Deep Bruises of War (Finnished)

X His human face

Hermione was confused. Since her arrival, his strange actions towards her has been exceptionally hard to judge. Snape's mood has been unstable, erratic and frequently weird. Surprisingly, he has sometimes shown, in a way, some human emotions to her, yet his usual ill behaviour still occurred more often. And even so, he'd helped her more than she could ever imagine.

She wondered, why he even cared. It was obvious that Minerva had to have something to do with it; Snape was the one to spill the news to her. But was it possible that his late acting had much more personal touch to itself than he would or could ever admit? Maybe the thought alone was foolish and had no logical explanation, but Hermione had a feeling, a rare feeling, that told her, she was right.

Of course there was nothing she desired more than to be left in peace by this churlish bastard, but in the same time Hermione was curious, what else may stand behind his behaviour.

She had never taken him for a person with natural urge to help. In fact, he have always been quite the opposite: rude, pitiless and inhuman to those he didn't truly respected or feared; and in most situations she'd ever took part in, HE was the one to be feared and who demanded unconditional respect from them all. That was cruel and made him most hated and scary person in the whole castle. For children ‒ all locked in Hogwarts for most of the year, far away from home ‒ in comparison to him, Filch was like a Teddy Bear and Voldemort ‒ some eerie nanny-tale.

So here he was: a nightmare, a grim phantom, living horror of the school.

She looked at him often whit disgust and met his eyes: dark and empty. Waiting.

Minerva was colder now, more distant, Hermione noticed. No wonder. She was hurt, but even knowing it, Hermione haven't had the stomach yet to apologise. Maybe the shame was to be blamed for her reluctance in that particular manner? Or maybe it was the fresh-developed pride she's been hiding from the world? The bitter, lonely feeling, grim and full of sorrow, not the one she had been showing back then, in her school days. Whatever it was, Hermione felt helpless and listless.

"Miss Granger..." his voice always frighted her, felt harsh and strange in her head.

"P-profesor?" she asked dully.

"As much, as I appreciate your dear attention, would you be so kind and stop gawking at me while I eat?"

Fuck.

Was she really doing it? One brief look at his face told her everything.

Fuck.

"Of course. Excuse me, Sir."

"Perfect."

She was sitting by the table, eating lunch. She must have forgotten herself, zone out perhaps, it happened quite often to her while so-common social arrangements.

"Very well" she said quietly, more to herself than to anyone else. Yet it was HIM, who heard her mumbling and, for instance, took it for girl's rudeness.

"Excuse me, Miss Granger, what did you just said?"

"Nothing, Professor, really" she tried to hedge. But, obviously, it didn't work well.

Snape only as much as looked at her, but he didn't have to do anything more to show how disguised he actually was.

What on earth did she do?

She sighed then inhaled deeply to calm herself a bi. It was only a breakfast. A meal. And he was only an old-known and hated Bat. But still, she had to admit, that it made her terribly nervous.

She stood up abruptly and rushed across the Great Hall, aiming to the door.

So I would be running away now ‒ she thought bitterly. ‒ Every single time someone would make me feel uncomfortable, I would just bolt to the exit... Shit.