Caged Bird Sings

Chapter Six

Day 48

I don’t know how he does it. He acts as though nothing happened, not the fact that he watched me masturbate, or the fact that we had a huge fight over his loyalties.

I don’t know if he realises that he admitted to working for the Order. I knew he was a spy, or at least, I knew we were to trust him, and from my time here, I knew he couldn’t be a true servant of Voldemort. The war is weighing as heavily on him as it is on any of us.

Only the war doesn’t really touch me here. I’m safe and secure against the horrors that are surely going on outside these walls. Snape might not think he’s protecting me, and I certainly would have agreed with him not too long ago, but I’ve had enough time to realise that if Snape was working for Voldemort, I’d be long dead.

The last few days when I’ve asked about Harry, Snape’s answers seemed strained. At first I thought I was imagining something, because surely a spy of Snape’s calibre couldn’t be given away by vocal inflections determinable by a teenager. But maybe he’s been letting his guard down around me, and that’s why I’m more aware, more attuned to his subtleties. Whatever the reason, I’m close to panicking thinking of Harry—if he’s all right, if a Horcrux has damaged him the way it did Dumbledore, if he’s even alive.

But I can’t let myself think like that. I need to stay strong. Whenever I feel anxious, I think of my focus image. It’s a cauldron. I picture a perfectly brewed potion, bubbling away inside a cauldron. I keep the cauldron from boiling over. I keep the flame from burning too high or too low. I control the potion, I control myself. It helps.

I’ve begun to see Snape the same way. I know exactly how to talk to him to make sure he doesn’t boil over. I can keep him softly simmering, just within the confines of the curved lip of the cauldron. If I wanted, I could stir—say a few choice words—at the wrong moment and destroy the potion. Or I could let it brew, adding just the right mix at the proper time, until the potion is ready to be completed.

And then I’ll consume it.


Frustrated, Hermione threw Wuthering Heights across the room. Her eyes were so tired that she just couldn’t read any longer. She never would have thought she’d see the day that she’d rather lounge around and do nothing that sit back with a good book—one of her favourites, even—but that day was obviously today.

“Is the book not to your liking?” Snape asked sardonically, raising an eyebrow at her petulant behaviour. She managed not to stick her tongue out at him, but it was a near thing.

“Of course it’s to my liking,” she said, falling back against her pillows. “My eyes hurt. I think I’ve been reading too much.”

Snape hummed. “It’s possible that the light in your cell is too dim. I can exchange the oil with my modified version, which will make the light burn a little more brightly.”

Hermione stared. A moment later, she said, “It’s not just that, though. I don’t think I’ve ever read so much in my entire life. I must read more than twelve hours a day!”

“So don’t read,” Snape said, going back to his book.

Hermione turned over onto her stomach. The position reminded her of her favourite position in which to masturbate. It was easiest to pretend it was Snape’s hand getting her off in this position. She clenched her thighs together in reaction. She was pretty sure she was getting addicted to orgasms. She’d never felt so desperate all the time. And it was about more than relieving tension now, as it had been during school. She actually felt true desire now, true want.

She’d spend a lot less time reading if she had some toys to play with. Her wrist was sore from all the activity. But somehow, asking Snape for a vibrator was on a different level than asking him for parchment.

Which reminded her. “The Charta spell didn’t work yesterday. I’m out of paper.”

“Yes, I noticed that my personal stock had become quite low. I had no idea you would use so much. I will pick more up tomorrow. Will you manage until then?”

Hermione nodded. Her paper must come from his own stash, somewhere inside this house. She wondered if he’d gone to get some parchment to write something and found it low. For some reason, that made her smile. It sort of connected them, in a way.

She watched Snape as he read page after page. He was reading some potions journal. He had millions of these, it seemed. He sometimes took notes in a leather-bound notebook as he read, but today he was just reading, precisely as ever.

He licked a finger to turn the page. Hermione shifted her hips, the seam of her jeans becoming snug against her slit. She bit her knuckle. Snape’s fingers rubbed the threadbare arm of the chair he always sat in. The fingers smoothed, tapped, clenched, and stroked. Hermione stretched her arms above her head to grip the headboard, rotating her hips to get more friction from the seam between her legs. She hadn’t worn knickers that day, having hurried to dress once she’d heard him coming down the stairs.

Hermione never knew she could be so wanton. She was getting off on his mere presence. And he must have known. Her movements weren’t silent, and her breath was audibly quickening.

“Professor Snape,” Hermione said, schooling her voice to sound natural and failing.

“Miss Granger,” he said ironically, without looking up.

“Read to me,” she asked, watching him. As always, she could tell when he was listening and no longer reading. His body seemed to freeze, and his entire being was focused on her. “Please.”

He looked at her. She must have looked a sight, stretched out on her belly, face flushed, hands gripping the headboard as if she’d fall off the bed otherwise.

Clearing his throat, Snape began to read. His tone was so low and melodious that it was more like a sweet droning than actual words. And for that she was grateful, as she wasn’t sure his voice would be as affecting if she actually listened to the modern methods of distilling brentwad fibre.

For a long while, Hermione didn’t move, only listened to him. It made her feel safe, hearing his voice. Being alone was the most difficult part of being imprisoned, except, perhaps, not being able to help Harry. Having Snape here and reading meant he was alive, and as long as he was alive, she would be, too. She was sure of that. He would do everything in his power to keep her alive. If he died, well, her life was forfeit. But he wouldn’t die. He’d said so a week ago. He’d come out on top, no matter what.

But after about fifteen minutes of just letting his voice wash over her, the sense of peace she’d been deriving from his soft voice turned into a low-burning frenzy. Her hips circled as the seam of her jeans rubbed her clit. She had to do a lot of manoeuvring to get the position right, but once she had, it was very right.

When she heard him turn a page, a new sensation would flow over her body, like his fingers were turning her, instead. Her nipples were rubbing against the inside of her shirt, the additional touch making her more desperate. She knew her jeans must have been drenched on the inside.

Snape continued to read, oblivious to her need. She was grinding faster and faster, gasping softly whenever he put a special emphasis on a certain word. His voice strummed cords deep within her body, plucking professionally until she only needed one more word, just one more… she recalled the way he’d ordered her to come the last time, and her body tightened, waiting for that little… bit… more…

“Miss Granger, that is enough!”

It certainly was enough. His voice crashed through her body like a tsunami, destroying her. Hermione screamed as she came, not bothering to muffle her cries. He should know what he did to her. Coming down, Hermione unclenched her hands from the headboard and let them fall. She was panting, her pussy clamping down, frantic for something to fill her.

“Sorry,” she whispered, though she wasn’t, really. She was only sorry that he would probably never read to her again.

“You must learn better impulse control, you stupid child,” he snapped. But at least he wasn’t leaving.

Hermione nodded agreeably. “Teach me?”

Snape sneered at her and brought his journal close to his face, no longer reading aloud.

Hermione sighed happily, not even bothering to wonder when her life had become so fucked up. She fell asleep to the sound of pages turning.

*

When Hermione looked through her drawers the next day, she noticed her jeans were missing. She’d put them in at the end of the day to be cleaned, as she always did with her clothing, but now they were gone.

She’d thought it was a magic bureau or something, but that had obviously been naïve. Snape was cleaning her clothes. Or maybe he had a house-elf.

But if it was Snape, he had her come-covered jeans. The very thought made Hermione feel dirty and horny all at once. She wondered if he’d touched them… smelled them… wanked into them.

Groaning, Hermione picked a skirt, instead. She was glad Snape decided to outfit her with Muggle clothing. She wouldn’t be comfortable lounging around all day wearing full robes. It was warmer in the dungeons, so maybe she could ask for some more summery clothes. But Snape would probably think she was just trying to seduce him, and he wouldn’t be wrong.

She’d never felt more alive in the weeks since she’d been captured as she had the two times Snape’s voice had made her come.

Snape only came down to bring her food in the morning, and she didn’t see him again all day. Her eyes felt much better than they had the day before, so she decided to give herself breaks from reading throughout the day. She still wanted that new oil to lessen the strain.

When dinnertime finally arrived, Snape told her to get on her bed and stay there. Not even bothering to stifle her moan at his orders, Hermione obeyed.

He opened the cage door with a key and spell and put her tray on her bed beside her. It was a quarter chicken with mashed potatoes and carrots. Snape wasn’t the best cook, but his food sometimes reminded her of the way her parents had cooked. Meat, some variety of potato, some manner of vegetable. Every single night. The only thing missing was pudding, but Snape obviously wasn’t big on dessert.

She watched him as she ate. He went around her cell and switched out all the old oil for the new kind. Already the room was lit with a softer, whiter glow, less harsh on the eyes, but brighter, overall.

When he came to the last lamp, the one affixed to the wall above her bed, he glared at her. She stared back, not sure what she’d done to deserve his wrath.

“Get off the bed. Go stand in that corner, and don’t move,” he commanded, watching her as she did as he bade.

Snape leaned over the bed and changed the last of the oil. He steadied himself on her headboard, but he seemed to notice where he’d placed his hand and jerked it away as if burnt. It was the same place Hermione had gripped in the throes of passion.

Shooting another glare her way, Snape left the cell and locked it twice over.

*

The next morning, Hermione was finishing up Conrad’s Heart of Darkness (just when she’d begun to suspect Snape wouldn’t have any book written after the nineteenth century), when Snape came in.

“Come to the bars,” he ordered, walking up to them on his side. Hermione raised an eyebrow but complied, standing before him. She hadn’t really been this close to him in a long while. She noticed that he smelled especially good today—it must have been a shower day, because his hair was clean and soft, as well.

He thrust out his hand, holding a leather-bound journal. Usually when he gave her books, they were on her food tray. He didn’t normally bother to hand them to her.

Hermione reached a hand through the bars and took it, wondering what it was. It didn’t have a title.

“Thanks,” she said, opening it. Its pages were blank. Oh! It was a journal; it didn’t just look like one. She raised her eyes to his.

He waved a hand dismissively. “I imagine your little stories or what have you are getting rather messy. This way, you can keep your pages all together and not have to worry about them getting out of order.”

Hermione decided not to say she had a fairly simple system—number the pages—and pressed the book against her chest. Snape’s eyes rabidly followed the action. “Thank you so much,” she said, noting and disregarding the almost-reverent tone of her voice.

“Hmm,” was his only reply. He went to sit in his chair with a journal in his lap. He tapped his teacup and it filled the room with a homey aroma, making her mouth water for her own tea. Settling on the ground beside the bars with her cup, her new journal, and a quill, Hermione sighed. “Repleo,” she said, touching the cup. Milk and sugar, just as always.

Snape kept milk for her, just so she could have her tea the way she preferred. He changed the oil in her lamps so her eyes wouldn’t hurt. He’d given her a mirror. Endless parchment. A journal. Snape might think he was a monster, but she happened to disagree. Maybe she didn’t like being trapped—or maybe there was no maybe about it—but he made it easier for her to forget.

Sitting like this, sipping tea together and sometimes talking about what one or the other was reading, Hermione could almost imagine they were a married couple.

But instead of making her smile, the thought only made her sad. Her life was very lonely, and she felt useless.

But he wouldn’t keep her here forever. One way or another, she’d get out of this cage. She only hoped she would be alive to experience it.

After asking her by-now familiar questions, Hermione said the one she’d saved for last. Perhaps Snape had noted the change of sequence in her interrogation, because he sat up a little straighter, putting his potions journal aside to actually give her his full attention.

“Is Harry alive?”

“Yes.” No hesitation, no inflection, no twist of the lips or twitch of the cheek. Harry really was okay.

Hermione let out a shaky breath, releasing the tension she’d been holding when she’d thought something horrible had happened to her friend. She wouldn’t have been able to bear it if he’d died while she was in here, unable to save him or help him or just be there when it happened.

“Before, you would hesitate. Did something happen?”

Snape didn’t answer, only taking a sip of tea. His refusal to answer questions was infuriating. He didn’t even bother to pretend he hadn’t heard her asking. In a room this size, there was no way he couldn’t have. He just sat there and looked at her, making her want to smack him.

“Did something happen to Harry, Professor Snape?”

“…No.”

“You hesitated!” she shouted accusingly. Her hands clenched on the bars as she watched his face. The hesitation was barely a millisecond, not something anyone else would be able to pick up on, but she could. She heard it a mile away, and even if she’d been deaf, she would have known he was lying. His eyes went a fraction darker, like he’d actually pulled a shield down behind them. What was the point of Occlumency when it was so obvious that you were using it, proving you had something to hide? Was Voldemort really so trusting that he didn’t just feed Snape Veritaserum and be done with it? Or maybe Snape could beat that like Harry could throw off Imperio. Or maybe he’d made an antidote to it, or built up an immunity.

Cursing herself for getting sidetracked, Hermione slapped the bar with her hand. “What’s happened? Please tell me, please. I can’t live like this.”

“Nothing unfortunate has happened to Potter, Miss Granger. Please try to control yourself in my presence.”

His words were an unsubtle reminder to her recent lascivious actions in front of him, but she didn’t rise to the bait.

“Something fortunate, then?” Hermione pressed.

“Mr. Potter has eliminated another Horcrux,” Snape said very slowly, as if he thought her dim, but she suspected he just enjoyed saying it, relishing the power of the words and their import.

“My gods,” she breathed. That was four. Harry was so close. She tried not to feel left out, but as juvenile as the feeling was, Hermione knew Harry was out there, most likely with Ron, searching for and destroying the Horcruxes. Maybe they hadn’t needed her, after all. Hermione sometimes had the feeling that the only reason she’d been Sorted into Gryffindor was to help Harry. Now it appeared that wasn’t true at all; Harry was coping just fine without her.

But that was good. It was good that Harry was doing this without her, of course it was. It needed to be done, and the world didn’t stop just because she was no longer a part of it.

“And he’s okay?” she confirmed.

“He is no worse for the wear,” Snape answered. Hermione had to take that to mean that he was fine. Destroying Horcruxes was nasty and difficult work; of course Harry would run into some difficulty. But she didn’t actually think Snape would lie to her. He had no reason to. Devastation at Harry’s demise would only make her more pliable and docile, and she was already pretty compliant at this point.

“Thank you,” she whispered, fingers curling around the bars. “Thank you for telling me, and thank you for being honest. And thank you for the journal. It’s lovely.”

Snape cleared his throat, picking up the potions journal once again. He waved his wand to warm his tea, and, as an afterthought, waved it again to warm hers. She didn’t want to repeat her words of gratitude yet again, so she smiled at him, taking a deep drink of her tea.

His eyes widened at her smile as if no one had ever done such a thing in his direction, let alone on his behalf, and the look was so comical she almost wondered if her teeth were covered in green stuff or something. But of course they weren’t. Snape had provided a toothbrush, after all.

Again, though, he just waved his hands as if to shoo her away (or maybe her thanks) and went back to reading. Hermione got up from the cool floor, stretching out her back and limbs. As much as it hurt to sit there, she felt closer to him that way. She’d even tried to push her bed against the bars, but she wasn’t able to move anything in her cell.

Once on the bed, Hermione opened her new journal and began to write. But she wasn’t unaware of the fact that Snape regularly glanced over to the bed to check on her. He thought she couldn’t see him. Sometimes he looked very quickly, but other times, his eyes settled on her for long moments.

She wondered if he was waiting for her to get off in front of him again.