Dead Man's Regard
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Snape/Hermione
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,127
Reviews:
4
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Snape/Hermione
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
2,127
Reviews:
4
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.
Dead Man's Regard
A/N - there isn't any smut in this one, sorry. :)
She was faced towards him, but her eyes were focused on a far distant land, where only she could see the landscape. She hadn’t spoken, yet he knew the silent gaze was an answer that he could not ignore.
“I don’t want to,” he told her, whisper soft voice and trembling hands.
“That doesn’t matter,” she finally replied. “It’s never mattered.”
Despite the hurt inside, he knew that she was right. After all, she always was.
He stepped in front of the portrait and girded himself. It took him long minutes of struggle to raise his head, and then minutes more to force himself to open his eyes. Even so, all the preparation meant nothing. The pain was overwhelming, nearly driving him to his knees. He crouched there looking into eyes that returned nothing but compassion and caring, and he wished again for the swift death that had been denied him so many times.
“Hello, Severus,” the painting sighed to him and he raised eyes that swam with unshed sorrow up at the man who had redeemed so many sins for him.
“Albus.” He couldn’t bring his voice above a whisper yet again and was as ashamed of his weakness as he was of his actions. He forced his back straight and his legs to unbend. He made himself stand before Albus with his face dry, and the other man, the dead man, nodded to him.
“I’m glad that you came.” There was so little left for them to say to each other anymore.
“She made me,” he admitted and the long rolling laugh made him feel as though some sunlight was peeking through the gloom.
Later on he wasn’t certain if they talked about anything of any importance and he didn’t think that it really mattered in the end.
What mattered were the things that weren’t said, the things that they never had to say to each other, not now, not then. Knowing that nothing really substantial had changed between them, that he still had the affection and good opinion of Albus Dumbledore, that he still had the dead man’s regard.
That was what finally sent him back to her.
She was sleeping when he came in. Her face was illuminated by the streetlamp outside. Her hair, braided up for sleep had wisped around her head, the tips glowing like a halo of light. It was in these clear still moments that he remembered why he kept breathing each day.
He loved and was loved in return.
“Come to bed, Severus,” she murmured from the bed and he smiled in the darkness.
“Yes, Hermione,” he answered and then he crawled in beside her and fell asleep. It was the first night in many years that he had no bad dreams.
She was faced towards him, but her eyes were focused on a far distant land, where only she could see the landscape. She hadn’t spoken, yet he knew the silent gaze was an answer that he could not ignore.
“I don’t want to,” he told her, whisper soft voice and trembling hands.
“That doesn’t matter,” she finally replied. “It’s never mattered.”
Despite the hurt inside, he knew that she was right. After all, she always was.
He stepped in front of the portrait and girded himself. It took him long minutes of struggle to raise his head, and then minutes more to force himself to open his eyes. Even so, all the preparation meant nothing. The pain was overwhelming, nearly driving him to his knees. He crouched there looking into eyes that returned nothing but compassion and caring, and he wished again for the swift death that had been denied him so many times.
“Hello, Severus,” the painting sighed to him and he raised eyes that swam with unshed sorrow up at the man who had redeemed so many sins for him.
“Albus.” He couldn’t bring his voice above a whisper yet again and was as ashamed of his weakness as he was of his actions. He forced his back straight and his legs to unbend. He made himself stand before Albus with his face dry, and the other man, the dead man, nodded to him.
“I’m glad that you came.” There was so little left for them to say to each other anymore.
“She made me,” he admitted and the long rolling laugh made him feel as though some sunlight was peeking through the gloom.
Later on he wasn’t certain if they talked about anything of any importance and he didn’t think that it really mattered in the end.
What mattered were the things that weren’t said, the things that they never had to say to each other, not now, not then. Knowing that nothing really substantial had changed between them, that he still had the affection and good opinion of Albus Dumbledore, that he still had the dead man’s regard.
That was what finally sent him back to her.
She was sleeping when he came in. Her face was illuminated by the streetlamp outside. Her hair, braided up for sleep had wisped around her head, the tips glowing like a halo of light. It was in these clear still moments that he remembered why he kept breathing each day.
He loved and was loved in return.
“Come to bed, Severus,” she murmured from the bed and he smiled in the darkness.
“Yes, Hermione,” he answered and then he crawled in beside her and fell asleep. It was the first night in many years that he had no bad dreams.