Chapter Two – A Familiar Voice

A familiar sound, a familiar voice
Makes it so hard to make a choice
I don't know if I should stay away.
Alexz Johnson – I Don't Know If I Should Stay

Hermione's hospital room at St. Mungo's had a window seat with a gorgeous view of the world outside. Of course, Hermione knew the view was magically-made and supremely unrealistic for this time of year, but immediately upon seeing it she had decided not to care.

Not caring, releasing control, was easier for her these days. There wasn't much to care about, anyway.

She sat quite still on the window seat, hugging her knees to her chest and resting her chin upon them. She stared outside, wishing she were out there with her friends and family, not locked up in the hospital, alone.

It wasn't as if she'd actually wanted to end her life. No. That wasn't the case at all. She wanted to live—but what she had was not a life in even the briefest definition of the word.

None of the well-intentioned healers and mediwitches around her seemed to understand that.

As she sat on the window seat, her thoughts turned to the trials today. Every day she attended the so-called Death Eater Trials before the Wizengamot; her testimonies were vitally important, or so she was told. Most of the trials ran together in her mind, but today, one trial in particular stood out: that of Octavius Yaxley.

Octavius Yaxley was a desperate man—a true Death Eater, yes, but an awful one. He almost, thought Hermione, besmirched the Death Eater name by being so… un-calculating and un-subtle. Essentially, he was a klutzy murderer, and that was a terrible thing to be. He went into his trial with fear in his eyes, knowing there was no chance he was going to escape his fate.

In truth, her testimony wasn't really needed to convict Yaxley; the Ministry had evidence against him going back years and years, some from crimes he hadn't even committed as a Death Eater. But Hermione had wanted to testify against the man, and so she was welcomed to the stand, as always.

"This man killed my parents," she'd begun. "He made me watch while he killed my parents. He let me sit helpless while he tortured them and killed them." She'd then spoken for a few minutes about the terror she'd felt, the nightmares she still had, and the sad hole in her heart which used to be filled up by the love of her parents.

"This Death Eater is responsible for the person I am today," she'd finished. The crowd had gasped at her frank admission.

"He made you a war hero?" one of the Wizengamot members had asked, puzzled.

"Yes, that's part of it," she'd replied. "His action motivated me with more force to put an end to Voldemort's reign."

"What's the other part of it, then?" the member had asked.

"Memories of what he did to me, to my parents…" She paused, and the court had waited nervously. "I attempted suicide because of him."

That statement alone opened a cell in Azkaban for Yaxley. And Hermione was proud of it, in a way. She also felt fairly terrible; she had lied. She hadn't needed to lie to convict this man, but she'd done it. And she didn't know why. She'd stuck to the truth in other cases, cases with less evidence where her lie would have been immensely helpful.

It was true that Yaxley had affected her, yes. But her experiences at his hands hadn't made her try to kill herself. She didn't know what had made her do that.

"What am I turning into?" she wondered aloud. Ten healers immediately rushed into the room at the sound of her voice. She'd been silent for the past few hours, and their "concern" for her was evident.

"What was that?"

"Do you need something? Someone?"

"Can I bring you anything?"

"How are you feeling?"

Hermione tuned out their anxious voices and returned to her internal reflections, feeling melancholy. I don't want to be taken care of by you idiots, she said to herself.

The view from her window turned slowly darker as the hours went past. Trees, a meandering river, small animals playing, it all faded to black. When at last she was staring out into pitch dark space—the dead of night in whatever time the made-up scene she viewed ran on—she began slowly to stand up. She lifted her head from where it rested on her knees, then stretched out her legs, first the right, then the left. Finally, she placed her feet softly on the tile floor and brought herself into standing position.

She had kept her mind carefully blank for most of the day spent watching out the window. Now, she let thoughts float in, one by one.

The first thought that occurred to her was that she wished someone were there to hold her, to support her. She was so lonely.

But the second thought was more important. She realised, almost instinctively, that what she wanted to do was live--really live, not just exist in this mixed-up, pretend life with no friends, no family, no purpose. She did not want to spend her days staring at artificial scenery.

The shock of the thought made her promptly sit down again. She rested her head in her hand and stared down at her feet, thinking.

"I want to live?" she said out loud, quietly so the medical "professionals" wouldn't hear her words. "I want to live," she repeated, with more conviction.

"How nice for you," said a drawling sort of voice from the doorway. She recognised it even before she looked up and made eye contact with the dark man who had killed Albus Dumbledore. He was seated in a Muggle contraption she knew as a wheelchair, and he looked slightly uncomfortable.

"They let you out?" she asked, before it occurred to her that she might have been a little more tactful. "Oops, sorry. I meant to say… Well, no. That's what I meant."

Snape laughed softly, his mouth curling up. Using his hands on the large wheels, he rolled himself closer to her. "Mind if I come in?"

"It's fine," she said in response and he wheeled so he was sitting a few feet directly in front of where she sat on the window seat.

"They do indeed let me out, or at least they did this once," he told her. "It seems the Wizengamot has slackened some of the rules, in my case."

"Interesting. And you don't know why?" she asked, seemingly innocently.

"No, I'm fairly sure you had something to do with it," he said, smirking slightly. "I hear the one person who has any pull with those people these days is you."

"That would be correct. Even in my 'fragile mental state' I'm still the only hero they've got."

"Should I assume your mental state caused your interference on my behalf? I'm sure there's no other reason anyone would care enough to believe me innocent."

"I'm not so sure you're innocent, but I'm very sure you won't get a fair trial. I just figured I wouldn't be around for your trial, wouldn't be able to vouch for you, get you a lesser sentence. So maybe I could make your time up until your trial, and consequent life in Azkaban, a little… nicer."

"Why would you even consider vouching for me?" he asked. This was turning out to be easier than he'd hoped. She already half-believed him to be innocent.

Hermione took a deep breath. "You'll have to follow my logic a little bit here." She paused, gathering her words, then continued, "Harry told me, before he died, to make sure things went well for you."

Snape's eyes narrowed. This did not sound like the Harry Potter he had known.

"He was there the night you killed Professor Dumbledore, you know, and he said… He said he'd reexamined the events and thought that you might have just been protecting Draco. Harry told me that you can't have been such a bad person if you would potentially sacrifice your freedom just to save a child from becoming a murderer. In the end, Harry decided to believe Dumbledore and he chose to think you weren't such a bad guy. Or so he said.

"Now, I don't know if you're bad or good or something else entirely, and before I was about to kill myself, I couldn't have cared less. But I loved Harry, he was my best friend, and I would've have done anything for him while he lived. I guess it should be the same now, even though he's not alive."

"So you helped me for Harry?" Snape was utterly confused.

"Yes," Hermione said.

"I don't believe you," he said. "I think this is all a story."

Immediately, Hermione protested, "I closed my mind to you! I'm trained!"

Snape shook his head. "I did not use Legillimency on you," he said flatly. "In fact, I did not need to to see you were telling a story."

"A story? Why would you think that?"

Snape paused, his dark eyebrows furrowed. "I…stood for everything Potter considered evil," he said.

Hermione could tell instinctively he was being honest, and it scared her. Snape as anything but sarcastic scared her.

"I can imagine him trying to pardon me only under extreme duress," Snape told her, a touch of sarcasm in his voice. She relaxed a little.

"People change when they know their lives are ending," she countered.

"Not this much."

"You don't know that," she said, too quickly.

Snape laughed again. "Miss Granger, how many people do you think I've seen die?"

"I'm sure you've seen a fair few," Hermione replied, realising then her mistake in deceiving to him. She should never have tried; she should have told the truth. How had she become such a liar?

"Wouldn't you imagine that I know how people's minds change a little more than you know?" He didn't wait for her response. "But, the Wizengamot wouldn't know any more than you do about death, I wager."

"Fine," she said quickly and in a bare whisper. "Please don't talk about it so loudly. Those healers and mediwitches are listening to everything I say."

He dropped his voice very low. "I know the feeling. Just tell me why you made up a story to tell the Wizengamot."

"I heard a rumor…" she began, but broke off as a mediwitch came into the room.

"Hermione, deary, would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you. I'm fine," Hermione replied politely.

"How about something to eat, then?" pushed the mediwitch.

"I'm fine," Hermione said, a note of irritation creeping into her voice. "I'll let you all know if I need anything. There's no reason to hover."

The mediwitch pursed her lips, then leaned in closer to whisper in Hermione's ear. "You are aware you're having a quiet conversation with a murderer, aren't you?"

"I'm very much aware," Hermione said loudly.

"You know, we're concerned about your mental state and this hints that—"

"I don't honestly care about what my talking to Snape hints at. Go away." She scowled at the woman, who scurried off, most likely to report her findings: Hermione was insane.

Hermione went on in a whisper, "I heard a rumor—more a speculation—that if you truly were still on Dumbledore's side and we were all wrong about you, you would have told Dumbledore everything about Voldemort's plan for Draco to kill him. That kind of thinking… well, it appealed to my logical side. It made sense. I mean, if Dumbledore had known what was to come and if he had told you to kill him instead of letting Draco do it…You were just carrying out his wishes," she said. Then she looked at him, right in the eyes, and said quickly and in her normal speaking voice, "I don't know if that's true or not, Snape, and I don't want to know. Don't tell me."

Snape chose to say nothing at that moment, so Hermione continued quietly, "I'm not saying you're innocent, of course. You still killed him. But if he asked you to do it… well, that's different than straight up murder."

"I agree," Snape said.

"Agree with what?"

"With your idea that it's not murder." He paused. "And, Hermione, I didn't murder Albus."

"For some reason, I believe you," she muttered to herself.

"What was that?"

"Just that I believe you," she told him, "but I'm not sure why. I'm normally not one to jump on a bandwagon without all the facts."

"I see. I could tell you all the facts," he proposed.

"No, thanks. You could lie to me and I would never know it, so hearing the 'truth' from you could be just like not hearing it, really."

"You are entirely too rational," commented Snape, looking at her strangely.

"Hermione 'Rational' Granger, that's me."

"Well, Miss Rational," he drawled, "I have a proposition for you."

"Oh?"

"Help me."

"Help you… do what?" Hermione replied, knowing his answer before he began to speak.

"Help me stay clear of Azkaban. Testify for me."

She looked down at her hands, frowning and pursing her lips. Slowly she lifted her head up and tilted it to the side, looking Snape in the eyes. "Fine, but you'll have to do something for me."

"What?"

"I'm not telling you yet."

"Okay," he said. "I'll await your mystery request and in the meantime, you'll save my life."

"Sounds like a plan, Snape," she replied, grinning slightly.

"Now, shall I assume you rationalized this all out, in your head, in those five seconds you paused?" Snape asked.

"No. You should assume that I've been rationalizing it out for the past five years," Hermione shot back, not thinking.

"Five years? Merlin! What, since I killed Dumbledore?"

"Yes…" she said slowly. Oops. She'd just given away her ace; now he knew too much. She wasn't sure why she thought she had to keep things from him, maybe some part of her knew he wasn't entirely trustworthy, but she felt it was the thing to do. Oh well, too late now. "It was hard for me to believe that Dumbledore would turn out to be a fool after all, in trusting you. I told myself that if I ever found reason to believe you hadn't just murdered a too-trusting old man, I would help you clear your name, if I could."

"Interesting." Snape grinned inwardly, careful to let none of his emotions show on his face. She was already in the palm of his hand… and he hadn't had to do any work.

"I think I'd like to go to sleep now, Snape, if you don't mind," Hermione said, eyeing the healers and mediwitches who still paced around the hallway outside her room, pretending they weren't trying to listen. "My keepers are getting restless."

"I'll go, then." He began wheeling himself backwards to turn around.

"Come back tomorrow, if you want." Snape nodded in response before spinning around in a fluid motion and starting to roll forward, towards the door. Hermione watched him go, not sure what she felt. The healers and mediwitches breathed a collective sigh of relief as soon as he was far enough down the hall that they could no longer hear the wheels of his chair roll.

What was it that she had with Snape now? An alliance of sorts?

It didn't truly matter, she knew. If she were being honest with herself, she would admit that she was just happy to have something to do with her life. Helping Snape--someone most people believed was a murderer--gave her back some of the adventure she'd grown accustomed to waking up to every day. From the moment her sixth year at Hogwarts had come to a close, Hermione and her friends had been working with the Order. Each moment had brought a new adventure to undertake, and all of it was for the very best cause imaginable: defeating Voldemort. But now...

Hermione had to be content with helping Snape. No more did she need to fathom intense plans to bring down the Dark Lord. No more did she need to protect her back at every turn. No more did she need to question everything she said to people, being wary of espionage. No. Now, she had to invent mysteries and intrigue and danger to take the place of what had haunted her heart for so many years.