Disclaimer: Not mine.
Chapter 1 – Day & Night, Past & Present
"Hermione"
Drip… Thirty-four.
Drip… Thirty-five.
Drip… Thirty-six.
"And then I told her, 'You listen to me, you lousy pile of dragon dung; my wife could out-smart you any day, any time, you name it!' Ain't that right, 'Mione? Ain't that what I told her?"
Drip… Forty-two.
Drip… Forty-three.
"'Mione?"
Drip… Forty-five.
"'MIONE? Earth to Hermione!"
I hear him of course, but the leaking faucet is far more interesting. I've heard this story a total of seven times today; he was kind enough to share what was, to me, the most humiliating moment of my professional career with everyone he encountered: his parents, the lady next-door, Hugo and Rose, Harry and Ginny, Minerva McGonagall, his brother Charlie, and most embarrassingly, a stranger who shared a lift with us in Muggle London. He thinks I like to hear how noble he was, standing up to my boss for me. He knows nothing about me anymore.
"Hmm? Oh, yes, you were very kind, Ronald," I reply, my tone indicating just the opposite. He doesn't pick up on it.
"Severus"
"Steven? Steven, can we focus please?"
Her use of my "name" annoys me, and for a moment I'm tempted to advise her to call me "Severus." To do so would be unwise, however; it has been twenty years since anyone has called me anything but "Steven," and I fear the use of my former title would bring back memories long suppressed.
"What are you looking at, Steven?" she asks. She is Sheryl Schrienk, the top psychiatrist at the Reed Medical Center.
"I'm watching the pigeons gather on the pavement in the square," I state, still staring out the window.
"Why do you watch them, Steven?"
I choose to ignore her question, but she presses for an answer. "Steven, did you hear what I said?"
I begin to open the window. "It is stifling in here. Some dunderhead has turned off the AC," I say in the hopes of distracting her. I know the answer, of course: I envy them. The pigeons are able to experience the freedom I have longed to embrace for so many years.
"You never answered my question, Steven. I can't help you if you don't talk to me."
She can't help me anyway; she knows nothing of love, nothing of loss. "I don't know," I tell her. "I just find them interesting."
"Hermione"
I haven't been sleeping well lately. My husband's embrace, which used to arouse feelings of security and satisfaction, is now a source of discomfort both physically and mentally. Ron's skin is slick with sweat due to the hot summer night, and his obnoxious snoring, which was cute at one point, keeps me awake until all hours. Every night he attempts to cuddle with me in his sleep, oblivious to the fact that I intentionally move away from him while he lies dead to the world. Tonight, he can't sleep either and opens his eyes to see that I'm also awake. He smiles at me in the dark, and I force a smile back at him. I'm sure it looks more like a grimace.
"Do you want to…?" he asks with a hopeful expression on his face.
I look at the clock. "Ron, it's 4:30 in the morning," I say. "I have to be at work by seven. I want at least another hour of sleep."
"Oh," he says, clearly disappointed.
"I'll make it up to you, I promise."
"Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
"Alright," he says, obviously in a better mood. "Goodnight then, 'Mione."
"Goodnight, Ronald." I'm dreading tomorrow night already.
"Severus"
Not all memories of the past can be stored away like old clothes or compact disks. I still dream of the way her hair smelt or the confident way in which she walked. I dream of how passionate she was about everyone and everything and how beautiful she looked when she blushed. I have nightmares of the day we parted ways. I have nightmares of the fact that I can't take any of it back.
I think it's safe to say I don't sleep much anymore. I haven't slept much in forty years.
I don't deserve to sleep soundly.