Bound to Happen Again
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Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Snape/Hermione
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Chapters:
8
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Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Snape/Hermione
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
8
Views:
8,863
Reviews:
44
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
2
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter. I do not make any money from writing these stories.
Bound to Happen Again
-Thank you SO MUCH for those of you who have enjoyed, reviewed, and requested this continuation! You have no idea how much your support eggs me on!
Memories:
Third-year Hogwarts student Hermione Granger respected, feared, and begrudged her Potions master in equal measure. However, each distinct impression of him had developed separately and over time.
Always ready to give praise when due, the very first Potions class had Hermione marveling at the extent of Professor Snape’s knowledge and his palpable zeal regarding such a complicated subject.
From the moment she’d heard his infamous introduction speech, Hermione knew that her respect for the wizard would never waver. And like every other student who possessed an ounce of sense, at the completion of this very first class, Hermione had also developed a healthy dose of fear.
But Professor Snape hadn’t transitioned from an idealized authority figure to an actual member of the human race until she’d seen his attitude towards Professor Lupin and Sirius Black. And acknowledging this aspect of Professor Snape’s nature had not improved Hermione’s opinion of him. She feared the wizard even more. At fourteen, Hermione was beginning to notice the complexities of life—that a well-intentioned, respectable individual could also harbor such unimaginable hatred in their soul.
Less than two years after Sirius had escaped from Azkaban, Hermione had become aware of Professor Snape's double life, and her opinion of him suffered another turnaround.
His willingness to spy for Dumbledore at the expense of his own safety was a marking of his valor, indeed. But sequentially to Professor Snape turning spy, this meant he’d once been a loyal follower of Voldemort to receive the mark in the first place.
He had once possessed more hatred than she could even begin to imagine.
At the end of the day, the only thing Hermione could admit without a doubt was that her unwavering respect for his station greatly warred with her bitterness against Professor Snape’s overall person. After all, despite his intelligence and abilities, he reveled in being disgustingly unfair wherever an opportunity presented itself.
Now, a sixteen-year-old fifth-year, Hermione couldn’t conquer an infuriating neurosis. She had never done anything other than continually validate her capacity at grasping his subject, and yet Professor Snape had always made it a point to favor the Slytherin students.
Hermione knew that this had always been a pointed snub at Harry, but she couldn’t shake the hunch that his favoritism had always been a calculated insult to her as well.
Immediately after these suspicions had crossed her mind, Hermione would censure herself for such narcissistic arrogance. What reason would a man like Professor Snape have in giving two seconds out of his time to think of her?
He’d always been cruel, he’d even made her cry; however, Hermione had no reason to consider herself an intentional target.
And yet, when her friends whined and moaned over the injustices inflicted upon them by ‘the greasy git of the dungeons,’ Hermione concealed the ever-present inkling that she was picked on as much as Harry and Neville.
But the criticisms inflicted upon her by the man in question were of no importance compared with those of the famous Potter and the pitiful, orphaned Longbottom… right?
He’s had histories with their families… and resentment… but not me. What am I to him other than an overachieving Muggle-born?
Such reasoning had made sense, objectively, but as much as Hermione wanted to banish the fearsome wizard from her subconscious-day-to-day analysis, she couldn’t.
She couldn’t because there was one thing that Professor Snape continuously said that made Hermione believe she wasn’t nothing to the man.
“Put your hand down, Miss Granger!”
Hermione had never received one ounce of praise and that was all she’d ever wanted.
“Parkinson! Finnegan! Seeing as your noses are not pathetically buried in your text… like Miss Granger’s… perhaps you’d like to assist in a NEWT-level research project….”
But she wasn’t nothing…
“If I’d wanted a word for word recitation from the text, Miss Granger, I’d read the blasted thing myself! Brown! Explain the uses of….”
Hermione didn’t know if anyone else had ever picked up on it, but Professor Snape seemed determined to maintain an excessively… formal… association with the Muggle-born Gryffindor.
“KRUM! Remove your hands from Miss Granger’s person this instant!”
It was his address to her that singled her out—set Hermione apart from the rest of her peers. This realization was the catalyst to Hermione’s growing fixation, analyzing Professor Snape’s every sneer and insult. She would ponder about his past and floundered back and forth between those three main opinions of him, unsure of which was strongest.
WEASLEY! Avert your eyes from Miss Granger’s caldron and think for yourself for a change. In fact, remove yourself from her worktable… NOW!
There had to be a reason for his affected formality… but Hermione just couldn’t grasp it.
Those conflicting, torturous weeks spent at Snape House in his early twenties—and the memories and emotions surrounding them—were besieging Severus more and more with each passing school year.
It had been easy to forget that alluring woman when presented with her awkward, eleven-year-old self.
Very, very easy.
But that had been years ago.
To Snape’s absolute horror, his licentious reminisces about Mrs. Snape were resurfacing all over again in Grimmauld Place. He convinced himself that blasted chair was to blame.
It was Hermione’s fifth year. The war with Voldemort was on the brink of exploding all around the Order. Unbeknownst to the wary Potions master and fifth-year Gryffindor, in less than three years, Dumbledore, Tonks, Remus, Fred, and Moody would all be dead.
But in number twelve, Grimmauld Place, their twisted little family cohabitated under the paternal eye of Dumbledore. This was also the time Severus’ formal association with Miss Granger changed dramatically.
Despite his previous treatment of her—which had stemmed from a number of paradoxical years engulfed in resentment and anger—Snape grudgingly admitted to himself that Hermione had never failed to address him with respect.
The gawky, overachieving eleven-year-old was fading before his eyes.
Hermione was maturing, and Severus was very reluctant to take notice.
His reluctance was challenged to a colossal degree when he’d arrived to number twelve very late one night and had found the sixteen-year-old chit asleep in the library and in his chair.
Her body was twisted uncomfortably. Bare legs dangling over the arm rest, Snape noted the thinness of her nightgown—which had ridden to just above her knee.*
Snape scowled. He desired the woman she would become, and for the last five years, he had begrudged the little girl he’d been forced to teach and protect.
This… young lady… was skirting the edge of both worlds, and it made him uncomfortable to be in her presence. Especially when he remembered the liberties he had taken with the future Mrs. Snape.
Seeing her as an innocent, watching her from childhood… he regretted his behavior more than ever. And he was disgusted for unintentionally thinking of Mrs. Snape in that way whenever he found himself thrown into the same room with this student.
Snape reached for the blanket draped over the back of the chair with the intention of covering her. Hesitating, he noticed a good portion of the cloth was wadded under her bum. He couldn’t remove the fabric and not wake the girl.
Knowing what he was about to do was probably a mistake, Severus couldn't bear the idea of leaving her exposed like this. He quickly slipped his cloak off his shoulders and covered the young woman as best he could.
He left the library, knowing that his whim was exactly that—a silly, careless whim. Things were about to change, but he wasn’t certain if it would be in his favor—or to his liking.
A few nights after that incident found Severus in the library late at night once again. The chair he’d sought out was purely a coincidence.
At least that was what he told himself.
This room was the only privacy he could find. With number twelve as headquarters, Order members sporadically came and went, most times converging in the kitchen over late night snacks.
He sighed, ignoring the dreaded anticipation that his arm would burn at any moment. Despite the sumptuous superiority Severus enjoyed inflicting upon Black, his role as a spy was catching up with him.
How naïve he’d been to believe that all this had truly ended back in '81.
She’d known. Mrs. Snape could have prepared me for so much, and yet she chose not to tell me. Bitch.
He clenched his eyes, dropping his forehead into the palm of his hand.*
Just when he’d managed a few moments of sacred silence, the sound of the door creaking open ripped Snape from his brief reprieve.
Before he knew it, the words were spitting out of his mouth. “Can’t I have a measly ten minutes to myself without blasted interruptions!”
A feminine squeak finally forced him to glance towards the door.
“I didn’t mean—” Hermione faltered, nearly dropping the brown paper package cradled in her arms. She carelessly shoved the bundle onto an end table by the door. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”
Severus rose to interrupt her. Misinterpreting the movement, she fled, slamming the door in fear of another tongue-lashing.
Standing in place for a few moments, Severus sighed before reluctantly retrieving the package. Feeling its softness, he instantly frowned. The tag was addressed to him.
Chest tightening uncontrollably, he willed away the memories of Snape House. As much as he truly wanted to… as much as he’d tried… he seemed wholly unable of keeping the past where it belonged.
Ripping the brown paper away, Snape instantly recognized his own cloak. He’d forgotten he had left it in her care. And care she‘d given it, indeed. Hermione had sent it to a tailor for cleaning. A receipt was pinned to the inside collar. Written diagonally across the yellow paper, he recognized her handwriting.
‘Thank you.’
It was the first time Severus wished she had not written something short and to the point.
Even if Snape wanted to, he hadn’t the time or energy to spend his waking hours pondering the complexities of his relationship with the married Mrs. Snape and the young woman he was forced to encounter on a daily basis. The Dark Lord and Dumbledore were exhausting his every waking moment, which left little time for analysis.
Despite her frightened flee from the library a few days ago, Hermione hadn’t shown any further evidence of the discomfited encounter. She didn’t cower from his presence at dinner. She didn’t scowl or startle when their eyes accidentally met.
She’d actually smiled, rather shyly… and asked him to pass the butter.
Severus’ conflicted emotions would have eaten him alive if he didn’t have the war to distract him so thoroughly.
It had been so simple when she was pre-pubescent. He didn’t need to force his mask of impassivity or strain himself to appear cruel. He’d genuinely felt such things for the irritating, brown-nosing swot.
Hell, he still didn’t like her.
Severus punched the armrest of his chair, splashing the contents of his forgotten tumbler. You morose drunk… she’s only sixteen and your student. It’s far too soon to think of her… in any way.
Too soon? he argued with himself. You only have about five years to make the girl marry you.
Did he want to marry her? Snape’s immediate and unhesitant answer was an undeniable, “HELL NO!”
Regardless, who’s to say that I even survive the war this time around…
… and she might not as well.
Snape froze. He had never thought of that possibility before.
She’s the best friend of the Dark Lord’s arch-nemesis. Given her future, yes, the odds are in her favor, but she won’t be the same at the end of it. Remember the scene in the bathroom?
How could he forget? In a fit of licentiousness, he had snuck into Mrs. Snape’s bedroom and witnessed more than he’d intended. Mrs. Snape wouldn’t tell him the specifics, but given her scars, Snape knew his Hermione was destined to fall into the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange.
Sputtering, Severus chastised his careless mistake. His Hermione?
No, she didn’t belong to him. But, in a way, the sixteen-year-old girl was more his than Mrs. Snape ever was.
Professor Snape still maintained his previous assessment regarding the girl. Even now, he was determined to hate her with every fiber of his being. He didn’t want to marry the chit, and he failed to see why he ever should.
He tossed his head back, gulping his tenth bout of whiskey.
Before Snape knew it, the early morning sun was streaking through the grubby windows.
Brightness trailing across his eyes, Severus unwillingly awoke under the weight of a mighty hangover.
How tasteful. He’d passed out in the library for all to see.*
Taking in his surroundings, Snape stilled at the sight before him. The blanket he knew he’d been using as cushion for his head was now draped across his waist.
That in and of itself was unusual. Someone had obviously entered the library last night and covered him. Then Snape noticed the odd way in which it was draped.*
Knees open, the blanket was tucked under his inner thighs, almost as if a sizeable weight had pressed into his lap...
He immediately forgot that train of thought as something sharp made him jump. Retrieving the object digging into his thigh, he dangled it before his eyes and recognized it to be an earring. Muggle-made, the metal subtly changed colors as it turned in the sunlight.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Snape vaguely remembered a similar dance of colors followed by a tentative smile preceding a request for butter.
Nothing Severus Snape had seen or heard for the last twenty years of his life would have prepared him for this day—this moment.
The untroubled older version of himself whom he’d encountered back in 1983 must have been a joke. A colossal cheat of the mind, orchestrated by the gods as punishment for his past sins.
Somewhere along the way, he must have done something wrong. A very small part of Snape had always—anticipated—the idea that by the time he reached 42, he’d finally achieve some semblance of an ordinary life void of war and secrecy.
But now, still in his late thirties, Snape was going to die.
For so long, he had taken a great deal for granted—an immense number of things he could have done differently. These were some of Severus’ last thoughts in the Shrieking Shack as he clutched Potter to him, gagging on his own blood.
This had also been the location of that final endeavor to rid himself of the blasted Miss Granger. The gods may have punished Snape by means of his own consequences, but perhaps they’d have pity on his soul.
Every inch of his body pulsing in pain, he ineffectively attempted to staunch the wound upon his neck. Severus had sensed the girl’s presence behind Potter. He was tempted—awfully tempted—to speak to her.
So he’d snatched at Potter instead.
“Look… at… me…” Or I’ll look at her. If I am to die, I’d rather regret a woman who is dead as well.
In those final moments, Severus had sincerely wished his obsession with Lily Evans had never tapered. In those final moments, he at long last understood that despite his efforts, he’d failed in preventing Hermione Granger from taking the woman’s place.
He’d never loathed anyone so avidly.
He wished he could have held her at least once.
Author's Notes: I send my endless gratitude to Madbrilliant and luvsev for beta'ing this chapter, and to Southernwitch69 for her help with later chapters.
*THESE* scenes were entirely based on Cruel-Crush’s lovely piece of SSHG fanart, titled Memoirs of a Grimmauld Chair. You can view it here> http://cruel-crush.deviantart.com/art/Memoirs-of-a-Grimmauld-Chair-70486405
-Next Up: Life after DH (with the epilogue disregarded of course). Hermione and company have returned to Hogwarts to complete their education. Voldemort is dead, life as everyone has known it is forever changed. But why is Hermione so anxious to return?
Memories:
Third-year Hogwarts student Hermione Granger respected, feared, and begrudged her Potions master in equal measure. However, each distinct impression of him had developed separately and over time.
Always ready to give praise when due, the very first Potions class had Hermione marveling at the extent of Professor Snape’s knowledge and his palpable zeal regarding such a complicated subject.
From the moment she’d heard his infamous introduction speech, Hermione knew that her respect for the wizard would never waver. And like every other student who possessed an ounce of sense, at the completion of this very first class, Hermione had also developed a healthy dose of fear.
But Professor Snape hadn’t transitioned from an idealized authority figure to an actual member of the human race until she’d seen his attitude towards Professor Lupin and Sirius Black. And acknowledging this aspect of Professor Snape’s nature had not improved Hermione’s opinion of him. She feared the wizard even more. At fourteen, Hermione was beginning to notice the complexities of life—that a well-intentioned, respectable individual could also harbor such unimaginable hatred in their soul.
Less than two years after Sirius had escaped from Azkaban, Hermione had become aware of Professor Snape's double life, and her opinion of him suffered another turnaround.
His willingness to spy for Dumbledore at the expense of his own safety was a marking of his valor, indeed. But sequentially to Professor Snape turning spy, this meant he’d once been a loyal follower of Voldemort to receive the mark in the first place.
He had once possessed more hatred than she could even begin to imagine.
At the end of the day, the only thing Hermione could admit without a doubt was that her unwavering respect for his station greatly warred with her bitterness against Professor Snape’s overall person. After all, despite his intelligence and abilities, he reveled in being disgustingly unfair wherever an opportunity presented itself.
Now, a sixteen-year-old fifth-year, Hermione couldn’t conquer an infuriating neurosis. She had never done anything other than continually validate her capacity at grasping his subject, and yet Professor Snape had always made it a point to favor the Slytherin students.
Hermione knew that this had always been a pointed snub at Harry, but she couldn’t shake the hunch that his favoritism had always been a calculated insult to her as well.
Immediately after these suspicions had crossed her mind, Hermione would censure herself for such narcissistic arrogance. What reason would a man like Professor Snape have in giving two seconds out of his time to think of her?
He’d always been cruel, he’d even made her cry; however, Hermione had no reason to consider herself an intentional target.
And yet, when her friends whined and moaned over the injustices inflicted upon them by ‘the greasy git of the dungeons,’ Hermione concealed the ever-present inkling that she was picked on as much as Harry and Neville.
But the criticisms inflicted upon her by the man in question were of no importance compared with those of the famous Potter and the pitiful, orphaned Longbottom… right?
He’s had histories with their families… and resentment… but not me. What am I to him other than an overachieving Muggle-born?
Such reasoning had made sense, objectively, but as much as Hermione wanted to banish the fearsome wizard from her subconscious-day-to-day analysis, she couldn’t.
She couldn’t because there was one thing that Professor Snape continuously said that made Hermione believe she wasn’t nothing to the man.
“Put your hand down, Miss Granger!”
Hermione had never received one ounce of praise and that was all she’d ever wanted.
“Parkinson! Finnegan! Seeing as your noses are not pathetically buried in your text… like Miss Granger’s… perhaps you’d like to assist in a NEWT-level research project….”
But she wasn’t nothing…
“If I’d wanted a word for word recitation from the text, Miss Granger, I’d read the blasted thing myself! Brown! Explain the uses of….”
Hermione didn’t know if anyone else had ever picked up on it, but Professor Snape seemed determined to maintain an excessively… formal… association with the Muggle-born Gryffindor.
“KRUM! Remove your hands from Miss Granger’s person this instant!”
It was his address to her that singled her out—set Hermione apart from the rest of her peers. This realization was the catalyst to Hermione’s growing fixation, analyzing Professor Snape’s every sneer and insult. She would ponder about his past and floundered back and forth between those three main opinions of him, unsure of which was strongest.
WEASLEY! Avert your eyes from Miss Granger’s caldron and think for yourself for a change. In fact, remove yourself from her worktable… NOW!
There had to be a reason for his affected formality… but Hermione just couldn’t grasp it.
Those conflicting, torturous weeks spent at Snape House in his early twenties—and the memories and emotions surrounding them—were besieging Severus more and more with each passing school year.
It had been easy to forget that alluring woman when presented with her awkward, eleven-year-old self.
Very, very easy.
But that had been years ago.
To Snape’s absolute horror, his licentious reminisces about Mrs. Snape were resurfacing all over again in Grimmauld Place. He convinced himself that blasted chair was to blame.
It was Hermione’s fifth year. The war with Voldemort was on the brink of exploding all around the Order. Unbeknownst to the wary Potions master and fifth-year Gryffindor, in less than three years, Dumbledore, Tonks, Remus, Fred, and Moody would all be dead.
But in number twelve, Grimmauld Place, their twisted little family cohabitated under the paternal eye of Dumbledore. This was also the time Severus’ formal association with Miss Granger changed dramatically.
Despite his previous treatment of her—which had stemmed from a number of paradoxical years engulfed in resentment and anger—Snape grudgingly admitted to himself that Hermione had never failed to address him with respect.
The gawky, overachieving eleven-year-old was fading before his eyes.
Hermione was maturing, and Severus was very reluctant to take notice.
His reluctance was challenged to a colossal degree when he’d arrived to number twelve very late one night and had found the sixteen-year-old chit asleep in the library and in his chair.
Her body was twisted uncomfortably. Bare legs dangling over the arm rest, Snape noted the thinness of her nightgown—which had ridden to just above her knee.*
Snape scowled. He desired the woman she would become, and for the last five years, he had begrudged the little girl he’d been forced to teach and protect.
This… young lady… was skirting the edge of both worlds, and it made him uncomfortable to be in her presence. Especially when he remembered the liberties he had taken with the future Mrs. Snape.
Seeing her as an innocent, watching her from childhood… he regretted his behavior more than ever. And he was disgusted for unintentionally thinking of Mrs. Snape in that way whenever he found himself thrown into the same room with this student.
Snape reached for the blanket draped over the back of the chair with the intention of covering her. Hesitating, he noticed a good portion of the cloth was wadded under her bum. He couldn’t remove the fabric and not wake the girl.
Knowing what he was about to do was probably a mistake, Severus couldn't bear the idea of leaving her exposed like this. He quickly slipped his cloak off his shoulders and covered the young woman as best he could.
He left the library, knowing that his whim was exactly that—a silly, careless whim. Things were about to change, but he wasn’t certain if it would be in his favor—or to his liking.
A few nights after that incident found Severus in the library late at night once again. The chair he’d sought out was purely a coincidence.
At least that was what he told himself.
This room was the only privacy he could find. With number twelve as headquarters, Order members sporadically came and went, most times converging in the kitchen over late night snacks.
He sighed, ignoring the dreaded anticipation that his arm would burn at any moment. Despite the sumptuous superiority Severus enjoyed inflicting upon Black, his role as a spy was catching up with him.
How naïve he’d been to believe that all this had truly ended back in '81.
She’d known. Mrs. Snape could have prepared me for so much, and yet she chose not to tell me. Bitch.
He clenched his eyes, dropping his forehead into the palm of his hand.*
Just when he’d managed a few moments of sacred silence, the sound of the door creaking open ripped Snape from his brief reprieve.
Before he knew it, the words were spitting out of his mouth. “Can’t I have a measly ten minutes to myself without blasted interruptions!”
A feminine squeak finally forced him to glance towards the door.
“I didn’t mean—” Hermione faltered, nearly dropping the brown paper package cradled in her arms. She carelessly shoved the bundle onto an end table by the door. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”
Severus rose to interrupt her. Misinterpreting the movement, she fled, slamming the door in fear of another tongue-lashing.
Standing in place for a few moments, Severus sighed before reluctantly retrieving the package. Feeling its softness, he instantly frowned. The tag was addressed to him.
Chest tightening uncontrollably, he willed away the memories of Snape House. As much as he truly wanted to… as much as he’d tried… he seemed wholly unable of keeping the past where it belonged.
Ripping the brown paper away, Snape instantly recognized his own cloak. He’d forgotten he had left it in her care. And care she‘d given it, indeed. Hermione had sent it to a tailor for cleaning. A receipt was pinned to the inside collar. Written diagonally across the yellow paper, he recognized her handwriting.
‘Thank you.’
It was the first time Severus wished she had not written something short and to the point.
Even if Snape wanted to, he hadn’t the time or energy to spend his waking hours pondering the complexities of his relationship with the married Mrs. Snape and the young woman he was forced to encounter on a daily basis. The Dark Lord and Dumbledore were exhausting his every waking moment, which left little time for analysis.
Despite her frightened flee from the library a few days ago, Hermione hadn’t shown any further evidence of the discomfited encounter. She didn’t cower from his presence at dinner. She didn’t scowl or startle when their eyes accidentally met.
She’d actually smiled, rather shyly… and asked him to pass the butter.
Severus’ conflicted emotions would have eaten him alive if he didn’t have the war to distract him so thoroughly.
It had been so simple when she was pre-pubescent. He didn’t need to force his mask of impassivity or strain himself to appear cruel. He’d genuinely felt such things for the irritating, brown-nosing swot.
Hell, he still didn’t like her.
Severus punched the armrest of his chair, splashing the contents of his forgotten tumbler. You morose drunk… she’s only sixteen and your student. It’s far too soon to think of her… in any way.
Too soon? he argued with himself. You only have about five years to make the girl marry you.
Did he want to marry her? Snape’s immediate and unhesitant answer was an undeniable, “HELL NO!”
Regardless, who’s to say that I even survive the war this time around…
… and she might not as well.
Snape froze. He had never thought of that possibility before.
She’s the best friend of the Dark Lord’s arch-nemesis. Given her future, yes, the odds are in her favor, but she won’t be the same at the end of it. Remember the scene in the bathroom?
How could he forget? In a fit of licentiousness, he had snuck into Mrs. Snape’s bedroom and witnessed more than he’d intended. Mrs. Snape wouldn’t tell him the specifics, but given her scars, Snape knew his Hermione was destined to fall into the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange.
Sputtering, Severus chastised his careless mistake. His Hermione?
No, she didn’t belong to him. But, in a way, the sixteen-year-old girl was more his than Mrs. Snape ever was.
Professor Snape still maintained his previous assessment regarding the girl. Even now, he was determined to hate her with every fiber of his being. He didn’t want to marry the chit, and he failed to see why he ever should.
He tossed his head back, gulping his tenth bout of whiskey.
Before Snape knew it, the early morning sun was streaking through the grubby windows.
Brightness trailing across his eyes, Severus unwillingly awoke under the weight of a mighty hangover.
How tasteful. He’d passed out in the library for all to see.*
Taking in his surroundings, Snape stilled at the sight before him. The blanket he knew he’d been using as cushion for his head was now draped across his waist.
That in and of itself was unusual. Someone had obviously entered the library last night and covered him. Then Snape noticed the odd way in which it was draped.*
Knees open, the blanket was tucked under his inner thighs, almost as if a sizeable weight had pressed into his lap...
He immediately forgot that train of thought as something sharp made him jump. Retrieving the object digging into his thigh, he dangled it before his eyes and recognized it to be an earring. Muggle-made, the metal subtly changed colors as it turned in the sunlight.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Snape vaguely remembered a similar dance of colors followed by a tentative smile preceding a request for butter.
Nothing Severus Snape had seen or heard for the last twenty years of his life would have prepared him for this day—this moment.
The untroubled older version of himself whom he’d encountered back in 1983 must have been a joke. A colossal cheat of the mind, orchestrated by the gods as punishment for his past sins.
Somewhere along the way, he must have done something wrong. A very small part of Snape had always—anticipated—the idea that by the time he reached 42, he’d finally achieve some semblance of an ordinary life void of war and secrecy.
But now, still in his late thirties, Snape was going to die.
For so long, he had taken a great deal for granted—an immense number of things he could have done differently. These were some of Severus’ last thoughts in the Shrieking Shack as he clutched Potter to him, gagging on his own blood.
This had also been the location of that final endeavor to rid himself of the blasted Miss Granger. The gods may have punished Snape by means of his own consequences, but perhaps they’d have pity on his soul.
Every inch of his body pulsing in pain, he ineffectively attempted to staunch the wound upon his neck. Severus had sensed the girl’s presence behind Potter. He was tempted—awfully tempted—to speak to her.
So he’d snatched at Potter instead.
“Look… at… me…” Or I’ll look at her. If I am to die, I’d rather regret a woman who is dead as well.
In those final moments, Severus had sincerely wished his obsession with Lily Evans had never tapered. In those final moments, he at long last understood that despite his efforts, he’d failed in preventing Hermione Granger from taking the woman’s place.
He’d never loathed anyone so avidly.
He wished he could have held her at least once.
Author's Notes: I send my endless gratitude to Madbrilliant and luvsev for beta'ing this chapter, and to Southernwitch69 for her help with later chapters.
*THESE* scenes were entirely based on Cruel-Crush’s lovely piece of SSHG fanart, titled Memoirs of a Grimmauld Chair. You can view it here> http://cruel-crush.deviantart.com/art/Memoirs-of-a-Grimmauld-Chair-70486405
-Next Up: Life after DH (with the epilogue disregarded of course). Hermione and company have returned to Hogwarts to complete their education. Voldemort is dead, life as everyone has known it is forever changed. But why is Hermione so anxious to return?