Missing You
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Snape/Hermione
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
7
Views:
4,825
Reviews:
19
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Snape/Hermione
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
7
Views:
4,825
Reviews:
19
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter or any other recognisable character. They belong to JK Rowling. Not making any money from this.
One
a/n: Thanks to my beta, Kizzy7.
The professor pushed open the chamber door and walked purposefully into the lab, gazing around slowly as pale, slim fingers caressed the workbench. It was spotless, scrubbed to within an inch of its existence, and only thin and intricately cut marks remained on the smooth surface. They seemed like scars, and the professor smirked ruefully at the irony.
Turning to look at the shelves, the same fingers trailed over stirring rods, potions ingredients in their neatly labelled bottles and phials, lingering gently on the edge of an old and well-used – well-loved – cauldron. Inhaling deeply, familiar scents assailed nostrils. Woody and exotic spices, and flower essences, sweet and intoxicating in their strength. And something else, like carbolic soap, giving the impression of scrupulous hygiene with no frills attached.
The door in the corner of the lab enticed the professor to walk further into the bowels of the dungeon. The door was swiftly opened and with a wand-flick, a warming fire was lit in the living area. A thin layer of dust coated the once plush green velvet couch, but the professor ignored it and sat down opposite the flames that were casting a warm, orange glow around the room. It was the only source of light; the only one she needed.
Hermione stared at the flames without seeing them. It was always the same when she visited. She wasn’t really here, not mentally anyway. As usual, her brain was flickering memories over and over, and her body relived the sense-memories as physical torture.
The Shrieking Shack.
The copious amount of blood on the floor. Her stomach in knots as life had become death in seconds, and eyes that had burned with black fire had turned dull and empty. Running… Now, she was running, not away but back, searching, hoping. He was gone, but his blood remained.
Then, the memories went back to before the final battle, to a moment snatched, brief and urgent. Two lost souls, one dark night. She hadn’t known he also sought solace in the view from the Arithmancy Tower. She wouldn’t have noticed him had she not walked straight into him as he stood by the window. Most nights, she had the view to herself, with only the reflection of the moon on the Great Lake for company.
There had been few words, but those said had been desperate and honest, cutting and passionate. It had sprung from nothing and become something, and Hermione still clung to it like ivy sucking life from a silver birch tree until there was nothing left. And now, she was withering.
Three years after the final battle, three years of searching and waiting and standing or sitting outside his dark house in Spinners End, staring at the windows in the hope of seeing a curtain twitch or a shadow pass by, Hermione had given up. She had only agreed to the teaching post in the hope that he may return one day.
The warmth of the fire was seeping into Hermione’s thin frame. She slipped off her shoes and curled her feet beneath her. Resting her head on the arm of the sofa, she closed her eyes and waited again, for sleep this time.
‘I miss you,’ she murmured to no one.
Severus stepped out from the dark alcove silently.
‘I miss you too,’ he whispered.
Hermione was asleep and didn’t hear him. He sat slowly in the wing chair beside the fire, waiting for her to wake.
The professor pushed open the chamber door and walked purposefully into the lab, gazing around slowly as pale, slim fingers caressed the workbench. It was spotless, scrubbed to within an inch of its existence, and only thin and intricately cut marks remained on the smooth surface. They seemed like scars, and the professor smirked ruefully at the irony.
Turning to look at the shelves, the same fingers trailed over stirring rods, potions ingredients in their neatly labelled bottles and phials, lingering gently on the edge of an old and well-used – well-loved – cauldron. Inhaling deeply, familiar scents assailed nostrils. Woody and exotic spices, and flower essences, sweet and intoxicating in their strength. And something else, like carbolic soap, giving the impression of scrupulous hygiene with no frills attached.
The door in the corner of the lab enticed the professor to walk further into the bowels of the dungeon. The door was swiftly opened and with a wand-flick, a warming fire was lit in the living area. A thin layer of dust coated the once plush green velvet couch, but the professor ignored it and sat down opposite the flames that were casting a warm, orange glow around the room. It was the only source of light; the only one she needed.
Hermione stared at the flames without seeing them. It was always the same when she visited. She wasn’t really here, not mentally anyway. As usual, her brain was flickering memories over and over, and her body relived the sense-memories as physical torture.
The Shrieking Shack.
The copious amount of blood on the floor. Her stomach in knots as life had become death in seconds, and eyes that had burned with black fire had turned dull and empty. Running… Now, she was running, not away but back, searching, hoping. He was gone, but his blood remained.
Then, the memories went back to before the final battle, to a moment snatched, brief and urgent. Two lost souls, one dark night. She hadn’t known he also sought solace in the view from the Arithmancy Tower. She wouldn’t have noticed him had she not walked straight into him as he stood by the window. Most nights, she had the view to herself, with only the reflection of the moon on the Great Lake for company.
There had been few words, but those said had been desperate and honest, cutting and passionate. It had sprung from nothing and become something, and Hermione still clung to it like ivy sucking life from a silver birch tree until there was nothing left. And now, she was withering.
Three years after the final battle, three years of searching and waiting and standing or sitting outside his dark house in Spinners End, staring at the windows in the hope of seeing a curtain twitch or a shadow pass by, Hermione had given up. She had only agreed to the teaching post in the hope that he may return one day.
The warmth of the fire was seeping into Hermione’s thin frame. She slipped off her shoes and curled her feet beneath her. Resting her head on the arm of the sofa, she closed her eyes and waited again, for sleep this time.
‘I miss you,’ she murmured to no one.
Severus stepped out from the dark alcove silently.
‘I miss you too,’ he whispered.
Hermione was asleep and didn’t hear him. He sat slowly in the wing chair beside the fire, waiting for her to wake.