17-Sep

Chapter Nine

Day 57

Strange, now, the peace.

And that's what I will do. There is always a way out.

Hermione's stomach growled. She looked up from her copy of Robinson Crusoe, surprised at the noise. What time was it?

The day before, she'd asked Snape for a clock or a time spell like the mirror spell, but he'd refused, saying she'd grow obsessed with it. Knowing he was right, she hadn't pushed the issue. But now she wished she could tell if he really was late with the food, or if she was so desperate for his company that her body was creating psychosomatic, hysterical symptoms, trying to get him to come to her.

She wouldn't put it past her body. It tended to do some very strange things these days.

Hermione settled back into her book, mindlessly absorbing hundreds of words without really getting anything out of them. Snape said he wasn't planning on reading this book, so Hermione wasn't giving it her full attention, knowing that she wouldn't be sharing.

These days, it wasn't very often that they didn't read the same book. Hermione wondered what else Snape did with himself, but there were times that he'd come into the room just reeking of potions ingredients, hair greasy and face tight with potions fumes. Obviously he had a laboratory, a well-used one, if she were to guess.

Other than that, Hermione had no indication of what he did with his time. He didn't seem to leave the house very often at all, and she heard very few cracks of Apparition or whooshes of the Floo to suggest visitors, and where that did happen, an echo of the noise happened only minutes later; apparently, his guests never stayed long.

Then again, if he just used the door like anyone else might, she would have no way of knowing. When she assumed he was sleeping or spending time upstairs, he could really be out torturing Muggles. She would never know.

Hermione rolled over on her stomach, the position immediately sending a flare through her body, echoed by the sound of Snape's voice, Come, Miss Granger!

Her stomach growled again. She drank two cups of tea to quell the pangs. Snape's milk tasted a little sour. If it was used only for her tea, it was possible that it had gone bad. She'd have to remember to let him know. She drank a glass of water to wash away the taste.

Two hours later, Hermione was bored. This book wasn't her style at all, and she no longer wondered that Snape hadn't wanted to read it with her, though why he gave it to her, she had no idea. She'd long ago stopped trying to infer what Snape was suggesting, if anything, which his choice of books. It was possible he'd just picked up a boxful at a garage sale.

Did they have garage sales in the wizarding world? Was she even in the wizarding world?

Hermione decided a shower would do the trick to get her mind off of her hunger. Stripping, she stepped behind the folding curtain. The shower was nothing more than a spout on the wall, a tap with one setting (tepid) and a drain in the stone floor, possibly magical. But it was familiar, even if the less-than-hot water made her feel as though she were never quite clean enough. She made up for it with scrubbing herself viciously with the flannels provided.

The towels Snape provided were rather small, and Hermione thought they were better suited to a man, who had less surface area to cover. Because Snape was sure to enter at any minute with her food, Hermione dried behind the curtain, wrapped the towel around her hair, and donned the dressing down she'd discovered in her bureau a few weeks before.

Very slowly, her cell was becoming more comfortable, more like a home. Hermione hated that, but appreciated the effort. So much about her life these days gave her confused feelings.

An hour later, Hermione took the towel off her head and brushed the swirling little knots out of her hair. That alone took a quarter of an hour.

By the time Hermione had padded around the room four or five times, checking the stones for weaknesses or triggers or anything at all, really, her stomach was making its displeasure known with some nausea and subtle cramping.

Fuck.

Snape hadn't been this late with food for ages.

Another unsatisfactory cup of tea had Hermione's stomach in knots.

I don't know what he's on about. Everything's been fine for days...is he punishing me? Was he lulling me into a false sense of security just to tear me down? As much as that does sound like Snape, I just don't think that's it.

I don't want to be worried.

Hermione threw the quill. Her hand was shaking. It was ridiculous to think she was actually starving to death after having only missed a couple meals, but she felt weak and her mind wouldn't focus properly.

Thinking over the day and trying to gauge the time, Hermione thought it was probably evening. Maybe seven or eight o'clock. She'd been up probably about twelve hours. She hadn't eaten for more than twenty-four. Tea was making her sick, and there was no longer any doubt that the milk had gone sour.

Hermione crawled under the covers on her bed. There was no point trying to read when she felt so poorly. When she woke up, Snape would be there with a new book and a bland stew, making her wonder, not for the first time, how a master with potions ingredients could destroy a stew so easily.

Something's wrong.

I don't want to think about it.

It was now evening of the second day without food. The day before, it had been a little easier to force herself not to think about what it might be like to starve to death, but those thoughts were more difficult to avoid when she felt too ill to even read. All she could do was think.

Her stomach had stopped making noises, and was now tormenting her with an aching, hollow feeling that was painful at times. She'd been drinking water to feel full, and even that rancid tea for the calories, but it didn't help. She tried to remember how long a person could live without food, but she couldn't. It wasn't very long, though, she was sure.

Hermione went back to sleep, trying not to expend energy crying as she thought about being found in five years, nothing left but hunger and regret.

*

A crack like a car backfiring threw Hermione out of a restless slumber. She shot forward on her bed, head swimming and vision greying before she could place the noise.

It had sounded as though someone had Apparated upstairs...

Oh, gods. Please be Snape.

Hermione waited quietly for more noise, but nothing happened. Her stomach decided now was the time for renewed vocalisations, and she clamped her hand over it, as if that would quiet it.

A few moments later, Hermione heard a loud crash, followed by a thump. Familiar cursing made her heart race with joy.

"Snape!" she shouted, at this point not even caring if he wasn't alone. Dying by Killing Curse was better than starvation, and if they didn't kill her, she'd have a chance to fight.

"Snape!" she cried again, louder. A wracking cough reached her ears, but Snape didn't answer.

Hermione struggled not to cry. If Snape was upstairs, half-dead or more, he wouldn't be able to make it down the stairs. What if she starved to death while he was recuperating? Recovery from extended Cruciatus could take days, and he could have suffered more and worse.

"Professor Snape, please!" she yelled, her voice failing and hitching on the final word. She didn't have the energy to repeat herself.

Only a moment later, Hermione, eyes trained carefully on the wooden door, desperate for it to open, saw a glint of silver as something wriggled its way beneath the door.

The key.

It was her cell key, floating to her. Hermione's palms were sweating and her mouth went completely dry. The key wavered merrily just inside the cell before dropping to the ground. As it did, Hermione heard Snape groan upstairs. He was obviously hurt.

Hermione picked up the key with shaking hands. It might look like freedom, but she knew it was a lie. There was still a spell on the door. But Snape wouldn't have sent the key if he didn't need help, if there weren't some way she could use it to get him. Snape needed her.

She reached her hand through the bars and inserted the key in the lock. It make a satisfying snick, and she turned it all the way around. A shudder passed through her body as the lock tumbled and the door opened a tiny crack.

Sweat was building at her hairline. Hermione knew that this was different than last time. She needn't be afraid of Snape's wrath.

But was that really what had held her back?

Hermione took a steadying breath and strode through the cell door. She immediately felt like she'd be much more comfortable falling to her knees and waiting for Snape to put her back in her cage, but she knew he wasn't capable of that.

The thought of him on the floor, writhing in agony, waiting for the relief that could only come at her hands, propelled her forward. She had her hand on the doorknob, but she keenly remembered Snape's 'You can never escape' speech, which had included the fact that this door wouldn't open to her.

But the cage had.

Hermione turned the knob and the door creaked open. Funny, it had never creaked for Snape.

To her left were the stairs that must lead to Snape. There was little else in the dungeon. To her right was a long hallway with doors. Hermione wondered if she was the only captive, and if not, why she was so deserving of his time.

The sound of Snape retching above tore Hermione away from her thoughts. She should just take these stairs and get to him. Help him. Save him.

Just the stairs.

Only stairs.

One step.

Hermione was panting as if she'd run fifty laps of her cell. The compulsion to turn around and hide under her covers was strong. Upstairs was Snape. Her cell was certain death at this point. Snape wouldn't have sent the key unless there was no other way.

Forcing her feet into action, Hermione quickly ascended the stairs; the door at the top was open, and she could see a light bright enough to be from the sun. The real world still existed. The sun still shone. Snape needed her. Certainties.

When the last stair was behind her, Hermione trembled. She couldn't see Snape right away, so she passed through an archway into the next room. The house was cosily small and very open. Not the sort of home she'd ever imagined for Snape.

Snape.

Hermione ran toward his supine body, falling to her knees beside him. His skin was clammy and tinged blue, his lips tight and grey. His entire body was twitching, but his eyes were alert as they fell upon her.

"Brave girl," he whispered hoarsely, his eyes falling closed.

"What do I do?" she asked in a voice much stronger than she felt.

Snape coughed and a speck of blood flew out and tainted her shirt. She stared at it with wide eyes.

"Three... potions. Cabinet in bedroom. Numbers one and seven. Under sink. Number eleven. In that order. Water... in between."

Hermione pushed his lank hair away from his face, ignoring the way the grease made her hand feel dirty.

It occurred to her to run out the front door, but Snape had mentioned that she wouldn't be able to see it. Still, there were windows...

But she was already on her way down the hallway, looking for the bedroom. Hermione looked in one room that seemed to be a spare room and kept looking. But there were no other rooms. Cursing herself for wasting time, she returned to the spare room. It was sparsely furnished and contained only the barest of necessities.

Snape's frock coat was hanging on the back of the closet door, and Hermione knew this must be the room, despite its unlived-in appearance.

Looking around, she immediately spotted a tall, rich cherry wood cabinet. She opened the door, perusing the shelves. A line of nine potions bottles stood out. They were pushed to the front of the shelf, as if they were the most used. They were labelled only with scrawling numbers; she hastily grabbed the ones marked 1 and 7.

Hermione began to open the doors in the bedroom, looking for the bathroom. Snape had only said under the sink, but that could mean any sink.

The sink in the en suite was a pedestal...no potion. Beneath the sink in the bathroom, which doubled as a laundry room, there was absolutely nothing.

She sprinted to the kitchen, passing Snape's quivering body, and scooped up the potion labelled 11 under the kitchen sink. With shaking hands, Hermione poured a tall glass of water, feeling calmed that this glass was obviously the matching one to her own.

"Are you doing all right?" she asked breathlessly, sinking down beside him.

Snape didn't answer but he did try to sit up. Knowing he had to swallow the potions, Hermione helped him into an upright position.

"One," he croaked. Hermione waved him off. She remembered what he said about the order. Same as he'd said. One, seven, eleven.

She uncorked the vial and pressed it into his hand. He took a great draught and immediately grabbed up the water. Only a slight tick in his jaw denoted the atrocious taste, which made Hermione's eyes water just to smell.

After unscrewing the lid to seven, she gave it to him. He only took a small sip, maybe a teaspoon's worth. More water. A hacking cough, after which Snape wiped a blood-covered hand on his robes.

His Death Eater robes. Hermione shook her head. She'd think about that, care about that, later.

Eleven. He drank the entire thing and the bottle rolled across the floor. Snape downed the rest of the water and asking for more in a croaking voice.

Hermione filled it. There was a window over the kitchen sink; it didn't even have a latch. She could easily fit through.

She returned the water to Snape, who drank it gratefully, though he said nothing.

Hermione didn't know what to do, now that the crisis was apparently averted.

"Can you walk?" she asked quietly.

"Yes."

"Do you want to go lie down or something?" Hermione thought he should definitely be in bed, but she knew enough about stubborn men not to actually tell him to do that.

"And while I'm sleeping, let you destroy my house looking for a way out? And by the way, the kitchen window isn't a true window, and even if it were, the wards wouldn't let you out."

"I wasn't going to escape. I didn't even try," she said softly, half to convince him and half to say it out loud to herself. She didn't even try.

"Yes, well, I think it's best that I return you to your cage."

Hermione stood and held out a hand for him. It didn't matter, anyway. If he'd left her out while he slept, and she'd just sat there, waiting for him to wake up, she'd never be able to forgive herself for not trying harder. Having him lock the door behind her made her feel like she really was an involuntary prisoner, even if things looked a little differently inside her head. This way she wouldn't be able to say for certain that she didn't make a break for it.

Snape ignored her proffered hand and stood unsteadily without her help. Stubborn git. He held an arm out toward the archway that led to the door to the basement, just as chivalric as if he were holding the door open for her on a date. Hermione shuddered.

He didn't seem to want or even need her help, so Hermione quickly stepped down the stairs and stood in front of the heavy wooden door as he made his way down a little more cautiously.

"It isn't your fault, you realise," Snape said as he preceded her into the room with her cell.

"That you got hurt?" she asked, confused. She followed him in. The cell looked very strange and foreign from this perspective, reminding her of how sadly willing she was to return to it. But even in his weakened state, Hermione wouldn't have been able to overpower Snape for his wand. That was little comfort to her now, however.

"That you're here. That you're scared."

Hermione snorted. "I know that. It's your fault."

Surprisingly, Snape only nodded. Hermione stomped into her cell and waited impatiently for him to lock the door on her again. She hoped he was planning on getting her some fucking food...she hadn't even thought to grab some while she'd been in the kitchen.

Snape wavered where he was standing, but walked to the cell. He stumbled, and Hermione couldn't catch him on time as he fell to his knees, his head in his hands.

"You shouldn't have come down here!" she admonished, rushing to his side yet again.

"What would you have had me do? Let you go?"

Hermione sighed. What she was about to do would change things forever.

That is, if things weren't already so very obviously changed.

"Trust me," she said insistently. "I won't leave."

"Do you think I got where I am today by trusting people?" he snapped half-heartedly. His didn't lift his head to look at her.

"And where are you today, Professor Snape? Half dead in your own dungeon because you have to lock up a prisoner! Obviously, whatever got you where you are today isn't working very well anymore!"

Snape let out a moan and rocked a little on his knees. Hermione reached out an arm to steady him, but he jerked away.

"You know," she said conversationally, "I haven't eaten in about two days. I can't help you back up the stairs, and you obviously won't make it. Stay here, let me get some food, and then you can rest in my bed. You can lock us both in, I don't care."

"I am not so foolish as to..."

"Oh, shut up!" Hermione cried, having had enough. "Whatever. I'm hungry."

And with that, Hermione got up and left the room. It was infinitely easier this time. It didn't even hurt. She'd be coming back, back to her cell, back to Snape. But this was a choice she was making. No one needed her, no one was forcing her...it was all Hermione.

Snape yelled after her, but it was weak, and he didn't try to follow. He must have gotten down the stairs on determination alone. Hermione knew he had a lot of that. But determination wouldn't get him back up the stairs.

The kitchen was disgusting. A quick look in the fridge told her that the milk wasn't the only thing that had long since waved a good-bye to the expiry date. She gathered crackers, peanut butter, bread, crisps (salt and vinegar, how fitting for Snape); the only produce that wasn't rancid: a couple of apples. It wouldn't win any awards for a balanced diet, but it would keep her from fainting. Which reminded her...she needed to get back downstairs before she did. All this activity was making her feel weak and strained.

Hermione traversed the stairs more carefully this time...Snape was counting on her. He was still in the same position she'd left him in. She passed him and dumped her quarry onto her desk before going back to him.

"I'm going to help you up, all right?"

Snape immediately went to stand, and Hermione had to bolt forward in order to assist him. Once he was dubiously on his feet, Hermione led him into her cell. He came without protest and let her push him onto her bed. She hadn't put the sheets into the bureau for cleaning for a few days, but she didn't think he'd mind.

He weakly took out his wand and cast a spell at the cell door. There was some sort of password, but Hermione didn't hear, nor did she try to. He glared at her as he slipped the wand under his pillow, obviously warning her. Hermione laughed out loud. If she wanted it, the wand would be hers. He knew she could take it. He was trusting her.

He was snoring before Hermione bit into the first cracker.

When Hermione had devoured nearly everything she'd brought down, even using her fingers to scoop out as much peanut butter as possible, knowing the calories would help set her to rights, she finally turned to Snape.

She'd always heard that people tended to look peaceful and younger in repose. Snape managed to maintain his scowl. He looked exactly the same, only with his eyes closed. Hermione chuckled to herself. It was almost funny, the way he slept so stiffly, and she wondered that he'd ever had a good night's sleep in his life.

Hermione unbuttoned his robes as much as she dared, wanting him to be able to get some air. Even his shirt was buttoned to his chin. There was some blood on the front of his white shirt, but she thought it was probably from when he'd been coughing up blood. That seemed to have stopped with the potions, but she turned him on his side anyway, in case he vomited in his sleep.

She took a moment to wash his face, knowing she always felt better with clean skin. Quite a bit of grime came back, making Hermione wonder exactly what he'd been doing while he wasn't here with her.

Though the bed was large enough for two people, Snape was in the very middle. Hermione didn't care. She was exhausted, despite her full belly. She climbed into the bed beside him, pressed closely against him. He moaned a little in his sleep, putting his arm around her shoulders as she rested her head against his chest. He'd be absolutely livid when he awoke.

But he owed her this much.

Author's Note: check out the lovely fanart by Na'reh Dawn! Be sure to leave her a comment to let her know what you think. Thank you so much, sweetie! http://narehdawn.deviantart.com/gallery/