Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise belong to me. J. K. Rowling and Gato Azul own my body and this work.
8. The Nomadic Virgin
Before that fight, Snape had only used his normal ill-temper, but afterwards, he seemed to plot new ways of making Hermione's life impossible. Even his repertoire of insults had grown considerably.
That afternoon, the foolish man threw his food and Hermione had to start cleaning that mess without magic, resigned and crestfallen, without even scolding him or glaring at him for his ingratitude.
Downstairs someone knocked on the door. Hermione picked up the tray, put there the pieces of broken plate and destroyed food on it and hurried down to open.
Harry was in the threshold, hollow-eyed and serious. The door was barely opening when Hermione was already jumping to his arms, hugging him tightly, talking to his ear.
"Harry," the boy felt her cling to his body like it was a plank in the middle of the ocean. "I've missed you so much, Harry. How's Ron?"
The scarred boy shrugged.
"You know how he is."
"Harry, Snape—" she got away from him, red-faced and with swollen eyes, showing she was close to tears. "I don't know what to do with him anymore, Harry. He only talks to insult me, he throws away all the food, he doesn't even let me touch him to change his bandages. I don't know what to do, Harry."
His green gaze traced her face. Suddenly, Granger seemed possessed by some of her ideas.
"A few days ago, Snape confessed you were telling the truth."
The boy raised his brows.
"I assumed you didn't believe me."
"Harry, you have to tell me. How am I to help you with the trial?"
"I don't know, Hermione. The professor—"
Snape appeared at the top of the stairs, supporting himself with a piece of a broken broom, using it as a cane. His expression turned sour when he recognized the young man on the ground floor.
"Potter, to what do I owe the visit of such an important celebrity to my humble… prison?"
The boy dropped Hermione's hand which had curled in his and quickly climbed the wood steps.
"Professor Snape," he raised his hand, swallowing hard, hoping in the inside that finally, just for a change, things could go well, that without resentment everything could get better and not end up in curses and verbal bites.
But Snape watched his hand as if it was a piece of trash.
I'm neither Black nor Lupin to go around you like a lapdog.
"Professor Lupin died in battle," Harry said, trying to not react violently at the man's poisonous response.
The sunken, bitter eyes fell on several spots of the room; Snape seemed confused and surprised for a few moments, then he went and locked himself up in his room without saying anything else, never taking the stretched hand.
Hermione's image reached Harry; her big eyes, always wide and careful, were waiting for him downstairs.
The languid, yellow light was sliding along the wall, filling a part of the inhabited room, splashing their faces with sun's fragments, orange and white, colouring their sad eyes with dawn's glow.
Harry was in the house until the day darkened; Hermione walked him to the door and said goodbye in the middle of the dried garden full of mauves around the house. She stayed outside until she saw him disappear in the distance.
It seemed like the world had been emptied, that nobody existed in those long streets around her and all she had left was Snape, laying down upstairs. The blunt silence was crushing her chest, moving in the middle of the loneliness like a tiny bug.
She sat on the last step of the stairs, watching a stain of humidity on the wall with the same attention she'd give an abstract painting, trying to decipher it or find some kind of meaning to an unreasonable form.
Harry had talked a lot about the fourth session; he wasn't explicit, but he implied it would be postponed indefinitely and that they should prepare themselves well because it'd probably be the final one. And yet he didn't want to say anything else. Granger would've to keep waiting in the dark and uncertainty.
But Hermione couldn't bear to breathe that house's air, to drink her insipid coffee, to stand his asphyxiating aphonia.
She didn't want to see Snape anymore; Harry didn't understand the conflict that arose inside her when she entered the Potion Master's room: sympathy, pity, resentment, anguish, and lording over the rest, guilt. How had Snape managed to leave her feeling guilty? It was absurd, and yet she couldn't avoid it: to think the man had the right to throw any trays he wanted to the floor and systematically insult her.
She went up to sleep unwillingly, not wanting to face the professor. She reached the room and knocked lightly twice, then she got in. It was dark, a soft wind moved the fluffy sheets of the curtain, letting her see tree's branches, looking like twisted hands and, far away, streetlights of dim light, like that of a dream.
She recognized the man's body under the sheets, his face deep in the shadows. She sat on the carpet, thinking about Ron, feeling a hot tear forming on one of her eyes. A moan made her turn towards him, looking for his face in the dark.
"Professor Snape?" she whispered close by, just watching the lines of his closed eyes and a bunch of black hair that hid his features. She extended her hand to his forehead, hesitant to touch him, barely brushing his wet, burning skin before taking from the bureau a vial of fever potion and pouring a few drops in his lips. Her muscles tensed when his eyelids fluttered open.
Granger?
"You have high fever; I gave you some medicine. I'm sorry I woke you up."
I forgive you, Granger. After all, that is the lesser of my evils and the least of your insolences too.
The girl watched her, half surprised and half irritated, weakly holding the vial. Snape pushed her hand, causing the potion to spill and stain Hermione's pants. The dark liquid dripped from the girl's hand, falling on a small puddle on the floor; the stain on her clothes was slowly expanding.
"What the…?"
Her brown eyes looked at the wet floor, then the man, smothered rage inside them.
I warned you, Granger. Stay away from me or face the consequences.
"You're such a…" but she held her tongue and slammed the door, tears falling from her eyes.
She couldn't stand him anymore. He insulted her, threw the food, the potions, what was left? That he wetted the bed just to leave her with the task of cleaning them?
She let herself fall on the stairs, crying like a child. She was embarrassed by that; after everything she went through with Harry and Ron, isolated in a tent, she ended up crying for something as insignificant as Snape having thrown a vial.
Maybe she was done with things being so hard. It was frustrating that, despite the fact the war was over, she still had to fight, without being able to be with Ron or look for her parents. Without being able to return to normalcy.
After some minutes of distressed wetness, she dried her tears; she had recovered some strength after crying. She walked to the Occlumens' room, in the night of buzzing silences, of guessing eyes in the dark, to try to save Snape from the pit he was falling in.
I opened the envelop, recognizing the handwriting immediately. That explained why the letter was so short. Snape was looking at me, I tried to ignore his piercing stare on me and started to read.
Ron was saying goodbye. He hadn't gotten the permit to come here and say goodbye in person, and he had to help George at the store which had been his and Fred's. He didn't know how long was he to remain away, he wasn't very explicit; even in his distant voice depicted in words and scroll I hoped to find something more, that he told me he loved me, that he'll miss me, that he'll promise me he'd write, but I found none of that in his short letter. I thought he was angry with me for having abandoned him, for isolating myself here on my own will.
The sadness that his cold lines caused me was way too big for such a short letter. I withstood the days hoping he may come, that in the least expected moment someone'd knock the door and when I opened it I'd find his shiny hair and sardonic smile. Sometimes Ron is like that, it seems he doesn't know anything that's going around him, like he doesn't know how much I need him. And yet I wrote back immediately, I told him I'd wait for him, that I wished him luck and I yearned for the day we'd see each other again.
I hope he answers back. He doesn't know the relief it'd be to feel him a bit closer, to feel his presence in this lonely house, in this confinement.
Snape keeps looking at me with mocking curiosity in his face. I don't know, I feel this kind of sadness for him, very recurrent; it's like he's always faking it, like he tries so hard to seem harsh and let me know how much he hates me and how silly I am to him.
But anything I may feel for Snape is always a duality; after all, I don't live with one, but two Snapes, the possible culprit and the possible hero. I never know which one to believe and I'm torn between being kind, between my condescending urges and my outrage for Dumbledore' and other's death.
At the end I'm unable to take any road: neither do I write with conviction an argument to save him, nor do I drop out the case.
I hate being like this.
The Ministry's big, grey owl was drinking water, standing on the bureau beside the bed; Snape was watching her distractedly, eyes empty and lifeless. Granger was checking the mail enthusiastically and unfolded the newspaper, enjoying the best part of her day.
She started to read out loud, glancing at the man to see if she managed to catch his attention. There were several of Skeeter's articles that talked about Harry's alleged flings. Hermione snorted tiredly when she noticed she was mentioned as one of the boy-who-lived's lovers; in the picture, there was the hug she and Harry shared in the Triwizard Tournament.
"It's amazing they still have that photo."
Snape rolled his eyes, bored. Granger's gaze still searched the pages and images, curious. A headline alarmed her and read the whole texted out loud. Some defected Death Eaters had been attacked and murdered; even Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had been assaulted. If the Aurors hadn't found them on time maybe they would be dead. Both were recovering in St. Mungo; afterwards, they'll be taken to Azkaban for the trial.
Hermione bit her lips; it was a relief to be in that hidden house, where they'd hardly find Snape. When she finished reading, she looked in the man's face a trace of the anguish she was feeling, but the Occlumens' gaze was still fixed on the owl, who caressed its feathers.
She opened Harry's letter; as she had expected, he told her to take care and explained that the Ministry had forbidden him to visit them again.
"For Merlin's sake, they won't even let Harry visit us," the Potion Master came back from his lethargy, watching her with boredom.
What a tragedy. I don't know how we will manage to survive without Potter.
Hermione didn't pay him attention and kept looking for information in the papers but found nothing. She sat on the carpet to drink some juice, uneasy. She hoped that the fact they were isolated meant safety for them.
She opened the storybook, caressing with open hands the yellow, smooth pages, enjoying the smell of an old book that was so familiar to her. The left page was embellished by a capricious drawing of sharp colours, waves and thin coils. Bella pulled back, scared by the blunt, rough shape of the beast, standing in front of her, showing claws and fangs, like a wolf about to eat her. Hermione smiled as she remembered the whole story, imagining the beast's huge body folding itself meekly under Bella's caress.
"Sto…ries?" a disdainful voice stuttered on her back; when she turned around, she found Snape's long eyes.
You're too old for that, don't you think? Who'd have thought, Gryffindor's Brain having fun reading children's tales?
"Storybooks have some implicit psychology, professor."
No shit.
One of his eyebrows rose and he sneered.
"This one, for example, Beauty and Beast. It's a classic, maybe you've heard of it."
Deep down Hermione didn't even hope that such a trivial, curt man would be remotely interested in that kind of stories, or even knew them by chance.
"The prince is turned into a beast by a witch and—"
The Potion Master made an indifferent gesture with his hand, implying he wanted her to shut up.
Hermione sighed, turning back to the book, where the beast was fighting with his aggressive fangs. And she thought of Snape.
Granger was picking up glass fragments from the floor; one of them had cut her hand, making her bleed. Again, the Occlumens had smashed the tray to the ground, the food she had taken so long to prepared scattered all over the floor. The plate and vase had shattered when they fell, and their fragment filled the room. Hermione picked up the mess without complaining, without even yelling at the man that watched her from the bed with a haughty expression of unhealthy satisfaction.
She felt she'd soon reach her limit: wasted food every day, insults, grimaces and recently he had thrown coffee or healing vials on the sheets or carpet to make her wash them; he broke her letters and ripped the newspaper so she couldn't read them. The only thing Hermione had managed to save was that loaned book from the library. If things kept on like that, she'd explode against the man, but she tried hard to contain herself; Harry asked her in every letter to treat him well, and she did it as far as her patience and stoicism allowed her.
When she finished cleaning the floor, she sat on the naked floor (the carpet was drying up on the garden) to try and read the pieces of paper that had been Harry's letter. At noon she cooked a stew that the Occlumens threw to the floor again, without even tasting it.
Before it darkened, she went out to wash the new set of sheets which the professor had stained with tea; the sky was covered by big, dark clouds that forbid with an ethereal wall any kind of sunlight.
The cold wind messed her hair up; far away, in the sky's vault a ray was born, a big snake of light, slipping between the harsh wind. She thought about what to do with the recently washed sheets, fearing they'd fly away, pushed by the wind and ending up in the mud. She gathered them in her arms, ending up a bit wet, to get them inside the house and lay them down in the empty room. She walked to the front door and found Snape's sullen face behind the glass, watching her with derision; his unusual presence in the kitchen made her worry. She tried to open the door, noticing with desperation it was locked on the inside.
"Professor Snape!" she yelled, knocking the glass with one hand while holding the wet sheets with the other. "Could you please open the door?"
The Occlumens' disdainful smile only increased her fear.
"Sir, it looks like it's going to rain," the girl said on the other side of the glass, hair flying on her face and sky booming in explosions of light behind her.
It looks like it, Granger.
"Please open the door."
"No," he said with a voice too firm and determined, as hoarse as it had been in the past.
Granger stood by the door; the man went to the kitchen, destroying her hopes of getting inside until he went back and unlocked the door. Hermione watched impatiently as it started raining slowly, and what began as a tiny drop on her forehead ended up becoming a constant, generous rain, which ripped leaves from the trees and turned the garden's soil into mud.
The girl's cries reached the man, who was reading a book in the living room, sitting on the stairs. He peeped with curiosity to see her getting soaked by the relentless storm, hair stuck on her face, already dripping, with sheets on her arms that looked like a ghost tangled in her arms.
"Professor, please… let me in, it's cold."
The man was sipping coffee calmly, smiling at her cynically.
Really, Granger? I think it's for the best you stay there; you'll splash the floor with those shoes.
"For Merlin, professor Snape!"
If you'll excuse me, Granger.
He turned slowly, with an affected, irritating elegance that infuriated her; she hit and kicked the door with no avail. She then looked at the hostile sky, with a feeling of impotence and vulnerability that made her want to cry right there and then. She sat in the mud, tired of waiting, watching the drops fall apart at the end of their long fall. The storm eventually worsened, forcing her to cover herself with the wet sheets, like a shroud or a cocoon. The rain started to decrease, falling languidly, forming small waves in the ponds. Finally, when the sky seemed finished, the door opened.
Granger trembled in the threshold, wrapped in her white cloak and soaked like a nomadic virgin, without stepping in, watching him in confusion.
What, would you rather sleep outside? Because if that's the case…
"No!" she got inside quickly, smearing mud with her shoes full of mire.
I hope you'll clean that, Granger.
The girl watched him, tightening her lips.
The fact that you look like a tramp right now doesn't mean you have to behave like one.
The Gryffindor spread the sheets and took her shoes off, leaving them in a corner. She noticed the presence of the Ministry's owl; his feathers were wet and he extended his wigs, inflating his chest, with huge, yellow eyes fixed on her.
"Orestes?"
The Occlumens turned his head towards her while sipping coffee.
Your mail's here, Granger.
The girl perked up a bit at the news.
"And where is it?"
The man's gaze travelled to a trash can close to the table; the girl understood quickly, jumping to pull out the ripped paper. Discontent showed on her face when she saw Ron's name in one of the envelopes; the letter was shredded to pieces so small they were completely intelligible. Snape had left the envelope full of scroll's confetti.
A pair of irate, wet eyes looked for the man's face.
And to think, even with his stupidity, Weasley wrote you five pages. Pity.
Granger was watching him, holding in her chest vitriolic, swollen rage. It was clear on her face the barely contained desire to insult and slap him. She picked up her letter's pieces, running to the second floor, eyes wet.
He opened the door without knocking. Granger was sitting on the floor in front of a row of torn paper; she turned her wet face to look at him; her redden eyes seemed to pass through him, fixed on him like nails.
What's wrong, Granger? Are you mad?
The girl grimaced and turned her head away. The man's cynicism irritated her even more, his almost satisfied expression, while she saw him lay down on the bed.
"You have been… you have behaved like a..."
Like a what? Granger.
"You're sick," the girl told him with a mixture of compassion and hate that the man didn't like.
"And you're an imbe—cile," it irritated him to have been unable to insult her fluently.
Instead of wasting your unproductive time bothering me, you should go and clean up the mess you left downstairs.
The girl stood up, without stopping glaring at him, and slammed the door violently.
Ron was always right, Snape's a git. I know he's important to you, but Harry, that man has nothing to do with me, I mean, I can't stand him anymore. The other day I tried to change his bandages and he threw my hands away with this expression of disgust that—well, do you really think he's repulsed by me, Harry?
When I'm close to him, I feel like I do everything wrong, I don't know. When he looks at me like that, with that haughty expression you know better than anyone, I feel like I'm an idiot, like I'm still the immature girl raising her hand in Potion's class.
It's like I'm doing something inappropriate all the time, as if my mere presence was offensive to him.
Believe me, I've tried to be patient, but he's unbearable sometimes. I know that he's a good man to you, or that at least some part of him is still worth it, but it's hard to remember it after receiving so many of his slights. Besides Harry, you have to consider I haven't seen what you have; for me, he's the same person who killed Dumbledore, I can't see the other side of the moon, you understand? I can't until you show me.
Please, next time you write to me, put a spell on the paper, so Snape cannot rip it apart as he did to the last letter, I couldn't read it.
Love you and miss you, Hermione J. Granger.
NT: Remember I'm not the author of this story, I'm just the translator! Also, this will get way worse before it gets better, bear with me.