to be more nervous than you!"
Snape frowned. Since when had his barbs evoked any apology beyond inarticulate stuttering, and just what did she mean by those curving lips? He watched her shrewdly as she took her seat opposite him, arranging the folds of her robes with fastidious care. Merlin's beard but he hated having to deal with the adult incarnations of his former pupils. He had rather tricked himself into imagining that they simply ceased to exist upon completing their education, remaining only as an infinitely pliable imprint in the recesses of his memory. Yet they would insist on coming back. In his experience, his former pupils invariably fell into one of two categories; there were those who avoided him and those who sought him out. The latter were readily identifiable by the cocky swagger in their approach, amusing him with their mistaken - albeit short-lived - assumption that his position had served to shield the teacher rather than the pupil. Perhaps there was room for a third category inclusive of those who had not actively hated him at school, but Snape gave this anomalous group little consideration.
"Well, at least we know that they haven't dismissed your petition out of hand – they must be discussing something in there," Hermione said presently, startling Snape out of his thoughts.
"Thank you for the endless running commentary – any fascinating insights you'd like to add on the décor?" Snape snapped sarcastically.
Hermione sighed patiently, charitably interpreting Snape's waspish behaviour as a manifestation of nerves. "Why don't you have a cigarette?" she suggested, shaking her box of matches enticingly.
"I thought you didn't approve?" he said, raising an eyebrow as he extracted a cigarette from the pack she had brought during her last visit to Azkaban.
She shrugged. "Shortening your lifespan seems to have a calming effect on you, for some reason," she replied dryly, rising from her seat to offer a light, "who am I to argue?"
Snape smiled at her - an ugly, lop-sided sort of grimace which threw the sharp angles of his gaunt face into horrible relief. "My, aren't we snappy today?" He paused to exhale, fixing his glittering back eyes on her. "You don't have to wait here with me. I'm sure there are more comfortable seating areas specially designed for overpaid civil servants."
"I want to," Hermione insisted, "You shouldn't have to go through this alone."
She regarded him with large brown eyes, so wanton in their expression of understanding pity that he would have laughed at her transparency if he had not suddenly been filled with the alarming notion that she might reach across the table and take his hand in her own. He diverted his attention to his cigarette.
"You know, that's the difference between you and I," He said slowly as he exhaled a plume of smoke, calm percolating through his body like a creeping warmth. "You regard dependence with less reservation than loneliness."
Hermione frowned. "If by dependence you mean friends and family who actually care what happens to me then, yes, I do find it preferable to living in a social vacuum," she replied, somewhat pettishly.
"And I suppose you mean to imply that I, ah, reaped what I sowed," Snape said with an amused quirk of his eyebrow, "that if I had cultivated a stronger social network I would not have been thrown into Azkaban and forgotten quite so easily?" He took a drag on his cigarette, ascertaining the truth of his words by her quick downward glance.
"Well, perhaps you could have been slightly more, er, politic in your interactions with certain members of the Order of the Phoenix," Hermione suggested tentatively.
Snape laughed, startling Hermione with the incongruity of the noise. "You think perhaps I should have enquired after Mundungus Fletcher's extracurricular activities, or developed an appreciative tongue for Molly Weasley's stodgy cooking?"
"Well one or two communal dinners at Grimmauld Place wouldn't have gone totally amiss," Hermione said defensively. "You didn't have to make your distaste for our company quite so plain by rushing out the moment your official duties were fulfilled."
"Oh yes, I can imagine how disappointing that must have been for you all," Snape sneered sarcastically. "What you neglect to consider," he continued, jabbing the end of his cigarette at her, "is that I had very little say in the matter. I was a double agent, Granger - by our very nature we are shadowy figures, utilised by both sides but trusted by neither. I didn't join the Order of the Phoenix for the social scene. While you were tucking into your hearty stews and evincing an aura of self-satisfied good cheer among yourselves I was tracking the movements of the Dark Lord's most feared followers."
Hermione stared at him across the table. "I think you want to be misunderstood," she said finally, folding her arms across her chest, "and that you arm yourself with sharp words like social grenades."
"Oh, and that deep down I just want to be loved?" Snape suggested mockingly.
Hermione waited for his laughter to subside. "No, and that's the real difference between you and I. You need to feel hated, because it's the only way you know how to make people react to you as an individual. Without hatred you lose your identity, you cease to exist."
Snape looked at her speculatively, cocking his head to one side. He took a drag on his cigarette, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on her face. "Tell me, do you still yearn for acceptance, Granger? Do you still crave that which your duller peers so effortlessly achieve? And in your darker moments, in the periods of clinical self-examination when the night presses down on you with the crushing weight of your emptiness you find yourself wishing you were just like them, don't you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione said hotly, looking away quickly.
"Oh I think you do," Snape said silkily, smirking across the table. "I think you identify with the oppressed because deep down you feel a natural empathy – after all, it's what you've been doing to yourself all these years. But then egocentricity often leads us to transpose our own values onto the actions of others. Don't give it out if you can't take it back," he finished coldly, settling back into his chair.
Hermione was silent, looking down at her folded hands in her lap. Snape was not fooled by the demure posture, smirking to himself as he detected the angry clenching of her lower jaw - subtle, but there if you knew where to look. He stared at her openly across the table, raising his cigarette to his lips without deviating attention from the pale, down-turned face. Fascinating. His ruminations were only interrupted when the door burst open to emit a bespecled-looking wizard who frowned at the tableaux before him.
"The party of Severus Snape, Court 4," he announced curtly, reading off his clipboard. "I suppose you are the plaintiff's petitioner?" He stared at Hermione unblinkingly from behind the thick lenses of his glasses, stepping past Snape without acknowledgement.
"Yes," she said briskly. Snape watched her rise from her seat like a phoenix from the flames; suddenly smart, efficient and formidable as she re-entered her own world. He looked down at his chains, irritation flashing across his features.
"Follow me, please."
Hermione looked back uncertainly at Snape.
"The plaintiff will be collected by security trolls for transportation to the court," the usher explained dully, holding the door open impatiently.
With one last parting shot at Snape, Hermione followed out of the holding cell, the door slamming shut with a resounding clunk that jangled on Snape's frayed nerves. He turned to his cigarette, cursing when he saw that it had already burned down to the butt.
Hermione had never appeared before the Wizengamot before. The highest appellate court was nearly always conducted as a closed court, attended only by plaintiff and defendant. Despite the impressive description furnished by Harry when he had been charged with committing offences under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, she sucked in a gasp as she entered. The walls were made of a dark stone which blended seamlessly into the ceiling, giving the impression of a room suspended in space and time. Empty benches rose on either side, but it was to the ones immediately in front that her eyes fixed. They were filled with about fifty shadowy figures, affecting not to notice her entrance as they continued to converse in muttered undertones which swirled around the dungeon like the caresses of a hungry snake. In the absence of instruction she hovered on the floor before making up her own mind and turning left into the nearest tier of benches. Swallowing nervously she sidled onto a bench, feeling as though she were on display as the empty seats fanned out around her like pointing fingers.
Minutes elapsed, her head swivelling automatically as the door to the court opened a second time. This time all conference stopped as abruptly as the snuffing of a candle. She watched Snape's entrance apprehensively, biting her lip as he was led roughly to the chair in the centre of the courtroom and pushed onto the seat. The chains on the arms of the chair responded instantly, snaking up his arms so fast that Hermione had to blink to clear her vision. Snape, however, did not display any surprise, sitting calmly in the chair without facial expression. He made a fearsome impression, fathomless black eyes glaring out of a wasted face. It was like coming face to face with death in the eyes of a ruthless predator and recognising intelligence as the jaws yawned open in silent farewell.
"Severus Snape," said a curt voice from the council's bench. Hermione's eyes darted back to the Wizengamot, identifying the severe-looking wizard who had opened proceedings. "You have been brought from Azkaban to hear the Wizengamot's judgement for your petition of a writ of Habeas Corpus. We have reached a verdict." He paused, looking over his spectacles to examine the unpalatable creature in front of him. Several members of the council shifted uncomfortably in their seats, and one or two turned to glare accusingly at Hermione - although their hostility was wasted as her attention remained fixed exclusively on the speaker. He cleared his throat self-importantly. "We hereby recognise issue of the Great Writ."
Relief flooded her body like a tonic, tingling through to the ends of her fingertips. She tried to catch Snape's eye but he kept his gaze fixed expressionlessly on the officious wizard, not a flicker of emotion betrayed on his face.
"Bail will be granted under the following conditions," he continued, raising his voice to make himself heard above mutterings of the council – mutinous exclamations that made it clear that the verdict had been anything but unanimous. "The plaintiff is to be placed under secure house arrest until such time as his case is heard; the plaintiff's wand will remain in custody and the plaintiff is strictly forbidden from using magic or magical aids during the interim; the plaintiff is to remain incommunicado and will be referred to only as Mister X in all court papers. In addition, the plaintiff must provide a wizard or witch to stand surety for his conduct. That is all."
Snape sneered, flashing his teeth at the Wizengamot. He cast his eye over them, regarding with contempt the unquestioning conviction they took from the collective donning of plum-coloured robes. Purple – the colour of truth, even to the point of martyrdom. Well that was a joke. They didn't care about the truth any more than they cared about justice – for how was he to find someone to stand surety when he was to be kept incommunicado from the rest of the world? He looked back to the carefully stitched silver 'W' on the left-hand side of the Wizengamot robes. 'With silver weapons you may conquer the world,' the Delphic Oracle had advised Philip of Macedonia back in the fourth century B.C. Now it only required a little bureaucracy.
"Until such conditions can be met and suretyship guaranteed, you will be returned to Azkaban until a date has been set for Snape versus Azkaban." the speaker continued, his booming voice hitting against the sides of Snape's skull like a physical assault so that he actually screwed up his eyes against the onslaught.
He turned his head slowly to face Hermione, channelling every drop of hatred into the accusatory glare. It was her fault. She had allowed him to hope, nurturing the tiny grain like fattening cattle for the slaughter. It would be so much harder now.
Hermione returned his gaze mournfully, maintaining eye contact as she rose from the bench, not even thinking about what she was about to do. "I will stand surety," she said clearly, finally breaking her gaze to address the Wizengamot. "I will stand surety for Severus Snape."
There was an excited murmuring from the council. The speaker conferred hastily with his neighbour before turning back to face Hermione with a frown on his heavy features. "Do you know what that means?" he said sternly.
"I understand that I will make an Unbreakable Vow with the plaintiff," she said steadily, clenching her fists at her sides and refusing to risk a glance at Snape.
"And that should the prisoner abscond, you will be sent to Azkaban in his place?" He paused, staring at the young woman's unwavering gaze with disbelieving severity.
"Yes," she said quietly, "I understand."
He shook his head. "Very well then."
( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( & ) ) ) ) ) ) ) ) ) )
Hermione looked out of the window distractedly – an unexceptional view of a residential London street lined with Victorian terrace houses whose imperious facades had witnessed the class of inhabitants rise and fall and then rise again with unvarying disinterest. It was a wide street with a pronounced camber that had once made it a natural playground. Now parked cars took the place of children and the trees planted so propitiously along the pavement had been pruned back into knobbly sticks to prevent the acidic sap from dripping onto metallic paint jobs.
Hermione hadn't been living there very long, but it had been long enough to evolve her own way of doing things - the sort of unthinking routine which lead her to ignore the coat-stand and drape her outer garments over a kitchen chair every evening, or to cultivate an increasingly unwieldy library of out-of-date newspapers in the upstairs bathroom. Insignificant instances, but drop a pebble on a calm surface and the ripples only continue to grow outward, even though the stone professes to sink out of sight. This was how she viewed Snape's impending arrival. For Snape had no house in which to be arrested, all property confiscated by a Bill of Attainder issued by the Minister of Magic shortly after he was taken to Azkaban. His belongings were probably collecting a thick coat of dust in a forgotten warehouse somewhere, or – perhaps more likely – had been destroyed years ago. Either way, Snape had become Hermione's responsibility when she had undertaken to stand surety for him, and would be her houseguest for the foreseeable future. Today – soon – her routine would be ripped asunder when Snape was finally cleared by the Ministry of Magic to Floo into her home like a badly addressed parcel to which no one wanted to admit ownership.
She stepped away from the window, wrapping her arms around herself as the memory of making the Unbreakable Vow reared unbidden through her thoughts. She could feel the callused texture of Snape's rough skin against her own, his hand easily enveloping her own in an almost studied form of poetic contrast. He did not flinch at the contact – rather, he pressed his hand more firmly against her own. She had been surprised at the strength of that grip, and the warmth of his skin against her own. Perhaps she had expected his hands to feel as smooth and lifeless as the alabaster slabs they resembled. But he had not wavered, not even as the tongues of flame entwined around their linked hands and he stared unblinkingly into her eyes, issuing his unspoken challenge. In that blazing moment she had suddenly felt that they were equals. And then it had been over, the Bonder had lowered his wand and the tongues of flame had dissipated into the air. But Snape had not lowered his gaze, and they had remained locked together, palm to palm in a feeling of naked intimacy until one of them – she didn't recall which – had finally broken the bond. Her palm had tingled for some considerable time afterward, reminding her of her promise.
"Well?"
She whipped around in alarm at the impatient drawl to find Snape interrogating her with his eyes as though it were she who had just stepped unexpectedly out of his fireplace. "Professor! You – you startled me," she admonished lightly. "I've been waiting for you."
"That much I had managed to surmise," Snape said dryly, lifting an eyebrow.
"Would – would you like something to eat, or to drink? Do you want me to show you around first?" She swallowed hard, feeling keenly the awkwardness of the social situation.
He looked boredly around her living room, before answering in unusually civil tones. "May I have a bath?"
"Oh, of course!" She flushed as she was suddenly made aware of his appearance. Removed from his usual context, she noticed afresh the pitiful thinness of his body and the dirt-encrusted skin which she had somehow become inured to in the grime of Azkaban.
She led him up the narrow staircase to the bathroom, explaining the layout of the three-storey house as they ascended. "Downstairs we have the kitchen and reception rooms, first floor is bedrooms and bathroom, and above is an annexe which I use for a study." His tread was so light that she had to stop half-way up, pivoting around with her hand on the banister to check that he was still following.
"I thought this could be your room, although there's another spare bedroom further along if you prefer," she announced as she led him through a door at the end of the first-floor corridor. "This one has a nice view of the garden."
Snape surveyed the large room without comment. Clearly her personal taste had not yet breached the threshold, for the walls were papered with a heavy, dark green pattern that must have predated her occupancy - if not her birth - by several decades. He cocked his head, wandering with a touch of amusement whether she considered this sombre scheme approximate to his taste. The furniture was equally antiquarian, consisting of a mismatched collection of dark-wood structures which had seen better days, although the four-poster bed was certainly a welcome friend from his former life. He imagined the bliss of sinking his head onto a plump, yielding pillow and abandoning himself to uninterrupted sleep under the warmth of a down quilt. Of course, his mind wandered lazily to other pleasures he had once known on a well-sprung mattress and he felt his stomach plunge as it had not done for years now. His hungry eyes switched back to Hermione.
"I've laid some new robes out on the bed," she continued, lowering her eyes self-consciously as she pointed to the neatly folded garment on the counterpane. "I can do some shopping for you tomorrow if you let me know what you require."
"Thank you." Snape said, bowing his head as they continued in the same oddly formal vein. "I'll let you know if I need anything else."
Taking this as a pointer to leave, she backed out of the room and went downstairs to wait for him. Even by her standards he was a long time in the bath. She felt, rather than heard, him enter the living room, dropping her book as she looked up to survey the figure looming in the doorway. The robes she had purchased from Madame Malkin's the previous day hung off him like a scarecrow, the bones of his shoulders protruding around the neck-line - but that would be rectified with time. The skin on his face was smooth, if not a little irritated by the unaccustomed scrape of a keen razor. Only those long ringlets of matted hair prevented a complete metamorphose. He stood awkwardly under her speculative gaze, having recently ascertained the horrible truth for himself in the bathroom mirror before providence and steam mercifully intervened.
Hermione frowned thoughtfully. "We really need to do something about that hair."
"We?" Snape replied bitingly.
"Well unless you want to try cutting your own hair, but nobody ever makes that mistake twice," Hermione retorted, "and I hardly think you're about to risk Azkaban for the sake of a pot of Sleakeazy's Hair Potion."
Snape narrowed his eyes but consented to her suggestion, sitting down grumpily on a stool in the kitchen as she rummaged through countless drawers before locating a pair of hair scissors. He eyed the blades somewhat apprehensively as she circled behind him, and jumped a little too noticeably when her fingers reached into his hair. He had not known human touch for seven years.
Hermione frowned as she examined the back of his head, tugging experimentally at a stubborn knot with her comb. "Hmm, I think I'm going to have to cut most of it off to get out all the knots, but I'll try to save some length."
The words floated meaninglessly past Snape's ears, his body only interested in the movements of her plucking fingers and the occasional brush of ripe, pink flesh against his own. He watched the great chunks of hair slowly taper into insubstantial wisps, closing his eyes against his will as she pulled the comb soothingly through his shoulder-length hair to tease out the remaining knots.
"There, all done," she announced brightly, taking a step back to admire her work. It was much as she remembered his hair at Hogwarts, although she could do nothing about the liberal streaks of white hair among the black. Yet she quite liked the contrast, replacing some of his former severity with the appropriate degree of professorial dignity. She reached a hand forward and smoothed a kink at the back, the tips of her nails raking the skin on the back of his neck.
Snape accepted the offer of a hand-held mirror, touching the ends of his scythed hair with satisfaction. Not bad. He angled the mirror to watch the girl out of the corner of his eye. He would have to be careful there, careful that he didn't indiscriminately consume the first sighting of meat to satisfy his hunger. In the long-run, he would surely derive more pleasure from breaking her than from f.ucking her.
For Snape had been locked away for seven years with nothing to sustain him but hatred. Hatred builds on itself, but it still needs fuel. Snape had already fed his childhood bullies to the pyre, but that had not been enough. He had turned to Harry Potter because he had reminded him of his father. Now that both generations had been consumed by the flames he must turn to the next link in the chain.
( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( ( & ) ) ) ) ) ) ) ) ) )
A/N:
Pathetic fallacy is a literary devise which reflects the feelings of the protagonist through descriptions of inanimate objects
The boy with the thorn in his side /
Behind the hatred there lies /
A murderous desire for love /
Lyrics to 'The Boy with the Thorn in his Side' by The Smiths – one of JK's favourite bands, incidentally
Purple was formerly worn as a symbol of royalty or high office, and continues to fulfil this function in the Catholic church where it denotes the office of a cardinal or bishop
Philip II, King of Macedonia c.382 – 336 B.C. and father of Alexander the Great
Under English Law, a Bill of Attainder declared a person guilty of some crime, usually treason, without trial and punished them by nullifying their civil rights and revoking all title and property which subsequently reverted to the Crown. Abolished in the UK in 1870.
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