Disclaimer: Y'all know the drill. Rowling and Gato Azul own this.
9. The Lightning Witch
He had thought Granger unpleasant since the first day he met her. He was annoyed by her urges to prove she was smarter than the rest, he despised her for that innocent air she carried, for her belief she was always right.
Granger was a stuck-up, and yet she didn't seem to notice, didn't seem to be aware of her own pedantry.
That irritated him even more.
Lily wasn't like Granger; even if she knew the answer in class, she stayed quiet, letting others answer, she didn't have to prove everyone how smart she was, she was content being useful when someone needed her, with using what she knew to help others.
Granger was 'Miss Perfect'. Of course, Potter couldn't have found another little friend so according to his personality.
Now that he had her under her mercy, he was going to prove to her that her ridiculous ability to memorize page after page word from word wouldn't work with him. He was going to show her how moronic and daft she really was.
Little insolent brat.
A smell of burnt wood got in from the window. Snape laid down on the mattress. He could hear some random noises, like scourges, whips on the air. He didn't know what kind of muggle thing emitted those noises and they alarmed him, as they repeated several times. A lighting bolt's light hurt his pupils. The man stood up, raising his head to hear more clearly. The whipping kept on buzzing in the wind, sounding closer and closer. Another lighting bolt splashed the room full of light.
And then Snape saw that wasn't lightning.
Green rays bounced off the walls, the hexes soared in the air, hissing like tongues of fire. Snape could see some white faces on the trees, he recognized them, they were Death Eater's masks. In another era, that same pristine mask, made of rigid porcelain, had been his own face.
He got close to the window to take a better look at them. A bolt shattered the glass, but no fragment got him. The pieces flew in front of him, soaked by the blue light that had destroyed them.
He wasn't afraid.
The idea of one of those green bolts sinking in his chest and him closing his eyes while falling almost weightlessly, with his body struck by a bolt of lightning, was to him at that moment dangerously attractive. He took one step towards the window, now glassless. He stepped on the glass with bare feet, without feeling any pain.
The past never really went away, and it was precisely his past that was looking for him to make him pay. He wasn't trying to avoid it. The porcelain's masks multiplied between branches and darkness. He had the overwhelming feeling that, behind one of those masks, he could find his own face.
A rumbling noise woke her up; the room was strangely lightened up. She thought at first it was an electric storm, but the green blazes in front of her window told her otherwise.
She recognized immediately the explosion of lights as the ones created by dangerous curses, and the newspaper article popped up in her mind. Her legs ran abruptly and clumsily to the room where Snape rested.
The first thing she saw when she opened the door was the little lamp on the bureau getting destroyed in pieces by a bolt. Snape's long neck, shady even with so much light, walking forward; hexes brushed him, stirring the air beside him, lighting up his face for a few seconds, but he kept walking forward, with an impassive face, as if in the other side of the room there was a mermaid's call.
"Get away from the window!"
Her cry was useless and powerless, for it was absorbed by the blue lightning' roar.
"Professor Snape, they're gonna kill you!"
Then she understood it, that was precisely the man's goal, that in a few seconds the light would be quenched and she'd be alone in that house, with Snape's body lying on the glass. The mere idea made her arm's hair stand up.
The idea of darkness and death.
She got out of the trench, ready to put herself in front of him and push him out of the line of fire. Snape hadn't expected her; the collision of their bodies made him lost balance and he crashed down, the fall leaving him protected by the wall. Granger felt a hex pass right over her shoulder, the bolt's trail burnt her skin. She quickly moved her arm to create a spell that protected the window's hole, but a hex managed to get inside before her shield could close completely. Its green light penetrated her pupils, almost blinding her, straight to her, unavoidable, like an arrow of fire; she didn't have enough time to move, she just managed to think about Ron's letter, the one she'd never be able to read.
Granger was wrapped in a green light, waving her wand like the director of an orchestra, as if she was the one commanding those flashes in the middle of the night darkness. The room lightened up suddenly, as if a star had been born right there, its eye incandescent, too much light, whiteness and nothing else, nothing around, no shape apparent. He closed his eyes and covered them with an arm, then blinked until the room appeared itself in front of him, until colours dyed his surroundings.
The green lightings bounced off the windows, unable to pass through the charm; they fell apart in weightless sparks that faded slowly in the air.
He looked around. The image of Granger lying, upside down on the floor, his wand abandoned in the floor… it filled his gaze, expanded inside his eyes, like a silent scream. It was Lily's death all over again, the same death that had ripped Lily away from him; that death was throwing Granger at him cynically, like retaliating, laughing at his panicked face, hidden in the room's shadow.
His mind wasn't working, his attempts at explain himself what had happened sinking in clumsily, wrecking like ships too frail, too destroyed.
He frantically shook the girl's hand, which fell to the floor as soon as he let go, making a slight noise when it smashed the ground, a noise that got embedded painfully in Snape's brain, like a nail sinking in his consciousness.
The lights outside had diminished slowly until they disappeared.
What did he have in front of him? Was Granger dead?
He didn't know what happened to him; suddenly he had her in his arms and he was yelling and shaking her like a lifeless, grim doll. The brown curls slipped from his hands like a never-ending waterfall. He left her on the floor slowly, understanding that it was all his fault, if he had been more carefully… if he had anticipated what was to come…
He took her pulse with painful anticipation; air returned to his body when he felt between his fingers the continuous throb of Granger's vein.
At least he wouldn't have to carry another death.
He lifted her from the floor, his strength was barely enough, and his legs trembled, threatening to fail and let him fall with the girl he was carrying. He managed to roughly put her on the bed before his vigour left him completely.
He looked through the vials of potions, if he could create the right liquid, he'd be capable of healing Granger even before she opened her eyes, but without an ingredient in hand, he'd have to stick with what was available.
Granger's clothes stain red, the sheets are getting soaked too.
But she'll survive, the worst damage is in her shoulder.
I'm such a stupid, reckless— so stupid. Of course she'd interfere, of course she'd get hurt, but I didn't even notice her presence.
If something happens to Granger, I'll be the only one responsible, everyone will look at me darkly, even darker if that's possible. I'm not going to carry anyone else's death, no one's.
I can handle Granger, she'll need to be taken care of, I have enough strength for that, I'll make her come unscathed from this, there'll be plenty of time to die later, now I'll have to take care of her. I have to give her back to that useless Potter.
I thought nothing else could hurt me. That it didn't matter what they did to me. What else could they take away from me? Not even my life is that important to me.
When Dumbledore asked me to kill him, I knew I wouldn't be able to save myself, I knew I wouldn't survive. Since then I've thought of myself as a mere force following Dumbledore's orders. And I left my identity as a person. Severus Snape didn't matter anymore, only the spy did and what he had to do. I had already dismissed my wishes, my own life.
There is nothing else they can't take away from me. A puppet doesn't have anything to be taken away.
But I was wrong, there's something else they can take away: my atonement.
I'm finally free of my debts, I've paid them. If Granger dies, then would I have to start all over again? I don't have anything I had in the past, neither the youth, the will nor any goals. It's not time to start an exodus to redeem myself.
If something happens to her, not even my life will be enough to compensate hers, it's clear they're not worth the same.
Granger has to leave this place alive.
Someone lifted her head, fingers tangled in the dark mess that was her hair. Her shoulder burnt, she had this frantic urge to scratch it, to remove from her skin the sting it had attached. Her body barely moved, as if her brain's signals took longer to get there or barely arrived, causing her stiff muscles to make only erratic, weak movements.
And her shoulder burnt, so much she couldn't think of anything else.
A yellow light managed to pass through her half-closed eyes, the gigantic stain of colours and shapes was contouring, the white drop in front of her turning clear; suddenly there was a nose in front of her, a mouth.
The stain turned out to be the face of a black-eyed man, and Hermione started to remember some things: the glass on the floor, the bare, bloody feet walking on them, the explosions beside the window.
A fluid of sharp sweetness infested her throat with its taste, its thick texture. The hand on her nape lowered her until it put her head on something fluffy and soft.
The man watched her carefully, with the expression of a muggle doctor she found strange.
"They're gone? Everything is fine?"
Everything but you, Granger.
The girl missed the sound of voices; the room was filled in typical silence, interrupted by some city's sounds, the sing-song of birds, distant buses… but she hadn't heard anyone talking for several days, except for that mental voice that didn't fill her ears.
"It's daytime already."
You were unconscious for two.
"Two days unconscious?!"
It's not that bad; now you see you're not indispensable, I've handled myself quite well. You better not get close to that bloody window if they attack us again.
"You were the one standing up there," she chided him, hardening her expression.
You didn't have to follow me. Are you stupid, girl, incapable of knowing what's good for you?
"And if something happens to you, what am I going to tell Harry?"
Whatever happens to me isn't that good-for-nothing's business. And I don't care what Potter thinks about you.
The man turned her back on her and got out of the room, supporting himself on his broom. She heard his slow steps and the bangs of wood against wood that were caused by the Potion Master climbing down the stairs.
She looked around; the bureau was filled with vials, healing potions and bandages. She found the reason why she couldn't scratch: her shoulder was covered and immobilized by a thick gauze. She barely felt any pain, just a trail of small stabs, like the biting of shapeless bugs. But the itching was exasperating.
Snape went up with the same slowness he had used to go down; the girl heard him getting close, saw him cross the threshold, stumbling a bit, with a hand on the cane and another holding a deep plate.
She felt his weight when he sat on the edge of the bed, right beside her. She peered to see what was on the plate: some kind of soup or cream. It smelled good; her stomach started to make noises at the smell of food. Snape filled a spoon and presented it to her, as she had tried to do with him days before.
"Who cooked this?"
Surely not you, Granger.
Hermione shifted, uncomfortable and surprised. She never thought Snape would end up feeding her and didn't like the idea.
"Let me eat on my own."
The soup will spill. Stop bothering me and open your mouth, don't think I like this either.
The man's sullen face spoke by itself. Hermione moved her head forward and opened her mouth, but closed it again immediately, watching the spoon floating in front of her eyes, remembering the many times the Occlumens had thrown the food to the floor in the rudest, disdainful way. Snape seemed to sense her intentions when he saw her eyes fixed on the food.
Don't even think about it, Granger, or I'll empty this plate right over your head.
Hermione grimaced, outraged; she thought him capable of fulfilling his threat. She started to eat meekly; the man sunk the spoon and turned it back to the girl with patience, but with a persistent frown of annoyance.
At that moment Hermione managed to understand some of his attitudes; it was uncomfortable and humiliating to depend on someone who didn't even like you. Although she never made any mocking faces while she took care of him.
No, but maybe Snape detected her implicit reject on her efforts to avoid touching him as much
She couldn't help but feel a breeze of guilt when she looked at the focused, frowning face in front of her. The plate of soup was almost empty. Hermione felt in her stomach a nice, warm weight. The food had replenished her strength and mood a little bit.
The man put the plate on the bureau and watched her expectantly, brows raised, almost ironic.
So, Granger?
"So what, professor?"
What do you say, Granger? Do I have to teach you manners?
Hermione smiled lightly, for a second he had reminded her of her father. After all, they were almost the same age.
"Thank you."
She recognised Snape's hands on her bare shoulder, on the blackened hole that green bolt had opened in her. Weirdly, although the wound looked quite painful, she didn't experience that sensation, only a stunning, annoying numbness. She could barely feel the man's finger, even though they were firmly squeezing the wound, applying a balm of awful, sharp smell that she didn't remember having in her first-aid kit.
She stood very still, a bit uncomfortable by his teacher's closeness, who just looked at the wound, trying very hard to ignore her.
"We have to inform the Ministry we were attacked. Haven't Orestes come back?"
"They hadn't sent that owl in th—three days, Granger…"
How do you want me to inform the Ministry?
He suddenly changed to occlumency when his voice became a silent thread of air.
"That cannot be, professor. Why would they stop sending Orestes? They're very interested in what'll happen with you, it'd be—"
"They hadn't sent him."
It's that simple, they hadn't sent him, and we can't go out asking for help, me because of the spell and you because of your injuries, without mentioning the Death Eaters could still be waiting for you outside.
Granger looked out of the window as if she expected that some image from far away turned Snape's words into lies.
Don't bother arguing with me, Granger.
He put clean bandages on her with care, going from her left shoulder to the armpit of her right arm.
I've even done magic with your wand, despite the fact that I'm not allowed to, and not even that made them come here or send some message.
The girl looked at him, surprised, leaning back on the pillows that smelled of herbs she knew very well; she recognized them, it was the smell of the potion's lab, Snape's smell, who, despite being so far away from it for so long, still held that essence of fumes and smoke.
I miss you, Ron.
I couldn't read your last letter, maybe by now you've already written another one, maybe you're wondering why I haven't answered back.
I wish I could send this somehow, but like this, from here…
I love you, Ron; I think about you every day and about that kiss I gave you. I wish I could be with you and have that hopeful blue (it was always like that to me) you carry in your eyes.
I wonder how'd you fare if you were in my shoes, trapped here with Snape, you know? We had him so close since we were so small, and I feel like I don't know him at all. Sometimes he looks at the window with this bare face, with detachment and emptiness, like an orphaned child, and I don't recognize him, Ron. I'm afraid of Snape, of what Snape might be. Could you imagine that, Ron? What if he's nothing we thought he was? What if we're the ones who were always wrong, all this time? I think that might be the case because Harry seems to feel very guilty. I'm sorry for rambling, I was talking about Snape before.
You know him, you know how rude he can be and the taste he has for insulting and belittling everyone around him, he had been like that to me until a few days ago, but I had a little accident (you don't have to worry about it). Since then things have turned weird: he makes food, not bad by the way, he does what he can to keep the house clean, although he generally steals my wand to do those chores. Anyway, he has taken care of me; he isn't nice, but he insults me less and he's a bit considerate, not a common trait in him.
That has made me think.
I think Snape is at his best when he's needed, you know, Ron? Every day I believe less and less of his guilt. I don't know, maybe it's all in my head, but I always told you, remember? That there was something in him, something I can't label, like a subliminal message, that he's not what he looks like. When Harry told us in our first year what Voldemort had told him about Snape, I decided to believe in him, that if Dumbledore had such high regard for him, there must've been some reason, something very valuable must have been inside that acerbic, sullen man. Maybe I have to believe in Harry and push away the registrar's theory about his faked memories.
You know, there's always something in Snape's face that disturbs me, his eyes are darkened by a frown almost all the time. I'm worried about that, about the darkness, the cloak of shadows that don't let me see him clearly, which hides over and over again his expression.
Who is Snape, Ron? Who is the man I'm trapped with?
The man was uttering a series of spells; around him a broom and a wet mop were dragging themselves one the ground, cleaning the room's floor. Hermione remembered the child's movies where wizards did everything that way. It was a bit weird and strange, the erratic thump of the broom that moved frantically against the floor. Snape held her wand weakly, almost letting it fall from his fingers. He watched the cleaning meterial's movement with boredom.
The girl reached her storybook with her good hand. She opened one page randomly where the handsome, blonde prince watched the witch, small and miserable, which begged him for a night sheltered from the cold in his gigantic castle.
The man looked at the image from the corner of his eye, the feminine unfolding of the waves in the drawing.
"Children's stories again, Granger."
Hermione nodded, a bit surprised by his constant, hoarse words.
Snape watched the page with cold scrutiny, without stopping the wand's movement sloppily. He got up suddenly and walked with his cane clumsily, with slow footsteps. He put her wand on the bureau and went downstairs without saying a word, making the wood screech.
Granger skipped through the book, the yellow pages moving one by one, with their big, embellished print. The prince, the beast, the beauty, the witch. She read for a long time, thinking about Bella's confinement, about that gloomy, abandoned castle, all dusty. The beast couldn't have been a great company, away from her, watching the flower wither.
That flower…
She also felt compassion for the big beast, imagining him in front of his rose, surrounding it with his claws; with such rough, fiery hands, he'd destroy it in a second.
What hope did that creature had, of Bella loving him?
She sighed, thinking about how she'd never turn someone into a being like that.
She sensed the stumbling frame of the man climbing upstairs to the second floor. Snape was carrying in his hand a deep plate just like the one before. He sat on the edge of the bed with the same distant parsimony and extended a spoon full of the liquid he'd just cooked, without looking at her, focused only on the food. Hermione opened her mouth, tasting the food that soaked her tongue, warm and thick. She ate with greed but blushing when she noticed Snape's raised brow, who was glancing at her.
"It's really good," she said, trying to smile, which burned before completely showing itself.
I can see that, Granger.
Hermione finished the whole plate. Snape left it on the bureau and made her drink a potion for the pain.
"Will the vials be enough for both, professor? I remember there weren't many left," the man threw the empty bottle to the trash can with an accuracy that made Granger smile. Ron always got the things in the bins too, Harry on the other hand never managed to basket anything.
"Professor Snape, you haven't—"
There are five bottles left.
Brown eyes followed him, insistent.
"You should ration them more, sir. They won't be enough for both of us now that—"
"Silence," the deep voice cut her in, leaving her with her mouth open.
I know you have the habit of ordering people around and stating the obvious, but don't come and lecture me as if I was Potter. I know what I'm doing, unlike your little friends.
He took the plate roughly and went out with his cane. Hermione didn't see him for the rest of the afternoon; Snape had the habit of leaving her alone for many hours and only went back to change her bandages, feed her and cure her. The rest of the day he ignored her relentlessly.
Granger had been sleeping in the room adjacent to mine when I was prostrated. I always thought the room was furnished just like mine, that it'd have a bed, bureaus, maybe even a table or a closet, until now that I can see it.
There was only an old carpet, with a faded print of yellow flowers.
Granger had been sleeping on the floor all this time. Granger took care of me, watched over me, feed me. She did it without even believing in me. Gryffindors are so irritating, their abnegating hero's attitude annoys me, they pretend to be nobler than what they truly are.
Granger was always a fake, prudish know-it-all, spending all her time pretending to be the good girl, the prim one, the pristine one. She even tried to create that absurd organization for the elves' defence. Of course, Granger the saviour of every injured being, justice's protector…
I never believed in Granger, and insulting her was one of the things I enjoyed the most when I taught her potions. For me, Granger was all show. I was comfortable assuming she was a hypocrite.
Until what happened in front of that window.
She wouldn't have risked her own life had she been the girl I thought she was; she turned out to be more than a big mouth.
But she irritates me. So, she's capable of risking herself for someone she doesn't care about. She's definitely doing it for Potter.
It annoys me to see that Gryffindors truly are what they say they're on occasions.
I hate Gryffindors.
Hermione shifted in the sheets, constantly looking at the man standing in the threshold. She hadn't taken a shower in four days ago and that fact was making her uncomfortable, but when she tried to ask Snape for help, she blushed before even managing to say a word.
"Professor."
The Potion Master slowly turned his head towards her, without fully looking at her.
"I haven't taken a shower in days and it's a bit—"
Given the expression of annoyance the man bore, she decided to kept silence for a few seconds, and then continue talking.
"Please, just help me reach the bathroom. I can do… the rest myself."
She saw with surprise as the man pointed her with the wand and levitated her. Hermione wiggled in the air, scared of falling, of looking at the floor. When the man started to move her through the door and to the hallway, the girl felt a wave of dizziness as she saw the stairs and first floor.
"Professor!" she yelled with barely contained fright, shaking her legs and holding her injured arm.
Stop moving, Granger.
Snape walked behind her, very slowly. One of his hands leaning on the wall helped him stay upright, and the man walked with an elegant, silent delay.
They reached the bathroom on the other side of the hallway. The door opened by itself violently and Hermione flew until she stood under the shower, holding her good arm against the tiled, beige wall. Snape was entering the bathroom, dragging with him a barrel which he turned upside down when he got inside, in that tiny space to shower. He pointed the barrel he had turned as a seat.
"Sit there," and then he gave Hermione the wand.
Use it to whatever you need and shower sitting down; it'd be really problematic if you slipped with that plastered arm.
The girl caressed unconsciously the sling Snape had made her, looking with some alarm how the man crossed the threshold, going to the hallway, supporting himself against the walls.
Lily.
Did you even have any idea of what you were to me? I want to tell you:
You were my humanity.
That's why I had to do what I did. What did I had left apart from that? My life, apart from you, doesn't have any reason at all.
I find loneliness to be unbearable, sometimes I can't believe I spent so much time locked in those dungeons, just talking to Albus (exchanging curses doesn't count).
What did I have apart from you, Lily?
You are my only constant, or were.
I sit on the stairs of the house and look around me, then I realize I'm living something that's not mine. Every single person of our generation is dead. Why am I the only survivor, when I should have been the first to disappear?
I should've died in that bloody tree, to Potter's dismay, who would've been expelled and wouldn't have married you.
You wouldn't hate me; on the contrary, you'd be able to think about me fondly and with some pain.
It's not like I meant you any harm, Lily, but I'd like my memory to cause you that feeling of having a thorn inside you chest, of suddenly be left breathless. I wish you could remember me with a small part of the pain I feel when I remember you, and not with the cold indifference and neglect you sure feel when you think about me.
Anyway, with the years I've learnt that the course of our lives isn't determined by anything else but small situations that rise and somehow shape a bigger, more random event.
For example, if I had reached your house on time, maybe you'd have been able to run, and Voldemort would've killed me instead of you. Do you know why I wasn't on time, Lily? I wasn't able to find your house in that muggle place which was unknown to me; darkness and adrenaline didn't help me. What a stupid reason to have failed you, right, Lily?
Nothing is meaningful to me anymore, almost everything is insufferable to me, even the birds' singing in the morning. If Granger didn't restrict so much my use of her wand, I'd roast them right over the branch they stand on.
I'll have to bear this for a little longer, while I manage to get Granger out of here.