AN: So, funny story. I sort of managed to set my laptop on fire. As such, the hours of improvement and editing I made on the next fifteen damn chapters are lost to the ether. Turns out husbands can retrieve deleted files, but they can't un-set fires. I edited this as much as my poor brain could cope with. My apologies if it is a little messy. Okay well, have a great day, friends, and er... don't set fire to your laptops! Byeeee x
2. Satisfaction
H.
Hermione brushed the sleep out of the corner of her eyes and pulled her thick curls into a knot at the crown of her head. As she shook off the weight of the morning, she recalled the peach fuzz of a dream from the night before. A man, all in black, wrapped in the crisp, white sheets of her parents' guest bedroom. She pulled on her dressing gown, slid her feet into her slippers and made her way down the landing. Her fingers rapped lightly on the door, awaiting a response that didn't come. She twisted the doorknob, knocking again, and popped her head around the door. He lay, exactly as he had before, deathly still between the sheets, curled into the foetal position. His dark hair spilled across the pillow like a Rorschach test. It was madness that Professor Snape lay before her, after all. She saw the very same figures in the inkblot as she had the night before. He had not moved.
She cleared her throat, in an attempt to rouse him, but he did not stir.
"Sir?"
Nothing.
"Professor?"
She swept further into the room until she loomed over him.
"Professor Snape?"
Hermione felt her heart beat in her ears as she extended a trembling finger and prodded the man between his shoulder blades. She expected him to snap awake; to yell, to chastise her, but he didn't move. With a jolt of courage, she pulled his shoulder down so that he turned onto his back. His eyes were open but he stared through her. She wished she could look through his eyes to see what he saw, as she placed her hand gently beside him and lowered herself on to the edge of her bed.
"Do you sleep with your eyes open?"
His eyebrows narrowed and he pulled the sheets up to his chin as a shield.
You're awake then.
"I thought for a moment you were dead."
"You should be so lucky", he croaked.
"Hey! You can talk."
He nodded.
"Is it painful?" she asked.
"No more so than this conversation".
Hermione flashed a sardonic smile.
"Maybe you should rest your voice today then", she mocked.
"Will you rest yours?"
"Are you telling me I talk too much?"
Snape rolled his eyes.
I'm not that bad, am I?
Hermione wondered if a hurt look had crossed her face, because he rolled his eyes again, only more theatrically. He turned over so that his back was to her and pulled the sheets over his head like a shroud. With that, the conversation was over, and Hermione had been dismissed.
:
S.
"Right, come on, Professor. It's time to get up. You've already missed breakfast."
He stared at her, attempting to pierce her brown eyes with his black. She swallowed and he was pleased to find that he could still perturb her.
"I'm fine where I am."
The sound of his voice was so alien a thing. It was a pathetic sound. It did not belong to a man as imposing as he.
"Come on, now", she said again, her voice stronger than before. "Stop sulking. Get up."
"No", he snipped.
He finished the sentence in his head, and I do not sulk.
"You're supposed to be resting your voice."
Fine, I'll rest my voice. I can say everything I need to with two fingers. One would even suffice across the pond, I believe.
"You know, you're very rude", Hermione said with a gentle laugh. "I brought you something to eat."
The girl stepped out on to the landing and returned with a tray in her arms. On it was a glass of what might have been orange juice and a plate of burnt baked beans on soggy toast.
Disgusting.
"I'm not eating that."
"There's not much food in the house."
"Piss off. I'm not hungry."
His stomach growled then, just to undermine him in front of her. Even his body was beginning to betray him now.
Wonderful.
"Eat it", she said, "you obviously need to."
Snape slapped the tray out of her hands, and as it hurtled to the ground he felt the familiarity of a flash of shame; his hands wrapped themselves into fists.
How dare she! She's infuriating!
"I told you, I want to be left alone."
Her face flushed pink.
"Fine!" she said. "Starve. See if I care."
She did care though, demonstrably, because she returned four hours later with another tray of food. She didn't speak to him, however. She simply left the tray on the floor and left.
Like a bloody prisoner.
When the latch clicked and the girl had left, Severus slumped onto his back and stared at the ceiling.
This is not what was supposed to happen. We didn't discuss this when we made the plan, did we, Albus? I knew it! I knew that I needed a contingency plan, but no! I trusted you when you said you'd come through. Now I'm dependent on this... this child.
A voice in his mind, that sounded suspiciously like Lucius, cleared its throat. She's almost nineteen, it said. At least she's not bad to look at. It could be worse, Severus. You could be stuck here with Potter.
Oh God, imagine.
It's been a long time since you were alone with a girl ... it said.
Oh, piss off you old pervert, he told it, and curled back into the bed sheets, willingly surrendering to the knowledge that if he sank any lower, the bed might just swallow him whole.
She's only trying to help, you know? the voice said, gently. And you need her...
I know, he told it. And I can't stand it.
:
H.
Hermione took the empty tins from the kitchen counter, and dropped them into the bin. As she wiped down the surface, she craned her head to listen to what sounded like a patter of footsteps above her.
He's out of bed.
She popped the cloth into the sink, switched off the kitchen light and plunged onto the sofa, kicking her legs up over the arm. She flicked through some twenty channels before turning the television off and summoning a book from her bag. At least she had that with her, and thankfully she had swapped out the books before she left so that she had something new to read.
The battle must be over by now. Did we... did we win? I shouldn't have to wonder, I should know. I should be there. Ron and Harry need me.
They weren't entirely useless without her, of late; quite able to stand on their own two feet. But they worked best as a trio. Yet she couldn't go to them, back to where she belonged, because she couldn't explain what she was doing locked up in her parents' house, without outing Professor Snape to the world. However, that concern was becoming less and less pressing with every snide comment and look of contempt.
So what if they know he's alive?
But Hermione knew that if the battle was over, and they had not been victorious, then to tell anyone where she was or who she was with, was akin to murder-suicide.
We must have won... Right?
As she flicked through the pages of the book, not really taking in its content, Hermione's mind played through potential scenarios. She imagined the battle. Ron and Harry sticking together, no matter what. They probably wondered where she was, but they did not look for her. They stayed on task. She heard the floorboards creak above her once more, followed by a thud, but she chose to ignore it.
He'll come down when he's ready, she thought.
It was one of those automatic thoughts; the ones that you don't craft or control - they're by instinct - and it surprised her how calm she was with the whole situation. He had been unthinkably rude, and yet, she understood. He did not want to be here any more than she did. The difference between them was that she had been able to choose - bringing him here was her choice, freely made. He'd simply been along for the ride.
A crashing from above jolted Hermione into the present. She dropped the book and walked quickly up the stairs. She did not run, but there was an inexplicable urgency in her movements. She knew that most likely, he had thrown the tray again in a fit of wanting to make his displeasure known. But as her heart tripped over itself and her legs powered below her, she wondered if her body knew something she didn't. She flung the door open, ready to chastise him for making more mess and causing further damage. But her eyes fell to the floor, where he lay at her feet; hunched and crumpled, like discarded paper.
"Oh shit", she said, dropping to her knees. "Are you okay?"
"I fell", he said miserably.
"I can see that", she said with a smile that she hoped seemed warm, rather than piteous. "Would you like a hand getting up?"
He nodded again and dropped his gaze, as his head drooped and his body sagged. He seemed as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, and all at once he was not the murderous sociopath she sometimes worried he might be, but simply a man.
A man who had been through much; a man on whom life had taken its toll.
As she placed her arm under his shoulder and she took all of his weight onto hers, he closed his eyes, wrapped his fingers as a fist into her dress and clenched his jaw. It was as though he knew that if he opened his mouth even a fraction, he would allow the escape of a whimper but he was a proud gatekeeper.
He climbed back under the sheets and gave her a single, grateful nod. Then, just as quickly, the Death Eater in him returned and bore its teeth.
"Now leave."
:
S.
The girl was being kind to him. In spite of all evidence to the contrary, she seemed to think he was worth caring for. He could do without her constant chatter, and relentless animation, but otherwise she wasn't the worst ally. For one thing, most of the time, she left him alone. She would do better to leave him indefinitely, but she kept returning, no matter how viciously he pushed her away. Even when he offended her, he thought he saw warmth in her eyes.
She's exasperating.
She didn't return for the rest of the day, or even the next morning. Instead of personally delivering the tray of food to his bedside, she levitated it up the stairs and into his room. He felt a stab of guilt as he wondered if he had upset her. However the guilt quickly subsided when he filled up on toast and marmalade - a marginally less offensive offering than the day before - and so he chalked it up to hunger.
Yes, that's more likely.
Much weighed on his conscience - he had a lot to feel guilty for - but upsetting Granger would not be one of them. Even if she did continue to go out of her way to care for him. She would save them both a lot of hassle if she just let him starve to death. Not that he wanted to die.
Not anymore, anyway.
The door swung open and he opened his mouth, prepared to tell her to where she could stick her pathetic little tray, but nobody stood in the doorway. Instead, in came a book, floating as though weightless through the air and landed on the bedside table.
Nice try. I won't read it.
He lay on his side and closed his eyes. But every time he did he was back in that damn shack, begging for his life, without daring to actually beg. 'Let me find the boy', he'd said. He knew - they both knew - what that meant... 'Let me go. Please, let me leave'. As he stared at the subtle pattern in the blue wallpaper that threatened to drive him mad, he realised that this tiny room had become a prison of his own making.
It doesn't have to be a prison, the voice like Lucius' said.
Severus rolled his eyes and with a shock, he let out a soft chuckle. He was arguing with himself. He was teetering on the edge of sanity, he could feel it. He needed to distract himself, and felt the call of the book that sat beside him - a school textbook - not worth a second look, and yet. What was the alternative? Internal conversations with dead men?
Is that what this is Lucius? Are you dead? You've not left me, have you, friend?
Granger eventually showed her face in the room later that evening. He knew it was the evening because the crack in the curtains was black. Its changing colour was the only indication of the passing of time. Otherwise he might think that he had stagnated or that time had stopped altogether; the world ended. The girl wore plaid pyjamas and smelled of spearmint toothpaste.
"I'm going to bed", she said. "Do you need anything?"
I need the bathroom. I can piss in a glass, but sooner or later I'm going to need to take a -
He shook his head. He didn't want to hear his pathetic voice again. She flicked the switch and he took his solace in the darkness. He was safe now. There was comfort and familiarity in the shadows.
It's where I belong.
:
H.
Hermione woke in the middle of the night with a full bladder. She always woke in the small hours after a couple of glasses of wine, and she'd really needed them tonight. She crept along the landing in the dark, a practice left over from childhood, when the monsters she feared had claws, not horcruxes. She discretely used the bathroom and cringed as the toilet flushed and waited for it to abate. A sound like static buzzed around in the silence and Hermione felt all of the hairs on her arms stand to attention; then followed the prickle on the back of her neck. The sound was coming from downstairs.
Unsure what she would find, Hermione brandished her wand in front of her as she worked her way silently down the stairs, carefully moving around the parts of the floorboards that creaked underfoot. She peered around the doorframe into the living room. Her attention was drawn immediately to the white noise that spluttered on the television. She felt her fingers tremble as her eyes fell upon her father's armchair, or rather, the dark figure that rested on it. Then quickly followed a wash of relief as she realised that the dark figure was an invited, albeit unwelcome guest.
She turned around, more than content to leave him where he sat without a word, but no sooner had she lifted her foot to alight the stairs, his voice stirred into the room and wrapped itself around her bones. The voice was soft, but it caught on every syllable, like wrinkled, black velvet.
"You're not going to join me?"
I think I'd rather crawl back into bed and have a nightmare. Although...
"Fine", she said, and she was pleased that though her hands still shook, her voice did not.
"Tell me you have something stiff for me to drink?"
"Whisky?" she offered.
"Firewhisky?"
"No, sorry."
"Good", he said, with a look of disgust he usually reserved for unpleasant conversations with his teenage students. "Can't stand the stuff."
He sat back in the chair and groaned as he rearranged his position.
"It's Scotch", she said. "Glenmorangie..."
"I haven't a clue what that means".
"Nor do I. But it's supposed to be good."
"Frankly, I would drink piss right now if it would get me tanked."
Hermione summoned the half-empty bottle and two glasses from the liquor cabinet.
"You're going to partake?"
His eyebrows raised, as though with approval and Hermione felt a small tingle of satisfaction. He hadn't expected it.
There is much you don't know about me, Professor.
"After you", he said, raising his glass and nodding to her.
"Shall we toast?" she asked, meeting his eyes for the first time.
"Sure. What would you like to toast to?" he said, his voice thick with sarcasm. "To the unknown fate of the wizarding world? Or to the misfortune of being stuck here together?"
"How about to being alive?" she suggested. "Or perhaps we should toast to not being killed by a bloody snake?"
She locked her eyes with his, tilting her head and sticking out her chin.
"Unless you'd like to toast to me... for not letting you die?"
"To not being killed by a bloody snake!" he cheered facetiously, and downed his two fingers.
:
S.
Not bad. More! he thought, as he poured himself a second glass, and again as he poured out a third.
Granger joined him. Never one to be outshone, she kept up with him until they had finished the bottle. He jutted his head towards the liquor cabinet.
"Tell me there's more."
She snapped her wrist and with a flick of her wand, two more bottles moved from the shelves and landed before him on the coffee table.
Excellent.
About halfway through the second bottle, Severus felt himself slip into the gentle embrace of what his father would have referred to as 'tipsy'. He felt himself warming, almost as a physical sensation from the inside, and despite his reservations, he supposed that ignoring the girl was cruel. She had saved him after all.
Let's not think too much on that. I've only just paid off one debt.
After another couple of glasses, he would be just about social enough to engage her, he decided. However, she'd warmed quicker than he had.
"Snape", she said.
Her voice came sharp, like a shard of glass. It was the first time that she had not observed formalities when addressing him, and however much he did care to hear his name in her voice, he didn't much prefer being called 'Professor' or 'Sir'. Particularly since he was certain he would no longer be welcome at Hogwarts. Not that it bothered him. In fact, he was rather pleased to be shot of the place.
"Snape", she said again. "What did you..."
She changed tack, re-evaluating her question.
"How are you still alive?" she decided.
He made a steeple with his fingers over his glass.
Tell her, but keep it to the point. Need to know basis.
"I already had a blood slowing solution and the snake's antivenom in my system. The rest was a combination of my pigheaded determination not to die, and well... you."
She swallowed and opened her mouth as though to speak, then closed it firmly.
"Now ask me what you really want to know", he said, and raised one eyebrow.
"I want to know what you... I wondered about the..."
Of course she does.
"You want to know about the memories I gave to Potter."
"Well... yes."
"It was information that would better prepare him for his fight with The Dark Lord."
Enough now, Severus. Say no more.
He sat back in his chair to show her that he had said everything he would on the subject. She straightened her back and emptied her glass.
"You killed Dumbledore", she said.
It wasn't a question. Nor was it an accusation. It was a statement.
"Did I?" he asked.
"Didn't you?"
I'm not a killer, he thought.
But the words turned to ash and he couldn't bring himself to say them. He hadn't killed Albus per se, but he had done evil to rival it in his time with the Death Eaters.
No. Do not dwell.
"Granger... If you believed I murdered the Headmaster, why did you bring me here? Why didn't you leave me to die?"
He cocked his head and she mirrored the movement.
"I thought there might be more to the story", she said.
"There is", he said.
"So... whose side were you on?"
She's smart. She's got you pegged.
There was only one answer that was entirely truthful, and for the first time, he dared admit it.
"My own."
:
H.
Snape talked more and more with every glass of whisky he threw back. As her teacher, he'd had a knack for saying much with few words. Similarly, it seemed, he was able to tell you a lot without revealing anything of substance about himself. As such, you might think that you had learned a great deal about him, only to walk away realising that you knew little more than when you began.
However Hermione had a knack of her own, and so with every word, he revealed more about himself; more than he ever intended. Because just as he had an uncanny ability to say a lot, but tell very little, she was able to read into what wasn't said - every pause and every gesture. She read subtext like a book.
As he lay his head back onto the armchair and rubbed his long fingers across his temples, Hermione felt the bristle of something she couldn't pinpoint. It was as though a poignant thought had crossed her mind so quickly that she'd not been able to catch it. Like her subconscious had made a connection that hadn't quite reached her conscious.
"Snape, tell me about your childhood", she said eventually.
He folded his hands in his lap.
"Absolutely not."
"Okay. Tell me about your time at school?"
"Not a chance, Granger."
"... As a Death Eater?"
She caught the look on his face, a mixture of scorn and humorous disbelief, and spat the whisky from her mouth as she burst into a song of laughter. The corner of his mouth twitched and for a moment she thought he might crack a genuine smile. She dried her chin with the back of her hand and pursed her lips.
"Fine, if you won't tell me something about you, I'll have to tell you something about me", she said, making a play of wrapping a curl around her finger. "Would you like to hear about my darling boyfriend or my darling best friend?"
"Spare me", Snape drawled.
Hermione laughed, as she ran the melting ice cubes around her glass.
"Ronald it is then. You strike me as a hopeless romantic."
Snape's eyes shot open and his face blanched.
"I do?"
Her eyes crinkled as her eyebrows fell into an expression of bewilderment.
"Of course not!"
But for a second there you thought I'd seen something in you, something you had kept hidden, she thought.
Could it be? Severus Snape... a romantic? Surely not.
AN: Rest in peace, my purple prince. You were the worst laptop anyone has ever had. Just awful right to the very end. At least you were consistent.