The Gilded Cage

Hermione Snape- I never intended for him to stay there forever… it just feels like forever.
anncee- Why thank you very much.
Voracious- Ha! And I thought it had to do with hasty marriages to claim dependant pay and get out of the dorms/barracks.
HarryGinny4eva- That about sums it up, and nicely too. Thank you m’dear.
Rini- Oh yes, the flavors have definitely improved, though I’m still not a fan of strained peas. And Percy is useful for some things. Cauldron bottom thickness indeed!
neelix- Indeed she did ask. At least she got over herself with the necklace and cut him some slack.
Heidi191976- I believe she’s doing just that.
Jessie- I’m glad you found this! He definitely needs to allow himself to get out.
CB13- I have been blown away by the readership of this fic. Never once did I imagine it would get this kind of following, and I am always profoundly grateful. (weee!) So yep, I’m still thanking ya’ll.
amd2175 - I have never heard it called guyliner, too funny! And I’m thrilled you found the humor in that, any time I can get a laugh I’ll take it.
kimjo2- I loved your review, I don’t have answers to any of that, I just like asking the questions. But IMHO, if someone feels repentant, then I don’t think they’re truly evil, I personally believe redemption is always possible.
SeverusBabyMomma- Love! Love! Love the username. Too funny. And I think the time is just about neigh for Severus to make his exit.

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Chapter 47 - Leve Fit, Quod Bene Fertur, Onus


If Hermione was inclined to be honest with herself, she’d have admitted that her initial reaction to Severus’ confession of sins was met with disgust and repulsion. It was horribly sickening, and Hermione wondered how the wizard she loved could be such a monster. The feeling lasted all of three minutes. She had an epiphany, midway between Aberdeen and Dumfries, and nearly Splinched herself. Hermione realized she was, in fact, an ass.


So she was repulsed by Severus' torturing and Obliviating? That was only to be expected; it was nasty business. But her life was hardly blameless either, and she had no right to judge or cast stones at Severus’ past. Had she not led that Umbridge cow straight to the Centaurs? They had used the witch thoroughly for a solid two weeks, and years later Hermione still could not muster up much empathy for Umbridge.


If pressed, Hermione could mimic horror and shame for her misdeeds, and pretend she hadn’t had a clue what would happen when she had served up Fudge’s Toadie. Well, that at least was vaguely truthful. Hermione had hoped Grawp would level the playing field and seize her, not the Centaurs. Though even to this day, Hermione was still proud by how it all had gone down. And ever since Madam Umbridge had taken a position in the Ministry's Patent Registration office, Hermione harbored a perverse desire to lure her back into the forest.


Did that make her a bad person?


Worse than Severus?


At least he was making a decent, albeit misguided stab at penance. Perhaps she needed her own adjoining cell.
Hermione finished her journey back to the Homestead with a weary heart, and much on her mind.


In Azkaban, Severus’ head lifted from the pages of his book and his teeth reflexively clenched. He felt very much on razor’s edge as Hermione decided his fate. The funerary texts from ancient Egypt came to mind, and Severus imagined his heart was currently being weighed against Ma’at’s feather. As his focus shifted from the words littering the pages before him to the timbers creaking beneath her feet, Severus stonily awaited judgment.


Hermione was pacing those floorboards at that very moment. The Homestead’s four Elfkins, Faline, Thumper, Flower, and Goofy were watching her from the Master’s bed, their impossibly wide eyes tracking her movements like a ping pong ball swatted across a table. None of the Elfkins had yet grown into their floppy ears, and they twitched slightly, confused by their Mistress’ deep set scowl.


Mistress, descendant of hairless apes and harlots, was profoundly disturbed. Narrow tunnels of thought broke off and scattered as Hermione's thoughts swelled, ideas pinging from one leaping notion to the next. Severus kept himself imprisoned, not because he felt guilty, but because he had rationalized and made peace with his past. In accepting what he’d done was wrong, he understood he rightly deserved punishment. What did Hermione deserve?


Was she somehow lacking the same moral fiber because she had also accepted her past and justified her behavior in war? Hermione searched her heart and felt no remorse either. Her actions in war were justified. And though she did not have two decades of Death Eater sins to atone for, was she really that different? No. She slept well at night because she hadn’t thrown a single Unforgivable at the Battle of Hogwarts, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t blown Selwyn’s fucking head off.


But that had been an act of war. And so had Severus' spying and Death Eater days. For every point there was a counter-point. Hermione didn't have nearly as much blood on her hands as Severus did, but she had enough experience to be able to empathize and see herself in his shoes.


He had warned her, repeatedly, not to romanticize his role as a Death Eater. Hermione mentally snorted. Just what did he think the Golden Trio was? A jazz combo? A circus tumbling act?


She rather suspected, if she hadn’t been able to accept the sins of her past, she’d have gone round the certifiably insane long ago. Deny, Minimize, Justify. According to her self-help books, that was the process. Well, she could justify, rationalize, and accept the same sins Severus castigated himself over, and that didn’t make her a bad person… probably.


But Severus wasn’t only worried about what he had done, it was the fear of what he would do – what he could do again, that kept him firmly rooted in prison. For the sake of momentary honesty, Hermione was nearly prepared to admit she had gotten excited at the prospect of Severus taking care of her little problem with the Douchebag. Ergo, perhaps she wasn't quite the moral authority to make such a judgment on such a thing. That, and she really couldn't envision Severus aimlessly killing whatever wandering wizards got in his way.


“Hm...” Hermione pondered to herself before padding out of the Master’s chambers.


The four Elfkins looked at each other, trading puzzled glances, before hopping off the bed and following after her.


Hermione wandered from room to room, absently searching, but not sure of what she was looking for. Something with an answer. She drew up short as she passed by the nursery.


Though she couldn’t get Ron’s inane description of a witch preparing her life for children, Hermione asserted she was not nesting. Nesting sounded absurd, and Severus wasn’t likely to want children, even if he were able to put her up the duff.


Still… her eyes hovered over the crib, and washed over the adorable old fashioned pram, and all the children’s storybooks she had purchased for the room. Because at the time it seemed such a shame that the lovely room would be without books for a happy child to flip through. No, not her child, well maybe, if she were very lucky. But it was possible that if Billy and Ginny ever did have any children of their own, and maybe if they came for a visit, and it was too late for them to leave or if there was a storm, then perhaps the children would stay and enjoy the nursery. In which case, she was perfectly justified in decorating it for the wee darlings. Yes, that sounded about right.


Hermione firmly closed the nursery door, and resolved not to linger there again.


The perplexed Elfkins paused at the door before scurrying to keep up with their Mistress as she headed resolutely towards the library.


It was well advanced into the evening, and still her birthday, as Hermione lit the sconces in the Prince library. The night was quiet, and through the gauzy sheers, Hermione could see just about every star in the heavens. She frowned. Given her mood, she much preferred a torrential downpour - unending rain to trickle down the leaded windowpanes and fulfill her need to storm within herself. Without the magical lull of rain splattering on rooftops, the library was disturbingly quiet.


The limestone fireplace was family sized and obviously once hooked to the Floo Network. The mantle came to Hermione’s shoulders and was carved with laughing green men and snarling hinkypunks entwined by oak leaves. It matched the carvings on the bookcases. Hermione had gutted and modernized many of the Homestead’s dark and drab rooms, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch the library, other than to add her own collection of books. The library’s overwhelming sense of drama had robbed her of speech for a great long while when she first laid eyes on it. That was a reaction she hadn’t had since she first stepped into her magical world, and at times she ached to hole herself up inside the library and never leave.


Except she barely had time to set foot in the room, or any of the other parts of the Homestead. Hermione lived below ground in Granger Industry’s headquarters and manufacturing plant, and in the dead center of the North Sea in a cramped cell not designed for two people and a life.


She lit a small, paltry looking fire in the mouth-like cavern of the hearth. It added ambiance, not warmth, to the room, but Hermione was too distracted to care much. From her personal library, which only managed to fill a few bookcases, she made a selection from the self-help and psychology section and snuggled up on a divan. Skimming to the indexes looking for information on Survivor’s Guilt and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Hermione fell into the comfortable habit of searching for answers.


*****


“Oo-uch,” she whined testily, rubbing the crick in her neck with ink stained fingers. The enormous library windows looked out upon the verdant rolling meadow that was ‘the Green.’ She had awoken to an absurdly cheerful morning. It was already much too bright to be her typical waking hour, and Hermione jumped off the divan at once, spilling stacks of books, fluttering a patchwork of scrawled notes, and kicking a half full inkpot over. The ink saturated what was certain to be a very old and possibly priceless vegetable dyed carpet. The four sleeping Elfkins lying on the hearth rug awoke immediately and scattered.


“Fuck!” Hermione exclaimed, doing her best at removing the stain before it set. She was only marginally proficient in household charms, which was yet another reason why she had dodged a bullet by turning down Ron’s proposal.


Instead she had married Severus. Hell, she had even proposed to him.


She eyed the litter of scrap parchment at her feet and gathered them into a neat pile.


The revelations of the day before, combined with the reading she had done, cemented one thought above all others in her mind. Azkaban was the wrong place for him. Severus didn’t need penance, he needed therapy. And Hermione?


Hermione grimaced. She needed a real life. No more trekking across the globe, no more reheated take-away, no more erectile-dysfunctional warding, and certainly no more half lives. She wanted her husband. All of him. And like it or not, Severus was just going to have to adjust.


“Daisy,” Hermione summoned.


The excitable house-elf ‘popped’ into view clasping her hands and smiling widely at the prospect of being a service to her Mistress, vile polluter of pure magic and bringer of the Secret Magic of Disney, because she rarely called upon them for service.


“Could you please bring me some breakfast, here, in the library. Oh, and some fresh quills, parchment and another pot of ink. Thank you, Daisy.”


Daisy curtsied and ‘popped’ out, overwhelmed in her excitement.


Hermione began to set her items out at the large reading table, and fought for space to work as Daisy lavishly laid the table full of food.


She munched simply on toast and jam. As appetizing as a full English breakfast, powdered beignets, a casserole, blinies, and an entire spiral cut ham were, Hermione hadn’t the appetite.


Her full concentration was dedicated to one task alone – convince Severus to leave Azkaban.


She wrote a bold heading at the top of a fresh sheet of high grade parchment and underlined it, repeatedly for
emphasis. It was time to make a list.


ARGUMENTS FOR LEAVING PRISON


*****


Severus was well aware that his fate was sealed. The moment her eyes blinked open, he felt her resolve. He murmured a fervent prayer that he’d finally gotten through the dense forest of curls that surrounded the supposedly intelligent brain of hers and she understood he was happy where he was. He was finally doing something worthwhile with his life. He had neither had the wand to hex with, nor the potions lab to poison with – he simply was, and finding peace after miserable decades of blood was not something he was so willing to give up.


Despite the cheerfully sunny rays lighting up his cell, Severus was in a dark mood. He ran his fingertips over the bindings of his newest collection of books. He had requested something with substance. The swashbuckling tales, and dear Gods the Regency twaddle, were not to his liking. Hermione had only rolled her eyes and presented him with some new writers. With names like Kafka, Gogol, and Dostoyevsky, they were overwhelmingly Eastern European in origin, meaning they were both Muggle and foreign, and for some reason he’d been unaccountably skittish about that, but Severus had quickly fallen in love.


He mused briefly before pulling out Kafka. The strange irony of reading a story about a man sentenced for an unnamed crime seemed fitting – nearly Kafkaesque.


He felt Hermione as a nudging tickle in the backside of his brain. He kept a sly awareness out for her as he began to reread a story about an unhealthy relationship between a young man and his father. And the cold hand around his chest constricted him. She was resolved, about what, he could only guess. But Hermione was working herself up into a flurry of activity.


His attention was further divided by the curious goings-on in the cell block. The corridors whispered to him in hollow footsteps and banging doors.


The procession finally stopped outside his door, and Severus arched an inquiring eyebrow just before he heard a loud, nervous sounding voice call out, “Prisoner 11652, present yourself!”


Severus frowned and slowly marked his page. He took a moment to straighten his robes and elegantly spread his arms to the side of his body to display he was unarmed.


Warden Blotts courteously held open Severus’ door for a scowling witch in lime green healer’s robes. The dumpy matron had her arms folded beneath her chest, displaying her ample bosom and her obvious displeasure.


“And as you can see, Healer Culpepper, Prisoner 11652 is the very model of perfect health,” Warden Blotts indicated with a ridiculous wave of his hand. “He’s the only non-Kissed wizard we have in the Long-Term Inmate cell block, but don’t worry, if he should turn violent, I’ll be able to protect you.” Severus highly doubted the Warden would’d have time to draw his wand, much less utter a curse before he found his vision swimming. Severus clenched his fist, jutting the tip of his thumb out slightly. If necessary, he was perfectly prepared to jab it into the tracheal notch on the Warden’s collarbone. The Warden continued to speak about Severus as if he weren’t in the room. “…And all of our inmates are cared for with the same attention that Prisoner 11652 receives.”


Healer Culpepper clearly didn’t believe a word of it, and already had her wand moving in arching swirls around his person with a look of supreme distaste etched on her stout features. A covert glance at the Warden reflected that the wizard was perspiring heavily and was close to passing out already.


“I’ll need to examine your other prisoners,” the Healer said drily, “Not just the ones in this cell block.”


Severus openly watched all the color drain from the Wardens face, not bothering to disguise his smirk. If a St Mungo’s Healer was making the rounds amongst the prisoners it was a sure-fire indicator that someone was displeased with the Warden.


Someone was displeased with the Warden, and he was learning the hard way that Deputy Undersecretary Weasley wasn’t one to be ignored. Warden Blotts had been yanked out of his warm bed, on a Saturday no less, to present himself before his boss, the Director of Special Ministerial Operations, regarding medical examinations. Deputy Undersecretary Weasley had requested the medical files of everyone incarcerated in the Long-Term Inmate cell block. That was all fine and dandy, except he didn’t have medical files.


How was he supposed to know they needed check-ups every six months!


Nobody ever told him Kissed inmates needed to be inspected for bedsores. They were Kissed, for crying out loud. It wasn’t as if they were going to write nasty letters or vote for the opposition party in the coming elections. Fortunately, it appeared as if someone on his prison staff was taking diligent care of the bodies, and Warden Blotts was relieved. It wouldn’t do well at all for the Healer to report back that he wasn’t providing for his inmates. So long as she stayed away from his bilge-level cells, all would be fine. He had a sinking feeling Healer Culpepper was going to want to see them, though.


Just before the last round of Prison Reform legislation passed, all of Azkaban’s Kissed population was moved to St Mungo's, and good riddance to them. When Warden Blotts filed the special requests to have the additional inmates Kissed, he had just been transferred from the Patent and Registration office; so really, it wasn’t his fault at all.


“Prisoner, um…”


“11652,” Severus offered smoothly. “Or Mr. Snape.”


Her eyes lit up briefly before resettling on him. “Oh. Oh my. I haven’t read your book yet, but I think I might now. The girls have all said wonderful things about it, you know.”


The sound of his jaw clicking as his back teeth ground together could be heard throughout the cell.


“That sounds like Temporomandibular Joint Disorder, Mr. Snape,” the Healer cooed sweetly while waving her wand. “I think I can solve that little problem for you.”


In short order Severus found himself staring up at his ceiling, the Healer’s fingers wrapped around his neck and her wand working circles into his jaw. Feeling so entirely vulnerable was not a position he ever wanted to be in, but he hadn’t the power to stop any of it. He’d given up his freedom of choice when he opted to serve his sentence in Azkaban. Still, it was a small price to pay for the freedom of his self determination.


“There, there,” she patted his shoulder affectionately. “All better now. As I was saying, you’re doing well, though best to keep those sweets down to a minimum.” She tweaked his cheek for good measure, and Severus glared at the witch. It was rich advice from someone Severus suspected was a biscuit-eating Hufflepuff.


The Healer tucked her wand away and gave Severus another appraising glance before turning her attentions towards the Warden. Her delighted countenance promptly slid back into barely restrained contempt, and Warden Blotts promptly ushered her out, with only a wistful backwards glance at Severus’ well appointed cell. Prisoner 11652 had a much finer looking quill collection than he did.

A/N:

Chapter title: Leve Fit, Quod Bene Fertur, Onus - The burden is made light which is borne well. (Ovid)

It occures to me that this would be my second Kafka reference in this fic... It's fitting. You allowed me to have 'Hermione loves showtunes,' gimme 'Severus loves Kafka.' (thank you)

Thanks and cough drops (sorry no schmootches this time) to Christev20 for beta'ing this chapter from her sick bed. Feel better love.

Thank you to everyone who's been patient with me. Next update, next week. AV