Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Rowling and Gato Azul. Including me.
20. Storybook
On Monday, Granger talked about her analytic, sharp mind. Snape could confirm modesty wasn't always her strongest point. On Tuesday, the sharp-nosed man mumbled he had never learned how to use a broom as one should. And that was how the time arrive when it was hard to find any subject that didn't border on intimacy. Granger, quite more experienced in the act of talking, used to make long stories about any kind of events, about her life and Harry's, even sometimes about Ronald Weasley's. The Potion Master had turned out to be a comfortable listener. He only interrupted her to ask short questions and rarely diverted his gaze to somewhere else from the person's eyes who was talking to him.
One day he allowed Hermione to ask him three questions. The girl thought a bit before starting; she knew it wasn't wise to be very intrusive.
"Why were you always ignoring me when I raised my hand?"
The man grimaced.
"I did it because I found you obnoxious and wanted to humiliate you."
Hermione didn't know what to say to such blatant confession; she was just about to ask him if he found it right to take advantage of his students, but she didn't do it. She would waste her two questions trying to educate someone that couldn't be reformed.
She asked if he really hated them or if he had to fake it so the Death Eater wouldn't suspect anything. He said that, while acting was necessary, it hadn't been such an effort to him, because he really despised them.
Granger couldn't keep on asking after that, or she might have ended up slapping him again.
Your face spoke for you; you were furious and hurt.
But I didn't lie to you. Didn't you want the truth? Not all of us are like you, Granger; not all of us have good intentions. Why pretend to be the man you think I am? The one you want me to be.
What will I get? Your respect, your admiration, but nothing of that is useful to me. I prefer you look at me truthfully and see for yourself, even if you run away from my presence… If that's the only thing you have for me, then it doesn't matter.
It took me time to understand that, despite everything, the professor's behaviour could not be so wrong after all.
He wouldn't have survived had he been a softer person, more open. They would've torn him apart. Despite hating us, or maybe because of it, he has been capable of protecting us and remaining impassable.
But it's no longer necessary, we don't need a person like him anymore, in this new era we need persons with the will to live, and the professor is still stuck in the war and his role as a spy. Maybe he'd rather die, it seems there's nothing left for him anymore. Then I think, he needs us, I want to be one of his cornerstones, I know you want too. But I don't know how, Harry; he told me the other day we're all hypocrites, but it's not true, at least not now. I've talked a lot with him, so he understands I'm not hiding anything from him. Why don't you write him a letter? Maybe he'll read it this time.
The girl followed him to the kitchen, still yelling.
"You can't say those things, you didn't know them, you have no right to talk like that about them! Remus had just had a child and Sirius spent years locked up in Azkaban, they didn't deserve what happened to them!"
The man rose his brows while crossing his arms, petulant; sometimes he reminded her too much of Malfoy.
"You're the one who didn't know them. They were all bastards."
"Even after death, even after they paid with blood any evil they had done to you, you're still incapable of letting the past go."
"Not all of us are like you, Granger."
"What do you mean?" the big eyes shone ablaze, messy hair falling on her face.
"Not all of us care about others, not all of us have good intentions. You may hurt others, but you'll never do it with malice aforethought, you'll never plan it. Black did it, Potter too and I, of course, have always done it."
"And you think that's okay?"
"No, but I don't care."
The girl seemed overwhelmed; she shook her head repeatedly.
"I don't like what I hear. I don't know what to do with you."
"The perfect Gryffindor girl feels disgusted?"
A covert black stare, some big, transparent eyes peeking in. Light swimming in the kitchen, the smell of coffee, coldness stuck everywhere in the house.
"Don't say that."
The man breathes tightly; the coffee is too bitter, it burns, he drinks it anyway. Something squeezes him, but he is who he is for a reason. Slow in the grey atmosphere, the woman comes close, her face is determined, hair falling over her shoulders. The tall, grieving figure doesn't let go the empty mug.
"I'm trying to lie. I won't lie to you no matter what. You're right, I've never wanted to hurt anyone, and I don't like what I'm hearing from you, but I'm not going to judge you this time."
The pale mouth stretches, incredulous.
"Please, in return, don't judge me."
Finally, someone puts down the mug on the table; boiling water shrieks on the stove. Again, the pale mouth smiles, ironically, bitterly.
"I'm not anyone to judge you, and I'm not here to do that."
The clock's hand moves, a feminine hand raises, the man inhales suddenly. She has "let's start over" in her mouth. The hands meet each other, one touches the other and looks at it with the brush, discovers it, it's warm and rough. The immobile man exhales deeply again.
"I'm Hermione Jean, a pleasure," one hand moves, nestled in the other. Warmth, smooth heat, a bird on the window. "You may call me Hermione."
The woman looks at the man's small mouth, the corners are slumped. The hands start to swear.
"You can't address me by my given name," the absolute eyes blink too slowly.
"Then, Snape's fine?" a guttural voice, noticeably grave, growls.
The hands let go, the bird is gone, the water is still mumbling and boiling.
If we're friends now? We are. He speaks little, listens with patience, stares at me. Snape stares at me, sees what I do and then follows me as if he's learning how to live with company, as if he'd been alone for many years in a mountain or a desert, and I'm surprised that such an astute man could be so lacking at the same time. Do you remember when I told you about the photographs? That we only see instants of a long movie? Now that I see the rest of the film, the fleeting images get a different tone. I could say I really care about him, he was there for seven years and I couldn't see who he was, who he is.
When, for some reason, he decides to speak, I feel fortunate, because no one else has heard his world, beside Dumbledore. How could I measure to such kind of confidant? I surely don't fill the huge hole the Headmaster left, maybe I'm a small piece in the middle of a big gap, but I believe the professor will forgive me.
He, on the other side, manages to make me smile on the inside with a phrase of cordiality. Imagine, Harry, Snape talking to you without hate, imagine all his experience and knowledge at peace with you. I'm flattered. We're friends and I'm proud of it, happy and fearful too because I think it won't last, that someday I'll make him angry or we'll argue and everything will be over.
I wish it wasn't like that, Harry. When Snape's voice doesn't say insults its almost beautiful, it's the most beautiful thing of his whole body. I still remember him giving us our first Potion lesson, I'll never forget that moment and what it meant. How was it, Harry? "Cheating the mind and disturbing the senses"? No, but he talked about the subtlety of the smokes and boiling cauldrons. Do you know it? I don't care about the exact phrase; I remember the atmosphere created by his voice and you, writing on your parchment. Those were such happy days together, Harry!
Silence in the living room, furniture still and old. A very tall, very thin man is reading on the couch, the girl is sitting on the carpet. The clock's noise is like a throb; the light softens, is barely a dim ray. The storybook opens on the man's legs; the girl put it there, here clear eyes look at him with something close to love, like one would see an old memory, a father, a childhood teacher maybe. A prince turns into a beast, the girl speaks; her voice is the only thing accompanying the clock's drum. Condemned to be a beast forever and live in the castle. The man feels an emptiness in his stomach, inhales air without moving. A kind hand passes the page; there's a drawing there, red, orange and green. It smells like vanilla. Far away they can hear children playing in the street. The hands brush by accident in the middle of the page. The girl has smiled, the man let the corner of his mouth fall, he's quite serious, barely moving. Again, something squeezes his chest. He'll be a monster forever. She looks to the window covered with curtains, the light turns grey, the afternoon is ending. The grieving man is silent. Belle rejected him, she couldn't marry him, but she'd stay at his side because he was a dear friend of her. And then what? She smiles again; black eyes avoid her, they're stormy, darkened with resentment. The girl looks at them and doesn't understand. She passes the page, there's a big mirror in it. Belle left. It was to be expected, the man says. And the page changes again; the man wants to stand up, but a book and a pair of hands don't allow him to move. At least finish this story. She raises her wand and lights up a lamp, the light is orange. Vanilla's smell has conquered. Granger's hair shine, wavy on her forehead and shoulders; the man scrutinizes the curly forms and remembers someone. He wants to stand up, he's angry, he's always angry, sometimes he doesn't even know why anymore. When she went back, the beast was dead. Lids were raised, the lively gaze goes up to a pale, cold face. It's almost over, you can leave if you want then. The mouth grimaces. The beast turned into a beautiful prince, Belle couldn't recognize him immediately. Bullshit. She raises her head; the man's tone of voice hurts her. There are many interpretations of this story… He doesn't allow her to finish, he has removed the book. It's always about the same thing. The girl clutches the book against her chest, looking up at him, scared by his sudden movements; she seems sad, she seems disappointed. A child laughs from far away. Are you like Beauty, Granger? Do you absurdly wait for beasts to turn into princes? The girl fills her chest, the clock gives seven rings, the ray that entered through the curtains has died. The orange light is shining behind each eye, reflecting against each pupil. No, but we sometimes see beasts where there are none. The gloomy man makes a disgusted gesture. I'd like to say I see beyond, but that's not true, I didn't see you; not even seven years were enough to realize what was happening. The man's nostrils flare, the mouth is tightened and still, eyes sharp as a viper, fixed. I also see beasts where there are none; I hope you may forgive me for that. The black gaze dies down, closes behind white lids. She thinks about taking the hand hanging at the man's side, but she doesn't dare. He moves to the threshold; his military steps are watered down, without any will. The girl turns out the light, only sees weak, bluish glow, the children are still playing. Everything is immobile. He's still there, somewhere; she can hear his breathing. I have nothing to forgive you for.
Have you been too busy? I haven't received any letters from you. How are you? How are Ginny and your parents? Please, please write to me, I want to see you so much, I miss you, I hope you're okay. Again, write to me, Ron.
I love you so much, Hermione J. Granger.
The Potion lessons were over; Snape was sitting in the kitchen, drinking his habitual coffee.
"Two weeks for the trial. I'm nervous, how are you?"
The man raised his eyes and looked at her with some sympathy. Hermione was thankful for that, one of those gestures that were more and more common.
"I'm not nervous if you ask me, Granger."
"Call me Hermione."
"Whatever you wish," he turned his attention back to his coffee and a copy of the Prophet.
"Where will you go when they free you?"
"That's not a fact."
"You will be free; if they don't free you, we will. Harry, the Wea—"
"I know the list."
"Then, what will you do?"
The man seemed uncomfortable, as if cornered against a wall.
"I don't know it yet."
The girl reached for the coffee pot and helped herself.
"I'm planning to return to Hogwarts to finish my seventh year. I'll like to see you there; it'd be good to keep in contact."
"I'm not going back to Hogwarts."
Judging by the man's tone of voice and expression, Hermione knew she had made a mistake.
"You're right, I can imagine why. Then, what will you do?"
"I already told you I don't know."
The girl swallowed; the man's knuckles were white, gripping the newspaper with fury.
"Do you have anywhere to go?"
He raised his head from the newspaper, irritated, apprehensive.
"I had a house, but I'm not going back there, I'm going to sell it."
"That's a good idea," she commented, trying to soften the tension. "You know, while you find a new house you can come with Harry and me, he had told me so in his letter, both of us think it'd be fine."
"With Potter?"
"I know you don't like him, but Harry promises not to bother you with anything."
"Then it's already planned?" he asked ironically, raising his brow in a way that managed to intimidate Jean.
"It's just a suggestion. We could be your family, we—"
"Enough, Miss Granger," he raised the newspaper again to hide his face. The Gryffindor's hand pulled it down so they faced each other again.
"Hermione to my friends. We're friends, right?"
"You've told me so already."
"Because it's true. Call me Hermione."
"Alright, leave me alone," he half-raised the newspaper. "Hermione," he spat, watching her directly. The girl seemed satisfied and helped herself with some more coffee.
I don't know what's wrong with you, you're crazy, you're abrupt, you're bold, more than I thought. Maybe you're not so much like Lily. You could open my closed fist, unlink my fingers and take out whatever I had in hand, you would, you always do it and I don't even know how. Sometimes you seem to guess, read me, sense me. I thought it was your blind spot, but I'm not completely right; you're different from how you were at the beginning of this lockdown; you no longer fear me, you look for me as if we were equals. What's wrong with you, Granger? What gives you the ability to treat me as you do?
Sometimes I realized you hugged Potter a lot and I wonder if afterwards, you'll dare to do it with me too.
I can't do anything but lower my gaze and hide behind books, because I can't stand so much of you, of your presence that fills every corner, and those big, thoughtful eyes that you bury in me, because you bury them in me, like needles. You're a bushy, mouthy abomination. And I'm like a bug you take and stare with your needle eyes on a table to vivisect and you want to eviscerate my life and my secrets to satiate your curiosity and your vehemence to 'help me', or at least that's what you call your urges of interrogatories and prosecution.
I'd like to cast you aside before you plunge more your hands in me, but I don't, you know why? Because, to my misfortune, I don't want to.
Do whatever you want to do, Granger, I'm not going to stop you anymore, but there's a price to pay: Weasley's and your letters, that burn every day in my hands.
My dear professor Snape,
I write a letter to you knowing I won't be able to give you, not for a long time. I wouldn't dare to do it sooner than that. But I want to talk to you and I don't dare say anything now, not face to face, not with your eyes on me. But one day you'll have it in your hands; I'll store it in a drawer and it'll be here for you.
Today we talked a lot, remember? We're in the house arrest, in the one that has paintings of jars with flowers that you don't like. Good, we're friends, or at least I've already declared myself your friends and you sometimes call me Hermione, but my name leaves your mouth harshly, like a growl, mumbling it, you try not to say it. I'm back at the beginning, today we talked a lot; I did most of the talking, but after much insist you told me something, maybe you still remember. I don't think I'll forget it for many years.
You told me about Tobias Snape and Eileen Prince. It was short, barely a few words, but it was enough. You said Tobias didn't like anything and that Eileen aged too quickly, you said you thought Hogwarts was the definite solution for everything, then you kept quiet and I didn't dare ask anything more. I understood, either way; I understood you weren't happy, that maybe you have never been happy. I think about you a lot, about the fact they bullied you when you were young, about the fact you say you committed a sin you had to pay for. I imagine the horrors Voldemort put you through, you know? I was tortured once; I'd like to share it with you, but I'm afraid of talking about that and uncover something that shouldn't be uncovered. I'd like to talk to you about everything and listen to your words or prudent silences.
I care about you a lot, professor. I know you're not perfect, I know you don't like people, I know you sometimes can even hurt others. But today I don't want to talk about that, you've offended me but I forgive you; I judged you and condemned you like the others and I didn't have any right to do so.
I wanted to tell you I'm sorry, that I'm sorry for everything that has happened to you, not because I know about it but because I just sense it, I sense it in your outstripped eyes, in your bitter face. In the resentful sadness you show when peeking through the window and wait for something that never arrives, that you know will never arrive.
I can't say this to your face because you'll get mad, you'll think I'm lying, that I pity you, and that's not true.
Professor Snape, try to move on, but not forget, because that's not possible.
I'll be with you.
Your pupil that esteems you and cares for you.
H. J. Granger.
Translator's note: There's a paragraph here that I separated and edited because it was quite hard to understand in Spanish, much less in English. Just FYI.