Stronger Than Sleep
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Snape/Hermione
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,636
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Snape/Hermione
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,636
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
Stronger Than Sleep
Stronger Than Sleep
By NegativeNineDegrees
Disclaimer: I disclaim it all.
A/N:
Content: I apologise. This is a cathartic piece for me, and I tell you now: you more than won’t want to read, but writing this is the only thing I can think to do.
Note about the style: The italics all take place in the past, but I set the verb tense in the present. This is generally a no-no, but I wish to convey that what is ‘happening’ is not as… ‘relevant’ …as what has happened. It’s a bit Scanner Darkly I suppose, only not as well written.
Stronger Than Sleep
“Severus?” The old woman’s voice shook, but there was an undercurrent of joy that no amount of age could hide. As her hand reached up to stroke the man’s face, he deftly caught her hand and pressed it tight to his cheek.
“No mum, it’s me. Your son.” He swallowed heavily as he watched his mother’s eyes, once so bright, now filmed with a faded grey.
“Oh!” She sounded surprised, and not a little disappointed. Her son squeezed his eyes shut at her next words. “Where is Severus?”
“Mum, we’er… we’re…” His words faded and he looked up into her eyes again, struggling to meet her watery gaze with his own tear-filled gaze. “We’re here to take you to the wake mum.”
“Oh.” Her voice faded away as she seemed to shrink in his grasp, so frail, so thin, so worn and faded. “Oh.”
Her son pulled her to him and buried his face in her wild hair, still so wild after all these years. Her arms reached up to hesitantly touch his shoulders, not quite hugging, not quite pushing him away.
*
He seems to throw himself down the hall, his strides angrily pushing him forward while his robes dip and sway at his gait. Hermione struggles to keep up with him, but it was no use and she is reduced to trotting if she is to stay at his side -and she knows better than to fall behind.
They race through the hallways, the light falling from the arched windows in bands: light and dark, light and dark, light and dark.
Hermione fells him quicken his step, and she is right on his heel as they raced towards the Headmaster’s Office, parchment clenched in their hands.
*
They don’t look at her, and when they do, they try not to make eye contact. They lie and tell her that it will be alright, that everything will be okay.
*
The fire throws the shadows into sharp relief; they dance across the devastated lawn and it seems to Hermione as if the whole world is burning and melting. Everything good, she knows, has been destroyed. She looks across the battlefield and knows that whoever the survivors might be, they certainly aren’t the ‘good.’
So many casualties and the worst are the ones that can still push themselves from the soil and stagger to their feet: dead without acknowledging the fact that their lives have flown from them.
Hermione tightens her grip on her wand and attempts to force herself to stand. As her legs disobey her, she tightens her jaw and feels the mud grit between her teeth. Her hands sink into the mud and she pulls herself forward, crawling on her belly like a snake, fixed and focused, and just as deadly as any other serpent.
“Crawl!” The voice croaks out. Hermione twists around, her wand rising from the mud and pointing straight at the young man before her. He wears a ripped black cloak, and holds a wand in his hand, pointed directly at her. The other hand holds something round that she can not focus on, something ragged that he holds too close to his side. His split lips gape wide as he grins down at her. “Crawl Mudblood. Crawl where you belong!”
“Draco.” It is a curse.
He opens his mouth, but before he can speak, a green light shoots from behind him, outlining him briefly in a cold fire before it fades, leaving Draco to collapse to the ground. The object in his hand falls away and rols towards her, the surprised and gruesome face of Ronald Weasley looking helplessly up at her, his head severed.
She doesn’t remember screaming, only the heavy weight of someone in black knocking her back into the mud. She stares into the night sky, her eyes wide and her mouth open. Sound has disappeared and there is only a rushing white noise as her Potions Professor pinnes her back into the mud, his eyes darting about as yells at her, his voice soundless. Her memory fades away as he looks directly at her and his lips outline a soft word.
Obliviate.
*
“Shouldn’t we wait for Severus?”
“Mother.” The pain in her son’s voice was unmistakable. Hermione doesn’t know what she has done to cause such pain. “Mum. Dad’s not coming. Remember? We buried him Saturday.”
“Oh.” Hermione remembered. “Oh. Honey, I’m so sorry.”
“Mum…” Her son looked away and shifted uneasily from foot to foot.
Hermione reached up and gathered her son in her arms, never mind that he was taller than she by over a foot, and outweighed her by more than a few stone. “Honey, I’m so sorry.”
“I know mum. I know.” His hands tightened on her, and she thought she could smell the coming summertime in his clothes.
*
It is the first time he’s ever made any indication to her that he wasn’t just another survivor. It is the first time that she’s ever felt that he might feel something more than a ‘thrown together’ sort of kinship with her. It is the first time, if she is honest, that she’s realised that she has felt more for him than just someone to cling to, someone who knew her past and had known what had happened.
It is the first time, in a long time, that she feels relieved. As if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders, a veil stripped from her eyes, and a flicker of something… new… within her heart.
She turns to look at him fully, his eyes catching hers, dark and endless. He tilts his head towards her slightly, his eyes narrowing, and she knows that she has his complete and total attention.
Her hand rises, and she watches almost hypnotised, as it slowly makes its way to his lips, touching first the bottom one, then the top. He remains frozen as her fingers glided over this new territory, and she can feel his breath heavy in her palm as his eyes never leave hers.
He moves forward then, and as his lips touch her, she realises that his skin is hot, as if he has just come from in from a summer day. He smells like rain; like a summer thunderstorm, hot and electric.
*
Hermione woke up, startled. Her breath was ragged and her throat felt raw, as if she had screamed. She swallowed heavily and hoped that she hadn’t woken anyone else up. All around her the house was silent, the faint tick of a Muggle clock marking time on the mantle place, and the subtle creak as the house shifted in the evening.
Hermione rubbed her hands together and looked over at the clock. It was far past time to head off to bed. As Hermione slowly leveraged herself from the worn couch, her foot bumped against the worn leather of a photo album.
She nodded to herself, satisfied; it was the book falling which must have woken her up. Feeling immeasurably reassured, Hermione headed off to her bedroom.
*
His eyes are on her, and she knows that as long as she can see him, she is safe. As long as he is close enough to see her, he is close enough to protect her. She nods to the collected Wizengamot and rises to take the floor. Her hands are sweaty and she is far more nervous than she thought she would be, but his eyes are on her, and she knows that she will be fine.
*
“Mum? Mum, we want you to meet Flora.”
The old woman looked up, confusion clearly written upon her face. “Flora? But I don’t know any Flora.”
“No mum, that’s why we want you to meet her. Flora is going to be here to help you. She’s going to help take care of you.”
“But I don’t want anyone taking care of me!”
They exchanged glances over her head, as if she couldn’t see them, her son and his wife. The medi-witch looked on with a expressionless face, and her professionalism was broken only by the slight sag of compassion that marred the hard line of her lips.
*
“Look, it looks like a small book!” She holds the flower out to him, holding it in such a way that he grasps it by the stem and the petals spring outwards like a book’s pages flipping in the wind.
Despite himself he laughs, a rich baritone sound that echoes in her ribcage and sets her toes to curling in her shoes. She loves the way he laughs.
“Where on Merlin’s green earth did you find this?” He asks, holding the flower cupped gently in his long fingered hands.
She grins at him, an impish smile that he remembers from her school days though she never shared such smiles with him then. She wonders if she can keep the secret from him, and perhaps surprise him with more flowers such as the one he holds. She suspects though, as he turns his dark smiling eyes up towards her, that she will more than likely ruin the surprise and tell him in some blurt of excitement.
For now she merely grins at him and leans down to kiss him on the lips, buying time.
*
“Mama Snape!” Her daughter-in-law grabbed her and pulled her into her chest. “Mama Snape! It’s okay!”
She collapsed against the younger woman and steadied herself as she listened to the strong, healthy, heartbeat beneath her ears. She felt so weak, so powerless, but the younger woman hung on and brushed her hand through the older woman’s unruly hair.
Her son found them still curled around each other in the early hours of the morning. He hadn’t heard his mother’s whimpering and near silent screams, but as he’d drifted in and out of sleep, he’d noticed his wife’s absence.
He felt something tear in him as he sees them together, and he’s suddenly felt dizzy, as if he’s lost blood; too much too soon. He threw the covers over the two women before crawling in next to his wife.
He did not fall back to sleep.
*
She looks up and catches him staring at her, a rare smile playing along his lips. She smiles back at him, suddenly shy, even after all these years.
He places his paper carefully on the breakfast table before him, and reaches his hand towards her. She places her hand in his, and he simply holds her for a moment. His hands are still steady after all these years, strong with firm bones and wiry muscles beneath the spotted skin.
“I love you.” It was so simple, his thumb sliding across the back of her hand, caressing her.
“I love you too.” She replies automatically, cocking her head at him as she said it.
“I know.” His smile widens, and then the spark fades from his eyes, and his thumb stops its caressing. Hermione stares at him for a moment as his hand grows heavy in her grasp before the first realisations sink in.
She gasps and feels a sob building up, deep from within. Her hand tightens on his hand, and she feels the pressure building within her as her voice moans low, “No. No. Please, no, nonono.”
*
“Well, I just don’t know what else to do.” His voice sounded tired, as tired as she felt. He looked so much like her Severus, but he swears he is not. She knows that he is not, but some inner part of her that won’t stop wailing its grief calls out to him by that name, and she can’t stop herself. Not even if she were to try.
“Have you talked with Flora?” The voice was soft, sensitive, but for the life of her, she can’t place it. It sounded familiar, but the identity of the speaker flashed away from her awareness like silver minnow in a busy stream.
The man that looked so much like her Severus sighed and held the soft sounding woman tight in a hug, drawing support from her. “She says she’s getting worse. That…” His voice faded for a moment, and Hermione wants to close the book she’s looking at. She wants to pat him on the hand and tell him that it will be alright, to just hold on to that soft-voiced woman for all he’s worth and he’ll find his way out from what ever is bothering him.
But she doesn’t; she doesn’t want to intrude upon the privacy of the couple at the other end of the room. He looks so much like her Severus that she can’t shake the feeling that he would distrust any such show of emotion from a stranger.
“…Flora says that she’s getting worse and that she doesn’t think that there’s anything she can do for her.” The young man’s voice broke at this revelation, and Hermione feels such sadness for the young man. “She says that we should take her to the hospital… they would have more resources to help her better, should she take a turn for the worse…” His voice choked again.
Hermione turned a page in the book at her lap, and is distracted as the photos move and wave to her. A faded photo of Harry, Ron, and herself all wave to her, and she felt tears well up in her eyes as her finger caresses the photo. They’re so young in the photo. So young, and their wild waving redoubles and the grins swallow their faces.
Somewhere, she knows that she can feel sunshine on her skin.
*
He smells like a summer rainstorm.
His skin is so warm to her touch, and as he moves over her, it feels as if she is on fire. He burns so bright, and he smells like a summer rainstorm, all dark clouds flowing across the sky, letting glimpse silver and blue beyond, sharp wind, and the crackle of electricity.
His voice is heavy in her ears, and she can hear herself answering him. The aren’t using any words that she knows of, only primal sounds that make her smile wickedly upwards, looking beyond his shoulder as her hand tangles in the blackness of his hair.
Her lips draw a line down his shoulder and she feels him gasp and shudder above her, the motion reawakening a feral part of her. She pulls him tighter to her, soaking in the heat of his body, chasing the chill of her own flesh away.
He pushes against her, his hands sliding upwards, trapping her hands in his. He braces them at either side of her head, and as she struggles against him, he grins down at her ruthlessly. “Come away with me.” His voice is deep, the rich rolling of thunder and rain. “Come away with me dearest.”
She raises her lips in accent to his, and his arms move to tighten around her, tighter than dreams, stronger than any sleep.
By NegativeNineDegrees
Disclaimer: I disclaim it all.
A/N:
Content: I apologise. This is a cathartic piece for me, and I tell you now: you more than won’t want to read, but writing this is the only thing I can think to do.
Note about the style: The italics all take place in the past, but I set the verb tense in the present. This is generally a no-no, but I wish to convey that what is ‘happening’ is not as… ‘relevant’ …as what has happened. It’s a bit Scanner Darkly I suppose, only not as well written.
Stronger Than Sleep
“Severus?” The old woman’s voice shook, but there was an undercurrent of joy that no amount of age could hide. As her hand reached up to stroke the man’s face, he deftly caught her hand and pressed it tight to his cheek.
“No mum, it’s me. Your son.” He swallowed heavily as he watched his mother’s eyes, once so bright, now filmed with a faded grey.
“Oh!” She sounded surprised, and not a little disappointed. Her son squeezed his eyes shut at her next words. “Where is Severus?”
“Mum, we’er… we’re…” His words faded and he looked up into her eyes again, struggling to meet her watery gaze with his own tear-filled gaze. “We’re here to take you to the wake mum.”
“Oh.” Her voice faded away as she seemed to shrink in his grasp, so frail, so thin, so worn and faded. “Oh.”
Her son pulled her to him and buried his face in her wild hair, still so wild after all these years. Her arms reached up to hesitantly touch his shoulders, not quite hugging, not quite pushing him away.
*
He seems to throw himself down the hall, his strides angrily pushing him forward while his robes dip and sway at his gait. Hermione struggles to keep up with him, but it was no use and she is reduced to trotting if she is to stay at his side -and she knows better than to fall behind.
They race through the hallways, the light falling from the arched windows in bands: light and dark, light and dark, light and dark.
Hermione fells him quicken his step, and she is right on his heel as they raced towards the Headmaster’s Office, parchment clenched in their hands.
*
They don’t look at her, and when they do, they try not to make eye contact. They lie and tell her that it will be alright, that everything will be okay.
*
The fire throws the shadows into sharp relief; they dance across the devastated lawn and it seems to Hermione as if the whole world is burning and melting. Everything good, she knows, has been destroyed. She looks across the battlefield and knows that whoever the survivors might be, they certainly aren’t the ‘good.’
So many casualties and the worst are the ones that can still push themselves from the soil and stagger to their feet: dead without acknowledging the fact that their lives have flown from them.
Hermione tightens her grip on her wand and attempts to force herself to stand. As her legs disobey her, she tightens her jaw and feels the mud grit between her teeth. Her hands sink into the mud and she pulls herself forward, crawling on her belly like a snake, fixed and focused, and just as deadly as any other serpent.
“Crawl!” The voice croaks out. Hermione twists around, her wand rising from the mud and pointing straight at the young man before her. He wears a ripped black cloak, and holds a wand in his hand, pointed directly at her. The other hand holds something round that she can not focus on, something ragged that he holds too close to his side. His split lips gape wide as he grins down at her. “Crawl Mudblood. Crawl where you belong!”
“Draco.” It is a curse.
He opens his mouth, but before he can speak, a green light shoots from behind him, outlining him briefly in a cold fire before it fades, leaving Draco to collapse to the ground. The object in his hand falls away and rols towards her, the surprised and gruesome face of Ronald Weasley looking helplessly up at her, his head severed.
She doesn’t remember screaming, only the heavy weight of someone in black knocking her back into the mud. She stares into the night sky, her eyes wide and her mouth open. Sound has disappeared and there is only a rushing white noise as her Potions Professor pinnes her back into the mud, his eyes darting about as yells at her, his voice soundless. Her memory fades away as he looks directly at her and his lips outline a soft word.
Obliviate.
*
“Shouldn’t we wait for Severus?”
“Mother.” The pain in her son’s voice was unmistakable. Hermione doesn’t know what she has done to cause such pain. “Mum. Dad’s not coming. Remember? We buried him Saturday.”
“Oh.” Hermione remembered. “Oh. Honey, I’m so sorry.”
“Mum…” Her son looked away and shifted uneasily from foot to foot.
Hermione reached up and gathered her son in her arms, never mind that he was taller than she by over a foot, and outweighed her by more than a few stone. “Honey, I’m so sorry.”
“I know mum. I know.” His hands tightened on her, and she thought she could smell the coming summertime in his clothes.
*
It is the first time he’s ever made any indication to her that he wasn’t just another survivor. It is the first time that she’s ever felt that he might feel something more than a ‘thrown together’ sort of kinship with her. It is the first time, if she is honest, that she’s realised that she has felt more for him than just someone to cling to, someone who knew her past and had known what had happened.
It is the first time, in a long time, that she feels relieved. As if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders, a veil stripped from her eyes, and a flicker of something… new… within her heart.
She turns to look at him fully, his eyes catching hers, dark and endless. He tilts his head towards her slightly, his eyes narrowing, and she knows that she has his complete and total attention.
Her hand rises, and she watches almost hypnotised, as it slowly makes its way to his lips, touching first the bottom one, then the top. He remains frozen as her fingers glided over this new territory, and she can feel his breath heavy in her palm as his eyes never leave hers.
He moves forward then, and as his lips touch her, she realises that his skin is hot, as if he has just come from in from a summer day. He smells like rain; like a summer thunderstorm, hot and electric.
*
Hermione woke up, startled. Her breath was ragged and her throat felt raw, as if she had screamed. She swallowed heavily and hoped that she hadn’t woken anyone else up. All around her the house was silent, the faint tick of a Muggle clock marking time on the mantle place, and the subtle creak as the house shifted in the evening.
Hermione rubbed her hands together and looked over at the clock. It was far past time to head off to bed. As Hermione slowly leveraged herself from the worn couch, her foot bumped against the worn leather of a photo album.
She nodded to herself, satisfied; it was the book falling which must have woken her up. Feeling immeasurably reassured, Hermione headed off to her bedroom.
*
His eyes are on her, and she knows that as long as she can see him, she is safe. As long as he is close enough to see her, he is close enough to protect her. She nods to the collected Wizengamot and rises to take the floor. Her hands are sweaty and she is far more nervous than she thought she would be, but his eyes are on her, and she knows that she will be fine.
*
“Mum? Mum, we want you to meet Flora.”
The old woman looked up, confusion clearly written upon her face. “Flora? But I don’t know any Flora.”
“No mum, that’s why we want you to meet her. Flora is going to be here to help you. She’s going to help take care of you.”
“But I don’t want anyone taking care of me!”
They exchanged glances over her head, as if she couldn’t see them, her son and his wife. The medi-witch looked on with a expressionless face, and her professionalism was broken only by the slight sag of compassion that marred the hard line of her lips.
*
“Look, it looks like a small book!” She holds the flower out to him, holding it in such a way that he grasps it by the stem and the petals spring outwards like a book’s pages flipping in the wind.
Despite himself he laughs, a rich baritone sound that echoes in her ribcage and sets her toes to curling in her shoes. She loves the way he laughs.
“Where on Merlin’s green earth did you find this?” He asks, holding the flower cupped gently in his long fingered hands.
She grins at him, an impish smile that he remembers from her school days though she never shared such smiles with him then. She wonders if she can keep the secret from him, and perhaps surprise him with more flowers such as the one he holds. She suspects though, as he turns his dark smiling eyes up towards her, that she will more than likely ruin the surprise and tell him in some blurt of excitement.
For now she merely grins at him and leans down to kiss him on the lips, buying time.
*
“Mama Snape!” Her daughter-in-law grabbed her and pulled her into her chest. “Mama Snape! It’s okay!”
She collapsed against the younger woman and steadied herself as she listened to the strong, healthy, heartbeat beneath her ears. She felt so weak, so powerless, but the younger woman hung on and brushed her hand through the older woman’s unruly hair.
Her son found them still curled around each other in the early hours of the morning. He hadn’t heard his mother’s whimpering and near silent screams, but as he’d drifted in and out of sleep, he’d noticed his wife’s absence.
He felt something tear in him as he sees them together, and he’s suddenly felt dizzy, as if he’s lost blood; too much too soon. He threw the covers over the two women before crawling in next to his wife.
He did not fall back to sleep.
*
She looks up and catches him staring at her, a rare smile playing along his lips. She smiles back at him, suddenly shy, even after all these years.
He places his paper carefully on the breakfast table before him, and reaches his hand towards her. She places her hand in his, and he simply holds her for a moment. His hands are still steady after all these years, strong with firm bones and wiry muscles beneath the spotted skin.
“I love you.” It was so simple, his thumb sliding across the back of her hand, caressing her.
“I love you too.” She replies automatically, cocking her head at him as she said it.
“I know.” His smile widens, and then the spark fades from his eyes, and his thumb stops its caressing. Hermione stares at him for a moment as his hand grows heavy in her grasp before the first realisations sink in.
She gasps and feels a sob building up, deep from within. Her hand tightens on his hand, and she feels the pressure building within her as her voice moans low, “No. No. Please, no, nonono.”
*
“Well, I just don’t know what else to do.” His voice sounded tired, as tired as she felt. He looked so much like her Severus, but he swears he is not. She knows that he is not, but some inner part of her that won’t stop wailing its grief calls out to him by that name, and she can’t stop herself. Not even if she were to try.
“Have you talked with Flora?” The voice was soft, sensitive, but for the life of her, she can’t place it. It sounded familiar, but the identity of the speaker flashed away from her awareness like silver minnow in a busy stream.
The man that looked so much like her Severus sighed and held the soft sounding woman tight in a hug, drawing support from her. “She says she’s getting worse. That…” His voice faded for a moment, and Hermione wants to close the book she’s looking at. She wants to pat him on the hand and tell him that it will be alright, to just hold on to that soft-voiced woman for all he’s worth and he’ll find his way out from what ever is bothering him.
But she doesn’t; she doesn’t want to intrude upon the privacy of the couple at the other end of the room. He looks so much like her Severus that she can’t shake the feeling that he would distrust any such show of emotion from a stranger.
“…Flora says that she’s getting worse and that she doesn’t think that there’s anything she can do for her.” The young man’s voice broke at this revelation, and Hermione feels such sadness for the young man. “She says that we should take her to the hospital… they would have more resources to help her better, should she take a turn for the worse…” His voice choked again.
Hermione turned a page in the book at her lap, and is distracted as the photos move and wave to her. A faded photo of Harry, Ron, and herself all wave to her, and she felt tears well up in her eyes as her finger caresses the photo. They’re so young in the photo. So young, and their wild waving redoubles and the grins swallow their faces.
Somewhere, she knows that she can feel sunshine on her skin.
*
He smells like a summer rainstorm.
His skin is so warm to her touch, and as he moves over her, it feels as if she is on fire. He burns so bright, and he smells like a summer rainstorm, all dark clouds flowing across the sky, letting glimpse silver and blue beyond, sharp wind, and the crackle of electricity.
His voice is heavy in her ears, and she can hear herself answering him. The aren’t using any words that she knows of, only primal sounds that make her smile wickedly upwards, looking beyond his shoulder as her hand tangles in the blackness of his hair.
Her lips draw a line down his shoulder and she feels him gasp and shudder above her, the motion reawakening a feral part of her. She pulls him tighter to her, soaking in the heat of his body, chasing the chill of her own flesh away.
He pushes against her, his hands sliding upwards, trapping her hands in his. He braces them at either side of her head, and as she struggles against him, he grins down at her ruthlessly. “Come away with me.” His voice is deep, the rich rolling of thunder and rain. “Come away with me dearest.”
She raises her lips in accent to his, and his arms move to tighten around her, tighter than dreams, stronger than any sleep.