17-Apr

Chapter Four

Day 31

The potion Snape gave me is working perfectly. In a few days, I doubt there will be any scarring at all. But it's getting harder to feel where the cuts are. I think I'll have to use the mirror spell today to make sure I'm getting them all. I don't know why I'm so afraid. A person can't change that much in a month, can they? Am I afraid I won't recognise myself?

In any case, eventually I'll be free. When Snape is.

Snape hadn't visited that day. That is, he came in to give her the tray of food...stew, again...but he left immediately afterward. He hadn't answered her questions at all, but she didn't feel sick the way she had before. Maybe he didn't know, or maybe he just didn't want to talk. It didn't mean Harry was dead and the war was lost.

Hermione had just tossed aside Flaubert's Madame Bovary (did Snape want her to get ideas?) and was now picking up Defoe's Moll Flanders (no, Snape was definitely not trying to say something with the books he gave her!).

All she ever did was read. And write. She'd taken to writing short stories instead of her daily reminiscences. There was rarely anything to say. Snape had told her, when she'd asked for more paper three times, to tap the pages and say, 'Charta.' More parchment would appear.

There were many spells around her cell she could do without a wand. They were all keyed to Snape's own spells. He had to go around and set the spell first. The word she would say was simply a password to activating the always-ready spells. But it did make her feel like less of a prisoner.

Hermione considered all that she had done that day, realising she'd eaten at least three times. It was time for the scar potion. Sighing, Hermione brought her fingers to her neck, but she knew what she'd find. The scars were too faint to apply the potion by feel. She had to use the mirror.

It was silly, she knew, to be afraid of herself. Even if she'd changed somehow, it wasn't as though she'd been the type to obsess over her appearance in the first place. She could tell she hadn't lost weight while imprisoned. Snape fed her very well. In fact, she might have put on a couple pounds...at Hogwarts, she'd tended to skip meals in favour of research and studying, but here, eating really was the highlight of the day... because it brought Snape to her.

Standing in front of the bureau, Hermione whispered, "Imago, " and tapped her fingers against the stone. They shimmered and flickered before turning into a large oval mirror.

Hermione sighed with relief. She hadn't changed all that much. Her hair was still the same; even Snape's potion-like shampoos hadn't changed that. It had lost a bit of its sheen, as had her cheeks. She no longer had that dewy, pink look she got when she spent a lot of time outdoors. She was very pale, so much so that the blue veins in her throat were visible. There were dark circles under her eyes, and despite her suspicions on her additional weight, her cheekbones were more prominent than before.

But in her eyes were the real change. Still brown, still a little wide. Red-rimmed as if she was a little ill, but the changes weren't exactly physical. She looked like she'd seen too much to bear, which was strange because, if she thought about it...and she often did...Snape treated her very well. He didn't abuse or even neglect her, except for a few days when her food hadn't come at all.

Hermione shrugged and applied the potion. It was wise that she did use the mirror, because some of the fainter cuts had been neglected and were beginning to scar. Now that she could see the extent of the scratches she'd inflicted upon herself, for the first time, she was truly grateful for Snape's intervention, both during the attack, and after.

"The potion is adequate?" came Snape's soft voice from behind her. She watched in the mirror as he settled in his chair. He had two books with him today. Maybe he planned to stay awhile. She couldn't help but shiver at the thought.

"You made it, didn't you?"

Snape appeared to be about to answer, but he must have realised she meant it as a compliment to his capability and not an actual question.

He nodded curtly. "I thought perhaps a book on wizarding history wouldn't go amiss."

"Not at all, sir. I'd very much like to read some wizarding work," Hermione said, walking forward to stand at the bars. "Though that isn't to say I don't enjoy your selection!" she hastened to add.

Snape got up and handed her the second book. It was a copy of Olde and Forgotten Bewitchments and Charmes. Hermione hugged it her chest. When he sat back down, she realised he was reading the same book.

"Sir?" she began tentatively.

"Mm?" He appeared to already be reading, but Hermione knew him well enough by now to know that he was listening.

"When I've finished the book, could we talk about it?" It had been so long since she'd been able to discuss literature with anyone, certainly longer than the month of her capture. At Hogwarts, no one ever wanted to hear her thoughts on books, even if the person had read the same text, which was very rare.

Without looking up, Snape said, "Perhaps."

Noting that he was about a quarter of the way through, Hermione opened the book and began to read. In a few hours, she was at the same place as he was. Though she hadn't absorbed the contents as thoroughly as she was sure he had, she had gleaned enough to be able to carry on a perfectly informed conversation. She could hardly wait.

"What did you think about the chapter on ancient Animagi?" Hermione asked, seeing he had just finished it.

"I thought the research was compelling, though not complete enough to form such a firm position."

Hermione took a few long, deep breaths. This was like eating after a fast, having chocolate after Lent, getting a pass to the Restricted Section. "I thought so, too. I also didn't think the author should have been so judgemental about the way Animagi used to train their acolytes. His writing is a little biased."

Snape chuckled, turning a page in his book. "He has earned the right to be biased. His work has provided the foundation for discoveries in magic for centuries."

Hermione scoffed, shutting her book. "No one can earn the right to be judgemental. If you ask me, the fact that he's so brilliant means that he should be less biased! People take his work very seriously, and if he doesn't provide a balanced argument, no one will know the other side of it!"

"And what, pray, is the 'other side' of depraved older Animagi teaching young, impressionable students the craft of self-transfiguration in return for sexual service?"

"Well," Hermione began, warming to the subject. "If the decision to enter into such an agreement was informed and consensual, who is Michealus Scatternino to question it? At sixteen and seventeen, a person knows himself or herself well enough to know what they can handle. The laws of majority aren't arbitrary, but they aren't an exact science, either. I mean, you can't tell me that me at sixteen and Lavender Brown at sixteen were the same!"

"Maybe so," Snape conceded, closing his book around a finger. "But we cannot have laws based on personality, intelligence, and maturity. Laws must apply to all people across the board. To do otherwise would be anarchy."

"Of course," Hermione said, moving to pace along the bars to her cell. "I'm not saying that. But when this book was written, not to mention when the practise of Animagus apprenticeship actually took place, no such laws existed. Cases were judged on an individual basis. And just because Scatternino at sixteen wasn't ready to enter into a mutually beneficial relationship, doesn't mean he should condemn those who know themselves well enough to weigh the benefits and liabilities!"

"But how many students were coerced or unaware of the total implications of such an arrangement? And how many Animagi took advantage of their positions of power to demand more than was rightfully theirs?"

Hermione stopped pacing and placed her hands on the bars. "Well, the author doesn't mention it, but I read elsewhere that there were tribunals to rectify that sort of problem. And in another book, I learned that the apprentices actually had sponsors, who were former apprentices themselves, who took on a role of protector."

Snape looked awfully smug when he said, "Exactly."

Hermione wasn't sure he had won that point. Looking at him quizzically, Hermione said, "But you just..."

"My point isn't about Animagi apprentices and the legality or morality of their traditions. I actually quite agree with you. My point was on the alleged biasness of Scatternino."

"And?" Hermione prompted, wishing she had been arguing the same debate as he had instead of wasting her time when he had obviously been playing devil's advocate.

"Scatternino is biased and quite judgemental. I wouldn't presume to argue that. But any reader worth his salt will consult multiple sources. If a reader can be persuaded one way or the other by checking only one resource, then that person deserves to bask in ignorance. It is the reader's responsibility to gather information from all sides of the situation and make a logical conclusion based on various findings."

Hermione huffed. She hated being lead like that. Of course he was right. She'd defeated her own argument that the author shouldn't be so biased by having read so many additional texts on the subject and informing herself properly.

Walking over to her bedside table, Hermione tapped her teacup, smiling as it filled obligingly. She must be drinking Snape out of house and home at this point. She took a sip to rally herself, noting that it wasn't as bitter as usual.

Looking at her cup, she knew right away what had changed.

"There's milk in this!" she accused, gesturing with the cup and sloshing it onto the stone floor.

Snape cleared the mess and looked at her questioningly.

"I mean, I wanted milk, so this is good. But I thought you didn't keep milk. You said that."

Snape made a humming noise and picked up his book again. Hermione drank deeply of her tea.

When Hermione had read all she possibly could that day, she told Snape she was going to bed. He'd looked surprised, and for the first time in a month, Hermione was privy to the time. He'd cast the Tempus spell. It was 11:14 in the evening.

Hermione knew she'd remember that time for as long as she lived.

Without saying a word, Snape gathered his teacup and book and left the room.

"Goodnight," Hermione whispered to the closed door.

She crawled into the bed, placing the book on the bedside table. As much as it had annoyed her that Snape had used her sound arguments to prove his own point, she knew that she'd never had such an invigorating debate. When she spoke with Harry or Ron, bless them, she spent a quarter of the time explaining the words she used, another quarter trying to convince them that it was important, and a third quarter sighing heavily and wondering why she bothered.

That didn't leave much time left for actual discussion.

Lying on her stomach on the coverlet, Hermione snaked a hand beneath herself, fingers seeking out her clit. There was no question about it...debating with Snape had made her desperately hot. His low, soft voice making her strain to hear every word, the way his mouth formed around words like he was tasting them before offering them to her ears, the way his eyes blazed with triumph when he'd driven his point home.

Hermione moaned. She held her hand still and ground her body on top of it, pretending it was his hand, his thigh, his cock. She wondered what he'd think if she rubbed her wet pussy over his severe black slacks, getting them all slick as she found completion.

Her other hand held onto the headboard, and she used it as leverage to haul her body over he hand, pretending it was him moving her, him guiding her.

Finally, her climax was in sight. Abandoning the games, Hermione fucked herself with her fingers as her palm ground over her clit. She shouted into the pillow, trying to muffle her moans and soft cries.

Taking her head out of the pillow to face the bars, Hermione opened her eyes just in time to see the light from the hallway diminish as the heavy wooden door to her room swung closed.