fifty-two ~ fifty-seven

    The anger died abruptly, leaving her achingly forlorn. There wasn't anything to be done, after all. Dumbledore was already dead. But it was— comforting— to know she might forgive herself a bit.

    Snape remained in his chair, expression remote, staring at nothing. Hermione wondered if— maybe— she saw something of that same lost loneliness there.

    She was nothing if not determined when she chose. Creeping quietly from her bed, she settled on the floor beside him, leaning against his leg, head against his knee. Trying to give some warmth to this isolated man. And trying to find some for herself.

~~~

    For long moments, he seemed not to notice her. His knee, she found, was very bony. She wondered what he was thinking. Still brooding over past injustices? Or the woman-girl who'd defined his life? What had she been like? Someone who'd inspired decades of devotion— she was Snape's master far more than either Dumbledore or Voldemort— and tossed it aside.

    Snape, Hermione now thought, was worth ten of any Marauder, sacrificing so much more than she'd ever possessed.

    Hermione knew she was broken after these years. How much greater the damage in a man who'd battled for twice that?

~~~

    Snape had lied to Hermione. But then, what benefit for her to know how sharp a knife in the back was after decades of the same? Let her believe only in his anger; he would not tolerate pity. And anger was better than the eternal circle of regret and self-flagellation. Reliving every event that should have been different. As a young man, he'd been intimately acquainted with that cycle; he'd sublimated it into a fatalistic sense of duty— and even that had proven hollow.

    Lily was no less dead. Nor was anyone who'd been sacrificed on the altar of power.

~~~

    It was a shock to find the girl curled up against him— not least because he hadn't the least idea of how long she'd been there. When had he become so complacent?

    When was the last time anyone had touched him without coercion?

    What did she mean by it?

    A mental sigh. He wanted no part of this… seething bundle of emotions beyond mending something he had helped to break. He fully intended to leave as initially planned. The idea of being free of the stifling chains of the past and its people sounded to him very much like peace.

~~~

    "Severus?" He nearly started at the sound of his name. It was tentative, but there was a quality to her voice that recalled when Minerva had called him thus— and had trusted him.

    "Yes?" His voice was emotionless.

    "Would y— What happens now?" A pale, near-whisper.

    Somehow, he could not admit that he would leave. "You have a life to return to, Miss Granger."

    "Do I?" she questioned. "Then why was it so easy to leave? Why so little concern at my absence?" She turned; her eyes were sad, but clear. "But I believe I was asking you, Severus Snape."

~~~

    His face was so… unreadable. She couldn't tell what might be behind his eyes.

    "I believe I made my plans quite clear from the beginning," he said. His voice was equally neutral.

    "I see," she replied simply. Silence. She rose to her feet; it was quite clear that her presence wasn't desired. She wasn't sure now why she'd thought it might be.

    Perhaps… he was manipulating her with his tales. She knew only half the truth, if that, and he'd no real incentive to confide in her. And he'd been Dumbledore's left hand.

    "I'll bid you good night, then, sir."