Disclaimer: All of this came from Rowling and Gato Azul.
14. The Limbo
The trial was to be finished as soon as Snape could talk; despite everything, the registrar hadn't been one of the corrupt officials of the Ministry; in fact, he'd been chosen as an Interim Minister while all the internal problems were solved and a new, permanent Minister was chosen.
The Ministry sent a written apology and lent a new house, much more acceptable than the last one, positioned inside a magic neighbourhood, although Severus still was forbidden from using his wand or performing any kind of magic.
The Weasley, McGonagall and Hagrid had met to decide who'd be with Snape the rest of the house arrest.
Harry offered to be with the Occlumens in his new period of arrest. Hermione wasn't in the best conditions and had suffered enough. Everyone agreed except Granger. Snape himself seemed unsatisfied with the choice.
"Harry, the hardest part is over, you don't have to switch with me. The professor and I have barely gotten used to sharing a house, and now you're going to make him uncomfortable without a good reason. A visit to a mediwizard and my arm will be just as good as new."
Everyone looked at each other, coughing and moving their eyes, talking to each other without making any noise. Harry was doubtful.
"What do you think, Severus?" Arthur asked, the first one who had the decency of noticing the man was there too.
"Not Potter, nor Weasley," he said with the less words possible, avoiding stuttering in front of so many people.
Hermione looked at her friends victoriously; both rolled their eyes.
"Who do you prefer, then?"
I guess Granger is the only option close to acceptable.
Molly seemed anxious, McGonagall for her part agreed immediately.
Hermione was half-smiling when, between doubts and unease, they named her his official caretaker.
The new house was pretty; her room had a nice bed, a bureau and a closet. Everything seemed simpler; they had lots of food and her arm had recovered so much after the healing she didn't need the sling anymore.
There was a painting in her room, a vase with yellow flowers.
Someone knocked on the door, it was Snape. He left on her hands many letters, that according to him Orestes had just carried, the Ministry's owl. Harry, Ron and Ginny had written to her. Ron's was short but cheery; Harry and Ginny wrote about each other and so Hermione had a double recounting of their dates. She smiled to herself, thinking it was strange that Harry never told Ginny how much he liked her new haircut, while she, in her letter, seemed worried because she maybe looked ugly in her new haircut.
She wondered if all couples were like that, if they desperately longed for each other and stopped for fear of speaking up and always stood like that, with a bunch of questions and insecurities that could've been solved.
How sad was Snape's frame contrasted with the white sky showing from the window, his slow walks to nowhere, his gloomy shadow and long moments sitting on a couch, with his eyes fixed on the table, without speaking or even looking at her.
She prepared him food, tried to talk to him with more than a few words, but nothing seemed to ground him. She was filled with fear when she had to go out to buy groceries and leave him alone; the bright, haunting thought that she'd find something terrible when she came back, an eternal silence stuck in the house, chasing her everywhere.
And when she watched him immobile for hours, reading the same page of a book, always the same, that fear increased. She went to the kitchen for a while and afterwards came back to check if the page had changed, but no, she recognized the same spaces and her gaze went to Snape's, which was fixed on the wall, empty.
She dreamt with that page, she dreamt that she tried to read it and ended up realizing there was nothing written there, that the words were unknown symbols.
As unknown as the thoughts that passed behind the wizard's eyes.
They had just received the mail; she put the letters on the kitchen receiver while serving soup to her former professor, who was looking somewhere else as always, with arms crossed over the table, without paying attention to anything Hermione did.
"What's your book about, professor Snape?"
"Potions," his answer was blunt, a clear warning in his tone.
"I thought it was about Runes."
The man's face turned from drowsy impassivity to sudden annoyance.
Why don't you go and read your child stories or answer of Weasley's dull letters instead of bothering me?
Granger put the plate in front of him with the aura of a mother or a housewife.
"Because you're more important than that; you're the reason I'm here and I'm worried about your state."
You're worried about my disinterest in Runes?
"I'm worried about your disinterest in everything. If there's something I can do for you, please ask."
The man said nothing and took the spoon to his mouth, taking special care in avoiding meeting Hermione's eyes, who was sitting in front of him and starting to eat.
After the Death Eater's attack, any doubt she might have about Snape had been eradicated. She couldn't find the reason for his undying loyalty towards Dumbledore, and yet she was convinced it existed and that the man would've never betrayed them.
Although she had felt flattered at the beginning for being chosen as his companion in the house arrest, that pride soon wore out with the days and it ended up being replaced by her growing anguish about Prince's absolute apathy.
She sat close to him on purpose, shielded by her storybook. She opened it with discretion; Snape put his eyes on the Rune's page, without making any effort to pretend he was actually reading.
Granger twisted a curl of her hair with her finger as she read her blissful book. She noticed the drawings for the first time: a princess was caressing the muzzle of a gigantic, hairy monster.
"What are you reading?"
Hermione quickly turned her head, as if she had just heard a noise that startled her. She extended the book to him so he could see better while answering, solicitous. She seemed unwilling to waste an opportunity to talk to him; he regretted having asked her.
"This is the Beast, and this is the Beauty. It's a classic tale that is based on the teaching that the physical aspect isn't the most important thing and that one can love anyone regardless of their appearance."
She realized she was invading the man's personal space and that he had cornered himself, trying to get away, looking at her with a raised brow.
"Sorry," she retreated wisely with a light blush. Harry and Ron were used to her bouts when she was talking about a subject she found interesting, but the rest of the people weren't, especially not Snape.
So now apart from fighting for the elves' rights, you'll fight for the ugly people's rights too?
Hermione frowned; now he was mocking her, it was to be expected.
"Most of us aren't good-looking, Professor Snape. Beauty is overrated."
There are lots of things over- and underrated, Granger, and one doesn't protest about it. You're not going to change the world on your own.
Hermione sat back on the floor, watching as Snape rubbed his nose's bridge.
"You're right, but I still have to try anyway."
The man looked at her meaningfully; he really watched her, it wasn't one of his disdainful glances. She shifted with uneasiness from her spot on the carpet. Few people had burning eyes like his, they made her feel vulnerable.
"What do you want for dinner?" she asked, trying to run away from the dialogue she herself had started. In any case, she had the satisfaction that she managed to pull him out from his silence, at least for a while.
Although he had resisted it, his initial impression of Granger had changed greatly. When they had proposed changing her for Potter he realized it; he hated the pretentious brat, Granger was infinitely nicer in his opinion.
He had thought her to be conceited and a hypocrite for many years; he had taught her, had seen her for years and yet only then he was figuring out her real character. She was a big mouth alright, but her know-it-all attitude had changed with time. Her bravery wasn't a lie, it was a part of her, spread inside her, he had to give her that. And even though at the beginning of their confinement together he had thought her kindness was learned and a faked Gryffindor attitude, he had to accept it as genuine after she stood with him despite all the danger. Granger really had good intentions, was kind by nature and merciful too. And on top of that, incorrigibly stubborn.
He supposed she didn't thought him too bad, considering that she tried to hunt him constantly to squeeze a short, forced chat out of him. She got close to him with ease, although she never touched him. And she smiled at him with this tiny, shy smile, not too much enthusiastic, as if she feared bothering him by being happy in his presence. She wasn't completely wrong.
They met each other one day almost randomly, together in the living room. The curtains were open and from the outside came the whispers of a party, the lively lights and music insinuating themselves in the air, carefully drawn, sneaking into their daily silence.
Granger closed her book, her faithful companion, and went to look out the window and try to catch the trends of tunes floating in the night.
Snape had been wandering weakly, and sometimes glanced at her. He saw how attentive she was, how her eyes had opened to hugeness and brown shone in them. She shook her brunette head, following the sound's tune, accepting its travelling murmur.
Framed by the window, the people on the other side of the street traced circles of waltz, full of elliptic circles and waves of skirts. Almost all of them were adults, taking their hands and laughing like lovers of many years. Hermione didn't know what kind of meeting it could be, but she kept in her eyes the smiles and loving, mature nods many of them gave in their dance, of clear, open piano notes, of light, measured steps.
Granger didn't move, but music brushed her like a distant breeze, like a light from another room. Snape discovered with a start that Granger had her moments of beauty, that her careful, open gaze was a waiting space, of reception, of a free and willing atmosphere.
She turned her head, as if he'd touched her just by looking.
"When was the last time you danced, Professor Snape?"
He had actually never danced, but he wasn't about to say that.
I don't usually waste my time with this type of things. I thought it was obvious.
"It is. I was just looking for a subtle way of asking you to dance with me, just one song."
He had just discovered that, on occasions, in a very implicit way, Granger was beautiful, fleetingly, barely one moment, when she looked firmly somewhere else, when she seemed alone, when she was absorbed by her inner world, when a piece of him shone in the surface of her eyes.
He was incredibly intuitive about some things; he knew the image his lanky body offered when he tried to follow a tune and he didn't intend to show that uncoordinated, pitiful sway to the recently discovered Granger; he'd rather scare her away with words than with his pathetic attempt of waltz.
"One song. Even if you don't know how to dance it could cheer us up a lot, I'm talking by experience. Harry and I danced in a camping tent."
I don't know what makes you think Potter and I are the same.
Hermione didn't insist too much; she had started the fight knowing she'd lose. But she needed that dance, she needed to shake the rancid air of isolation and revive in her legs that same fluid, imprecise move Harry had taught her. She slid from one foot to the other, barely moving from her spot in the room, and she slid again, several times, joining the dance's harmonious parade of dresses and painted faces, breaking in her mind the barrier from window to window.
Alone, just by herself, Granger had created a protest, starting a kind of waltz for one, without raising her arms, just using her legs. Gryffindor was a synonym for stubbornness.
Ridiculously, following Granger's stupidity, he took a sudden step forward, raising his hand, to tangle in the dance already started that waited for him. The girl looked at him suddenly, surprised. Snape had suddenly turned rigid like a board and had lowered the arm, whipping the air. He watched her with his full height, chin raised, as if daring her to mock him.
He thought the girl would look at him darkly, that she'd try to concealing the laughter caused by his failure even before starting the waltz. He had always moved like a spider, he didn't have elegance or grace concerning beat and tempo. He had expected a look of strangeness and derision from her, but Granger watched his stiff hand, still waiting for him to reach her, but it didn't happen. Snape turned her back on her and went away, trying to calm his anger towards himself.
He would've liked more than that easy resignation and starting to dance on her own. Moronic Granger, inventing a delightful symphony, swaying around a soft tune, leaving him on the outside, like an ugly stain that didn't match her and her pretty way of turning poetry alive.
Moronic Granger couldn't have guessed that he desperately wished they wouldn't give up on him, that for once he wished they fought him, pushed him out of his guilt prison.
So blindly, foolishly Gryffindor. She had tried, yes, but with such a weak, feeble attempt.
He wanted to be happy, like the dancing idiots!
But he was Snape and Snape didn't dance, Death Eaters' didn't dance, neither did spies.
His resentment towards Granger grew bigger each day. He was a miser and she suddenly showed up, talking to him with a quiet voice, as if she would hurt him otherwise, as if he was really frail and would break with just a breeze. Then it came the choking, as he felt he would really break, that the bite on his throat would open and open until it cut him by half. And it was because of Granger and her unnecessary, cumbersome kindness that nobody else had shown him.
That was it. She was kind and he grew tinier because of her, because of that softness which he couldn't take and that made things more difficult. He wasn't capable of accepting smiles nor understanding eyes, they slipped from his hands, they reminded him of the snowfall of ashes at Spinner's End. They reminded him of his parent's screams, the meanness that throbbed in Tobias. He was Severus Snape and subtlety wasn't his natural field. He hated her and yearned for her in equal measures.
Granger's kindness hurt him because it couldn't reach him, because it didn't manage to shield him.
And he hated her even more for her frustrating, insufficient gifts. And yet the next day he'd find himself looking for some of her kind actions, just to crush her afterwards with sarcasm or a rude grimace. And Granger shrank, without knowing what to do.
The moronic know-it-all didn't know how to reach him.
The moronic know-it-all he waited with hungry impatience. The only company he had, the only he could hold on to.
His lengthy existence didn't have any meaning or sense anymore, he had to find it. Granger had to find it for him, because he wasn't capable of doing it himself, because every day he was hit with the certainty it was better to be dead.
He woke up to experiment a few more hours, to see if she reached him, if she showed him something that fed his will.
Sometimes, thinking about killing himself calmed him down. He told himself he had complete free will in that decision, that it could be quick or slow and progressive. He thought about the potion he'd drink and about the hand hanging from the bed, very white. He thought about the fulminant herbs that'd fry his brain, that would exterminate in one breathing every thought, every sensation. It was almost pleasant to plan the details; that was how he fought the anguish off: by telling himself he didn't have to bear it if he didn't want to, that this time it was all on him.
Nobody would force him on anything this time. Because, in reality, nothing he did with his life or death mattered anymore.
Snape was sitting on the couch with the lights off and the Rune's book opened on his legs, but his mind was far away. She could see it in his empty gaze, full of clouds and smoke, as if some memory repeated in his mind over and over again. She wouldn't have liked to know which memory it was, she had the feeling it was an awful one. The Potion Master seemed to be always thinking of something, of many things at the same time. He didn't see what was in front of him anymore, his eyes were static in a past that repeated itself like a movie to the infinite. Hermione would've liked to touch his face, pull his hair, make him look at her, make him conscious of his body sitting on the couch and that she was next to him, that the danger was over and no one else would attack him again. Harry wouldn't allow it, neither would Hermione, and even if he hadn't had anyone before, now he had them, unconditionally.
Granger had promised herself to pull him out of that hole with the same passion that Harry would use. If the goal of that fight was to protect Snape and save him from the Ministry and from his own ghosts, then they would do it together, the three of them, as they had always done.
She entered the little room and turned on a light.
"Mail is here, Professor Snape."
She saw the grieving man looking away, as if he was still estranged. She had just pulled him out of deep meditation.
"It doesn't matter."
"They sent you something too: Madame Pomfrey sent you many balms for your scars."
She put out each jar from the package and left them next to Snape, on the chair beside the couch.
"What do you think, Professor Snape? We can try them now; if you had the kindness to let me—" she managed to brush his forearm for a few seconds before he took it away. He wasn't looking at her.
"Leave me alone."
Hermione felt something akin to a punch to her stomach, of humidity and emptiness. She went away, swallowing reject like a bitter drink. When she got to the threshold and looked back, she felt a bird flutter inside her chest because of Snape's crooked shape, the book on his legs and his distant gaze, so sad, so insurmountable. She knew he was falling and falling. She had to fill the moment with words, she couldn't leave him like that, leave him to his strength that wouldn't support him anymore.
"Maybe you can't see it now, professor Snape; maybe you can't trust me and I don't blame you, but try to believe me, I want to help you, I want you to be okay, even if we're not friends, even if we don't like each other… I can't imagine what you're going through, but let me help you, rely on me. I'll be upstairs if you need me, in case you want to talk to someone or just need some company. My door is open."
Granger's shape, darkened against the light, went away through the hallway; her steps still echoed, weaker and weaker.
Snape didn't move for a long time.
I need your help, Harry. I know there's something you haven't told me and you have to, not for me, not even for the trial, but for him.
He sleeps little, he's always sitting with a book I know he doesn't read. He's so pale and eats without wanting to, every day he leaves more food on the plate. I try to talk to him, but he doesn't listen. I don't mean like the rude way he used to ignore us, now he really doesn't listen to me, I don't think he can.
I can't reach him. I don't know what to do, Harry; it's like watching him drown and being unable to throw him a rope. He needs me, he needs anyone who can help him, but I don't know what to do, I feel useless.
Tell me, what do I do? Whatever drove him all this time, where did it go? What did he lose? What did they take away from him? I know he lost something, I can feel he's missing a part of him, that he's cleaved.
Please, Harry, help me, give me advice, you know more about him, tell me what can I do, how can I help him?
Imploring you, Hermione J. Granger.
Maybe now he can't see it.
No, he couldn't see farther than the living room's dim light and the limbo he was stuck in.
One day he heard that one can live with anything if only you have a purpose. He knew by experience that was right, and yet that purpose was no longer there for him.
He didn't have anything to hold him down, beside the habit of being alive. Only that, habit. In his new world, there weren't any Dumbledore, or Dark Lord, or his debts to Lily.
Lily, who was finally fading again. He could barely remember her face; he spent hours trying to recall it in his memory, but he failed, and it was like losing her again, as if an invisible hand went around opening his fingers and prying her away from him.
What did he have left, beside remembering her? Nobody should take her away from him, she was his, his. And yet he couldn't see her anymore, untainted, walking on his mind; he couldn't see her face or her hair. And desperation made knots in his throat, his voice already rusty tightened like a bow.
'In case you want to talk to someone or just need some company.'
He didn't know what was he doing, he simply closed the book and went upstairs without being conscious of it. He tried on his way to recover Lily's image, with his mind crashing against time's oblivion, digging uselessly between another hundreds of faces. It was like delirium, it almost hurt.
He couldn't remember Lily; he couldn't call out for her.
Hermione lifted her head from the pillow and identified the man in the threshold. Snape had the expression of someone who had just been stabbed.
She stood up to face him, finding his eyes reddened and astray, almost wet.
"What is it? Does something hurt? Is it the bite?"
You said I could come, but if you changed your mind…
"No," she said hurriedly. "Sit down."
She smoothed the sheets in an unnecessary gesture of hospitality.
"Come here, sit down," the man went to the mattress' edge and sat down, taking his long hand to his temple, showing the pain that had forced him to go there. Hermione didn't know where to go, whether to sit on the floor or by his side on the bed. She couldn't guess what'd be more appropriate, and her discomfort made Snape tense too; she sensed him looking at her for a moment with something akin to resentment.
And she couldn't understand why.
She took from a drawer the salves and some clean bandages. The silence would be less intense if she did something. She noticed, as she opened the jars and the peppermint's scent filled the room, that Snape still had the Runes book in his hands.
She kneeled in front of him and slowly took the book, putting it away. Her fingers landed on Snape's forearm and unfolded the bandages. The half-blood let her be; she didn't raise her head, didn't want to look at him in the eye. Down there, on his lap and in the warm, dim light of the afternoon she was at peace. She didn't want to see his sunken face, the distant, bottomless gaze.
She wanted to think the physical contact between their hands was enough, that it was useful, that she could help him just by doing that.
She rubbed the salves on the burns. The feeling was a bit repulsive, but she controlled herself. She remembered hearing his screams and, as she watched the marks on his arms, she thought about the fact that each second she spent upstairs trying to call her Patronus was a centimetre more of skin undone.
"Does it hurt?"
No one answered. Hermione took her eyes to the pale palms, to the loose folds of his black clothes, to the weak knees.
"I'm sorry I didn't believe in you since the beginning, but I don't need proof anymore. Now I know I didn't have any right to ask them, you were right in being angry at me."
The injured arm was still between her fingers, the pale hand half opened like a lily.
"Who am I to judge you?"
She raised her gaze while covering the burn with a gaze. It was better to hide it, to avoid having visible the mark that had been there before.
Prince was looking at her; a murmur of waves vibrated in his pupils, of an unfathomable, nocturnal ocean.
Again that long, truthful gaze that seemed to have to power to turn her into a transparent body. Something in his eyes had always amazed her, had always inspired terror in her.
She let him go, because she was afraid.
I barely understand why I went up. I couldn't see Lily; I lost the ability to do it. And with her, I lost the last piece of breath that gave me life.
I stood at the door; you were laying down with your storybook and didn't notice me until a few seconds after.
I didn't have to tell you anything because you knew, I don't understand how. You even asked me if something hurt. You made me sit on your bed and ended up debating against yourself. I thought it would be useless, that I should've never gone up looking for you.
You kneeled and I saw your thick hair. I felt your hands and you hurt me; why such small fingers like yours could manage that? You kept rubbing that salve of nauseating smell and kept on hurting me. But I couldn't say anything, I didn't want you to let me go, it hurt, but you were too gentle. I know the injury came from me, not from your compassionate touch. Compassionate, exactly that.
Who do you think you are, Granger, to behave like that with me?
Even if you forgive me and Potter forgives me and Lily too, I can't forgive myself. I deserve what I got, Granger; your kindness is not mine to have. And yet I didn't push you away; if I'm going to be executed, at least I want to take this with me, I don't care if I'm unworthy. You gifted me your comfort and it is mine.
And you talked; you were saying something like I had the right to be angry with you. Do you think so? You annoy me, I have to admit it; I liked you more when you were a pedantic know-it-all. I liked to mock you and to tell myself that at least I didn't have such a big, unconscious ego. That I saw clearly. But I don't see, Granger; I never saw you as you truly were.
You say you're nobody to judge me.
I have judged you, since you were a child, and you feel bad for yourself? If you were any other person I'd think you were lying, that you're a hypocrite; I would have thought so until a few days ago, but now I know it's true.
You overwhelm me, Granger. You and your words, your touch, the things you do, everything about you overwhelms me.
You're similar to Lily, and that is precisely the worst thing you could ever be.
You raise your head and look at me. Clear, transparent; you're not capable of hiding anything, even without Occlumency I can almost touch your emotion. You're afraid of me.
And I'm afraid of you.