Only Cruel Immortality
Title: Only Cruel Immortality
Team: The Order
Characters: Severus/Hermione, unnamed others and Snape descendants
Challenge: When I Am Old and Grey
Word Count: 100 x 5
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: They’re not mine, they’re J.K. Rowling’s. Alas.
Notes: Inspired by the Greek myth of Tithonus, who was granted eternal life but not eternal youth. Read more about him here and here. The title is taken from Tennyson's poem, "Tithonus." A thousand thanks to slashpine, who inspired and encouraged me to expand on my original draft.
Wizards were long-lived, and so the problem had gone undetected for years. It wasn't until Severus' 135th birthday that he felt an ominous suspicion, so faint that he dismissed it instantly as paranoia.
By his 167th year, the truth was more difficult to deny. He saw it reflected in Hermione's familiar, knowing gaze. Her husband's skin was parchment-thin, his delicate bones threatened to crumble… but when she rested her withered palm over his heart, its beat was as strong, as regular as ever.
He had not been meant to survive. Now he could not find the means to die.
Decades passed.
His hair grew wispy. His eyes grew dim. His body shrank and twisted.
Crowds still parted before him, motivated by pity rather than intimidation. His hearing was weak, yet he heard the susurration of their gossiping.
Perhaps the venom caused it, they speculated. Perhaps it was the antivenin. Perhaps, having defied death once, Snape refused to give in a second time. He was, after all, famous for his bloody-mindedness.
Imbeciles. Who would choose this existence? He had buried his students, his children, his wife… his Hermione…
He had lost everything but his life.
Dreams were his only solace.
Severus wasn't young in his dreams, but neither was he old. He was always young enough to enjoy life's rewards, yet old enough to appreciate their value. He dreamt not of great triumphs, but of small, perfect pleasures.
He also dreamt of Hermione. She, too, was always the perfect age. In the dreams, she sparred brilliantly and knitted badly and borrowed his books without asking. When she looked at him she smiled, eyes warm and welcoming. He felt the warmth of her hand in his; he shivered as she murmured his name.
When he awoke, his cheeks were always damp.
One summer during his third century, Severus arranged to visit Hermione's grave.
His descendants had tended it well. Having waved off his escorts, he sank to his knees on the unbroken grass beside it, the grave that would never be his.
Her headstone was warm, as warm as her flesh in his dreams; it felt almost like a caress upon his fragile cheek. She was here in this place; the wind whispered her endearments and the tendrils of vines tickled like her curls.
Here he could rest, Severus thought. He closed his sunken eyes, hoping to never open them again.
As he slept, his body diminished, shrinking as his spirit shed robes and wrinkles and the suffocating weight of centuries, spooling forth to coil on the warm, warm stone beneath.
He was young again, and sleek, his movements free and fluid. His reflexes were sharp, his eyes shone as brightly as before, and his beloved was near him in spirit, if not in substance.
He would not part from her again.
When Severus' descendants returned to retrieve him later, they found only a puddle of dark, empty robes… and a small, handsome black adder, curled protectively over the name "Hermione."
Team: The Order
Characters: Severus/Hermione, unnamed others and Snape descendants
Challenge: When I Am Old and Grey
Word Count: 100 x 5
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: They’re not mine, they’re J.K. Rowling’s. Alas.
Notes: Inspired by the Greek myth of Tithonus, who was granted eternal life but not eternal youth. Read more about him here and here. The title is taken from Tennyson's poem, "Tithonus." A thousand thanks to slashpine, who inspired and encouraged me to expand on my original draft.
Wizards were long-lived, and so the problem had gone undetected for years. It wasn't until Severus' 135th birthday that he felt an ominous suspicion, so faint that he dismissed it instantly as paranoia.
By his 167th year, the truth was more difficult to deny. He saw it reflected in Hermione's familiar, knowing gaze. Her husband's skin was parchment-thin, his delicate bones threatened to crumble… but when she rested her withered palm over his heart, its beat was as strong, as regular as ever.
He had not been meant to survive. Now he could not find the means to die.
Decades passed.
His hair grew wispy. His eyes grew dim. His body shrank and twisted.
Crowds still parted before him, motivated by pity rather than intimidation. His hearing was weak, yet he heard the susurration of their gossiping.
Perhaps the venom caused it, they speculated. Perhaps it was the antivenin. Perhaps, having defied death once, Snape refused to give in a second time. He was, after all, famous for his bloody-mindedness.
Imbeciles. Who would choose this existence? He had buried his students, his children, his wife… his Hermione…
He had lost everything but his life.
Dreams were his only solace.
Severus wasn't young in his dreams, but neither was he old. He was always young enough to enjoy life's rewards, yet old enough to appreciate their value. He dreamt not of great triumphs, but of small, perfect pleasures.
He also dreamt of Hermione. She, too, was always the perfect age. In the dreams, she sparred brilliantly and knitted badly and borrowed his books without asking. When she looked at him she smiled, eyes warm and welcoming. He felt the warmth of her hand in his; he shivered as she murmured his name.
When he awoke, his cheeks were always damp.
One summer during his third century, Severus arranged to visit Hermione's grave.
His descendants had tended it well. Having waved off his escorts, he sank to his knees on the unbroken grass beside it, the grave that would never be his.
Her headstone was warm, as warm as her flesh in his dreams; it felt almost like a caress upon his fragile cheek. She was here in this place; the wind whispered her endearments and the tendrils of vines tickled like her curls.
Here he could rest, Severus thought. He closed his sunken eyes, hoping to never open them again.
As he slept, his body diminished, shrinking as his spirit shed robes and wrinkles and the suffocating weight of centuries, spooling forth to coil on the warm, warm stone beneath.
He was young again, and sleek, his movements free and fluid. His reflexes were sharp, his eyes shone as brightly as before, and his beloved was near him in spirit, if not in substance.
He would not part from her again.
When Severus' descendants returned to retrieve him later, they found only a puddle of dark, empty robes… and a small, handsome black adder, curled protectively over the name "Hermione."