And she couldn't even remember the outside all that clearly. Or at all. But she couldn't possibly go in there. Where was her head lately? She couldn't fathom it — normally, that would have been the first thing that had popped into her head. Normally, she would have taken very bloody possibility into account, she would have thought about everything and now? Now she had even forgot that this was Malfoy Manor. The one place most of her nightmares took place.
She remembered that room very clearly — if she wanted to. And as she kept those memories as far from herself as she could when she was awake, they came sneaking up at her at night when she was weakest, when she was most unprotected. When she could hear the cackle of Bellatrix Lestrange, when she could see all of them watching and when she woke with a start, feeling her nerves tingling painfully and her head throbbing and her stomach threatening to lose all of its content.
And there it was, inside of that impressive, if a bit dingy looking manor. Inside of this almost innocent looking house. No peacocks in front of it. Nothing. The house elves were probably overtaxed as well, the garden looked like it hadn't seen shears or grooming in a while, the lawn was grass and quite high, mixed with weeds and there was even the odd weed blooming.
Snape stopped the car and she hid her hands in her lap, clawed together, holding on to her right thigh. It wouldn't do for him to see this. He would surely tell her to stay put or would snarl at her and being snarled at was the last thing she needed at this moment. Or worse — being made fun off.
She wasn't sure whether she judged him correctly, but he had seemed like the type (at school at least) to use your weakness against you. Whether he still was that way — she didn't know. It was nevertheless the best to just hide her fear from him.
'I'm brave. I can do this,' she muttered inside her head, repeating those two sentence over and over again like a mantra. 'I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this.'
She watched as he unbuckled his seatbelt and as he gave her a long, lingering glance. Her hands were still clawed in her lap, a few fingernails digging into her thigh through her jeans. She smiled weakly, wouldn't let him see her weakness, her fear, and forcing her hands to just still long enough, she released herself from the confines of the seatbelt as well and a bit awkwardly, fumbled the wand from her pocket.
"I'm ready whenever you are," she said, keeping her voice steady — but he still looked at her and in that instant, it was clear, very, very clear that he knew. He knew. He knew.
'I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this. 'I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this. I'm brave. I can do this.' She forced those two sentences back into her head, said them to herself, shouted them inside her head.
"Let's not waste time," he grumbled and opened his door. "He will have seen the car in any case."
She nodded, smiled weakly and on shaky legs, she climbed out of the old car, forcing a lungful of air into herself. It tasted like meadows, like summer, like damp, hot summer. No bird could be heard. The stopped singing some time during the summer. Busy with brooding, done with finding a mate, done with marking their territory. It was quiet. Another lungful of air would do her good.
And Snape was still looking at her. There was absolutely no expression on his face. None. She nodded at him encouragingly and began to step towards the house.
.
He had forgot. He hadn't even considered that there might be bad memories for that woman in that house. He had simply forgot that she had been tortured in there. Bella hadn't been able to grumble about the fact that she hadn't managed to torture her into insanity, that she hadn't been able to kill her.
And he had forced her back.
Well, she could have just said no, couldn't she? Silly woman for going through with something like this when she knew she was almost scared stiff. He sighed very quietly.
He had to give this to her — there were places he never wanted to return to, and places he had never returned to. The Astronomy Tower had never seen him again after that fateful night, not even when he had been Headmaster. He had absolutely no longing to see the Shrieking Shack again, he did not want to ever return to the Riddle's former place of residence — had often enough eaten dirt off their floor when he had lain writhing and and screaming in pain on that ground. And yet, she hadn't even hesitated before she had agreed to come.
He wondered whether it was possible that she had forgot they were going to Malfoy Manor — but discarded the thought quickly. She wasn't the kind of person that forgot anything. He bet that, as irritating as it would be, she could recite every single ingredient of every single potion she had ever been made to brew in his class. Just irritating. So, logically, she couldn't have forgot that they were going to talk to Draco Malfoy — and Lucius Malfoy — at Malfoy Manor.
He had. And now he had to endure watching her almost shivering from fear but forcing herself to appear strong and brave in front of him. That was just irritating.
If Eleanor ever heard of this, she would probably have his head on a pike, even though she did not feel quite as strongly about Granger as she felt about him or about Draco, at least he thought so. But she abhorred anyone being subjected to anything which could make them feel bad, loathed those things, no matter who was subjected and who did the subjecting. Well, maybe not his head on a pike but if she learned of the fact that he had forgot such a simple thing, such a big thing, she would get rather stern and would probably be angry with him for a while. Or maybe not.
Probably not because — she had chosen to come. He hadn't forced her. It was her own fault that she thught she could handle this and then couldn't. Sometimes, he knew, you had to get through those things.
But — it was almost pitiful to see her clutching her wand so tightly it threatened to snap. Wands were delicate things — to be handled with care and gently — and not gripped like a cricket bat. Or someone's throat in order to strangle that person.
He arched his eyebrows and just walked slowly towards the Manor. It would be just like Lucius to invite him, then have to pluck him from one of his wards in order to amuse himself. On the other hand...was it? He had seemed almost sincere in his wish to see his son happy and...
He had sold his books.
Amongst those books was a tome, rather revolutionary in its time, then put on a kind of Wizarding index. Written in 1914, Castor Burbage (a grandfather or great-grandfather of the Muggle Studies teacher who had met her end...in there), had drawn comparisons between Muggle dynasties and the more or less apparent incest common with Purebloods. He had compared the Spanish Habsburgs to the then died out Pureblooded family Cerrite. In both families, first cousins had married first cousins, uncles had produced children with nieces, Squibs were more common with the Cerrites, even if a woman managed to deliver a living child. As with the Habsburgs, not only the insanity had been hereditary and had only increased due to the inbreeding, but also the abnormal prognathism visible in so many Habsburgs. Castor Burbage, he remembered, had suggested outbreeding in Pureblooded families.
He had been able to find a copy amongst his mother's possessions. She would have it, despite the fact the Ministry of Magic had forbidden it after the outcry of the Blacks, the Parkinsons, the Princes and several other Pureblooded families back then. When he had discovered the book, he had understood his mother's desperate needs to try and make a marriage work between herself and a common Muggle. It hadn't helped the Prince nose in his case.
And that book, 'On Incest' (what a ridiculous title, he had thought more than once), had been amongst those he hadn't burned yet — or so he thought — when Lucius had taken the rest and had sold them. Of course he would have looked through them and Severus was sure he would find some in the Manor, especially the darker texts.
In retrospect, he had been an absolute fool to burn those books. Some were so rare that there were only a few in existence, so unusual they were legendary. He thought he should be grateful — or at least the Wizarding World — that not all of them had found their end as ashes.
Didn't matter now anyway, it was all part of the past. But — if Lucius had read the book, a compelling thing (otherwise his mother would have never fallen for it), with plenty of illustrations and moving images of insane Cerrites and other Pureblooded families, stillborns, decrepit youngsters, deformed children unable to walk, talk, or any such thing, Severus could believe that his wish for Draco to marry a Muggle, bringing fresh blood into the family, even if it came with shame. That at least, was bearable in comparison to have the line die out, or to have no grandchildren at all. Or insane grandchildren such as his sisters-in-law (and maybe his wife) had been. And Lucius, Severus remembered, had Muggle great-great-grandmother and a Muggleborn great-grandmother. He would have to take a look around inside the Manor.
Let it go according to plan — talk to Lucius and have maybe Granger talk to Draco. If she could go in there.
He hadn't noticed he had almost reached the door — no wards — only when he looked over her shoulder to see her standing there, stock still. Her eyes were wide in fear and her wand still clutched like a cricket bat.
He wasn't sure whether to say something or to hold his tongue. Who knew how she would react? No, he would remain as snarky as ever.
"Coming or not?" he snarled, not letting it show that there was a strange feeling in his stomach upon seeing her this afraid (it was just a novelty after all — Gryffindors usually weren't afraid).
.
She nodded quickly and pressed her lips together tightly. She knew they were abused, having worried both the upper and the lower one with her teeth, having chewed on them like they were just pieces of meat. But she had been able to do that as long as he hadn't looked — and since he had been so lost in thought, she thought, it had been no problem to remain a little behind him.
Besides, there was no need for her to be there, there were no wards that were dangerous to them. Even though...a Muggle-repelling one was clearly there, and an anti-intruder one. One against wild animals (at least she thought that was what it was). So he was no Muggle, the back of her head concluded.
No need to think about that now. He wanted her to come in with him. And for a moment, she had thought he had realised that this was Malfoy Manor, that she couldn't possibly go in there. But did he even know what had happened in there? Surely Bellatrix wouldn't boast about it when they had got away...but maybe she had been enraged and he had known and was doing this to torture her? She didn't think he was that cruel...but maybe he was. It didn't matter.
She closed her eyes briefly and when she opened them again, she didn't only stand next to Snape but also in front of an open door, opening to the foyer she remembered. She couldn't go in there.
"Don't dawdle," he said but there was an undertone to his voice — or maybe she was just imagining things. No — he was looking at her strangely again. Not worried or anything but deeply. He was looking into her eyes like he tried to read her. Legilimency he couldn't do anymore, she knew that. But he clearly read her. Or tried to. Or maybe he was just trying to make her even more insecure? Or maybe the opposite? Maybe he wanted to say, without words, that he could handle Andromeda with pepper-spray and a rope and that he would protect her?
She could pretend the look he was giving her meant that. Yes, she could. Even if it wasn't true, it would be good like this. Snape was by her side. And he was still, despite the Muggle clothes and the shorter hair, scary and had a presence. Nothing would happen to her as long as he was by her side. She could pretend that.
She didn't notice the house elf nor the fact that they were lead into the foyer, that she suddenly stood in there and took a look around.
The door to that room was shut. It was shut, there was no way she could look inside of it. She didn't have to go in there, the door was shut. It was closed but...
Hermione couldn't help but stare at the door and she froze. Her back went absolutely straight, absolutely cramped and her head was spinning upon her neck. Her legs were threatening to give in.
No. She was a Gryffindor. This was just a house, this was just a shut door to a room. Any room. It didn't matter what kind of room. And a shut door to any random room should not give her the shivers and should not let her freeze in fear. It was utter rubbish, utter insanity to fear a room. A room wouldn't harm her.
Suddenly, she felt a hand upon her arm — her wand-arm and she forced her head to stop spinning and to look at the person attached to the hand that was on her arm. Snap looked at her strangely — and he was the body attached to the hand on her arm. Snape had his hand on her arm. Bare arm.
"Bellatrix is dead," he said and the undertone in his voice was clearer this time.
59. Nonverbal Communication: Proximity
How close people sit or stand can easily be measured, but a considerable body of experimental work has yielded rather meagre results. It is found that people stand somewhat closer to people they like, and to those whose eyes are shut. However the differences of proximity involved are very small, a matter of 2-3 inches on average. There are much greater cross-cultural variations, in that Latin Americans and Arabs stand very close , while Swedes, Scots and the English stand much further apart. There are also consistent individual differences, but these appear to be unrelated to other aspects of personality, apart from a tendency for maladjusted people to be more distant. Porter, Argyle and Salter (1969) found that proximity communicates very little about an interactor: stooges who sat at 2 ft, 4 ft, and 8 ft were not perceived as different in their personality. On the other hand when a number of people are present, proximity is found to reflect and probably communicate the relations between them. Changes in proximity communicate the desire to initiate or terminate an encounter: if A wants to start an encounter with B he will move closer, though this must be accompanied by appropriate gaze and conversation.
(Argyle, in Hinde, 1972)
Granger looked at him with wide, fearful, puzzled eyes and as soon as they had found his, he had snatched his own hand away. Didn't know, didn't understand why he had put his hand there in the first place. It wasn't like him to try and console someone, encourage someone. This wasn't what he did, he had never done it (apart from the odd, scared first year Slytherin who had been brave enough to come to him for comfort. Hadn't been that many in all the years he had taught. Millicent Bullstrode came to mind, the very bulky looking girl who was so sensitive and who hadn't been afraid of his stern looks. And just now it had come almost...naturally...to just put his hand on her arm when she had stood so still, so afraid in front of the door which lead to that room. Her arms had been wrapped tightly around her middle, as if she was trying to hug herself, to console herself, to comfort herself and his hand had just...sort of...found its way On her bare arm. And his voice, his vocal cords, his tongue, his lips — they had spoken. Not that he truly wanted to but then again he needed her in good shape to talk to Draco and if she was a cowering mess, she would never be able to convince him to at least talk to Aideen himself. And he needed that amount of time to talk to Lucius, to find out what that man wanted.
