Dismantle the Sun
Silence descends.
The clock ticks.
Hermione stands beside the unmade bed, staring at the crumpled pillow. Her lips, pressed tightly together, tremble.
"Oh, my Severus," she whispers, placing one pale hand on the pillow. "Mine. My own."
There is one grey hair on the white pillowcase and she retrieves it reverently. Slowly, so very slowly, she drags it along her cheeks.
It is as soft as silk.
The indent of his cheek remains on the pillow. It is turned towards hers – the way it always was. He watches over her in death, as in life.
There is a knock on the door and she sighs. She can already smell another home-made meal for the freezer. Whoever it is knocks once more.
One last flick of her wand renews the stasis charm on the pillow. After a quick decision, she opens the gold locket that he gave her as a wedding gift so many years ago and places the hair carefully inside.
She lengthens the chain.
The locket lies next to her heart. It is warm on her skin, and heavy. It carries a reassurance that she clings onto desperately. She touches it with one index finger; her eyes close, and a single tear escapes.
The clock ticks.
Her feet drag as she leaves the bed – their bed.
After one long look at the bed that still smells of him, she turns off the light and closes the door.
Vale, Alan Rickman. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
The title belongs to the evocative and very apt 'Stop all the Clocks' - W.H. Auden.