Caged Bird Sings

Chapter Ten

Day 60

Two months.

It’s almost hard to believe Snape is so difficult to find. I wonder if Harry even suspects him. He must. He always has, really.

I’ve been busy. Ha. When Snape awoke in my bed two days ago, I thought for sure I’d be murdered. People don’t just cuddle Severus Snape, especially not without his express permission, which he would assuredly never give. But I did.

And it was nice.

He was hard and soft in all the right places, although I barely got to admire his… condition (the one all men wake up in) before he bolted from the bed as quick as if I’d had dragon pox. More quickly, even.

He shouted. I smirked. He snarled. I smiled. It was the ol’ Hermione and Snape show. Hard to believe we were both close to death only the evening before.

As it is, he’s stuffing me so full of food that I feel almost as sick as I did when I was hungry! It’s possible he thinks making me quite fat will increase my chances of living if he’s ever taken away again—though he’d never say as much—but I don’t think it works that way. I haven’t the heart to tell him. He even brought me a small box of non-perishables, though I almost wish he hadn’t. For one, it means that it’s likely he’ll disappear like that again, and two, if I’m to die, I’d rather not spend the last of my days eating saltines and delaying the inevitable.


Hermione decided that the best position for listening to Snape read was on her back.

She didn’t wonder what that said about her. Maybe it was the acoustics. Maybe it was because she couldn’t stare at him this way. He tended to balk and read more quickly when he knew she was looking.

Maybe it was because she would stare at the ceiling and imagine the sky. It was one of her favourite games—wondering what the weather was like outside. She tried to guess based on the heaviness of the air or the dampness of the room, but the nuances of change in the dungeon were probably her imagination. Still, as she never could find out what the weather was really like, she was never wrong. And that was a fun game.

“Are you even listening?” Snape demanded, setting the book in his lap and looking grouchy.

“Of course,” she said, and it was true. Not that she no longer got off on his reading (or rather, she certainly still did, but she didn’t do anything about it. Snape apparently had tender sensibilities), she was forced to listen to every single word. “Antigone was just talking about burying her brother.” Easy.

Snape sighed dramatically and continued to read. Hermione drifted in and out, but always came back.

After the fourth time Snape cleared his throat, Hermione realised he wasn’t doing it just because he thought her attention was elsewhere.

“Are you sick, sir?” she asked, concerned. She’d thought he’d recovered from his illness, whatever the cause, but he did tread a little lightly, not quite sweeping in and out as he once had. And his throat was sounding a little scratchy.

“Not at all. Why do you ask?”

“Your throat, you sound like you’re getting a cold or something.”

Snape scoffed. “Wizards don’t get colds.”

Hermione was pretty sure they did, but she didn’t want to quarrel. “Still, you don’t sound very good.”

“Are you trying to say you’d like me to discontinue the reading? I’d be more than happy to, both on account of the subject matter, and due to the tediousness of the chore.”

Hmm. It seemed that Snape didn’t much like reading to her. How shocking.

“I don’t want you to stop. I love listening to you read. I’m just worried about you.”

“You must have an idea of the sheer absurdity of that statement.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “I have an idea of the absurdity of everything I do these days, especially things I should be thanked for and haven’t yet been.”

Snape pretended he didn’t know what she was talking about, but she didn’t care. The fact that he was here, reading, when she hadn’t even asked him to was proof enough of his gratitude. She might never hear the words, but Snape spoke through action, loud and clear.

“I’ve a sore throat,” Snape admitted, and Hermione nearly fell of the bed. Snape, admitting weakness? Snape, offering information?

But she kept her voice calm when she said, “Maybe you shouldn’t be reading so much, then.” She immediately wanted to take back her words—his reading was one of the only things keeping her sane.

“I don’t mind.”

And Hermione struggled again, not to roll off the bed in shock. He didn’t mind? He complained nearly constantly! If fact, the complaints and the reading were just about equal, both in quantity and in eloquence.

“Maybe it’s because you’re reading more loudly than you’re used to. Perhaps if you moved your chair closer, you wouldn’t have to strain your voice.”

Snape hummed in a manner that Hermione knew meant he was thinking. A moment later, the armchair hovered over to the floor near her cell, and Snape resettled. He was only a metre and a half closer, but Hermione had a plan.

Sure enough, his voice faltered not five minutes later, and he coughed to cover it.

“Professor Snape?” Hermione said in her best innocent voice.

“What is it now?”

“Maybe if you read from in here…”

“In your cage?”

“Mmhmm.”

“With you?”

“Well, where else would I be?”

“Indeed. And you think this would be a good idea, because…?”

“Because you wouldn’t be straining your throat, sir.”

“What are you planning?”

“Nothing! Really. Nothing. I swear. Not this time.”

“There is hardly room for my chair within your cell.”

“True… you could sit on the bed.”

“With… you.”

“Where else would I be?”

Snape pursed his lips. Hermione hurriedly added, “Or I could sit on the floor by the bed. I don’t mind.” It was true. She sat on the ground a lot. The bed hurt her back after a while, and a numb arse was better than a pinched nerve.

“That won’t be necessary,” Snape relented. “I will sit by the headboard, and you by the foot.”

Hermione scrambled into position, drawing up her knees and making herself as small as possible to seem like less of an imposition. Snape unlocked and unwarded the cell door and entered. He looked a little lost for a moment, as if Hermione had asked him to bed her instead of read to her. But he sat stiffly on the edge of the bed before swinging his legs up, stretching them out and settling the book on his lap.

“This bed is… satisfactory?” he asked, pressing into it with his hands.

Hermione shrugged. Was anything in her cell more than satisfactory? Should she expect any more than that? “It does the trick,” she answered honestly, gesturing for him to start reading.

Now that he wasn’t trying to make his voice carry, he no longer cleared his throat and coughed half as often. And the intimacy of the situation and the lower tones of his voice made her shiver all over, but she’d promised herself she’d behave. If she was good, he might do this again. If she started to finger herself, she was pretty sure he wouldn’t be persuaded to return, despite the fact that last time in her cell, he’d seemed to enjoy her desperation.

Snape read for some time, and Hermione slowly let her limbs stretch out. He didn’t seem to notice. He was wearing black socks. She wondered what his feet looked like. She was sure he’d have ugly feet, all pale and skinny with pronounced arches and yellow toenails and little black hairs. For some reason, the idea made her giggle. Snape glared at her, and she stopped immediately. There was a certain softness in his face when he was reading, and sometimes when he looked at her between pages, he gave the softness to her.

When his voice began to get raspy, Hermione very slowly shifted so that she was against the headboard as well. The bed was wide enough that they didn’t have to touch, but Hermione shifted so that she was pressed lightly against him, under the pretence of looking at what he was reading. He paused at length while she got comfortable, looking as though he very much wanted to say something, but he just kept reading.

Eventually, Hermione’s head rested on his shoulder. She liked looking at the words and matching them to his voice. She’d look a few paragraphs ahead and find a word she like—like inside, pleading, or, always—and wait for him to say it. The anticipation made her feel as though he was saying those words to her from his own mind.

“Professor Snape?” Hermione said quietly when he paused between acts.

“Yes, Miss Granger.”

“Do you like me?”

Snape sighed and dropped his head against the headboard. Hermione wondered if he remembered how she’d gripped it when he’d ordered her to come.

“You are a capable witch and a tolerable conversationalist.”

Hermione was bowled over by the compliment, but it wasn’t quite what she’d been going after. “I mean, do you want me?”

Snape didn’t say anything. He stared at the words on the page, fingers clenched on the book.

“Because I think you might. And I want you. And I’m wondering what sort of sense it makes to deny ourselves. Or rather, why you’re denying yourself. I’m on offer, here. And I don’t much care if it’s because I’m starved for affection or because you’re the only person who exists in my world. I just think you’re brilliant and funny and mean as hell, and you saved me when you didn’t have to, and no matter what you say or anyone thinks, you’re a good man.”

“Are you quite through?” Snape said acerbically.

“No, I’m not,” she said. She turned to face him and took the book from his hands, placing it gently on the bedspread behind her. He watched her carefully, but didn’t make a move to stop her.

Leaning forward, Hermione pressed a chaste kiss to Snape’s thin lips. He didn’t react, though she hadn’t much expected him to. Even without his participation, it just felt so good to be kissing someone, to be kissing Snape. She’d thought about their last kiss near constantly, and the expert way his fingers had brought her to climax.

Pulling out of the kiss, she gamely met his eyes. They were dark and mute, not revealing any of his thoughts. Hermione sighed, but she didn’t move. He wouldn’t run away, not this time. She wouldn’t let him. He’d just have to face whatever was happening between them, because something very obviously was, and it wasn’t one-sided. Something kept him coming back to read to her every single day.

“It’s a kiss,” Hermione said simply, willing him to understand. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“I do not do things that mean nothing,” he said slowly, his eyes searching her face, though for what, she suspected she’d never really know.

“Then let it mean something. I want it to. It already does, for me.”

“You don’t have enough information to make an informed decision.”

“So, tell me!” she said quietly, placing her hand on his wrist. He didn’t shake her off, so she squeezed lightly for emphasis. “Tell me what I don’t know. Tell me what happened, what’s happening now.”

Snape shook her hand off, but he didn’t move, and she knew that was a good sign.

“You were a boon,” he spat. He looked away as she processed this.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Rabastan Lestrange captured you, and he asked the Dark Lord to… keep you. But I told the Dark Lord than Lestrange’s foray into Hogwarts had resulted in increased security, which in turn made Potter even more out of reach. I suggested that if Lestrange had been in Hogwarts, he should have made an attempt to bring Potter to him, not you. Neither the Dark Lord nor Lestrange knew that it was my intelligence, based on what Lestrange bragged about, that led to the increased safety measures at the school. They also did not know that Potter wasn’t even at the school at the time, but with Dumbledore.”

Hermione shuddered to think of what Lestrange would have done to her, had she been given to him. She might have been mistaken about Snape’s allegiances, but the Lestrange brothers were true Death Eaters. She most likely would not be alive right now. Hermione rested her hand on Snape’s in gratitude.

“Do not think me noble, Miss Granger. I did what I had to do. Your death would have destroyed Potter, making him unable to continue in the fight against the Dark Lord. I did it for me.”

“But Harry doesn’t know if I’m alive or dead right now! How is that helping the cause?”

Snape grimaced. “Potter knows that you are alive and relatively well.”

“What?” she shrieked, jerking back as if struck. “Why didn’t you tell me, I’ve been… devastated, thinking he was looking for me or thought I was dead!”

“I will not apologise for the decisions I’ve made in the best interest of—”

“Yourself, ” she hissed, drawing herself farther back.

“I did not want you to think he would come strolling in to take you away.”

“Why hasn’t he?” she asked, deflating slightly.

“He neither knows where you are nor who has you.”

“Then how—”

“I’ve sent him a memory. I know that he received it.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighed, dropping her face into his hands. How frustrated and impotent he must feel, knowing that she was alive in a cell somewhere, with no hints as to where or why. “He probably thought you were sending it to torment him.”

“I cannot help what he thinks.”

“Would it really have hurt me to tell me?”

“Miss Granger, you must understand that the less you know, the safer you are. I took a huge risk in sending Potter a memory, and I will not do it again. You must trust my choices as the right ones, for you truly have no choice.”

Of course, Hermione knew it, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating.

“So, what happened after you made Lestrange look bad in front of the Dark Lord?” she asked, determined to find out as much as possible while Snape was in a sharing mood. Going over why he didn’t tell her Harry knew she was safe would only make him withdraw, and she might never be able to get any additional information from him.

“He tortured Lestrange for nigh an hour before allowing him to return home. He then asked those assembled who would do an admiral job in… keeping you in line. Several stepped forward. My services were most impressive, and I had never asked for anything before.”

“Doesn’t he want to know what you’re doing with me?”

“Regularly. I’ve been able to create impressions from the memories I do have, and I offer those to him in lieu of what is really happening.”

“What…” Hermione began, though she wasn’t sure she really wanted to know. “What sorts of impressions?”

Snape looked away. “That is not important.”

Hermione nodded, her suspicions confirmed. She could only imagine how gleeful Voldemort must be to see Hermione Granger of the Golden Trio begging for Snape to fuck her. How pathetic she must look. But as she thought that, she realised her own behaviour was what was likely saving both their lives. If she’d spat and fought and rebelled every single day, Voldemort would wonder why Snape didn’t just torture her into submission, or worse.

She shifted closer, placing the book back into his hands. “I might not think you’ve done the right thing in not telling me that Harry knows I’m alive, but I know you have to do what you think is best. I do hope you know you can tell me more than just enough to keep me from killing myself.”

“Miss Granger, I never for a moment believed that was a possibility.”

Hermione shrugged one shoulder, remembering all too clearly how many times she’d wondered if the mirror spell was a real mirror, one that would shatter, providing her with many implements of self-destruction, or how she’d thought about just not eating or drinking until she went to sleep and didn’t wake up. That was when her captivity had seemed interminable. Now, she knew she’d one day be free.

When she pressed her lips against Snape’s once more, they moved beneath hers. She didn’t feel triumphant, however; it didn’t feel like a victory. It only felt like something that should have happened long ago.

Her hand was one his cheek, her thumb caressing his rather sharp cheekbone. He only clutched the book white knuckled, but Hermione didn’t mind if he needed time to work himself up to the idea that she could offer comfort. He at least knew where to find her, should he need it.

They kissed, closemouthed, for some time, Hermione wanting to coax him to take the next step and part his lips first, and Snape perhaps feeling that that was one capitulation he wouldn’t give. But all Hermione had was time. She could wait.

She dropped her head back down to his shoulder, and he cleared his throat, his vibrato tones shivering through her and making her wish they were reading in front of a fire after a long day at work. No bars.

No cage.