C a r e

(Victim cares for and befriends the Captor)

I grew bored during the day, because I couldn't bring myself to read his book. I read a bit of my Odyssey but I quickly tired of it, despite my love for Greek myths. I tried doodling, but I quickly tired of that, too. My mental brick walls evaporated as soon as I laid them down. I paced and wanted to scream. Then I sat on my bed and crumpled up a piece of paper and tossed it around. That kept me amused for a while, but it was short lived. I took a shower, although I was afraid someone would barge in, then washed my clothes, too; they were really gross. I laid them on the bare part of the floor in my wardrobe and wore the gray clothes Mr. Snape had made me. They were too big.

Still bored, I pulled out my bag and actually did some homework. I tried to translate some Latin, but it all came out as gibberish. Stupid Romans, I thought, frustrated, slamming the book shut. Can't even write in logical sentences.

I napped again to kill time.

Mr. Snape knocked on the door after some time, having brought me dinner (lunch had appeared before me by a spell). He stood before me awkwardly as I ate it. I'd never seen him awkward before. I paused from eating and looked expectantly up at him, being careful not to seem too hostile. He would pick a fight with me if I did not seem submissive, which was annoying, but I wanted to avoid a fight at all costs.

"I shouldn't've snapped at you earlier," he said sullenly, looking me dead in the eyes as if daring me to comment. I was shocked – he was apologizing?

I smiled faintly. "Thank you," I said.

"For what?" he snapped.

"You know." I gestured at him to illustrate my point, not wanting to say the word 'apologizing' to him. It might have been a sensitive topic.

He paused and his look softened a bit. "You are welcome." He looked at my damp clothes on the floor. "Why are they wet?" he demanded.

"W-washed them," I shrugged, "they were gross."

He snorted. "Indeed they were." Mr. Snape gestured with his wand; my clothes were suddenly dry. Then he tilted his head at me, like an inquisitive bird. "Those are too big on you." He nodded to the gray clothes he had made me, as if just noticing them now.

"B-better too big than too small." I tried not to look at him hopefully.

He snorted. Apparently I'd failed in the hiding-emotions department. So what else is new? With a wave of his wand, the clothes had shrunk, and fitted me comfortably. They had also, I noted with some surprise, turned green and black. I chuckled and joked, "I always look p-pasty in green."

"You think I would dress you in red?" he sneered, but there was a self-mocking quality to it, too. Now, that I understood.

"Never," I laughed. "Not r-red or yellow or blue. Amazing how wizards can be b-biased about colors."

He sat on an arm of one of his chairs, facing me. "It is rather foolish, isn't it?"

"Quite. I never realized that s-Slytherin has the only secondary color. That's a b-bit depressing."

Mr. Snape scoffed. "Green is a primary color of light, if not pigment."

"This is true," I acknowledged, grinning. "What's gotten you in such a g-good mood, if you don't mind my asking?"

He looked at me thoughtfully and then quirked a half-smile. "I suppose you'll know this already," he said, getting up and pulling a letter out of his pocket, "But Rubeus is alive."

Rubeus? I thought, and then shook myself. Oh, right. Rubeus Hagrid, keeper of grounds and keys at Hogwarts, I heard the actor's gravely voice say in my head. I didn't know Mr. Snape even got along with Hagrid.

"I didn't n-know you were friends," I said mildly, taking the letter and skimming it. I don't remember what it said word for word, but the basic idea of it was that Mr. Snape had been right, and thanks for the warning. It was vague, which was the point, I suppose, and after a second's thought I got it. He was right about the giants not helping, and the warning the Death Eaters going to attempt to persuade the same giants. It also had a PS saying that he found out that his mother had died years ago, and that he was alright, and thanks for feeding Fang.

"Of course you wouldn't," he said smugly, "Potter doesn't."

I snorted and handed him back the letter. "Because that'd go over s-so well. Harry Potter tends to think of nearly all his teachers as cardboard boxes and n-not people." I shook my head. "I n-never understood that."

"It's alarming to know you're more mature than Potter," he said, accepting the letter and walking over to put in his desk drawer.

I beamed at the compliment. I knew better than to try to defend Harry to him, although I privately disagreed. I was less angry than Harry, which didn't make me more mature. Just more sheltered.

"M-mature in different areas, I guess. I've always felt sort of b-bad for him. Especially in this book. Then again, I sort of feel bad for e-everyone."

"Myself included?" Mr. Snape scoffed.

I grinned and teased, "Of course. Or, rather, I u-used to. I know now you've got l-little use and less desire for my p-pity." I smiled faintly at him, and was gratified by a satisfied gleam in his eye. I continued, "You know I've always l-liked you. Except m-maybe in book one, but I didn't realize that you weren't the flat character I thought you were."

"Book one? Potter's first year?"

"Yeah. With Quirrel."

"Quirrel. Emphasis on the first syllable, not the last." His tone was mocking, but not entirely cruel. Or maybe I was just used to him. I laughed.

"That one I n-know; there was a movie about the first book. I just refuse to conform." I grinned at him. "I like to keep my original image rather than see only the movie in my mind's eye. If I only saw the movie, I wouldn't've r-recognized you."

His eyes glinted. "Ah, yes. The actors. Am I horribly misrepresented?"

"Quite," I chuckled, "the w-wig is terrible. The real thing is much p-preferable."

"You're the only one that thinks so," was the dry response. I smiled.

"You should see the guy that p-plays Lupin," I grinned, "he has a mustache."

"The horror!" he drawled, voice deeply sarcastic. I laughed.

There was a comfortable silence.

He walked over to his desk and prepared some papers. Gladly, I emerged from my wardrobe and sat in one of his chairs. I glanced over to him. "Whose are th-those?" I asked, indicating the essays.

"Fifth years, actually," he said dryly. I walked over.

"I always w-wondered how they wrote essays without knowing how to structure one," I said mildly.

"Appalling, isn't it?" he said, looking like he heartily agreed. "Not a thesis among the lot. Except perhaps Granger's." He sneered over the name.

"Well, that's to b-be expected." I murmured, glancing over them.

Neville Longbottom, I read from the top, and glanced at his first paragraph and winced. I like Neville, but it was rather appalling. His introduction was all choppy facts, and there was simply no transition from the intro to the first body, if you could even call it that. I have been taught that the thesis goes at the end of the introduction, but the last sentences were a detailed description of moonflowers. He didn't even say which potion he was writing about.

"That's just p-painful," I muttered.

"It's pathetic, is what it is," grouched Mr. Snape and slashed a nasty looking T on the top. Troll, I thought, poor Neville. He put the paper on the other side of the desk. No comments? I wondered, no saying where Neville went wrong?

I didn't mention it. I didn't want to make him angry, although I pitied Neville greatly.

Ron got a P and Harry did too, and with a smirk he gave Hermione an E. Draco got an E too and Crabbe and Goyle got E's as well. ("I didn't even expect them to write it," Mr. Snape had smirked at me, "so, yes, they Exceeded my Expectations." I'd rolled my eyes at him, trying not to laugh. I told him he was cruel. He thanked me.)

Harsh grader, I thought, though it wasn't a surprise. I guess they deserved it, though (excepting Crabbe, of course – Goyle was surprisingly articulate) – they'd have all gotten at most C's in an English class, excepting Hermione, who might've pulled off a B plus. Her thesis, while pretty good, was rather shaky. I suppose it comes of lack of practice.

I stood, walked back over to the armchairs in front of the fireplace and sat down, listening and occasionally chuckling as he commented on the idiocy of the students. His comments were nasty enough to make me nervous, but amusing enough for me to chuckle. There was that wit, I thought; I'd been wondering where it went.

We both went to bed in high spirits that night, and it was he that told me to sleep well first.

-

Time passed sluggishly, like oozing mud. The days and nights blurred together, and Mr. Snape and I had a shaky truce, which I hoped was permanent. The pleasant night in October was followed by more easy conversations. He'd drilled me for information to take to Voldemort once, but again I don't remember what I told him. Mr. Snape was less moody towards me, as time passed, and from the slam of the door and the beat of his approaching step I could tell that he relaxed when he walked into his quarters, despite the fact that I was there.

I was surprised at how many times he wanted to talk, to vent and pace and curse his students and the staff and Albus-bloody-Dumbledore and that-cursed-woman to a sympathetic ear. And I think he in turn was surprised when I quipped back at his rants; I told him about some spoofs I had read when he was in a particularly bad mood. He was rather horrified at my description of the "Potter puppet pals," but chuckled openly when I told him about the first one, in which the puppet Snape kills puppet Harry and Ron.

It felt as though a long time had passed but when I look at timelines it must really have been a few days, two weeks at most, for he came back one day suppressing a smile. Recognizing his step, I peered out at him, and he broke into a grin. I stared. He was grinning. I felt my cheeks twitch in response.

"What h-happened?" I asked.

"Quidditch." He said. "Potter and the Weasley twins were banned for life, and their brooms confiscated. But then, you already knew that."

"Ah," I said, smiling at him. "Yes, the c-competition for Slytherin's gone now, eh?"

"Ravenclaw's not bad," he said, still grinning. He sat down on an armchair and I came over to sit in the other.

"Modest? You? N-never." His mood was affecting mine; I was beaming, and I felt it too, despite the fact that I felt bad for Harry. It was still nice to see Mr. Snape in such a good mood.

"Never indeed. We will win for sure this year, although we mustn't slack off."

"No," I said, "you shouldn't. I actually d-don't remember who wins."

"It will be Slytherin." He gestured and the fireplace ignited itself. There was a pause.

"Well," I smiled, "t-tell me about it." Guys like to talk, right? I thought to myself.

"You have already read it," he scoffed at me. "Unless you're too dense to remember."

Whoops. He's not an ordinary guy. Right then. But still… there was something in his voice…

"But only from Harry Potter's p-point of view," I countered, "about how angry he was. C'mon, it's been a w-while."

He sneered something about my poor memory, but relented and told the story. Mr. Snape is a great storyteller, and sometimes I wish the books are from his point of view. His recounting was spiced here and there with the sharpest of seasonings, and on occasion it was downright cruel, but there is no denying that it was funny. He mildly commented on Harry's brainless Gryffindor-ish-ness, that he didn't stop and think even to bother making a fist before he hit someone. He said something about the twins, too – something to do with each having half a brain; I don't fully remember the joke. But it was so funny I can't even express it. The halls echoed with my laughter, and Mr. Snape, whom I was starting to think of as Severus, was grinning even more.

"Yeah, s-see," I gasped, still giggling as he finished, "All I got was anger. You know, I'm not g-going to be able to re-read the book with a straight f-face anymore."

He just smirked at me.

He ate dinner in his room that night, with me. I don't quite remember what we talked about, but I remember it was enjoyable. He was in a very good mood, liberally sprinkling acid remarks all over his potion students. But, to my surprise, his caustic remarks never once touched me.

I couldn't even begin to tell you how delighted I was.

--