Hermione

Chapter Six: HERMIONE

Hermione Granger was losing her mind. She knew it as surely as she knew her own name, however much longer that might be. Despite how hard she tried to keep a grip, to remain rooted in the reality that was now her life, it was becoming harder and harder to do so.

She sometimes questioned whether it was even worth it. Insanity seemed so much easier to deal with at this point. It would definitely be less painful.

She had only seen Severus once in the last three weeks. Once. The daily visits that she had come to rely on so much to keep her anchored to the real world had stopped abruptly and without reason.

The first week that he didn't visit, she had worried he was dead. Nettie Pomfrey, her medi-witch, had mentioned an accident at the school the day after his first missed visit but didn't tell her anything else. Hermione had feared the worst when he failed to show up the remainder of the week.

It had been agony, thinking she had lost him. He was her anchor, the only thing that kept her going, the only thing that kept her hanging on to the real world. She lived for his visits, hoped each and every day that maybe that night would be one of the few when he'd gently stroke her hair. He was as constant as the sun and the moon. She needed him.

She tried to tell herself that he would return to her as soon as he could, but it was hard to keep that fact in mind. Without him, the days bled together, one into the other, with nothing to distinguish the passage of time or break up the monotony.

In an attempt to escape the pain of his absence she threw herself into her psyche, taking solace in the memories and rooms she'd placed there. They were the painstakingly built constructs she'd manifested over the many months of her coma, familiar places which she could escape to when Snape or Nettie weren't in the room with her. She cherished them as much as she feared them, for she was sure this was the trap Malfoy had intended for the curse all along.

During the first few months of her incapacitation it had been difficult to see anything other than what her unmoving eyes showed her of the world. She could daydream much as she used to, turn her sight inward and touch upon old memories, or even replay the conversations Snape carried on at her bedside.

Sleeping was not something she was often aware of doing – rather, she would feel her consciousness sinking, alerting her to her mind's need for REM sleep, and sometime later she'd wake with the fuzzy remnants of dreams dissipating like broken cobwebs from her thoughts. But, wary of what this virtual prison had in store for her, she rarely took the time to remember her dreams or spend too long frolicking in her imagination.

Besides, with Snape's constant daily presence and the fresh ideas he brought to her, she was never without something to mull over. More than anything he kept her mind stimulated, and on occasion provided her with the casual physical contact her body craved. His touch rarely descended below her hair, once or twice there may have been a gentle pat on the shoulder, but for the most part he seemed happy to finger his handiwork on her head. She'd never seen her new hair of course, but heard it praised often enough by Madame Pomfrey and the aides to know that it looked good – probably better than anything she'd managed to charm it into during her school days.

The first time she'd tried to create something original in her mind it had been an experiment out of boredom. She'd imagined herself writing upon a simple blackboard with white chalk, expressing her thoughts concerning an article Snape had read to her the night before. When she was done the blackboard had been banished to the back of her mind and she'd felt a little better after writing her thoughts down, even if it had only been in her imagination.

A few days later, she'd imagined the blackboard again and found it blank. She hadn't exactly expected the writing to still be there, but her disappointment prompted her to write on it again and hold the image clear in her memory. It took doing this many times over and over again, but eventually the blackboard began to hold the writing upon it, until she could freely erase and add new content to it, and come back a day later to find it exactly the way she'd left it.

From there her natural curiosity had led her to explore what else her mind could create. Using the blackboard as her focusing point she'd slowly, and with many disappointing setbacks, created a classroom. She had to spend so much time creating it piece by piece that she didn't realize how similar it looked to the potion's lab until much later. It was far from a perfect copy though – there were taller windows, four work benches instead of the normal dozen, two large squishy chairs on either side of Snape's bulky desk, and an enormous blackboard, all as part of the personal changes she'd conjured up.

The classroom - his classroom - had been the hardest room to recreate in her mind. But its preliminary completion was a lesson well learned, and in the end taught her much about what her mind was capable of. From there it became almost like playing a game with puzzle blocks - she created the school library, the Gryffindor common room, her old bedroom at home, a smaller version of the great hall with the same charmed ceiling, and even a mismatched version of the gardens and grounds around Hogwarts. Well-lit stone corridors were used to connect each of these rooms if she felt like walking between them, and over time she began to feel quite comfortable in the new home she'd created for herself.

It was now her only haven. When Snape wasn't with her these rooms and corridors were where she spent nearly all of her time. His classroom was an especially favorite room of hers; it represented her first achievement and a place where she could feel connected to him. It was a room that embodied all of her hopes. But when his visits stopped, she found she couldn't go back there without feeling a sharp pang of nostalgia and sadness. Without Severus, there was no hope at all.

How often had she felt just like the speck of dust in one of her favorite childhood books, Horton Hears a Who... the same book which sat on a shelf in her reconstructed bedroom. No matter how hard she cried, no matter how much she screamed, 'I'm here, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here' at the top of her lungs, no one ever heard her, including him.

Would he never return to her?

After the first few days without him being in the potion's classroom had been too painful, so she'd sequestered herself between the Gryffindor common room and her bedroom and decided to stay put until he came back. At times she simply lay down on her bed and let herself drift. Without even concentrating, she could feel the rhythmic beating of her heart, the soft swoosh of her breathing, and wondered how long she would be forced to live like this. Would it be years before her body finally succumbed to death? She didn't know what scared her more, dying or living without him. She suspected it was living without him.

Sometimes the only thing that kept her from bursting into tears was her ability to conjure up memories of his visits to her; conversations he'd had with her. When she ran out of those, she reached into herself and relived the times when she had been alive – when he had insulted her and made her cry. When he had glared at her and made her feel inferior and gauche.

She hadn't liked him; had thought him cruel and arrogant, ugly in both face and spirit. She wished she still felt that way about him now - it would make things so much easier.

She allowed herself to remember other things, as well. The way he had saved her life time and again, protecting her and her friends from the dangers surrounding them. How his beetle-black eyes snapped with intelligence and a fierce loneliness she had failed to recognize until she became as trapped as he was. The feel of his long white fingers threading through her hair as he grew it back for her and the warmth of them stroking through the long curls. The gentle regrets in his voice when he had first visited her.

'Miss Granger, you are by far the most insufferable, silly girl I have ever known.'

* * * * *

Near the end of the first week, deep in the state of her loneliness, she found she could conjure him perfectly in her mind, the sallow skin and thin mouth pulled into a semi-permanent sneer, the lank black hair that hung in his face, often obscuring everything but his nose from view.

'Are you still alive, then,' she asked him one day, 'or are you dead?'

Of course, imaginary Snape ignored her. She decided then that he couldn't be dead, that he was out there somewhere, injured or unable to visit. If she believed he had died, it would be admitting defeat. Without him, there would be no one to help her, to keep her sane. Without Snape, there would be no one who cared about her.

'Harry loves you,' her mind whispered. 'Harry needs you.' She knew she was lying to herself. Of course, Harry cared, but he wasn't strong enough to love her despite everything; despite the curse that kept her from him. If he needed her, he would be visiting her more often than he did.

'Snape doesn't need you.'

'You'll never see him again. You're trapped. You'll be alone forever.'

She tried to ignore the voices in her head, running from them down the stone corridors. Her feet echoed loudly, but never loud enough to drown them out.

'No one cares, no one cares, no one cares.'

'He broke his promise.'

Sometimes, the voices were quiet, trying to stifle their sobs. She always heard them crying, though. 'Shut up!' she would holler, 'just shut up and leave me alone! You're driving me crazy!'

'Not far to go, now,' the voices would sneer. Sometimes she sounded remarkably like Snape.

* * * * *

It was a week before he returned to her. She was just finishing a bath – Nettie had muttered something about her hair and begun to wash it gently. Hermione was reluctantly roused from her chair in the Hogwarts' library by the light touch on her head. The potion she was trying to brew seemed to be simmering along quite nicely, so now was a good a time as any to relax. As the fingers tugged on her wet curls she continued reading an article she had found in an old issue of Witch Weekly: 10 Sure Signs that Prove You're Insane.

She eyed the bubbling cauldron sitting on the desk in front of her and tried not to think about the trouble she'd be in if Madame Pince showed up. With the tip of her bright pink quill she made little check marks in the appropriate places.

'Hearing voices – check, tell me something I don't know... 50 stirs counter clock wise and don't forget to add the hippogriff lice... On the fifteenth of May, in the Jungle of Nool, In the heat of the day, in the cool of the pool... Talking to dead people – yep. Although I'm not sure if that counts. I talked to Nearly Headless Nick all the time before – was I crazy then? Damn lice, I wish they'd just keep still and shut up!... Falling in love with inappropriate men that will only lie to you and break your heart. Merlin's balls! He was splashing, enjoying the jungle's great joys, When Horton the elephant heard a small noise...'

The sound of a door slamming made her jump, knocking her cauldron over and sending the viscous fluid from her potion sliding over the page. The hippogriff lice skittered away across the table, taunting in their high-pitched voices, '50 points from Gryffindor, 50 points from Gryffindor!' Damn bugs. Hermione frowned at them before focusing outwards for the first time in days, surfacing to see stark white walls in her vision, and something else quite unexpected.

He was there, staring at her as if he'd seen a ghost. The hands on her head never stopped, and it was many long seconds before he abruptly scowled and quickly turned away.

She had cried internally with joy – he was alright! He had come back! Her thoughts clamoring and the potion forgotten, she had exhorted Nettie to hurry up and go away, go away, go away!

She had screamed when her nightgown had slid over her, hiding him from her sight for a few moments. She relished the sarcastic voice when he had told Nettie he was still breathing, cheered when he had told the woman to leave him alone. And when he had turned back to her, standing at the foot of her bed studying her for a few long moments before taking his customary seat at her side, she had felt her heart would burst with happiness.

He had returned.

She wanted him to say something, to tell her where he had been – what had happened, but the voice she so longed to hear was silent. She could see him in her peripheral vision, watching her, but he said nothing.

She was begging him,'Touch me! Talk to me! Promise me you'll never leave me again!' but the words echoed in her mind only.

She realized with some surprise, when his head and upper body slumped down onto the mattress, that he had fallen asleep. She could feel his warm weight beside her, pinning the sheet above her more tightly across her torso. Some of his hair had fallen forward over the skin of her arm and onto her stomach, the silky feel of it electrifying every single nerve ending she possessed. His breath was hot against her hip, wafting humidly through the cotton sheet and nightgown covering her.

She longed to be able to move her arm, to run her fingers through the greasy hair she had missed so much. She wanted to use her palm to cup his scalp, trace his taut face with her fingers, feel the heat of him against all of her. She wanted to turn against him, feel him breathe against her stomach; his head nestled under her breasts, proving to her that he was still alive.

His scent – that of half-brewed potions and sandalwood – swept over her body, making her skin feel more aware than it ever had under his gentle touches and Nettie's care. She was on fire, burning from the inside out, and she had never felt more alive. She was repeating his name, over and over, half-crying, 'Severus... Severus...'

And in his sleep, she heard him whisper her name like a benediction, 'Hermione'.

And then it was over. Nettie returned with a pot of tea and Severus had woken with a start, pulling away from her aching body so abruptly she was left bereft. She didn't know what had just happened; she didn't know what was going on. All she knew was that he left, without another glance in her direction, after saying he wouldn't be coming back.

She didn't believe it at first. How could she? She convinced herself she had heard it wrong, that it was simply his nasty temper speaking and not the man she knew underneath, the man who had diligently stayed by her side for over a year.

But he did not return, and her fragile emotions took a turn for the worse. She knew now that he was alive, but staying away from her by choice. He had abandoned her, and she didn't know why.

Soon she didn't bother to try and keep track of the time anymore. Nettie talked to her, as she always did, but Hermione didn't pay any attention. She didn't care what happened to her. All she had now were her rooms and her memories, bittersweet as they were.

She managed to rouse herself back to the surface only once, when Harry stopped by unexpectedly. But she had felt no joy. As much as she loved Harry – and she did – he wasn't Snape.

She had begun to drift back into her make believe Hogwarts when she heard him say something about 'the greasy git'. Frantically she'd cast her mind backwards, trying to recall what he had been talking about.

Harry had been to see Albus, that much she remembered him saying. He had heard rumors that Snape was a frequent visitor to St. Mungo's and had gone to the Headmaster to find out what the professor was up to. It became quickly obvious to Hermione that, despite the fact that the war was over and said 'greasy git' had saved Harry's life, the young wizard still felt ambivalent at best about the older wizard.

'I know I shouldn't, Hermione,' he had admitted, 'but I just can't help it. It's his fault you're like this; his fault I lost you. No one would have missed him if he had died, not the way everyone misses you. Not the way I miss you.'

Hermione had wanted to sit up and snap at him to grow up, but contented herself with snarling at Harry in her mind. Severus had sacrificed everything for the cause; friendships, companionship - he had given up his very soul, made people hate him, allowed himself to be hated and viewed as evil, all so no one would ever suspect the dangerous game he was playing. Hermione was under no delusions regarding the things he had probably done and seen in his capacity as a Deatheater and spy.

He wasn't a nice man, per se – but he was honorable. And, as the days had passed to months and he had continued visiting her, she had come to realize that he was fiercely loyal. There was a gentleness to him, an empty aching loneliness she sensed when he visited her that she was positive only she knew about. She was sure that, had anyone realized she was aware of everything happening around her – had he been aware of it – he would have been much more circumspect. He was, after all, barely civil to Nettie and from the stories he had shared with her, as solitary in his life after the war as he had been during it.

Yet she had seen first hand his gentleness; had heard his self-deprecating asides, had been privy to the obvious fondness he had for Albus Dumbledore. She knew him – the real Severus Snape, not the façade he so carefully presented to everyone else. He was a fractured man, admittedly. He didn't give his trust easily; nor his friendship. He was a man who had been broken by the world, and had managed to put himself back together one piece at a time. He was a survivor, his inherent core of nobility intact. She admired him more for that than she could possibly express.

She had been relieved when Harry finally left her. He hadn't come to visit her, not really. He had come to make himself feel better for not visiting her more often. He had come out off a sense of guilt and possibly shame. It bothered him that Snape, the man he professed to distrust despite everything, was the only one brave enough to come and face her everyday. He resented Snape for being there for her when he, himself, could not be. Harry had become no better than a broken record to her ears: 'I want to visit you more, but it's just so painful. You're not Hermione anymore, just a shell of the girl I knew.'

She wanted to resent him for those words so badly, but she knew them to be true. Without Severus' visits, she was slowly but surely losing her grip on reality. One day soon, she really would become just a shell of the woman she was.

Not very long after Harry's short visit, she found a new room. It was large, full of pictures. For a few moments, she allowed herself to be distracted.

'Oi, Hermione!' A picture of Ron looked up at her from a game of wizard's chess and grinned, 'You think Harry will ever beat me at this game?'

She had tried not to cry at the sound of his voice. She longed to pull him from the picture and into her arms, and hug him tight.

'Why are you crying then? Feel that bad for Harry, do you?'

'I know it,' he had winked at her, 'but it's not too bad, see? Once I beat Harry here, come play a game of chess with me. Hey, now that I'm dead, do you think the others will let me join the Headless Hunt?'

Hermione had quickly turned away. She couldn't bear it.

'Hermione, darling, why don't you visit us more often?' her mother nagged from another image. Her arms were up to the elbows in soap suds as she washed dishes in the sink, 'Your father and I miss you!'

'Mum, I miss you too!' she had cried out, 'Why did you leave me?'

'Quit your sniffling, you irritating chit. Can't you see I'm trying to ignore you?' Professor Snape glared at her from another picture, 'Why must you plague my life like the black death?'

'Why would I want to,' the reply was cold. 'Your conversation has been less than stimulating of late.'

'I'm too busy trying to save myself, Miss Granger,' the picture had hissed back. 'Now, leave me alone.'

Hermione decided not to visit that room again.

She wandered instead. 'You're losing it, Hermione,' she told herself as she trailed through the empty hallways. 'The first sign of insanity is hearing voices.'

'That's what I'm afraid of.'

The voices whispered harshly then died and disappeared into the void, making her feel more lonely and isolated than ever before. The walls were crumbling around her, her feet leaving trails in the dust behind her. She twisted her ankles time and again, but continued searching anyway. She knew he was here someplace, but everywhere she turned was another dead end.

She didn't realize where her feet had finally carried her until she stumbled through a midnight black door at the end of the hallway. The entire room smelled of rot and decay and a thick green moss was growing up the stone walls.

All around her wooden desks were covered in wet rot. Books lay half open, the faded pages green with mold. Yet, for some strange reason, she knew this place. She stepped around fallen stones and other rubble, and made her way to the front of the potions classroom. She curled herself tightly into the chair behind his desk, its twin no more than a pile of springs. The two pieces of furniture where the only items in the room that were unaffected by the decay surrounding them.

She missed him. She couldn't even remember what his voice sounded like any more. All she heard in her mind was her own crying, and the echoing sounds of emptiness and silence.

Hermione wanted to die.

A/N: Go read Horton Hears a Who by Dr. Seuss right now! Mug a child to get a copy, if you must, but read it.