Vignette 1: Unsung Lullaby

Severus Snape, the dungeon bat, still found the basement the safest place to be. It was interior and deeply dug, somewhat chilly, cut off from the world. It suited him to a tee. But he could not forget that this time round he was not a prestigious staff member with sleeping quarters at a school in session, but rather a "mercy case", an intruding "guest", an invalid with no one else willing to help him but two of his own least-loved former students.

Wheelchair bound, and wracked by post-traumatic stress attacks, he found himself far too often in the worst kind of pain. And although he hated the reality of it, he found himself afraid of being alone. He had always relished being alone, and made it his safety and his pride, but now he often felt it closing in on him and taunting him like a worthless insect trapped in too much webbing, unable to move or free himself.

But he wasn't all alone now, and it beset him with mixed emotions. Harry Potter and Hermione Granger had wed, and seemed to be a very happy couple. They'd been best friends forever and a day, so he supposed they were used to each other well enough, even though he had long found them nigh unbearable. But now somehow or other, through a twist of fate, the young pair had saved him from the streets or an institution by giving him a home in the basement of their new house. At least he had his own floor to function on for the most part, even though Hermione Granger Potter was now acting as his would-be-nurse.

He should hate it, hate taking any help and being needy and beholden, and sometimes he did, but at the same time he knew, deep in the heart of himself, that he needed help, and no one else would give it to him. They'd let him die before they'd bother touching him. He might snark, or yell, or complain, or bad-mouth all the help he was getting, but he knew he was too ill in body and mind to help himself. He needed it and sometimes even perversely craved it. He had known so very little of kindness his whole life, the offering of it now confused him. Its presence was the only thing that kept his own depression from killing him.

Often enough in those early days Snape snapped at her, all petty insults and snarling temperament, as she was trying to help him learn to handle his chair or assure that he took his medication. His eyes would be dark and beady then, and he'd call her a stupid, know-it-all brat trying to make herself feel good or gain credit points by patronizing him. Hermione Granger would then tell him off as a mean-minded git who cared for no one but himself. He would tell her to go away, and she would tell him she just might never come back, and he'd blurt out that he didn't care.

Then often enough at the end of such a trying day, she would find him in the dark of his basement, the fit of passion drained out of him, all quiet and trembly after hours of being alone, like a puppy with large, questioning eyes, waiting for some punishment he thought he deserved. He watched her, silently, stoically, seeming to expect someone to inflict him a hurt for lashing out, preparing to take the pain as he'd taken almost everything, on the chin, as par for the course, and of his own making. He deserved it, and he would take it. He wasn't a coward…but it still hurt inside.

Then when she'd go to help him from the wheelchair into his bed, as her conscience bade her do for all his deserving to be ignored, he would look abashed, hesitate in his movements, and be awkward about touching her, accidently putting his weight all wrong as a result, and straining her shoulder. Then she would scold him for it, and he'd absorb it in silence for a long time, sitting up on the side of the bed like a little boy with a scolding mother.

And then, like the trauma victim that he was, he'd inevitably twitch against a tremor up his spine. He always fought to stop himself, to hide his trembling from her sight, to force back the sudden tears or dry sobs that made no sense, to bite his lip hard enough to stop the stammer. He only frustrated himself and always failed. The memories would punch through him all the same, and with them, a flood of remorse and self-hate.

And then, strangest phenomena of all, he would try to apologize, it seemed, for his very existence. "F-forgive…forgive…m-me…"

It was as sincere as it was shattering, and it always seemed he doubted she would forgive him for what he was, for what he kept lapsing into, for a lifetime of shelter behind a wall of bitterness, criticism, and fits of mood. He'd known too many people who would not. He'd become afraid of asking in his fragility, afraid of the day that would surely come, when he'd be slammed down and thrown out and he'd have to take it, like he took everything else, fighting for some dying vestige of pride to keep him from breaking apart into so many little pieces.

But Hermione always seemed to find it in her heart to open herself to him again. She'd sigh, and shake her head, and then if she felt he needed it, she'd open up her arms and hold him till he stopped shaking and his nervous panic subsided. God knew he was the last person on earth she would ever have thought in need of hugging for all the years she had been his student.

Even now, he hardly ever hugged back, although sometimes she sensed he was debating it with his trembling good hand extending a ways from her back. But it was as if he was starved, constantly afraid of eating the bread, crumb by blessed crumb, because then it would be all gone and he'd be alone and hated again. He was terrified of having the kindness revoked, or being charged some price of pain for it, or being thrust away for presuming his touch would be welcome instead of viewed as poisonous.

So he usually just basked in the moment of being held, burying his face in her shoulder till the flash of horrific memories of beatings, bullying, and betrayal, of sorcerers, snakes, and shadows subsided, and his tears dried on the softness of her sweater. And he felt love melting his pride and soothing his fear, like an unsung lullaby. And he could fall asleep feeling safe and forgiven. And that was all that mattered.