Desperado (11)
Title: Desperado
Fandom: Harry Potter
Summary: It may be raining, but there’s a rainbow above you
You better let somebody love you, before it’s too late
Pairing: Severus Snape/OFC
Rating: What about Teen?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Disclaimer: This story has been written out of fan-appreciation. I own nothing but the characters I invented (clearly not Snape, Harry Potter, Dumbledore ecc.) and the poor excuse for a plot I patched together.
1. - 2. - 3. - 4. - 5. - 6. - 7. - 8. - 9. - 10.
Flow, my tears, fall from your springs!
Exiled for ever, let me mourn;
Where night's black bird her sad infamy sings,
There let me live forlorn.
Down vain lights, shine you no more!
No nights are dark enough for those
That in despair their lost fortunes deplore.
Light doth but shame disclose.
Never may my woes be relieved,
Since pity is fled;
And tears and sighs and groans my weary days
Of all joys have deprived.
From the highest spire of contentment
My fortune is thrown;
And fear and grief and pain for my deserts
Are my hopes, since hope is gone.
Hark! you shadows that in darkness dwell,
Learn to contemn light
Happy, happy they that in hell
Feel not the world's despite.
Flow my tears by John Dowland
AN: Many thanks to my dear beta anti_social_ite! Hope everthing went well exam-wise!!
It was late in the evening when two figures quietly snuck of the Hogwarts bounds and passed a rather placate Whomping Willow that was softly swaying in the breeze. One of them was tall and slender dressed in black, the other one smaller, dressed in Muggle clothes, her small frame shacking with muffled laughter.
He rolled her eyes at her antics in mock annoyance.
“Oh, don’t give me that look! This is funny. We’re sneaking around like teenagers. Why are we doing that anyways? Is it passed your curfew, Severus?” Abby had to make a considerable effort to scrape together all her willpower in order to keep a straight face as she posed that question.
“This is a respectable school,” he informed her sternly. “It would be surely frowned upon if the Head of the Slytherin House publicly paraded around with his…,” he struggled to find the right word. She wasn’t making it any easier for him, as she watched him her arms crossed over her chest and one eyebrow arched ironically.
“His what?” she volunteered.
“His lover,” he suggested, his expression somewhat sour.
“Ah, alright,” her eyes twinkled at him in the dark, “I think I can live with that, though I would have doubtlessly dropped dead if you had referred to me as your girlfriend.”
“Please, do give me some credit. My vocabulary isn’t that puerile, though I do live at a boarding school,” he drawled.
“But rather stilted,” she grinned cheekily, probably in part because she was aware of being the one person to make such a joke at his cost and live. She was also the only person to kiss him afterwards to appease his flaring temper.
“Do you never tire of teasing me?” he asked in mock exasperation. It was hard to actually manage real exasperation in a moment he felt so very nearly happy. “Anyone who knows me will think I’ve suddenly developed a taste for self-flagellation or worse.”
“What could be worse than that?”
“They could think I’ve gone soft,” he said in a grave tone of voice.
“Have you?” Her expression was now pure mischief.
He pretended to contemplate his answer for a second. “Why don’t you ask the first years who are going to make my acquaintance tomorrow morning and see what they are going to tell you right after class?” The devious grin on his face promised that the future would hold nothing good in store for those poor little brats. Abby almost felt something akin to compassion for them. Well, almost.
“Whatever did those poor souls do to incur your wrath?”
“They are going to make me rise at six in the morning, therefore it’s their fault I have to sneak around like a thief with my girlfriend at this nightly hour.” His deliberate use of that endearment didn’t escape her. She hit him lightly on the arm. He continued unflinchingly, “…and if that alone weren’t enough, I have to accompany her home, though I want nothing else than to wake up in bed next to her in the morning.”
The end of the sentence brought a smile to her face, but she was too giddy to refrain from making a joke. “There you have it,” Abby said.
“What?” he frowned.
“You’ve gone soft.”
“You think so?”
“Before you would have only scowled and complained about your horrid students, then nodded at me one last time and disappeared. Now I even get a compliment and not just any run-of-the-mill compliments. No, one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever gotten actually.”
“So you’d rather have me revert to my old ways then?” His left eyebrow quirked ironically. “Because that could be arranged - all you have to do is ask.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said quickly, very quickly. “Is there any way I could convince you to forget I ever mentioned it?”
He nodded and pulled her closer to whisper something in her ear. Upon hearing his suggestion her eyes widened comically and she blushed crimson red. “Really, Severus!” Abby called out, but the delighted gleam in her eyes betrayed her. He found it to be a particularly lovely addition to her flush.
In fact she was still blushing after they had kissed goodbye and she Disapparated. He strolled back to the castle with a satisfied grin on his face.
*
It was the first time he entered her apartment. His surprise outweighed the very subtle feeling of betrayal that was gnawing at him. After all he had allowed her in his chambers long before she had finally decided to grant him the honour of visiting her humble abode. Somehow she had managed to convince him that her whole life evolved around her bookshop in Diagon Alley, waving off his questions about her apartment with the explanation that she was practically living at “Colliding Worlds” anyway and that there was very little to be seen.
But this was neither unimportant nor miniscule. The apartment seemed to him like a natural extension of her personality. Everything he saw there made sense to him starting with the huge windows that would turn the flat into a light-flooded, friendly place during the day, down to the blinds that could be drawn at night, if she had enough of serving her private life on a platter to her neighbours.
The flat was filled with contradictions. While on the one hand there was this old-fashioned red velvet couch that was dominating her living room, probably her sanctuary where she retreated to read or have her cup of morning tea, her kitchen was all polished metallic surfaces, oddly reminiscent of a factory. In between heaps and heaps of books a television set was peaking out almost timidly. The pictures on the wall were all ever so slightly leaning towards the surreal, but always had an ironic note to them.
Her apartment was cluttered, smelling of incense and ever so slightly untidy. It was very close to being comfortable, had there not been for the dishes in the sink and the old papers next to the door that were looking at him somewhat reproachfully as if they were saying Yes, we should have been thrown out weeks ago, but she forgot all about us. Anything wrong with that? Something would have to be done about that.
“Come in!” she said with a cheery smile, which was just a hint too bright, because she was trying hard to hide her nervousness behind it.
“Thank you,” he said taking of his coat, casually laying it over the side of her couch. She was hovering somewhere behind him, anxiously awaiting his verdict. Her nervousness somewhat reconciled him with the fact that she had kept something as substantial as her apartment from him for this long, so he suppressed his biting sarcasm for the time being. Maybe there would be time to address the issue later on.
“So? How do you like it?”
“The truth?”
“Of course,” she answered as always. However unpleasant the truth might be, she never shrank away from it. It was one of her qualities he admired most.
“Well, it wouldn’t be half as bad if someone finally took mercy upon your flat and cleaned it.”
“Are you offering?” Abigail teased.
“Certainly not,” he snorted. “Or do I look like a maid?”
“Of course not. I’d never even dare suggest anything like that,” Then she added in a more thoughtful tone, “But you know there are actually people who offer to clean your flat in the nude. Maybe I should get one of those blokes…”
“Only if you want me to hex you,” he growled.
“Is it just my imagination or are you actually jealous?” she asked with a triumphant grin, marching off towards the kitchen. She could feel his eyes on her the entire time. The whole flat was one huge room, except for the bathroom of course, so he had ample opportunity to glare at her as long as he wished, because she would never be out of eyesight.
“If I wasn’t, it would mean I’m indifferent to you,” he remarked, casually taking a seat on the simple wooden stool standing somewhat forlorn next to the metallic counter of the kitchen.
“I’m very glad you’re jealous then.” Their eyes met for the briefest of moments. It provided them with the reassurance that there was more to their constant bickering than just the fact that they loved trading verbal barbs. They also loved each other.
“So, food,” she turned to the refrigerator with a sigh, producing two onions, which she regarded thoughtfully for a second, before she turned around to look at him. “Who’s going to do the dirty work? You or me? I always cry like a baby when I’m cutting onions. What about you?”
He shot her a pointed look. “I’m surprised you should have to ask. You remember what I do for a living, don’t you? I handle far more acidy substances than onions on a daily basis. Without breaking into tears, I might add.”
After having gotten that out of the way, they started cooking in companionable silence. She was shooting him amused looks. He was completely engrossed in his task, fixing the onion with a stern gaze as he methodically chopped it into tiny slices that would have made any chef proud.
*
He had spent a lot of time imagining how he would die. More than a normal person should. So when it had happened he should have been prepared, but he wasn’t. He had been lying there on the cold floor slowly bleeding to death, while Nagini’s poison was spreading in his system. Even then he had not stopped fighting. He refused to die like this, refused to give into that all consuming feeling of hopelessness. His lungs had been greedily sucking in air as if they could prevent the inevitable by providing enough oxygen, while he had desperately pressed his fingers to his neck wound that had been constantly oozing blood.
Suddenly he was back there again. Everything was real starting with the copper taste in his mouth, right down to the desperation that was clawing at his heart. He felt himself becoming weaker and weaker and wouldn’t have any of it. For one last time he chose to rebel fiercely against his faith, even though he knew in his heart of hearts that all his struggling was for naught. The end result would always be the same: death. Cold and lonely, without a hand to hold, without solace or forgiveness.
Forgiveness…His eyes were searching the room desperately. Potter. They briefly settled on the boy, but soon started wandering again, looking for another face. She wasn’t there. How could she? Maybe she had been a figment of his imagination all along. In this reality, in this reality where he was dying, there was only Potter and his little friends who were just standing there gaping wordlessly at him. No, forgiveness was too much to ask for from them. Solace couldn’t be provided. Even though of age, they were no more than terrified kids, seeing another one of the adults fall.
Deep down he had always hoped for a future, a second chance, but maybe that wish had been in vain. Maybe he didn’t deserve happiness. Maybe he didn’t deserve a reward. This was not one of that Muggle children stories. Albus, bless his heart, though always mischievously smiling, had never been the Happy Prince and he was nowhere as innocent and good-hearted as the little swallow. A happy future, love, someone to trust, that was nothing but a fantasy - a fool’s hope. He was so tired of hoping in vain, so tired of that eternal struggle. So why not give in. Why not surrender for once? It would all become easier once he stopped fighting.
A single tear trailed down his cheek. It was silver. Silver and filled with memories of times long passed. The roles in this play had been long cast and the next scene was well-rehearsed. He drew in one shuddering breath. Next he would tell Potter to come closer. Just a few more seconds of this pain and then it would all be over. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he froze. Soft fingers wrapped around his hand. His fingers that had long gone numb and cold were suddenly tinkling as the warmth was spreading inside of them once again. His senses unmistakably told him there was someone, holding his hand, but when he looked, there was nobody. It was just a figment of his imagination, he tried to tell himself. But just when he had almost managed to convince himself of that, someone squeezed his hand and called his name. That voice - it was a familiar. It struck a chord inside of him: a wonderful ache - soft, tender and languid that tore at his heart and coaxed him into hoping again.
Potter looked at him confusedly, insecure whether he should come closer or stay where he was. He hadn’t told him to, he realized. This wasn’t going the way it was predestined, the way it always happened.
His musings were interrupted when he heard that voice again. It was calling his name. No one had ever said his name like that. The voice sounded slightly begrudging, but yet affectionate. There was a hint of worry, too, if he wasn’t mistaken.
Was that just a comforting illusion before he died? Was it his brain, desperately releasing all sorts of hormones to flood his system before it ultimately closed down? He found that he didn’t care. That he’d rather hang on to this illusion than giving himself over to the fact that death was inevitable.
The scene dissolved, the grey of the Shrieking Shack was washed away by a warm orange glow. Soft light was shining on his face as his eyelids fluttered open. He was gradually coming to, becoming aware of his surroundings and the fact that he was lying on a soft bed and someone lying beside him. Not just someone, the woman who was holding his hand - Abigail. He blinked a couple of times, while his disorientation gradually made room to clarity.
“It was just a dream,” she said softly. Her fingers were stroking him, tenderly grazing the inside of his arm, completely disregarding faded tattoo that was still visible there. “Just a stupid dream,” she repeated again, as if to reassure both herself and him.
Now he was expected to say something, reassure her that he had found his way back into this reality again. But what was he to say? He could downplay this horrible vision to “just a nightmare” and simply pretend like nothing ever happened. He could tell her everything. He could tell her some white-lies. He could do a lot of things. While he was still contemplating his answer, he already heard himself say, “I dreamed I was dying.” So it was the truth then.
She gulped, visibly shaken by his blunt admission. Her fingers briefly hovered over motionlessly over his skin, before they lowered themselves again to take a firm hold of his hand. “Was it…” she nervously licked her lips, “was it what happened to you before…”
“Yes,” he cut in, finding it somewhat painful to witness her struggle with words, when she was usually so good at finding just the right thing to say.
“Oh,” she said, shifting her position so that she was now leaning against the headboard of the bed. Her eyes never left his face. He noticed her lack of clothing: she was only wearing a white tank top and some black shorts. The puzzle pieces started falling into place and he remembered what had happened before and why he was only in his underwear as well.
A slight amused twitch of her mouth was the only indication she had noticed his confusion. But she wouldn’t allow herself to smile. The situation was far too serious for that. After a while she decided to speak again. “Sometimes dreams seem all too real.”
“I hope I didn’t wake you.” He hid his evasiveness behind politeness.
“You didn’t wake me. I’ve been a light sleeper ever since,” she paused briefly, “…ever since the war.”
Now it was his turn to feel slightly disconcerted. “I didn’t know.”
“How should you? It’s not your fault.” she said softly.
A long pause followed. She rolled on her side so they lay facing each other. Her gentle eyes traced his features for a while, before she reached out tentatively to softly trace his still wet cheek. Realization hit him like a bucket of ice cold water. He hadn’t only been crying in his sleep. He had been crying in front of her. Though she hadn’t addressed the issue so far, her gesture made him all too well of the fact that it hadn’t escaped her notice. He felt mortified.
“You don’t have to be ashamed. It’s just me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, while her thumb still caressed his cheek. “Nobody can be strong all the time.”
He knew that she would never hold it against him that he had cried, that she would never mock him for showing his emotions, but nevertheless he didn’t feel comfortable with it. Maybe he never would.
“I know that,” he answered and it sounded gruffer than he had intended to.
“Good,” she smiled. Luckily she wasn’t one to hold grudges.
The cynic inside of him couldn’t help but ask the next question. It lay in his nature to always expect the worst and experience had taught him that it was the wisest course of action. Disappointment was easily avoided this way. “What if it wasn’t a dream?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What if I’m dreaming now?” he asked with a hollow voice, his gaze still fixed on the white ceiling above them.
“Why should this be a dream?”
“Because it feels too good.”
“And you don’t deserve to feel good? Is that it?”
“Maybe.”
She sighed. Sometimes it was hard doing the positive thinking for both of them, when he was being so pessimistic. “Are you sure you want engage in a full-on philosophic debate with me at three in the morning?”
“I think going back to sleep is completely out of question at this point.”
“Alright,” Abby blew out her breath, running a hand through her messy hair. “So you think good things can’t happen in real life. Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“Good things don’t last in real life.”
“Do you think we’re not going to last?” She tried hard to keep her voice neutral, but fear crept into it nevertheless. “I hope you haven’t grown tired of me already.”
“I haven’t.” A pause. “I doubt I ever will.” He looked at her, his black eyes shining in the twilight. She pressed a quick peck to his lips, feeling incredibly relieved.
“Maybe you’ve already used up all your bad karma. After all that terrible things that happened, after all you’ve been through, don’t you think you deserve a silver lining?”
He hesitated. “No.”
His answer chilled her two the bone. She set up abruptly in bed. “Why?”
He said nothing, his eyes still clued to the ceiling.
“Do you hate yourself that much? How can you…” She stopped, trying to bring the disarray of thoughts inside her head under her control again. “I don’t understand. I…Severus, I don’t see you that way. You might not be perfect. Neither am I. Nobody is. Our mistakes and failures add up to what we are. What matters is how we deal with them, whether we simply ignore them and just keep on going or whether we try to learn anything from them, that’s what makes all the difference in the world.”
“Maybe I’ve could have done more…”
“No,” she said. There was no doubt in her voice. It was firm and unyielding. “You couldn’t have.”
“Deep down, I was egoistic all along. I was always so afraid of dying. I can’t help thinking my fear slowed me down, stopped me from doing the things I should have done.”
“I can’t see how the wish to survive should be egoistic.”
“If I hadn’t clung to life so desperately, if I hadn’t been so afraid of death, maybe I could have done more. I could have made the right choices, if my fear hadn’t always won out in the end,” he thought out aloud.
“But if you had sacrificed yourself, you wouldn’t have been able to help anymore.”
“There would have been somebody else.”
“You’re not replaceable. Not to me,” she shook her head vehemently. “I wouldn’t be here anymore, if it wasn’t for you. Avery and Tennyson would have killed me.”
“There would have been somebody else to save you,” he repeated.
“No, there wouldn’t have. There’s no one I trust like I trust you.”
“Why me? What is so special about me?”
“To me? Everything,” she answered in all sincerity.
“I’m lucky your optimism is so imperturbable.” He granted her a weak smile.
“This has nothing to do with optimism. I just believe in you, that’s it.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t and you need someone who does.”
He was deeply touched by her words and because he knew he could never find the right words to tell her what he felt, he tried to convey it with a gesture. He extended his arm, motioning her to come closer. She readily complied, her warm body moulding against his. Her head was now resting on his right shoulder, her back pressed against his chest, so she could feel the warmth of his body and his ribcage rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. His left arm hesitantly encircled her midriff. As usual his movements were cautious, as if he was still afraid he could scare her away or offend her in some way. Those fears proofed to be entirely ungrounded, because she soon snuggled even closer to him.
“I don’t want this to be a dream…” Her voice was different now, low and content, barely above a whisper. “If it is, I never want to wake up.”
“Me neither,” he admitted softly, revelling in the feeling of holding her in his arms, that was as always close to overwhelming to him.
tbc
Fandom: Harry Potter
Summary: It may be raining, but there’s a rainbow above you
You better let somebody love you, before it’s too late
Pairing: Severus Snape/OFC
Rating: What about Teen?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Disclaimer: This story has been written out of fan-appreciation. I own nothing but the characters I invented (clearly not Snape, Harry Potter, Dumbledore ecc.) and the poor excuse for a plot I patched together.
1. - 2. - 3. - 4. - 5. - 6. - 7. - 8. - 9. - 10.
Flow, my tears, fall from your springs!
Exiled for ever, let me mourn;
Where night's black bird her sad infamy sings,
There let me live forlorn.
Down vain lights, shine you no more!
No nights are dark enough for those
That in despair their lost fortunes deplore.
Light doth but shame disclose.
Never may my woes be relieved,
Since pity is fled;
And tears and sighs and groans my weary days
Of all joys have deprived.
From the highest spire of contentment
My fortune is thrown;
And fear and grief and pain for my deserts
Are my hopes, since hope is gone.
Hark! you shadows that in darkness dwell,
Learn to contemn light
Happy, happy they that in hell
Feel not the world's despite.
Flow my tears by John Dowland
AN: Many thanks to my dear beta anti_social_ite! Hope everthing went well exam-wise!!
It was late in the evening when two figures quietly snuck of the Hogwarts bounds and passed a rather placate Whomping Willow that was softly swaying in the breeze. One of them was tall and slender dressed in black, the other one smaller, dressed in Muggle clothes, her small frame shacking with muffled laughter.
He rolled her eyes at her antics in mock annoyance.
“Oh, don’t give me that look! This is funny. We’re sneaking around like teenagers. Why are we doing that anyways? Is it passed your curfew, Severus?” Abby had to make a considerable effort to scrape together all her willpower in order to keep a straight face as she posed that question.
“This is a respectable school,” he informed her sternly. “It would be surely frowned upon if the Head of the Slytherin House publicly paraded around with his…,” he struggled to find the right word. She wasn’t making it any easier for him, as she watched him her arms crossed over her chest and one eyebrow arched ironically.
“His what?” she volunteered.
“His lover,” he suggested, his expression somewhat sour.
“Ah, alright,” her eyes twinkled at him in the dark, “I think I can live with that, though I would have doubtlessly dropped dead if you had referred to me as your girlfriend.”
“Please, do give me some credit. My vocabulary isn’t that puerile, though I do live at a boarding school,” he drawled.
“But rather stilted,” she grinned cheekily, probably in part because she was aware of being the one person to make such a joke at his cost and live. She was also the only person to kiss him afterwards to appease his flaring temper.
“Do you never tire of teasing me?” he asked in mock exasperation. It was hard to actually manage real exasperation in a moment he felt so very nearly happy. “Anyone who knows me will think I’ve suddenly developed a taste for self-flagellation or worse.”
“What could be worse than that?”
“They could think I’ve gone soft,” he said in a grave tone of voice.
“Have you?” Her expression was now pure mischief.
He pretended to contemplate his answer for a second. “Why don’t you ask the first years who are going to make my acquaintance tomorrow morning and see what they are going to tell you right after class?” The devious grin on his face promised that the future would hold nothing good in store for those poor little brats. Abby almost felt something akin to compassion for them. Well, almost.
“Whatever did those poor souls do to incur your wrath?”
“They are going to make me rise at six in the morning, therefore it’s their fault I have to sneak around like a thief with my girlfriend at this nightly hour.” His deliberate use of that endearment didn’t escape her. She hit him lightly on the arm. He continued unflinchingly, “…and if that alone weren’t enough, I have to accompany her home, though I want nothing else than to wake up in bed next to her in the morning.”
The end of the sentence brought a smile to her face, but she was too giddy to refrain from making a joke. “There you have it,” Abby said.
“What?” he frowned.
“You’ve gone soft.”
“You think so?”
“Before you would have only scowled and complained about your horrid students, then nodded at me one last time and disappeared. Now I even get a compliment and not just any run-of-the-mill compliments. No, one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever gotten actually.”
“So you’d rather have me revert to my old ways then?” His left eyebrow quirked ironically. “Because that could be arranged - all you have to do is ask.”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said quickly, very quickly. “Is there any way I could convince you to forget I ever mentioned it?”
He nodded and pulled her closer to whisper something in her ear. Upon hearing his suggestion her eyes widened comically and she blushed crimson red. “Really, Severus!” Abby called out, but the delighted gleam in her eyes betrayed her. He found it to be a particularly lovely addition to her flush.
In fact she was still blushing after they had kissed goodbye and she Disapparated. He strolled back to the castle with a satisfied grin on his face.
*
It was the first time he entered her apartment. His surprise outweighed the very subtle feeling of betrayal that was gnawing at him. After all he had allowed her in his chambers long before she had finally decided to grant him the honour of visiting her humble abode. Somehow she had managed to convince him that her whole life evolved around her bookshop in Diagon Alley, waving off his questions about her apartment with the explanation that she was practically living at “Colliding Worlds” anyway and that there was very little to be seen.
But this was neither unimportant nor miniscule. The apartment seemed to him like a natural extension of her personality. Everything he saw there made sense to him starting with the huge windows that would turn the flat into a light-flooded, friendly place during the day, down to the blinds that could be drawn at night, if she had enough of serving her private life on a platter to her neighbours.
The flat was filled with contradictions. While on the one hand there was this old-fashioned red velvet couch that was dominating her living room, probably her sanctuary where she retreated to read or have her cup of morning tea, her kitchen was all polished metallic surfaces, oddly reminiscent of a factory. In between heaps and heaps of books a television set was peaking out almost timidly. The pictures on the wall were all ever so slightly leaning towards the surreal, but always had an ironic note to them.
Her apartment was cluttered, smelling of incense and ever so slightly untidy. It was very close to being comfortable, had there not been for the dishes in the sink and the old papers next to the door that were looking at him somewhat reproachfully as if they were saying Yes, we should have been thrown out weeks ago, but she forgot all about us. Anything wrong with that? Something would have to be done about that.
“Come in!” she said with a cheery smile, which was just a hint too bright, because she was trying hard to hide her nervousness behind it.
“Thank you,” he said taking of his coat, casually laying it over the side of her couch. She was hovering somewhere behind him, anxiously awaiting his verdict. Her nervousness somewhat reconciled him with the fact that she had kept something as substantial as her apartment from him for this long, so he suppressed his biting sarcasm for the time being. Maybe there would be time to address the issue later on.
“So? How do you like it?”
“The truth?”
“Of course,” she answered as always. However unpleasant the truth might be, she never shrank away from it. It was one of her qualities he admired most.
“Well, it wouldn’t be half as bad if someone finally took mercy upon your flat and cleaned it.”
“Are you offering?” Abigail teased.
“Certainly not,” he snorted. “Or do I look like a maid?”
“Of course not. I’d never even dare suggest anything like that,” Then she added in a more thoughtful tone, “But you know there are actually people who offer to clean your flat in the nude. Maybe I should get one of those blokes…”
“Only if you want me to hex you,” he growled.
“Is it just my imagination or are you actually jealous?” she asked with a triumphant grin, marching off towards the kitchen. She could feel his eyes on her the entire time. The whole flat was one huge room, except for the bathroom of course, so he had ample opportunity to glare at her as long as he wished, because she would never be out of eyesight.
“If I wasn’t, it would mean I’m indifferent to you,” he remarked, casually taking a seat on the simple wooden stool standing somewhat forlorn next to the metallic counter of the kitchen.
“I’m very glad you’re jealous then.” Their eyes met for the briefest of moments. It provided them with the reassurance that there was more to their constant bickering than just the fact that they loved trading verbal barbs. They also loved each other.
“So, food,” she turned to the refrigerator with a sigh, producing two onions, which she regarded thoughtfully for a second, before she turned around to look at him. “Who’s going to do the dirty work? You or me? I always cry like a baby when I’m cutting onions. What about you?”
He shot her a pointed look. “I’m surprised you should have to ask. You remember what I do for a living, don’t you? I handle far more acidy substances than onions on a daily basis. Without breaking into tears, I might add.”
After having gotten that out of the way, they started cooking in companionable silence. She was shooting him amused looks. He was completely engrossed in his task, fixing the onion with a stern gaze as he methodically chopped it into tiny slices that would have made any chef proud.
*
He had spent a lot of time imagining how he would die. More than a normal person should. So when it had happened he should have been prepared, but he wasn’t. He had been lying there on the cold floor slowly bleeding to death, while Nagini’s poison was spreading in his system. Even then he had not stopped fighting. He refused to die like this, refused to give into that all consuming feeling of hopelessness. His lungs had been greedily sucking in air as if they could prevent the inevitable by providing enough oxygen, while he had desperately pressed his fingers to his neck wound that had been constantly oozing blood.
Suddenly he was back there again. Everything was real starting with the copper taste in his mouth, right down to the desperation that was clawing at his heart. He felt himself becoming weaker and weaker and wouldn’t have any of it. For one last time he chose to rebel fiercely against his faith, even though he knew in his heart of hearts that all his struggling was for naught. The end result would always be the same: death. Cold and lonely, without a hand to hold, without solace or forgiveness.
Forgiveness…His eyes were searching the room desperately. Potter. They briefly settled on the boy, but soon started wandering again, looking for another face. She wasn’t there. How could she? Maybe she had been a figment of his imagination all along. In this reality, in this reality where he was dying, there was only Potter and his little friends who were just standing there gaping wordlessly at him. No, forgiveness was too much to ask for from them. Solace couldn’t be provided. Even though of age, they were no more than terrified kids, seeing another one of the adults fall.
Deep down he had always hoped for a future, a second chance, but maybe that wish had been in vain. Maybe he didn’t deserve happiness. Maybe he didn’t deserve a reward. This was not one of that Muggle children stories. Albus, bless his heart, though always mischievously smiling, had never been the Happy Prince and he was nowhere as innocent and good-hearted as the little swallow. A happy future, love, someone to trust, that was nothing but a fantasy - a fool’s hope. He was so tired of hoping in vain, so tired of that eternal struggle. So why not give in. Why not surrender for once? It would all become easier once he stopped fighting.
A single tear trailed down his cheek. It was silver. Silver and filled with memories of times long passed. The roles in this play had been long cast and the next scene was well-rehearsed. He drew in one shuddering breath. Next he would tell Potter to come closer. Just a few more seconds of this pain and then it would all be over. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he froze. Soft fingers wrapped around his hand. His fingers that had long gone numb and cold were suddenly tinkling as the warmth was spreading inside of them once again. His senses unmistakably told him there was someone, holding his hand, but when he looked, there was nobody. It was just a figment of his imagination, he tried to tell himself. But just when he had almost managed to convince himself of that, someone squeezed his hand and called his name. That voice - it was a familiar. It struck a chord inside of him: a wonderful ache - soft, tender and languid that tore at his heart and coaxed him into hoping again.
Potter looked at him confusedly, insecure whether he should come closer or stay where he was. He hadn’t told him to, he realized. This wasn’t going the way it was predestined, the way it always happened.
His musings were interrupted when he heard that voice again. It was calling his name. No one had ever said his name like that. The voice sounded slightly begrudging, but yet affectionate. There was a hint of worry, too, if he wasn’t mistaken.
Was that just a comforting illusion before he died? Was it his brain, desperately releasing all sorts of hormones to flood his system before it ultimately closed down? He found that he didn’t care. That he’d rather hang on to this illusion than giving himself over to the fact that death was inevitable.
The scene dissolved, the grey of the Shrieking Shack was washed away by a warm orange glow. Soft light was shining on his face as his eyelids fluttered open. He was gradually coming to, becoming aware of his surroundings and the fact that he was lying on a soft bed and someone lying beside him. Not just someone, the woman who was holding his hand - Abigail. He blinked a couple of times, while his disorientation gradually made room to clarity.
“It was just a dream,” she said softly. Her fingers were stroking him, tenderly grazing the inside of his arm, completely disregarding faded tattoo that was still visible there. “Just a stupid dream,” she repeated again, as if to reassure both herself and him.
Now he was expected to say something, reassure her that he had found his way back into this reality again. But what was he to say? He could downplay this horrible vision to “just a nightmare” and simply pretend like nothing ever happened. He could tell her everything. He could tell her some white-lies. He could do a lot of things. While he was still contemplating his answer, he already heard himself say, “I dreamed I was dying.” So it was the truth then.
She gulped, visibly shaken by his blunt admission. Her fingers briefly hovered over motionlessly over his skin, before they lowered themselves again to take a firm hold of his hand. “Was it…” she nervously licked her lips, “was it what happened to you before…”
“Yes,” he cut in, finding it somewhat painful to witness her struggle with words, when she was usually so good at finding just the right thing to say.
“Oh,” she said, shifting her position so that she was now leaning against the headboard of the bed. Her eyes never left his face. He noticed her lack of clothing: she was only wearing a white tank top and some black shorts. The puzzle pieces started falling into place and he remembered what had happened before and why he was only in his underwear as well.
A slight amused twitch of her mouth was the only indication she had noticed his confusion. But she wouldn’t allow herself to smile. The situation was far too serious for that. After a while she decided to speak again. “Sometimes dreams seem all too real.”
“I hope I didn’t wake you.” He hid his evasiveness behind politeness.
“You didn’t wake me. I’ve been a light sleeper ever since,” she paused briefly, “…ever since the war.”
Now it was his turn to feel slightly disconcerted. “I didn’t know.”
“How should you? It’s not your fault.” she said softly.
A long pause followed. She rolled on her side so they lay facing each other. Her gentle eyes traced his features for a while, before she reached out tentatively to softly trace his still wet cheek. Realization hit him like a bucket of ice cold water. He hadn’t only been crying in his sleep. He had been crying in front of her. Though she hadn’t addressed the issue so far, her gesture made him all too well of the fact that it hadn’t escaped her notice. He felt mortified.
“You don’t have to be ashamed. It’s just me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, while her thumb still caressed his cheek. “Nobody can be strong all the time.”
He knew that she would never hold it against him that he had cried, that she would never mock him for showing his emotions, but nevertheless he didn’t feel comfortable with it. Maybe he never would.
“I know that,” he answered and it sounded gruffer than he had intended to.
“Good,” she smiled. Luckily she wasn’t one to hold grudges.
The cynic inside of him couldn’t help but ask the next question. It lay in his nature to always expect the worst and experience had taught him that it was the wisest course of action. Disappointment was easily avoided this way. “What if it wasn’t a dream?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“What if I’m dreaming now?” he asked with a hollow voice, his gaze still fixed on the white ceiling above them.
“Why should this be a dream?”
“Because it feels too good.”
“And you don’t deserve to feel good? Is that it?”
“Maybe.”
She sighed. Sometimes it was hard doing the positive thinking for both of them, when he was being so pessimistic. “Are you sure you want engage in a full-on philosophic debate with me at three in the morning?”
“I think going back to sleep is completely out of question at this point.”
“Alright,” Abby blew out her breath, running a hand through her messy hair. “So you think good things can’t happen in real life. Is that what you’re trying to say?”
“Good things don’t last in real life.”
“Do you think we’re not going to last?” She tried hard to keep her voice neutral, but fear crept into it nevertheless. “I hope you haven’t grown tired of me already.”
“I haven’t.” A pause. “I doubt I ever will.” He looked at her, his black eyes shining in the twilight. She pressed a quick peck to his lips, feeling incredibly relieved.
“Maybe you’ve already used up all your bad karma. After all that terrible things that happened, after all you’ve been through, don’t you think you deserve a silver lining?”
He hesitated. “No.”
His answer chilled her two the bone. She set up abruptly in bed. “Why?”
He said nothing, his eyes still clued to the ceiling.
“Do you hate yourself that much? How can you…” She stopped, trying to bring the disarray of thoughts inside her head under her control again. “I don’t understand. I…Severus, I don’t see you that way. You might not be perfect. Neither am I. Nobody is. Our mistakes and failures add up to what we are. What matters is how we deal with them, whether we simply ignore them and just keep on going or whether we try to learn anything from them, that’s what makes all the difference in the world.”
“Maybe I’ve could have done more…”
“No,” she said. There was no doubt in her voice. It was firm and unyielding. “You couldn’t have.”
“Deep down, I was egoistic all along. I was always so afraid of dying. I can’t help thinking my fear slowed me down, stopped me from doing the things I should have done.”
“I can’t see how the wish to survive should be egoistic.”
“If I hadn’t clung to life so desperately, if I hadn’t been so afraid of death, maybe I could have done more. I could have made the right choices, if my fear hadn’t always won out in the end,” he thought out aloud.
“But if you had sacrificed yourself, you wouldn’t have been able to help anymore.”
“There would have been somebody else.”
“You’re not replaceable. Not to me,” she shook her head vehemently. “I wouldn’t be here anymore, if it wasn’t for you. Avery and Tennyson would have killed me.”
“There would have been somebody else to save you,” he repeated.
“No, there wouldn’t have. There’s no one I trust like I trust you.”
“Why me? What is so special about me?”
“To me? Everything,” she answered in all sincerity.
“I’m lucky your optimism is so imperturbable.” He granted her a weak smile.
“This has nothing to do with optimism. I just believe in you, that’s it.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t and you need someone who does.”
He was deeply touched by her words and because he knew he could never find the right words to tell her what he felt, he tried to convey it with a gesture. He extended his arm, motioning her to come closer. She readily complied, her warm body moulding against his. Her head was now resting on his right shoulder, her back pressed against his chest, so she could feel the warmth of his body and his ribcage rising and falling with each inhale and exhale. His left arm hesitantly encircled her midriff. As usual his movements were cautious, as if he was still afraid he could scare her away or offend her in some way. Those fears proofed to be entirely ungrounded, because she soon snuggled even closer to him.
“I don’t want this to be a dream…” Her voice was different now, low and content, barely above a whisper. “If it is, I never want to wake up.”
“Me neither,” he admitted softly, revelling in the feeling of holding her in his arms, that was as always close to overwhelming to him.
tbc