Caged Bird Sings

Chapter Two

Day 25

Snape took away my parchment last week. He let me keep what I’d already written and didn’t try to read it, but whatever I had left, he asked for, forcing me to write on the backs of old sheets with the ink staining through. I had no choice but to give it to him.

I know why he did it.

I asked him if I could read to him. He said no. He says no so much I wonder if he’s forgotten how to say yes. If he’s ever said it. If he’ll ever say it to me when I ask to go home.

But that wasn’t all. That wouldn’t be enough to make him angry enough to punish me. And taking my parchment was just the same as refusing to let me eat or drink. I felt like I was going mad!

I asked if there was any other way I could entertain him. I swear I didn’t mean it the way it sounds. Well, maybe a little. He’s ugly as sin and the meanest person I think I’ve ever met (having never met Voldemort), but I’ve never gone more than a few days without human contact. I once read that a person should be touched in a friendly way at least once a day to remain a balanced, healthy individual. I thought it rubbish when I read it, for there must be thousands of people who go days and days and maybe even years without contact.

But now I know what they mean.

I feel so

I can’t help but

It just makes me

It hurts! I feel like my skin is yearning for touch. Just a hug, like Harry or Ron wouldn’t think twice to give me. Or like my mum and dad were always so free with. But for some reason, I want more than just a hug from Snape. He seems really unhappy. If I could just… because Dumbledore trusted him! And I trust Dumbledore. He knew what he was doing. Snape just has to be on our side! But then why isn’t Snape telling me anything?

I’m so confused. I feel like there are insects under my skin. Just one touch. I was good for the week after he took my parchment, never asked for anything else. But I have to ask again, today. It’s better to have human touch than parchment.

I just hope Snape doesn’t take away anyth


“Miss Granger,” said Snape, soft tones sounding loud in the infinite silence of her underground cell.

“Yes, Professor Snape?” Hermione put away her sheaths of paper and cleaned her quill. It wouldn’t do to ruin it and have to ask for another.

“I have news.”

Hermione gasped and threw herself out of her chair to the floor in front of the wall of bars. Snape had never offered news before.

“Yes, yes?” she begged, hands gripping so tightly on the bars that she could see the outline of her bones.

“I know you are aware of the items for which Potter has been searching.”

Hermione didn’t know whether to confirm or deny. To confirm might bring her before Voldemort for torture, if Snape was a loyal Death Eater. To deny might make her useless and dispensable. Her breath was coming quickly as she tried to decide what to do.

“Just tell me the truth, girl! I already know.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Good. Potter has found another.”

A tear rolled down her cheek before Hermione had even realised her eyes had watered. Another Horcrux. Closer and closer.

“Is he okay?” she whispered, thinking of the ring and Dumbledore’s hand.

“He is fine.”

“Does… does the Dark Lord know?”

“He does not.”

Hermione couldn’t help it. She screamed. It was born of pure happiness and the feeling of freedom. If Voldemort didn’t know, Snape was on their side. Her side.

“Do control yourself!” he snapped.

Hermione was laughing and laughing, and then she was crying. She felt tired and hot and just mad with relief.

“Professor Snape,” she said when she’d gotten herself back under control. “What am I doing here? I should be helping Harry!”

Snape sighed in that long-suffering way that he loved to do whenever she asked a question he deemed foolish.

“It was not I who captured you,” he said.

That was the most information he’d ever given her about the night of her abduction.

“Who?” It didn’t really matter, but he was being free with information, and she wanted to lead up to the more important questions.

“Rabastan Lestrange.”

“How?”

Now Snape looked very tired. “I don’t know. And I don’t know if there have been others kidnapped the same way.”

Hermione hadn’t even thought of that. She thought she’d been targeted as Harry’s friend, but it might have been random.

“How did I get here, then?”

Snape rose. “That’s enough, Miss Granger. Behave yourself and you might make it through this.”

Hermione knew he meant ‘we might make it through.’

She watched him leave. She finished the journal entry she’d been making, hastily writing out his news.

After reading nearly half of the book she had been given the day before, Hermione stretched out on the bed. It really was very comfortable.

Why would Snape keep her here? Wouldn’t it have made more sense to return her to Hogwarts? Or better yet, to wherever Harry was?

Hermione got under the covers. As she had for the last four nights, ever since Snape had come in wearing new, fitted robes, Hermione moved her hand inside her panties.

Her fingers moved light and quick, desperate to relieve the tension as quickly as possible. A kaleidoscope of images flashes before her eyes: her furtive fumbles with Ron, her intense kisses with Viktor Krum, the time she’d seen Harry wanking in the Burrow loo—but the predominate image was that of Snape, glaring at her, growling, even yelling at her.

Hermione bit her lip to stifle the moan, but it didn’t help. She was gasping now, trying to draw out her pleasure. This was the only time that her strange feelings for Snape became less confused.

With two fingers deep inside, and two from her other hand working her clit, Hermione panted. So close, almost… Eyes closed tight, she pictured Snape looming over her, lip raised in a sneer…

“Miss Granger!”

But Hermione was over the precipice; there was no turning about. Crying out, Hermione’s hands froze on her body as she was wracked with sensation.

She clenched her eyes closed and hoped that, just this once, his voice had been inside her head and not outside her cell.

“Well, that was illuminating.”

Of course. Why would she have any luck? “Glad to provide enlightenment,” she quipped with a levity she didn’t really feel. She pulled the covers up, hiding her flushed body from his sight as she sat up. She could only be grateful that she’d been too needy to take her clothing off first.

“I see I have been remiss in tending to all your needs,” Snape continued, seating himself in his chair beyond her cell bars.

Hermione stared. Was he suggesting…? Was he offering…?

But as quick as lightning, Snape’s features became impassive, and Hermione watched the change with fascinated shock.

“Have you finished Les Miserables?” Snape asked as if he hadn’t just witnessed her climax.

Hands trembling, Hermione reached for the book in question. She still had over a hundred pages left. “No,” she whispered.

“Good. I am running out of Muggle literature for you. Do try to slow down your consumption.”

“You could go to a bookstore,” Hermione noted helpfully. She had a long list in her mind of books she wouldn’t mind reading, again or for the first time. If she were to be trapped, she might as well make the best of it.

A part of Hermione knew she was being conditioned. She was well aware of psychological side effects of captivity. She was confusing Snape’s meeting her basic needs with him being a good person. She wanted to please him, not because she liked him or because it was the right thing to do—as her brain convinced her more often and more easily—but because if she displeased him, she’d go hungry. Over the course of nearly a month, he’d made the perfect little prisoner out of her. She even begged for the ‘freedom’ of having her cell door opened, when nothing could be more of an illusion. She was no less free for the door being opened. In fact, she was even more trapped, because she knew she should at least make an effort to escape, but to do so would make Snape angry with her.

And when Snape was angry, Hermione was unhappy.

But despite knowing the mental repercussions of imprisonment, despite realising that her every reaction was calculated and duly noted, she still wanted to please Snape because he was all she had.

Was this how Snape had felt when he’d first joined Voldemort? Had he felt at home, safe, taken care of, despite the danger of the situation? Perhaps he’d thought Voldemort understood him, so he allowed himself to take part in atrocities because he couldn’t believe that anyone else would care.

“What makes you think I would risk such a public venture just to entertain you?” he scoffed, leaning back in his armchair. Hermione watched, casting longing looks at his cup of tea—half a sugar, nothing else—and waited for him to speak again.

But he didn’t. So she asked, “Is Harry okay?”

Snape looked confused. “I have already answered your questions today, Miss Granger. I am not a man to repeat myself.”

Despite the panic that flared when he wouldn’t answer the question, Hermione nodded. She hadn’t realised it was the same day as when he’d been here last. Snape never visited twice in one day.

“Why are you here, then?” she demanded, her heart racing. Only bad things came of breaking the routine, very bad things. Horrible things. Harry must have failed. Harry was dead.

Hermione burst into tears. Gasping, she tried to rein in her emotion; she hadn’t even felt sad, she had no idea where this sudden fit of tristesse had come from. But her little gasps weren’t bringing her enough air. Her face felt tight, her lips swollen, her tongue too heavy and too far back in her throat. Her chest felt as though someone were sitting upon it. She fell back on the bed, thrashing, trying to draw in air.

“Miss Granger!” Snape was shouting through the bars, his wand drawn. But she couldn’t hear any spells, and even if there were any, they weren’t reaching her. Hermione clawed at her throat as if to make another pathway for air. She dimly felt a rush of warmth under fingers, but it didn’t help her breathe.

Suddenly, the cell door was thrown open and Snape was beside her on the bed. He slapped her once across the face, and Hermione laughed inside her head—that only worked on the telly.

But then Snape’s grim lips were whispering something, his wand at her throat, and all around her, the cell lost what little colour it had, and everything went black.

*

“What happened?” Hermione croaked. Her throat was swollen and sore, and she couldn’t move her head. Snape was outside of her cell again, but the door was open, and that wasn’t so bad.

“I believe you had a panic attack,” he said, matter-of-factly.

“Oh,” she whispered, nodding to herself. She’d never had one of those before, though on some nights before tests—especially practicals—she would feel lightheaded and rather strange, like she wanted to laugh but nothing was funny.

“‘Oh’?” Snape repeated incredulously. “That’s all you have to say? You attempt to tear out your own throat, and all you can manage is ‘Oh’?”

Hermione went to shrug, but a dull pain stopped her. “That’s never happened to me before.”

“I should think not,” Snape said. “Had I not been here to intervene, you would likely have bled to death, had you actually succeeded in your intentions.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hermione said in a small voice. But all of a sudden an intense rage flooded her, like a swarm of locusts, clouding her vision and buzzing in her ear. “You shouldn’t have kept me here!” she shouted, ignoring the pain that came along with her exclamation. “You should have returned me to Hogwarts! Or even to my parents! You have no right to keep me!”

Snape sighed and picked up his book. Hermione noted he was reading Magical Drafts and Potions and wondered if he would let her read it when he was done.

When he didn’t respond, Hermione continued in a voice more conducive to her injuries. “Why can’t you just let me go? I won’t tell anyone that you’re not really working for Vol—for the Dark Lord, I promise! Not even Harry! If you’d just let me go, I could help! You’re causing more harm than good, keeping me here. I swear I can do something out there—be useful, help Harry, help the Order, help the cause! Please, Professor Snape, you can’t keep me here. And why would you even want to? You hate me! You’ve never kept that a secret. You must detest my presence. If you’d let me go, I’d never breathe a word. I’d just say I had no memory! And why won’t you answer me? Why won’t you talk to me? Why won’t you touch me? I’m dying in this cell, in this prison, in this cage! I can’t live like this, and I don’t want to! I don’t want to!”

“Enough!” Snape roared, throwing his tea against the wall. Hermione snapped her mouth shut, watching the remnants of that lusted-after libation slide down the wall like so much refuse. Pieces of the shattered cup danced and stilled, and Hermione felt a kinship with them.

“Enough,” he said again, sighing and dropping his head into his hand. When he looked up at her, his eyes were tired, the lines in his face more defined. He looked very old.

“Please let me go,” she whispered, voice rasping. But Snape only flicked his wand at the tea, clearing up the mess and broken shards. Hermione could still see a drop of the tea, far-flung from the initial point of impact. It slid slowly down the wall. He hadn’t seen it. She wouldn’t tell him; he’d take that away, too.

He got to his feet, moving as if afraid that hasty movement might damage him. He left the room and shut the door behind him.

Hermione fingered the swathes of gauze at her throat. She wondered exactly how trussed-up she was, but there was no mirror in the cage. Curling up on the bed, she wondered how much longer he could possibly keep her. Three Horcruxes had been destroyed before she’d been captured. One since. Three left, and it was possible that Harry had found more than Snape knew about.

Hermione wished she could feel safe here. It was true that there was little chance of anything bad happening to her, and she was certainly at less risk here than out with Harry and Ron. But when she’d pictured her role in the war, she hadn’t imagined staying inside a damp, claustrophobic cell, reading Muggle books and wanking to thoughts of Severus Snape.

Before sleep took her, Hermione cried bitter tears for the way her chance to help had been stolen and replaced with nothing.