Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Severus Snape sighed as he crossed another day off on the calendar by his bed. Today was the first of May: there were only four weeks remaining until his trial.

The thing was, he didn't really know which to dread more: freedom or continued incarceration. After a year-long convalescence in St. Mungo's he had, at first, been dismayed to find himself ordered to Azkaban to await trial. Despite the fact that the wizarding prison was no longer guarded by the Dementors, it was enveloped still by a thick atmosphere of stagnancy, of depression.

In the initial weeks of his imprisonment, he'd suffered from frequent bouts of anxiety owing to the loss of his wand. He'd always been an antisocial creature, so it was not loss of society, but loss of magic that had affected him most deeply. But his burgeoning friendship with Albert had helped to snap him out of his self-pity, and he'd begun to employ Occlumency as a manner of keeping depression at bay. Coupled with the psychological exercises he practiced each day, the Occlumency had kept him more than sane: it had kept him reasonably happy. He supposed he had become institutionalised, and it was also likely that the fact that his first taste of freedom from the reign of the Dark Lord, having taken place within the prison walls, had made him more amenable to the place than might otherwise have been the case.

Whatever the reasons, he was more relaxed than he had been while acting as spy, not to mention the miserable years he'd spent playing the role of Potions master. Merlin, how he'd detested teaching. Adolescents were nauseating. Lounging around a reasonably comfortable prison cell with access to books, puzzles and newspapers, thanks to the generosity of his friendly guard, was infinitely preferable to spending his days surrounded by hormonal teenagers and being at the beck and call of Tom Riddle and Albus Dumbledore.

In many ways, he feared leaving his prison cell. What life did he have beyond its walls? Oh, he had plans: If ever he was freed, he would sell his Spinner's End home and use the money to start a Potions business. It would be a solitary pursuit; he would possibly even enjoy it. But he'd undoubtedly be forced to socialise, at least with his own clients, and the mere thought was more than he could bear. Perhaps continued incarceration was preferable.

There were, however, two problems. The first was magic. He could not do without it. His three years in Azkaban had improved his wandless magic: he could Levitate small items without difficulty, and he could, on occasion, Summon similarly sized objects from within his own room. But he yearned for his wand with every inch of his being. He longed to feel that familiar warm tingle in his fingers that only the wood of his own wand could bring; he craved the feeling of power that came with the performance of even the simplest of spells. The day he'd taken Hermione Granger's wand and Conjured his Patronus had reminded him painfully of what he had lost, and he wanted it back.

The second problem was a little more awkward: it was Hermione Granger herself. Either way it stood, he could not win. If he continued as a resident of Azkaban after his trial, she would have no reason to continue her visits. His trial would signal an end to his dealings with her. And even if he was declared a free man, why would she want anything to do with him in the world outside these walls? He was just a client; someone with whom she'd been ordered to deal by her superiors. Surely she wouldn't give him so much as a second thought once her professional interest in him had waned?

He knew that, in part, his fascination with her stemmed from the fact that she brought a little colour into the grey monotony of his days; and he knew that his interest in her had been caused by the total lack of females in his life. She was pretty, despite her objectionable mane of hair and her goofy smile; he liked to look at her, even though she reminded him of his previous existence; he enjoyed her company, although she was still, on occasion, the infuriating know-it-all he remembered from Hogwarts. And although he found it distressing to admit, he knew that he would have liked her as an adult even if they had met outside these cold walls and unusual circumstances. She'd begun to invade his dreams and fantasies; she'd hijacked his thoughts; she held his mind hostage, and every day he counted down the minutes until he would see her again. How could he live without that?

He heard light footsteps approach at the end of the corridor, and he knew by the position of the sun outside his window that it was time, and that she had come again. And this was the very thing that made his chest swell with hope: it was Sunday. She had no reason to be here, yet she'd visited him every Saturday and Sunday for the past month, sometimes staying long after her requisite two hours had elapsed. Why? Why would a clever, beautiful young woman desire his dour company? The mind boggled.

He rose from the edge of his bed and schooled his features to disguise his delight at seeing her once more. As Albert opened the door and Hermione entered behind him, Severus drank his fill of her. She was dressed casually today, in jeans and a pretty white linen blouse, her errant curls pulled into a plait at the back of her head. When she met his eyes, she gave him the uncertain smile that was her customary greeting. Albert retreated and closed the door behind him.

"Hello, Professor," she said, taking her seat at the little table.

"Miss Granger," he murmured, inclining his head. He continued to stand, scrutinising her.

"What?" she asked, raising her hand self-consciously to her hair. "Is something the matter?"

"Haven't you somewhere more exciting to be? Surely a young girl must have something to do on a Sunday other than torment her clients?"

She grinned and shrugged. "I've just had Sunday lunch with my parents, and I managed to pilfer some crosswords from my dad's study. They were all completed, of course, but a quick ink-removing spell soon remedied that." She extracted a few small paperback books from her beaded bag and tossed them onto the table. "I don't know what you like to read, but I brought some poetry, too."

He scowled and crossed his arms. "Why?"

"Well, I thought you might be the poetic type ..."

"No, Miss Granger, I mean why are you here? Why do you do this?"

She looked embarrassed. "It's just that ... well ... I don't like to think of you cooped up in here. You're intelligent ... It's a shame that you're just ... sort of ..."

"Going to waste?" he finished for her.

"Yes. It's like keeping a really clever Kneazle cooped up in a little cage for no good reason. It's cruel."

He raised an amused eyebrow. "Well, delighted as I am to be likened to a clever Kneazle, it's my painful duty to inform you that I quite enjoy being cooped up in my little cage."

Hermione frowned. "Yes. I can tell you're reasonably content here: that's what's kept you from succumbing to depression like most of the other inmates. I don't understand it. Wouldn't you rather be free?"

"What is there worth being free for?"

"Oh, Professor! There's so much worth being free for! I'm sure you miss your wand, for a start."

He grunted. "My wand may be the one exception, but I cannot tolerate the company of complete imbeciles; I'm much better off without the inconvenience of having to deal with wizarding society."

"You tolerate my company," she pointed out.

"You're not a complete imbecile."

She beamed. "Thank you!"

"Most of the time ..."

"Most of the time? And just when did I behave like an imbecile?"

"When you became engaged to Ronald Weasley."

She gave a short laugh. "Yes, you might have a point there."

He watched her for a moment as she rummaged in her bag, refusing to meet his eyes. "Tell me, Miss Granger: What did you see in him?"

Hermione extracted her quill and sighed. "He's not the worst sort of bloke," she began. "I suppose I confused friendship with something more. And then there was his family. I was an only child; it was lonely. Whenever I stayed at the Burrow with the Weasleys, I just felt part of something so warm and happy, and I guess I just wanted to belong to something like that."

He continued to study her as she picked up the first book of crosswords. "Charming though the Weasleys might be," he said sarcastically, "I fail to see how an intelligent girl could have believed herself suited to that idiot. Why did you agree to marry him?"

She looked up from her book. "We all make mistakes, Professor. But as you've so neatly proved, some of us make up for them. Luckily I realised before it was too late that we were incompatible."

Severus looked on as she returned her gaze to her puzzle, her cheeks slightly flushed as they often were when he questioned her about her personal life. He finally took his seat opposite her. "Do you enjoy your work as an Unspeakable, Miss Granger?"

"You're inquisitive today." She put down her quill. "I suppose I enjoy it, most of the time. The hours are long and my office is small, but it keeps me busy. With the exception of Ginny Weasley, I've never gotten on well with girls my own age, and since Ron and I broke up, my relationship with her and Harry has been a bit strained, so I welcome the distraction that my work brings."

"You see, Miss Granger," he said. "We're not so very different after all. You have your own private little prison cell at the Ministry of Magic that keeps you safe from tiresome, tedious social situations."

She stared at him, chewing the end of her quill as she considered his words. "Perhaps," she murmured eventually.

He reached for one of the crossword volumes on the table.

"May I ask you a question?" Hermione asked.

"You're actually asking my permission?"

She nodded. "I always ask your permission when it's a personal question."

He groaned. "Go on, then."

"You don't wear the usual striped prison clothes; you've access to books and newspapers; yesterday when I left, Albert was bringing you in a large cappuccino. Why the preferential treatment?"

"Do you suspect me of foul play? Do you think I have managed to Confound poor Albert without a wand? The answer is simple: I've behaved; I'm lucky enough to have a decent soul as my guard; and I can be very persuasive. Despite the charges against me, the powers that be decided to award me an Order of Merlin and put me in the lowest security sector of this prison. It has all made for a relatively easy life."

She regarded him for a few seconds longer and then smiled. "Well, I'm rather glad. I was pleasantly surprised when I walked through that door for the first time and you looked so well."

She immediately lowered her eyes to her book once more, her cheeks suffused with pink, and he tapped the tips of his fingers against the table, unsure of how to respond. A comfortable silence fell between them, and he turned his attention to his book.

Almost half an hour had passed when she finally spoke again. "Four across: Beethoven's only opera. It's on the tip of my tongue, but I just can't remember the bloody name."

"Fidelio," he muttered without looking up.

She stared at him, her eyes wide.

He raised his gaze to hers. "Problem?"

"How did you know that?"

"You're not the only know-it-all in this room, Hermione Granger."

Hermione smiled. "Say that again."

"Fidelio?"

She giggled. "No, not Fidelio: my name."

He looked at her as if she were unhinged. "Miss Granger."

She rolled her eyes. "No, no. The Hermione part."

He narrowed his eyes at her, wondering what the hell this was about. "Hermione," he said slowly.

She sighed and picked up her puzzle again. "You've such a lovely speaking voice."

"You're an incredibly strange young woman," he said, shaking his head.

Of course, he frowned at her, but on the inside he was grinning like an ape.