Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. Rowling and Gato Azul own this.
7. The Dragon Spits Fire
The man was laying on the mattress, noticeably annoyed, frowning. Hermione was somewhat relieved to find such a common expression in his face, instead of all the other ones from the days before, unfamiliar and disturbing to her.
"How do you feel?"
She left the tray on the bureau without turning to look at him, to avoid getting a response she didn't want to know. The man looked at the food with intense disdain, as if he wanted to throw it to the floor.
"Don't even try it, professor Snape," the girl said, guessing his thoughts.
Get out, Granger.
"I want to see you eating what I brought, you're too weak."
Snape looking at the plate as if considering the idea of trying, but finally didn't and closed his eyes.
"Professor Snape, yesterday you fainted just by standing up. Don't tell me you're not hungry."
The lying down frame didn't move.
"I'll have to force you if you don't cooperate."
"Da—re."
The girl didn't hesitate and walked to him, pulling his shirt, then smashed the piece of fruit against his closed mouth. She only managed to get Snape to throw the fork away, just like the last time.
What do you think you're doing, Granger? Who do you think you are?
"I'm just trying to get you to eat something," she said, kneeling to pick up the fork with fruit and the one with chicken from the day before.
"For Merlin! Please, eat something, professor Snape. Have you seen yourself in front of a mirror? You look like a walking corpse."
She was talking to him kindly, almost begging, giving him another piece of apple, like a mother to a stubborn child.
"Eat something."
I don't need you to feed me.
The girl hurried to put the tray on his legs, looking at him impatiently.
The pieces of fruit and buns that the girl had brought tempted him, he was so hungry, he hadn't eaten anything since days ago; it was hard for him to give up that food. He took the fork to his mouth and chewed without energy. Only then did Granger stood up from the edge of the bed and stood in the threshold.
"I got you some clothes, professor, but they're all muggle, unfortunately. You can take off those Azkaban's robes and take a shower, afterwards I'll use some healing spells. Your wounds are probably dirty, and I don't want them to get infected."
The man swallowed the apple with boredom, barely paying any attention to the girl's words.
The wet, black hair was slipping from her fingers. She removed the gauzes slowly; Snape smelled like soap, he had just taken a shower and put those muggle clothes. Hermione thought he wouldn't be very happy, she had only found a brown shirt and grey trouser, colours he never wore, but the Potion Master didn't complain. Maybe, after wearing prison's clothes, he didn't mind wearing that.
She focused on the healing spells; the bandages were full of dirt, and the flesh cuts were dirty too. Hermione wasn't sure they looked good; they had blood scabs. She scrubbed them with energy; the man shifted, looking at her darkly.
Be careful, Granger.
"They could get infected, they're dirty."
She had gotten alcohol at a chemist; she poured it slowly on his neck. The Potion Master gritted his teeth, stiffening, closing his eyes.
Fucking damn you, Granger. Be more careful!
She seized his long hours of sleep to go out and look for that library she had seen. She brought back to the house several books, even a child story that reminded her of those times her dad read her stories.
One of her favourites: Beauty and Beast.
Even though she had never dreamed of being like Belle. Being locked up with a gigantic, furry animal who roared and threw things away didn't sound particularly nice.
She laughed a bit about her situation; when she had been a child she'd have never imagined she would be imprisoned in a house arrest, with a neurotic wizard, just like those princesses of those stories, kept away in towers, guarded by a dragon who spat fire. That last part reminded her a lot of Snape.
Granger had turned to be quite noisy; she went in and out with a broom, sweeping everywhere, muggle-style. He heard her climb the screeching stairs, heard her drag a mop in the adjacent room, to show up in his later on, wetting all the floor.
He'd have liked to be able to close his eyes and sleep for many hours like on previous days, but his body wasn't so weak, and it wasn't easy for him to sleep, much less with that girl swarming around.
Hermione noticed the man glaring at her from his bed. On previous days he had been so lethargic he didn't detect her presence and didn't notice the fuss Granger made, dragging a barrel all over the second floor.
"Aren't you going to sleep today, professor Snape?"
His pale face stiffened even more.
"I'm n—not your pro—fe—ssor."
Hermione blinked, mop in hand, dripping and leaking on the floor. It was true, the man wasn't her teacher anymore, but she couldn't imagine herself calling him any other way: Snape? Mr. Snape? She'd rather stay like that.
"And how I'm supposed to address you now, sir?"
The Occlumens watched her with empty eyes for a few seconds, then he turned on his side, giving her his back, without answering. Granger didn't understand those moods very well. She kept on moping, without minding the laying frame that growled every time the barrel made some noise as she dragged it over the wood's floor.
The Ministry had sent them an owl with the Prophet and some letters her friends wrote her, and soon the daily reading of the messages and the newspaper were the only means of contact Hermione had with the outer world; it was the only thing that gave some purpose to her days, to the longer and heavier afternoons of confinement.
She had already cleaned the house over and over again, to the last corner, to the most remote, dusty nook.
She didn't have anything else to do. Snape wasn't eating anything she cooked and was losing weight too quickly; she could already see the outline of his ribs and his spinal cord's line. She tried to force him to eat, but the food ended up in the floor.
She cried many times at the foot of the stairs, of sadness, of distress.
She couldn't find her parents, she couldn't see Ron, she couldn't even manage to make the man she was supposed to keep alive taste some food.
She begged, yelled, pleaded, demanded him… she didn't know what else to do.
I hope you and professor Snape are doing good.
Pieces of Harry's letters were floating in her mind, his voice, Ron's, scattered around her memories.
You know how's the bat, but don't worry, Herms. Tho if I were you, I'd have already suffocated him with a pillow.
Sometimes she smiled a bit, when she remembered his sardonic smile and red hair, intensely red.
Please, Hermione, don't let him sink, Potter's lines whispered to her.
She wasn't sure she'd make it, nothing she told Snape seemed to have any value to him. He just looked at her with an air of indifference and superiority, face more and more exanimate, body every day thinner.
The half-blood snoozed, hands stretched over his chest, exactly like a mummy. The girl slipped between his lips a spoon full of soup. Whatever she could manage to give him would be a gain. The man opened his eyes startled, then his grimace turned instantly from fright to irritation and disdain.
What… the hell do you think you're doing in my room? Get out!
"You have to eat," and she pointed determinately the spoon to his mouth. The man's hand got in the way, but Hermione grabbed him by the wrist and held on tight, still holding the spoon with her free hand.
"Stop it. Look what you're doing, you're sick! Eat, just look at yourself, look how thin you are."
That's none of your—
She seized the distraction and put the spoon in his mouth; the man fought violently, but his strength was scarce and didn't manage to push her away completely.
The girl was all big eyes, all her was a brown gaze, wet, vibrant, transparent.
"What's wrong with you? You were never like this, you were always strong, always moving around. You never sat to feel sorry for yourself."
Shut up, Granger. You think you know everything, typical of you.
"I know you weren't what you're now."
And what am I now, Granger? Do you even know that? You twat, petulant brat.
"Does nothing matter to you? Then, if everything it's the same to you, then tell me on which side were you, with us?"
With who? The glorious golden trio?
The shaggy girl had stood up from the edge of the bed and now looked down to the man, a firm belief pushing her into motion.
"On Dumbledore's side, the man you killed."
She couldn't perceive any shift in Snape's expression.
"Then everything you're being accused of is true?"
Snape raised his chin, a long, sharp chin, with a noticeably defiant arrogance.
Are you the judge who will convict me, Granger?
"You killed Dumbledore, the man who protected you. You were an accomplice of professor Charity's torture and murder…" Hermione was barely digesting all the horrible, bloody crimes the Potion Master was being accused of and she was beginning to feel disgusted by the man in front of her. She remembered Charity's kind voice when she gave her lessons, her slow, careful way of closing her books at the end of her classes, and a rampaging outrage was spreading inside her. "How could you?" she spat, throat dry by her rage. "What kind of heartless man are you? You're accused of those things and that's not it, you also cut George's ear! You betrayed us all those years! You even revealed Voldemort the prophecy, Harry's parents are dead because of you, James Potter, Lily Potter! How many more are on your list, professor Snape? How many more did you kill?"
The man turned his eyes to the wall, but Granger was too exalted and grabbed him by the shoulders to shake him. The prisoner seemed stunned by that action.
"You have to tell me! Did you do it?"
His black eyes hovered on hers, with something like uncertainty forming inside them, but soon coldness took over again.
And what if I did it, Granger? Will you stop helping in the trial? Won't you defend me anymore?
Hermione let him go suddenly, as if being close to him scared her.
"You're awful. I don't understand why Dumbledore saved you."
That crazy old man—
Hermione couldn't contain herself any longer and smacked her hand against the pale cheek, causing a sharp noise against skin.
"Enough! Why are you so calm? If you have done all those horrors, how can you be so calm? They're going to execute you," she put her hands on her forehead, desperate, overwhelmed to be in front of the raw image of the inner evil of people, of consciousness's rottenness. "Professor Charity, Lily Potter, what did they do to you? Why did you hand them to a death like that?"
The half-blood trembled at the edge of the mattress, without completely recovering from that slap that had twisted his neck. As she saw him, Hermione regretted hitting him, maybe he deserved it, but that wasn't the moment, not when he was so frail.
"Do you know Harry heard her mother's screams? Do you? He told me. Sometimes he heard her in his dreams, in the visions his scar created."
Snape shivered.
"Doesn't that matter to you? You don't care what professor Charity or Harry's mother felt when they were murdered?"
Enough, Granger.
The mental voice sounded exhausted. The man laid down, still trembling; it was obvious he wanted her to stop.
"They're dead and you don't care—"
"Shut up, Granger!"
He got up from the bed unexpectedly, facing her, with his booming voice, with his tone of crashing roar. Hermione hadn't thought he'd had the strength to move like that, so quick and lively. She stepped back unconsciously, fearing of being hit.
"You don't know shite, stupid girl! Don't you dare talk about me! Don't you dare mention her!"
The girl didn't understand what was happening, the tender fibre, the raw wound where she had put her hands in.
"Of course I bloody care, you fucking, conceited twat! Potter is telling the truth! Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"No… I—" the girl took several steps back, protecting her face with her hands, as if she really thought he was going to punch her.
"Now you know, go and think of a theory and gloat…"
The tall, loud frame suddenly bowed, coughing desperately, until he was kneeling again on the floor. Granger got close, shaken up, reaching up slowly to the laying lump. But his blazing gaze burned on her.
Get out! Get out and don't come back!
The girl stumbled to the door, groping the dark with hurry. When she exited the room, she closed the door and breathed in deeply with all her might, still terrified of Snape's disfigured, wrathful face, of his incandescent eyes, but, above all, of the words he'd uttered.
Potter is telling the truth.
She opened the door slowly, first looking through the lock, then getting in with a plate of stew on her hands. The sunlight entered through the window, spreading the bright breadth of its rays. She found herself in the room, hearing clearly the ragged, irregular breathing. The man was upside down over the mattress, bare feet hanging over the edge of the bed.
A glass of water was spilt on the floor.
Hermione picked it up and examined the fallen prisoner. She hadn't been able to sleep, she'd only thought about him, about the things Harry said, about her own memories. Insomnia's coldness was making her dizzy. Her own inner coldness which her confusion caused had also been eating her from her insides all night.
She thought about every single one of her moments with Snape, about every comment she had heard about him in the seven years she had known him.
His awful, sullen grimaces; his threatening, despot voice; his ability to easily run over anyone who got close to him with insults. His personality matched exactly with that of a Death Eater's. And yet there was evidence of the contrary, the stony trust Harry held for him and Dumbledore's posthumous wishes of keeping him alive.
Just for them, she didn't dare to condemn him completely.
Nonetheless, Snape had shown in those crucial moments some mercy, like when he was a referee in a Quidditch's match just to protect Harry.
When she finished pondering the whole matter, she was as disoriented as ever.
She kept on analysing the still figure. Who else could tell her truth but him, who apparently had never said something genuine in his life?