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17. Road of Verbs

Through the letters she was forming in his mind, clearing up like a map's image, taking shape, settling in a figure he could barely see, as if he was looking an unknown land from above.

He could see Hermione Granger.

Through her writing, he knew what she was thinking, what her close friends said, to whom she talked as if she'd talk to herself. She didn't hide anything to Potter; the trust she had on him seemed to hold her entire being.

Hermione Granger had learned to take off her masks. Something he could never do.

Granger was truthful in everything she did, almost as if the movie of her short life spread on the parchment. He knew the name of the neighbourhood she had grown in, he knew the ways she addressed Potter, he knew that she spent hours in her room trying to find the counter-spell to erase their marks. The apprehensions inside him increased with each day and each verb and each loving postdate

Wishing to see you soon.

What had he done with his life expectancy?

You friend, always.

How had he managed to ruin everything so conclusively?

Thinking about you and Ron.

And who thought about him anymore?

Dear Harry…

Always Potter, always Potter instead of him. Showing up to take Lily away from him, to die with her and reborn again as a young boy, with the eyes that had shielded him before, like mocking him. Now he had in his face what he had wanted the most in the world. How many times he had wanted to rip those bloody eyes out, they shouldn't have been his. The unbeatable, green gaze on the eyes of his enemy, like another weapon against him, like a declaration of definite victory.

He hated Potter.

Dear Harry…

She shouldn't love him; why only him? Why always him?

In the threshold, a yellow light drew wings on you; you didn't realize it. Sharp for some things, blind for others. Am I one of the dark corners you don't see? Wise Granger, saint Granger, the place you can't go, not even with all your books and collection of monologues.

The professor was sitting on the couch as almost always; it was weird that he had been following me from the beginning and didn't try to ignore me. I smiled without intending to, I was happy and almost couldn't hide it. I had something good to tell and give him. Finally, I had something good for him, something to offer.

And you smiled, what could have caused that reaction from you? I didn't smile at you, I never do, not even when I should, not even to stop the awkwardness and tensions that surround us when we're close.

There was no reason for your smile, I don't want to see you smile; deep down, it is not me who you're giving your gesture. You'll never reach me, Granger; your stretched mouth is not enough. Look at me, look at the kind of man I am. Do you think that's enough?

He turned his head away, haughty, like in my memories as a child. But I don't have the same fear, even if it baffles and anguishes me to think about him too much.

I walked to his right side; he was raising his head with smugness and barely looked at me, with the same disdain that he used for you. It reminded me of so many things.

I called him and smiled again, it wasn't my intention; I know he doesn't like me and it doesn't matter that I try to seem friendly. But I really had something valuable for him, Harry, and for you too. We don't have to walk with the stigma others gave to us.

I asked for him to remove the bandage from his head. His expression was mocking and sceptic, so I asked again, I wasn't playing around. He took it off with distrust and watched me, always with that resentful glow and that disdain.

But it didn't matter, Harry; I was going to erase what they did to him. I put my wand between his eyes, and he raised his brow and from his throat rose a sardonic laugh, which made me nervous. But I only watched his face's cuts and I forgot about him and the fact that, if I failed, he would insult me.

The gaps on his skin tightened, met each other, side with side.

You are not a liar.

My hand trembled a lot; my wand aimed badly at his gaze, I had never done a spell like that, my arm stiffened. I felt it warm, as if I was doing some sport, I couldn't bend my fingers, they were paralysed in their position.

I don't care about my blood; she doesn't know about my parents, she didn't know being their daughter doesn't make me dirty, she didn't have any right to mark me.

The lines disappeared, Harry! A reddish trace remained, but nothing could be read anymore.

I did it. In the future, Harry, no one will be able to hurt someone else like that, tattooing a sentence.

The professor shouldn't have been in their hands. At least now he won't have to remember that every time he looks at himself. Maybe, Harry, with time, you can forget too, maybe with this same spell, I can erase the bolt from your forehead. Would you like to, Harry?

Would you like to start over?

I heard you getting close, you were there, even if I didn't see you. You smelled… what did you exactly smelled of? Vanilla, almost entirely like that. Nothing creative from your part, I must say.

You kept on smiling, but I know it wasn't for me, but for some thought in your mind. Suddenly I felt rabid. You made me take off my bandage, you were going to play lab again with me. I don't like that, Granger; for your good, you should understand it soon.

Your wand pointed at me just like many others during my lifetime. I remember that, in these situations, I raised my head and found the Dark Lord's face or some other Death Eater's, never, never a face like yours.

Everything has changed and it seems I won't be able to adapt this time; I don't have what it takes anymore. I don't have a reason anymore.

"It doesn't matter what I become nor what I have to give, I'll secure the goal," I told myself, but that doesn't have meaning anymore. My world, the world that mattered to me, was gone.

How are you going to reach me? How are you going to cross the gap? I dare you to do it.

You shivered; I heard you breathe as if you were choking. I felt my skin expand, it seemed like it would tear like a fragile fabric; I fisted my hands until I buried my nails. I saw you; that expression, in particular, is the thing I recognise the most about you, that confirmation of your intelligence and talent. You seemed surprised about being right, but not too much, deep down you're always waiting to be right. You always are, sooner or later. I don't need to see myself to know there are no more words on my forehead. You tell me that with your big, shiny eyes, with your chest full of air, swelled by an emotion you quiet down, and a booming laugh.

Your small, undercover celebration doesn't surprise me, you love to prove you're a wise Gryffindor. I wasn't wrong when I nicknamed you.

But what happened after… not that, you shouldn't have dared.

You hand caressed my forehead; I almost jumped from the couch and you removed your fingers. Your gaze was unexplainable, it seemed to reach the whole room and pass through me. What did you think, Granger? It was so brief, occlumency was too slow.

Sometimes I can barely tolerate you. You and your peculiar way of boldness, which paradoxically ends up being almost demure.

You removed your hand, looking at me. I hate when you look at me like that, I can't stand anyone looking at me like that. I grimaced, but you spoke before me, as is your habit.

"Clean, now you can start over."

You see my emptiness as a blank page, not like the hole it is to me. You fill my useless hours with your letter's ink, with your anecdotes and affections.

But you're wrong. How can this frontier be the beginning and not the end? It can't be, I don't want it to be. I don't want you to pull through, I don't want you to reach me, but you keep going, sure of yourself, on the air, over the abyss. I don't even feel the wish to stop you. Don't break the void, Granger, don't remove the swamp.

"Have a good night, professor Snape."

You always end up being right.

It wasn't enough anymore with Granger's letters, which he read furtively. That morning he took from the bureau the writings that had arrived for her and he read it one by one; Weasley's carried the merit of clenching his teeth.

He talked about dates on Diagon Alley and encounters in the Burrow, of chimneys and sweet buns. The letter burnt with a match and went in ashes to the sink. At the same time, Hermione's writing never reached Ronald Weasley's open hands, it didn't even reach Orestes' claws.

Snape had decided on remaining there, in between words, on retaining them, lighting them on fire. Like a hole of silence.

There would be no ice creams on Sunday's morning, there would be no warm brown eyes for him, no couple's walks in Autumn.

Kisses on paper would tear apart in his hands.

He didn't care about being horrible, he had always been like that. Granger was the only guilty one, Granger and her insolent kindness. Her condescending talks. He didn't need her compassion; he could be the same scorpion he'd been his whole life if he wanted to, and she had managed to provoke him. If she liked to play with snakes, she'd have to learn to resist venom. Besides, Weasley was a moron; the idea of him going around with her, laughing like a child, irritated him. If he couldn't be happy, why Weasley could? What right did he have of claiming a happiness others couldn't reach? What made him and Potter so superior?

He had saved their lives, and would make them pay a small part.

Hermione had made pancakes for breakfast. Snape entered the kitchen and looked at the trays, debating between surprise and outrage. She hadn't been expecting a word of thanks, the mere fact of seeing his uncovered forehead was enough to please her.

"How have you been, professor?"

A casual question asked as she took the fork to her mouth. The man hesitated before sitting in front of her and reaching for a plate. He raised his brow as an answer.

"There's almost no mark left," she whispered, watching his pale forehead, the languid gaps that had before been furiously red cuts. The Occlumens was sipping his coffee. Her hands reached his frown, almost fulminated by a fear that was born in her path to the white skin. But she didn't back off and could feel the Occlumens startling at being brushed. His dark eyes were hovering over her, like asteroids. She barely touched the faded scars and pulled her hand away, chiding herself for her crazy idea.

"It seems good."

Snape swallowed the food he had on his fork. They kept on eating, submerged in deep aphonia. Hermione perceived with unease that Snape kept looking at her.

"Is everything okay, professor Snape?"

Is everything okay, Miss Granger?

"Yes, sir," she answered, still surprised, not knowing if the man was trying a new way of bothering her or if he was really starting a civilized conversation. Nevertheless, her eagerness to talk had a chance to be satiated and she took the risk of starting a dialogue with the Legilimens.

"You know, I've been reading about Potions, maybe you've heard about the catalysing effect that Wild Dagga's roots have on energizing potions and I'd like to know your opinion."

Snape looked at her for a few moments, with his face eerily blank. But then he answered with his mental voice, just as he'd have done in class. His explanation was long and it completely solved Hermione's doubts; she put on Snape's eyes all the focus she could muster, taking the phrases from the dark eyes and storing them in her memory. Somehow, receiving a monologue with Occlumency was much more efficient and easier to understand than being listened in a normal way. She could feel the rivers of information Prince had inside his mind; at some points she even seemed to sense some details she didn't know before their mind contact. Her enthusiasm for learning had rekindled when facing a teaching method she hadn't experienced before. So, against all hope, she dared to repeat her question.

"Professor? Please, could you mentor me in Potions?"

The man kept a prudent, thoughtful silence for a few moments.

Have you noticed there are no cauldrons or ingredients? Do you pretend I teach you using the kitchen pots and weeds from the yard?

"Occlumency, Professor Snape. Couldn't you transmit me even practical knowledge using it?"

The half-blood suddenly lifted his chin and scrutinised her, with that malicious air only a Slytherin had before making a deal.

"And what's in for me?"

Hermione seemed disconcerted.

"What do you want?"

Prince raised his brow; Jean could already see a sarcastic comment coming from him.

What could I want from you? Forget it, I'll teach you in exchange for killing time, but don't interrupt me while I speak; if you do it, your lessons will be over.

Hermione rushed to nod, almost like a scolded toddler.

Those Potion's class were nothing like those hours under Hogwarts' roof breathing burnt, smelly vapours. There weren't any juvenile noises, nor paper birds, nor Neville Longbottom's constant whimpers, shrunken against his charred cauldron.

From those whispering sessions remained Granger and Snape, sitting one in front of the other, just looking at each other, as if they were fighting with their eyes. The man reclined on the couch, the girl sat on a mat. Sometimes the classes were in the kitchen and they were interrupted so Prince could drink his coffee.

When they were over, Granger went running upstairs to empty her filled mind on a notebook, so she wouldn't forget anything. Then, back to his loneliness, the man rubbed his nose's bridge and thought about the letter he'd stolen that morning and the peculiar habits of his bushy pupil. In one of his letters, Ronald Weasley had called her 'chatty' in hidden fondness and he couldn't stop thinking about that. Had he ever addressed Lily with a term of endearment? Most likely no.

Snape didn't make an effort to calculate the exact hour when he had to go down to breakfast if he didn't want to meet Granger. They met each other, now without neither of them trying to avoid the other's presence. She served him coffee; on occasions, she lifted the empty plate close to the Potion Master's hand and smiled slightly. Granger didn't know the magnitude of her actions; Snape's face wasn't easy to read, after all. She couldn't see the shadow she created in his dark eyes.

With the passing of mental voices, with her progress like smoke and echoes, Granger's knowledge multiplied and Snape seemed more and more like a human being. In some extraordinary occasions, he had even greeted her with something close to cordiality.

Hermione saw those eyes even in her dream's veils. Like two bright lights, fixed, round pupils, moons, planets, full of spatial blackness, of empty infinity. The man of his past, the abrupt, violent professor, was shifting to something else.

One day she confessed they had stolen some ingredients from his shelves; the half-blood had smiled sardonically, he already knew it. She also told him, with some shame, that she had lightened up his cloak during that Quidditch Tournament; he didn't answer, just looked at her eerily, deeply.

Hermione would've liked to have the power to guess what words swam on each occasion he kept silence.

Could we be friends, after all? Despite ourselves?

I'm not afraid of exposing myself again, even if he ends up being mean with me, don't you think it's worth it? I know you would, Harry, and I want to achieve that, for him and you.

I know professor Snape is dangerous, I know I haven't been close to someone like him before. But there's something, that you know better than anyone, that had made Dumbledore and you, my best friend, to want to preserve his life. So there must be a part of him worth it. Can he start over like all of us? He can be someone different this time, if he wants to, if he has the strength to recover, and I think, Harry, that he does, deep down. Snape is full precisely of that, strength.

We could be friends: we like Potions, we're annoyed by mediocrity, we're stubborn (I admit it). Ron and I didn't have half of those coincidences and now look at us. In the past I wouldn't have believed I'd be trying something like this, I thought Snape was hopeless, that with him everything would end in inevitable disaster (I mean yelling and irate fights). I hope I was wrong.

The half-blood folded the letter carefully and put it back in its envelope, without leaving trails of his fingers on it.