Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. Rowling and Gato Azul are the owners of my soul (and this story).

Azkaban was a big, dark beast whose walls' stones were mouldy and blackened. When looking through the few windows of the place, one could only see shreds of dementors, their faces and cold hands stuck to the glasses. A frosty breath rose from the foundations of the prison. They sounded like echoes of chains and long moans coming from some faraway place.

Three days had passed before Hermione could convince the director of the prison of their right to talk to Snape. At that moment Harry and Hermione were climbing up the stairs towards the floor where they had locked up the Potion master.

Their footsteps kept sounding several seconds afterwards, infinitely; the sound carried on until the end of the stairs. Azkaban felt gigantic and yet the steps of the stairs were small, too small and irregular, and they didn't have a railing. If you slipped from one mouldy step, you'd surely fall. Both youngsters were grabbing the wall for dear life, trying to avoid that; they had been going up for a long time, their legs were already tired and they still hadn't reached their destiny.

The warden stopped suddenly, lightening up a long hallway.

"We're here."

The corridor was completely dark, only visible through the wand's light. It extended in a long path, impressing both Gryffindors with its dimensions. They walked through the cells; Harry thought that, no matter how much Snape was used to the dungeons, that prison was maybe too much for anyone, even Bellatrix hated that place. He remembered Sirius; he didn't want to picture him enclosed in those stone tombs for so many years.

Some prisoners looked through the small gaps of each door, growling. Some were loudly proclaiming their innocence, others were yelling obscenities to the girl; an old man surprised them, pulling out a hand through the small gap, reaching out for them, almost blind from the prison's darkness and howling like a madman. They both carried on walking behind the warden.

Maybe Snape was enraged, Harry thought. Maybe he blamed him for being there.

The warden opened a door.

"It's here. Y'have five minutes."

Potter stuck his head through the door; it was very tall, with a single-window at the top, almost touching the roof, a window too small and useless to be reached. A dim light barely shone through it that barely lightened up anything, which gave every form a bluish shade. The walls were darkened by time; they looked like big colossuses of stone, inexpungable, immovable. The air was frosty and humid, and there was a strong, rancid smell. Harry squinted, trying to see better in the dark. Hermione was hanging onto his shirt, following him hesitantly. The door closed loudly behind them.

"Professor Snape?"

They couldn't see him in the dim light and they couldn't use a Lumos because they had taken their wands away as a requirement to let them in.

In a corner of the cell there was a bunch of straw where Snape laid. They couldn't distinguish the man's position quite well, but they knew that cluster of black must have been the man's body.

Harry walked towards the Potion Master silently, extending his hand to touch him.

"Professor Snape…"

The boy could make out the glint of eyes, looking at him.

"How are you, Professor Snape? How is your wound?" he asked him, trying to find the gauzes of his neck; he realized the Occlumens was wearing the same prisoner's clothes as Sirius.

Hermione's hand was clutching his arm. Harry could barely see the man's eyes; the rest of his face was indistinguishable from the poor light of the remote window.

"How is your wound?"

What are you doing here, Potter?

"We came here to talk to you. We're getting you out of here, by force if necessary. You don't belong here.

A rumbling noise scared him. It was some kind of mockery coming from Snape; he hadn't recovered his voice, but he had managed to make that strange, bitter growl.

Don't come here to play the hero.

"Nobody is playing anything, professor. Please understand, you're already locked up, the next thing they'll want to do is condemn you to the dementor's kiss."

Snape supported his weak head against the straw, eyes lost.

"Professor, you have to give me some information, something to prove you're not guilty."

The black gaze quickly went back to him.

I don't have anything left to tell you, Potter. I don't have anything else to show you. If the jury thinks I'm a Death Eater, it's none of your business.

He didn't accept that attitude; he was about to face him when Granger got in between to examine the former professor's neck.

The gauze was stained red in some parts, still wet in others.

"Harry, his wounds will get infected if he goes on like this. There's nothing clean here, nobody to take care of him."

A growl surged from the man's throat.

"Have you even eaten something?"

You have no business being here, Granger.

Hermione quickly turned towards Harry, ignoring Snape.

"If we want him to survive, we have to get him out; either he gets condemned or he dies of infection in these conditions."

He looked around the cell closely; there was no gap in the walls, the dementors waited outside and they didn't even have their wands. There was no way they could get him out by force at the moment. They had to win the trial, and Snape didn't even want to cooperate.

The warden opened the door, letting in dim light.

"Time's over."

Both youths got out reluctantly; they had to wait until they left Azkaban to be able to talk to each other. They had insisted so much to get to that bloody prison and all they got in return was a visit that was as brief as useless; even if Snape had wanted to cooperate he wouldn't have had any time to do it. The prison's director flat out refused to allow a second visit; according to him, no prisoner could receive visitors. Both went back to Hogwarts in silence, each thinking about the alternatives they had left.

"We can go on with the trial without Snape," Harry said.

"And we'll have to, but Harry, if no one take cares of his wounds they'll surely get infected and it'll be very hard to manage something like that."

The boy shrunk.

"We can't get inside the prison. I'll show them the memories; it's the only solution I can think of."

She nodded.

"But we have to prepare ourselves for the next session, Harry, and quickly, before Snape gets any worse."

Every jury was there, the room's silence only broken by some coughs and echoes of the newcomers' steps. It was so full, there were people even standing on the stairs. The registrar smiled lightly while looking around. With a bell, the session got started.

Apparently, not only Snape was to be judged that day; Draco Malfoy too, who had been captured and was in the middle of the room, inside a cage. He was wearing his usual clothes, but wrinkled and dirty. His eyes were wet with fear, roaming on every jury's face until they found Harry's, where they stop, trembling and pleading. Harry shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. He didn't like the idea of speaking for every Death Eater present in that room; first, they'll focus on defending Snape, then they'll deal with Malfoy.

To his surprise, another cage ascended until reaching Malfoy's side; it was precisely the fugitive Hogwarts' director. The blonde beside him looked at him with horror and pity. The Occlumens supported himself weakly against the bars; his hands trembled in frenzy, with so much force that Harry and Hermione could notice it several meters away. He held his body against the cage to avoid falling; he was very dirty and pale, starving, with just a few shreds of clothes, grey skin and eyes surrounded by intense, dark spots, lips completely white.

The jury seemed to shiver a bit; they had imagined a cynical, smiling traitor, not a sickly, crippled one.

"Draco Malfoy, Severus Snape," the registrar began talking. "In the last session, the arguments presented by Mr Potter were discarded for being invalid. Do you have anything to say to defend yourself, Mr Snape?"

The man in the cage wasn't even looking at him, his eyes were fixed on the floor and seemed to be trying hard to ignore them all and pretend he wasn't there. Malfoy trembled behind his bars, muted by fear.

Harry stood up violently, aggressive rage building up inside him.

"He can't even talk! Nagini tore his throat apart; you should at least give him time to recover."

Hermione stood up too, making her chair screech.

"He's in a very delicate state and you keep him locked up in Azkaban! His wounds may get infected, and if they do, he won't even survive to see the end of this stupid trial."

The people on the podium started to murmur between them; some were peering at the registrar; others had their eyes fixed on Snape and Malfoy. The registrar could hear a whisper that made him nervous, that irritated him.

"Silence!" the registrar yelled, reclining on his chair. "Then, Mr Potter, putting aside any declaration from Severus Snape, do you have any evidence of your previous idle talk?"

Harry went to the front, walking around the cages to give them a little vial with fragments of the memories, but he hesitated when the registrar's hand took the vase. The man hadn't expected Snape to be there, and he was worried he'll see how his memories were handled to the jury.

The registrar emptied the vial's content in a small Pensieve; the images were shown just above him, allowing the whole room to see, a fact that mortified Potter even more. He could notice the Occlumens had raised his head to see his memories.

"He's going to be livid," he whispered, gaze fixed in the images.

"Maybe, Harry, but it was necessary," Hermione's hand caressed his shoulder.

Dumbledore's voice was clear in the room, almost as if the man had been brought back to life and was there, speaking to the whole hall.

It must be you who kills me, Severus.

A wave of whispers and cries crossed the room.

"For Merlin's!" someone yelled in the middle of the crowd.

You prepared him like a slaughtered pig…

Snape shifted at the sound of his own voice and Harry trembled too, hearing for the second time such an impossible situation: Snape defending him from Dumbledore.

The images shut down there; Harry had only given them a reduced part of the memories, only the indispensable.

The registrar took a few moments to speak again, he seemed pensive, unpleasantly surprised; suddenly a big part of the jury was looking at him darkly, moved out of compassion for the man in the cage.

"The veracity of this scene is still into question, the accused in front of you is still…" he made sure to emphasize his words. "An Occlumens. He could've fabricated the memories beforehand, in the case he was apprehended. In any case, let's give him some time to recover the ability to speak."

He gave a strong bang to the table.

"Severus Snape is freed from Azkaban. He'll remain in house arrest until he's capable of defending himself."

The young Gryffindor breathed out, relieved.

The house arrest wasn't as favourable as they'd thought at the beginning; an endless list of conditions was spread in front of him. Harry reread the Minister's letter, his frown deepening after each line. Snape would be locked up in some house placed in the muggle world from which he'd not be able to leave because they were going to hex him. Nobody was to visit him without a special permit with at least three days of anticipation; they'll let someone chosen by Harry to take care of the man, but that person couldn't use magic while being inside the house (just like Snape couldn't use magic under any circumstance). This person would take care of his medical nursing and everything else, avoiding anyone else's intervention. The accused would be imprisoned until the fourth session of the trial, where his future would be determined.

McGonagall, Potter, Granger and Weasley were trying to agree on who was going to the house with the Potion Master. McGonagall, given her position as Hogwarts' Director, was discarded immediately. Harry, for his part, had to take care of too many things to get locked up in a house for Merlin knew how long. It was between Weasley and Granger, and given Hermione's usefulness, Ron was the most viable option, but also the least willing to accept.

"There's nothing wrong about it, Ron. Snape doesn't seem to be in the mood, he'll probably not even talk to you," the young woman said, trying to convince him. Weasley paled at the idea of being left alone with that man indefinitely.

"And what if he's guilty like the registrar said? Why do we have to take care of him?"

A glowing green stare fixed on him.

"He's innocent."

"Those memories could be false and you know it," the redhead defended himself. "You could be defending the person who murdered Dumbledore and your parents."

"He didn't do it," he said with growing resentment.

"Enough!" the brunette cut in. "We're not here to argue if he's guilty or not. Ron, you have to stay with him."

The boy looked at everyone's faces with a grimace of bitter discontent.

"I can't do it, I'm serious. Do you think the bat and me could be together?" the other three looked at each other, sceptical. They had to face it, it didn't sound convincing. "Do you think we'll manage not to kill each other?"

Harry averted his eyes.

"Alright, I'll do it," the scarred boy said. "It's my responsibility."

"Of course not, Harry, you can't. I know how to treat his wounds and I know I'll survive. Let me do it; I can prepare arguments for the trial and take care of him at the same time, no problem."

"Not a chance, Hermione. Not you," said Ron authoritative, regretting it a few seconds later when the girl's face turned slowly towards him, like a mother on the verge of exploding.

"Ronald Weasley!"

The boy let her go, timid, staying silent and very still. The ex-Prefect was still looking at him angrily.

"Well, as I was saying, I'll take care of him. I'll even go to pick him up today, it's not good for him to spend more time there."

But Hermione had another reason to volunteer herself. She didn't do it only to help Harry, but to protect him too. If Snape really was a murderer, he had the monstrous cunning to kill Dumbledore and then make the whole magic community doubt, to the point where some considered him innocent. She couldn't leave Harry at his mercy; she had to take care of him and watching him over at the same time. She wasn't going to let her friend with his guard down to a possible killer. Besides, she could also ascertain the truth and finally convince herself of the innocence or guiltiness of the man they were defending.

She opened the lock, pushing the door which screeched loudly, as if the house itself was complaining. Dust flew when they got in; Hermione was barely getting used to the dim light when the guards let Snape go and closed the door forcefully, leaving them confined. The man fell gracelessly, staining his prisoner's robe on the dirty floor. Guilty or not, the girl was starting to feel an annoying compassion towards him. She tugged his arm; the man was barely moving, grimacing of pain and exhaustion, flapping his arms uselessly without managing to hang onto anything in the middle of the empty room. The girl kneeled to level up with him and talk.

"It seems the room is on the second floor. Hold onto me, we have to go up. Hold on tight," she put one of the man's arms over her shoulders and grabbed him by the waist, forcing him to rely on her. Snape seemed uncomfortable, a flick of distaste and annoyance on his face. They walked slowly to the stairs, like two blind elders, sometimes extending their hands when they stumbled, considering the murky light and the room's dust.

Hermione let the man support his other side on the stairs' railway and started to climb equally slowly, step by step. The girl looked at Snape's bowed head, his quite dirty hair, his sallow, sunken face. He didn't look like the smug, tyrannical teacher. He'd seemed so tall when she was a child, having to stretch her neck upwards to look at him. Now that was the only thing remaining: filth and pallor and weakness.

Snape, sensing he was being watched, lifted his head.

"It won't take long, just a bit more," the girl said, grabbing him tighter to keep his lanky body beside her, upwards. But the Occlumens had been able to read her mind for a few seconds when he had looked at her. He knew she pitied him, despised him and still felt compassion for him. He'd have hated her for that in the past, but it didn't matter anymore, nothing mattered. Granger wasn't anything more than a force that helped him climb the stairs. Everything around him was like mere shadows, like straw dolls in his path.

I know they hate me.

I don't care if they judge me. I wouldn't care if they hailed me instead of accusing me. I know I'm better than them, I know I achieved what no one could've done: I fooled the Dark Lord.

I am what I always wanted to be, I'm a winner, I'm victorious. I deserve Merlin's Order, I deserve admiration and honour, and even if you don't give it to me, I still deserve it.

I am what I always feared. I'm a murderer, a miser, an Azkaban's prisoner. Everyone hates me, I'm all alone.

But it doesn't matter that I've become a horrible version of executioner and hero. I'm none of that, honestly.

Everything I did was for a reason, and that reason no longer exists.

Now Lily could admire and love me; she won't, because she's dead. But she could. Now I deserve her love because I've done everything for her, now I deserve her forgiveness. And she won't.

At this stage, I can't even forgive myself.

For the first time I'm worthy of Lily; for her I went to the Order's side, for her I served Dumbledore to the point I hunted my own death, for her I gave my life to Voldemort.

But I am unworthy of Lily too; for her I murdered.

Everything has been for her; she who is not going to forgive me because she's dead and there's nothing to bind us anymore. Her son doesn't need me anymore and he's turning from the bond that has always linked us to the thing he was always meant to be: proof that she never loved me, will never love me, the living proof that her place will always be next to Potter.

And that I'm alone.

Everything I've done is useless, because I'm alone.

I want to close my eyes to the world and for everything I ever felt for Lily to die inside me and burn, burn completely along with me.

Hermione was climbing the stairs with food in hand; she had been so happy when she realized there was a supermarket and a library close by. Given that Snape was asleep (he was almost always asleep), she could go out for a while to shop groceries for the week. She cooked for him some chicken and poured a cup of tea; it was clear the man was poorly fed.

She entered the room without knocking; there was a numb light, feeble, that came from the window like a yellow breeze. Snape was laying down, back facing the door, in complete silence. The girl couldn't even hear his breathing. She closed the distance and put the tray on an old bureau next to the bed.

"I brought you some food, professor."

Nothing moved inside that room. The girl started to tear the chicken apart, releasing a delicious smell. It was burning her fingers a bit, but she tore it apart with gusto.

"Come on, professor. I know you're awake. I saved you the tender part."

She didn't know why she was talking to him like a child; that man didn't care if the flesh was tender. He only put effort into sleeping or pretending to be asleep.

Granger took the tray to the other side of the room, to face Snape. She crouched while still shredding the chicken.

"Professor Snape…"

The convalescent's eyes were closed; his face was that of a deadman, colourless and wearing a strange skin, almost grey.

"I know you're awake. Open your eyes or I'll force the food down, by any means necessary."

The man frowned, raising his lids, grimacing with bitterness and weariness. A fork was hovering quite close to his lips, a piece of smouldering chicken threaded in it.

"Open up."

Leave it on the plate, I can eat on my own. Get out.

The girl kept the fork in its intrusive position.

"Open up."

Snape turned around painstakingly, letting Hermione face the frustrating view of his back.

"You have to eat," he heard a severe voice behind him, reminding him of Minerva. He perceived steps around the bed and a few seconds later the fork was in front of him again, with the same piece of smouldering chicken.

"Open up."

Get out, Granger. You're insufferable.

"Open up."

The meat was pressed against his mouth, fighting to get in. He pushed the fork away with one hand, sending it to the floor, where it got full of dirt. The brunette's eyes were wet in anger.

"That was really rude."

Get out.

"Don't eat, then. You're behaving like a petulant child," she stood up with determination, taking the tray with her, without picking up the fork from the floor. Before she left she glared at him, condemning like an outraged mother, which Snape had always thought didn't fit her. "Don't think I love to be here, all locked up. You should be at least kinder."

After that, she slammed the door.

She climbed the stairs at night, with a new tray of food. She opened the door again without knocking, knowing the man was asleep by his choppy breathing. She left the tray on the bureau and stood in front of the bed for a while, watching him.

She pitied Snape, after all.

It was unpleasant to feel something like that for a man like him, who had never been compassionate or considerate. Somehow, it could be said that she was looking at him for the first time, without thinking about Voldemort, without fearing him, nor considering him a threat.

He was curled up like a child, trembling by the fever, still wearing the prisoner's clothes; he desperately needed a bath, but Hermione felt neither encouraged nor strong enough to try and force him to presentable. There were just the two of them, after all; it didn't matter, nobody would see him like that apart from her.

She got close to give him the fever potion, pouring it in his lips. Snape gulped obediently, barely aware of what was happening around him, and closed his eyes again.

She regarded his dusty face, his shaking, bony hands.

"Did you want to kill Dumbledore?" she asked quietly, wishing a second later that Snape hadn't heard her.

The night light reflected against his eyes, which weren't looking at her, fixed on the window. Hermione felt overwhelmed by the darkness and silence, by the lost gaze and the blue light shining against it. Snape didn't look like Snape, it was like he didn't even see her, as if he didn't know she was there and some voice inside his head had asked him if he had wanted to kill Dumbledore.

The man tried to speak; with his useless voice, he only managed to pronounce blurry, unintelligible syllables. Then he put his head against the pillow meekly and sunk in sleep.

Hermione stayed a few more minutes beside his bed, vial in hand, facing the half-blood asleep, watching carefully the sharp, heady curve of his nose, his too-thin lips, his frown.

And her wary pity turned, for a second, into a crushing feeling of compassion. For a second she believed in his innocence completely, but clouds of rationality entered her head again and started to question everything. Was there some infallible way of knowing the truth?