He Is

Title: He Is

Author: theblackrose or, when I’m not signed in (which is most of the time), Katie K

Rating: R

Pairing/s: SS/You choose.

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, they are solely the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury Books or whatever. I am not making any money whatsoever from this fanfic (unfortunately).

Summary: A romance story, told from the first person perspective. Hard to describe, please just read!

Author's notes: Hi all. You will notice that the character that is telling this story is deliberately not named. That is so you can imagine it to be your favourite character. I did have someone in mind when I wrote it, but I’m not going to say who, for those of you who don’t like that particular pairing. Anyway, on with the story!

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He is not a big man, nor is he tall. He is not particularly muscular, and sometimes he feels so frail in my arms that I worry about him non-stop, until he wakes up and kisses my worries away. He is not handsome, he will be the first to admit that, but he is mine. He does not kiss me in public, or hold my hand, or indeed touch me much at all, but the way he looks at me makes me feel warm inside, as cliché as that sounds. He is as resolute as steel, and never lets anyone (besides himself, as he would say) say cruel things to me. He is supremely intelligent, and has the most fabulous biting sense of humour. My friends have started to complain now, as a matter of fact, that I have begun to adopt some of his ways, his humour and his expressions. I do not mind. He has begun to adopt some of my ways too, though he will deny this most fervently. It makes me happy, because for the first time in a long time, I feel like I belong.

When I come home from work, he calls out a welcome from the kitchen, then comes out to greet me. I smile at him, and begin to tell him about my day, but I am always interrupted by his mouth, swooping down to claim my own. “You talk far too much,” he whisper, his forehead resting against mine, then picks me up and carries me to our bedroom. We do not always make love; sometimes we just lie there curled together, telling secrets that are no longer secret, whispering hopes and fears that don’t seem to matter while we are together. And finally, we get up, and walk from the bedroom, hand in hand. While he continues to cook our dinner, I finish telling him about my day. By the time I’ve told him everything, he has set the table and put our meals in front of us. After dessert, we go to the living room and watch a movie, me wrapped up in his graceful arms securely. By the time the movie has ended, I am usually asleep, and he carries me to bed, stripping me and tucking me in. I wake up at this point, frightened and cold, and then his warm body wraps around me, and he whispers nonsense words of love into my ear, and I am warm again.

It has only been four years since we first began dating. We have been married for three and a half of those years, and they have been the happiest of my life. We did not have children; it was not that we did not want them, it just never seemed to be the right time for us.

And when it did seem like the right time... it was too late.

Lord Voldemort was long since dead. He had been killed him two years after I finished school. Those two years seem like a blur to me now. Every day, every night, we trained, we learnt, we taught. For two years, we trained in not only magical defense, but physical and mental defense.

And then, the day came, sooner than we expected, yet later than we’d hoped. After several days of non-stop fighting, the time had come. Several people, including myself stood in front of Voldemort, He stood alone. People fought around us, giving us a wide berth, but I could not hear them, could not see them. He taunted us then. If he hadn’t, he would have killed me. But his pride was his downfall, and we killed him.

Raised our wands. Whispered the words. Watched the light. Voldemort was dead. The world could live again.

Many death eaters were killed that night. The ones that weren’t killed were captured. There were only two that got away unscathed. I queried as to what we should do about them, and I received the same response, time and time again.

“Leave them. They will revert back to their old ways, attempt to fit in again with the law-abiding citizens. They are only two. What harm will they do?”

I tried to argue, tried to make them see how wrong they were, but they were adamant.

I should have tried harder to convince them.

Because in the end, one of them stole my life. Do not misunderstand me, I do not mean that they murdered me. No, my heart still beats, I still breathe, I still think and smile and frown and cry... but he – Lucius Malfoy – stole the life from me. He stole my heart, my life, my love.

“No!” I cry, shaking his body. “No! Come back to me!” The body is cold, almost freezing to the touch, and I scream at him, shaking him angrily. I feel like dying, I feel so awful inside, like my organs are rotting and decaying, but I feel nothing at all. I go out into the lounge room and sit on the couch, my knees drawn up to my chest. Finally, I reach over and pick up some floo powder. I walk to the fireplace and throw the powder in, and call the first name I think of. Within seconds, she is here, standing next to me, holding me as I shake violently. She organizes everything for me, and I feel grateful, yet unbearably empty of emotion.

He feels so warm when we make love. His hands run over my back gently, sending delicious shivers up and down my spine. He bites my neck, and I make a keening noise as he licks and kisses the place in apology. He strips me naked, slowly, then explores every inch of my body and worships it with his hands, his tongue, his lips, his eyes. He knows how to drive me crazy and send me over the edge even when he barely touches me at all. I attempt to worship his body too, but it is a rare thing that I am allowed to. He loves touching me far too much to be patient for those many times when I wish to touch him in return.

Foreplay is his specialty, he slowly kisses and licks and bites and sucks until I am desperate for him, and finally, after an hour or two of utter worship, he slides into me. We look into each other’s eyes as he moves, and he lowers himself until his mouth is next to my ear, and whispers things to me, things I would never repeat, because he tells me the most magical things, of a love everlasting. And when we orgasm, we just hold each other, looking into each other’s eyes.

You may notice that throughout this tale, particularly at the beginning, I have always referred to him as though he still lives. And that’s because he does. A body may die, may decay and rot, but a soul lives on forever. He lives with me still. When I am cold, I feel him warm me, when I cry, I feel him soothe me.

A hand rested on my shoulder gently as I stared down at the gravestone.

I turned to face my dear friend. She did not say a word, just held out her hand. I took it and permitted her to lead me back to the car, allowing myself only one glance back.

Severus Snape
Born one year
Died another
Beloved husband
You will be missed
Rest in peace.

To some he is just a man. To me, he is so much more. He has taught me to love, and care, and trust, and I will never forget him.

See you soon, dear heart.

~fin~

A/N: This is my first story that has hardly any dialogue, so not really sure if it’s good or not. So please review and tell me if you like it or not! If you don’t like it, give me a reason why so I can use it to improve my writing. Reviews only take a few seconds but they mean so much to me! Constructive criticism is very welcome, flames will be scoffed at. Thanks!