Note: Auriga Sinistra was not my idea. She belongs to Nita (aka She's a Star). Other characters also not mine, thanks.
She worried endlessly when he disappeared for days on end—had he been found out? Caught? Killed? She sat by the window, hoping for some unfamiliar owl to appear, or a glimpse of a silver doe in the moonlight. Funny, she would never have figured he would have such a pretty Patronus, as his idea of aestheticism seemed to be pickling organs and displaying them in jars on his mantel. Perhaps there was something soft inside him, after all. (She had thought he had shown it once or twice, but he rebuffed any real attempt to ascertain his feelings.)
He had sat calmly down in her drawing room, one evening (so long ago), and informed her that he had finally, finally, gotten the promotion he had so yearned for. And, stupidly, she had smiled and poured him conjured champagne and toasted him. Never realizing that he was not smiling. Drunk, she fell into his arms, and later his bed, feeling no difference in his touch. Had she been in her right state, she may have heard him call for Lily as he came, and murmur his love as he collapsed beside her. He curled up alone and slept. She had only smiled.
Bastard, she sing-songed fondly as he pummeled her with diurnal insults. I know you don't mean that. The corners of his mouth would twitch, her triumph. She would serve him chamomile tea with lots of lemon and massage his shoulders. Always so tense. Sev, you ought to learn to relax. He grunted and she giggled and kissed the back of his neck. And wash your hair, while you're at it.
She spent her days tidying the dungeon and kipping in his chair, eager to display her affection, to elicit some of the tenderness she had felt under the mistletoe that fateful Christmas Eve. (He had been very embarrassed, as had she, but she had come to love him.) He raged when she misplaced his things and she wept, and her cheeks would often be flushed and salt-stained come midnight Astronomy classes.
Then the worst had happened. Catastrophe right there in her Astronomy Tower. She had not felt him rise, long before her, and awoke to much confusion and clamor. Her bed empty, she rushed to the door to see him dash down the stairs from the Observatory. Potter was hot on his heels. And everyone was yelling. What happened? She begged of the general chaos. What is going on? Pulled on her dressing gown and watched the Death Eaters' retreat.
Dumbledore is dead! Was a whispered reply, and the words buzzed meaninglessly for days before the funeral. She was dumbfounded. The emptiness of her bed and the dungeons did nothing to stir comprehension. Each night 'til summer, the tea got cold.
Rumours of him passed through the Prophet, and she relished the news (though none of it was good). She waited by the window and sent out her silvery nightingale guardian each night. Never discovered if her messages had been delivered. But they were certainly never answered. She perused books that reminded her of him though the words meant nothing. Did not sink in. Alone, she stared at the stars.
On August 30th, she returned to her Hogwarts tower, dazed still from months-old tragedies. Who was to become headmaster? Such things were always announced in the news, but she paid no attention these days. Let her subscriptions expire and withdrew from reality. And when she entered the teacher's lounge that evening, she was stunned. Fainted.
Severus, mumbled softly as her eyes fluttered open once more, something coldly fragrant pressed against her forehead. Pomona smiled and patted her shoulder gently. Offered her some water. She declined, gaping openly at the sallow, stern, beautiful face at the head of the room. Did not register a word he said, introducing their new colleagues (lumpy and vacant siblings drew none of her interest). Reveled in the deep, silky voice as he spoke of the coming school year.
She wanted to rush to him, cling to him. Scarcely managed to contain her longing as the others filed out, most scowling quite deeply. Severus, she cooed when he had dismissed his lumpy associates. I've been so worried about you… Where on earth have you been?
He waved her off. Coolly sipping a glass of wine. You needn't have wasted a thought on me, Auriga, flattered though I am. I was, and am, perfectly fine. He swept from the once-cozy room, and she attempted to follow. But the door to his office slammed smartly in her face. (Bastard, she had muttered, but not so fondly this time.)
He did not so much as make eye-contact with her during the following months, and she retreated from his presence. He was frightening to anyone, now, and all but his accomplices avoided his imposing stare. He seemed to have changed so much. Or was it just toward her?
Once, close to Christmas, she had gone to him without thinking. Begged for his company, as she was lonely and frightened of days to come. His compliance was small comfort, for he shared with her only his lust. Taken her gladly and sent her away when he was finished. (She could not help being hurt by that action, though she told herself that she was not to blame.) Her tower grew colder without him.
Then, the battle had come. He was nowhere to be found—Minerva declared that he had retreated to his master (a thought which Auriga could never quite get used to). She had defended her tower as best she could, and taken out a Death Eater or two of her own. She was rather impressed with herself, as everyone had always written her off as a brilliant astronomer, but far less talented in dueling.
She stared out to the grounds when You-Know-Who spoke, and saw the limp form of Harry Potter nestled in Hagrid's arms. Harder she searched, but he was not among them. When it was all over (she did not seem to notice that they had won), she rushed to the Great Hall, but did not find his body. Could he be alive?
But her hopes were soon crushed. He was carried in from Hogsmeade, mangled and bloodied and most certainly dead. (You can't escape death forever, you know.) Someone had said that he was a hero, that he helped defeat the Dark Lord in a very big way but she took little comfort in it. She'd have given anything to have run away with him years ago, before any of this horror had begun. She was not brave, nor proud.
There was a small funeral held for him, but she recognized only Minerva in attendance. A few students appeared—Potter, Weasley among them—but none of the staff felt sorrow enough for his loss. They had not known him, really.
She stood for a long time by his casket, twirling a rose between her fingertips. I'll miss you, Sev, she whispered. I love you. As she placed the rose atop the shining oak surface, a vaguely familiar voice spoke from behind her.
What are you doing here, Professor? A small blonde girl, with unkempt hair. From sixth year. I didn't know you liked Snape.
I loved him.
The girl assumed a funny expression. Oh, she murmured, that's too bad. She seemed to ponder something, tugging on a radish-like earring. I heard he was in love with Harry's mum.
Auriga looked at the floor in silence. When the girl had gone, she turned to regard Severus' ornate coffin. She had never once considered it, but it saddened her greatly. As tears welled in her eyes, pooling and staining her crooked, drooping spectacles, she walked slowly away.
For all she had loved Severus Snape, he had never loved her.
It was a shame.