Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling and her publishers own all that is familiar. I'm merely playing in her sandbox. Elise, however, belongs to me. No infringement is intended; no monies are being exchanged. See Notes at the end.
Morning
1995 (Sometime after Asphodel)
Birds were singing outside my window when I woke, not so much because of any alarm clock's raucous ringing, but due to sunshine - morning-bright and completely smug about it - blinding me without mercy.
For a long moment, I thought about lingering in bed, more so after I stretched, and my arm touched my lover's sleeping form. I rolled over beneath layers of blankets and sheets, and watched him as he lay in sleep's lingering embrace.
His face, with oft-broken nose ever prominent, didn't look innocent in sleep as much as eased. As if, in these precious few hours, he could throw off his mantle of dark sarcasm, his mask of doom and loathing, and relax into something like his real self. His real self from Before.
In my head that word is capitalized, although I'm not sure exactly what Before precedes. Before joining Voldemort's Death Eaters? Definitely. Before giving up his beloved potions research and development for a classroom position even Albus Dumbledore admits (in closed meetings, only, and never in writing) ill suits him.
But does Before include our relationship? We never speak of it, but as long as I've known this man, it seems, I've been one of a select few who are allowed within his personal walls. Perhaps it's because I was never his student, even though I was a student when we first met. Perhaps it's due to some unconscious recognition of each other as …. I cannot find a word that serves…Right? Safe? Both are close to what I want, and yet not.
Familiar. That's better. Though I don't mean it in a witchy sense (Real witches and wizards don't have animal familiars, anyway; that notion is but a Muggle fancy.), but in its root form, just a step removed from that thing I believe we all intrinsically want: Family.
I sigh, as I mull these things over. All day and a following night could pass and I would never figure out just what draws me to this peculiar, difficult man, or what he could possibly see in me, a half-blooded witch who chose ballet over broomsticks, thinks in Muggle songs, and has an unnatural (his word) affinity for their technology.
He stirs, and my reveries end, drifting away like dandelion fluff in a summer breeze. "Morning," I greet him softly. He doesn't respond, just holds me with his black, black eyes, as if he's willing me to read every layer of emotion hidden behind them. For any other couple, this would be a moment filled with frothy endearments. But we are not any other couple, and instead of pet names and preciousness, I hear him breathe my name, weighted with promises of other mornings, other nights: "Elise…"
I smile, and repeat my earlier greeting, while moving my hand to brush stray hair from his face. (It is acceptable for me to be gentle, after all, even when he resists being so.) "Morning, Severus."
An almost-smile tugs at his lips, and his next words, so typical, almost make me laugh. "Is there tea?"
Notes: Originally written 16 May 2004. This was a year before Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince was released, which made it only slightly AU then. Subsequent books changed that. I'm reposting it today (14 January 2016) with slight revisions, at the request of my friend Janet, and in honor of the late Alan Rickman, who was so much more than just Severus Snape. I think it was actually a response to a challenge to write a piece of fiction without ever using the word 'the.'