Disclaimer: Much as I would like to claim Severus, he isn't mine. The narrator, whose name is Lilacia Black (nothing to do with the title), is mine. And why exactly I called her a name that is shortened to Lilly is lost in the mists of time.
He's wearing black. He's always wearing black. Black robes, black cloak, black coat—well, I like his coat. Why shouldn't I like my best friend—my love's coat? Oh, yes, black everything, and he doesn't think I realize that he's wearing the orange socks.
No, really, they don't suit him. Severus Snape isn't one for colorful wild socks. But I think he likes them regardless. Sort of.
I've seen him. I've seen him wear… blue. Green. Green suits him. But then he also looks so handsome in the hue of the… well, he looks neither sky, nor ocean, save a particularly stormy one. A blue jay? Oh… he's something of a flamboyant one, deep within. Why else does he wear that billowy robe? Do I mind it, that stroke of melodrama? Nay, of course not. I love every single last bit of him, from that raven mane and those deep dark eyes to that crooked nose, those scarred arms, and every single last one of his toes.
Which is why I'm knitting him another pair of socks. And no, I won't make them some hideous color. I promised him Slytherin green, and green he shall get, a lovely dark forest green. Though, green does suit him, and he wouldn't look bad in a dusty sage…
But he'd never wear them. I know he's only humoring me, with the orange ones. And truly, I never intended to make a pair of bright orange socks. I don't go in for that sort of showiness. "Apricot" is not supposed to be a bright orange. Of course, I could have changed the color. It's not as if I'm a Muggle.
But somehow that feels like cheating. I knitted every stitch of those socks by mundane means, not a bit of magic went into them—unless muttered words of hope and protection imbue them with something. No, they are an entirely Muggle garment. And it's a lovely and appropriate juxtaposition, if one that threatens to make me grin at his fuss. For my Severus is a half-blood. Half Muggle, half wizard, one of both worlds, and so am I. And he looks absolutely lovely in green.
Because, when he's not wearing all that black—when he's garbed in verdant hues, and he is a bit less sallow than he often is now—his eyes are beautiful. They are celestial orbs of a deep rich brown, even tinged with green about the edges. But that is only when he is happy, and only when he is wearing greens. I don't know what blues do to his eyes, but he looks wonderful in them.
So the next thing I shall knit him, perhaps concurrently with the next pair of socks, will be a jumper. Green, I think. Or maybe the deep brown of black walnuts. Which, of course, I would have to trim in the self-same chartreuse green that crumbles into a dark, tannic mess. And, actually, although he probably hasn't the coloring for it, that last bit makes me wonder what he'd think of a nice autumnal orangish-brown. No, really, he hasn't the coloring for that. I do.
But it will be all of one color—perhaps even blue—even if I do like tweeds, and I'll pick out every stitch of patterning that goes on it.
I don't believe in any such "sweater curse"—that's a nonsensical superstition. Nor do I believe the wizards, nor the Muggles, who say we oughtn't be together. We're half-bloods, dancing on the edge, on the cusp of the two worlds, and, to the finest fiber of our being, we are perfectly suited for one another.
A/N: The "finest fiber of our being" bit is from Jane Eyre. I'm not really sure why I'm on this chromic bent.