A little something that popped into my head. What a week it's been, and it's only Tuesday...
Une image en miroir
"I don't understand," Hermione whispered, her voice slightly hoarse, the slight burn in her eyes reminding her that she was on the verge of tears. She didn't want them to see her cry. Especially not Snape. Especially not him.
She brought one trembling hand to cover her lips – the corners of which were twitching downward with ever-persistent determination – and her eyes caught on the white gold ring on her finger. It pulsed with warmth. A magical ring, Dumbledore had informed her, charmed to burn steadily with the body heat of the beloved, to comfort and convey their presence even when separated. She wanted to snort in dismay at the term he had used. Beloved. It hardly fit the situation.
Severus Snape sat stiffly in an armchair before her, his entire demeanor expressing that he was as uncomfortable with the situation as she was. His thumb rubbed at his own ring, a habit that seemed uncharacteristic for him. She had never known her professor to fidget.
"I apologize, Miss Granger. If there were any other way . . ." He trailed off and his long fingers stopped playing with the new ring on his left hand. "You do, of course, retain the right to refuse."
She shook her head, staring down at her own hands, at her own ring. "No, you are important, sir – for the war effort," she added hastily, realizing that her words were coming out all wrong. Snape's eyes seemed wider than usual, startled. Hermione closed her eyes and sighed softly; when she opened them, her eyes met Dumbledore's blue ones before returning to her – husband's. "If this will save you, I will do it. I will marry you."
The Headmaster stood, straightening his robes. "I will take my leave of you now." He swept past them, pausing to lay a wrinkled hand on Hermione's shoulder. "We all understand that this is not . . . ideal, Miss Granger. We are all here for you, even Professor Snape, though he may seem intimidating in the classroom and – well, and in the current situation."
Hermione nodded her thanks and fixed her eyes on Snape again as Dumbledore closed the door behind him with a soft click. She liked to plan ahead. She liked to see how the future would pan out – perhaps it was why she had so relished the idea of using the Time Turner back in her third year, the idea of meddling with time. But she didn't know where she went from here. She couldn't see herself settling down to dinner in his quarters or reading a book next to him on the couch in his library. She hardly wanted to see his professorial attitude extend into every interaction they ever had. And she certainly didn't know how to explain this to Ron and Harry.
"Miss Granger," Snape – no, Severus – began, clearing his throat uncomfortably.
"Hermione," she interrupted boldly, leaning forward to touch his warm hand. "If I am your wife, please call me Hermione."
His lips twitched upward. "Hermione."
oOoOo
"I don't understand," Hermione whispered around the lump in her throat. She kneeled in the dust on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, the toe of one dirty shoe resting in a particularly deep gouge in the wooden boards. Tears were already falling down her grime-smeared cheeks, and she wiped them away carelessly. She didn't want the boys to see her cry; she didn't want him to see her cry, though memories were flowing freely down his face.
As she handed a vial to Harry, she caught sight of her left hand, of the slight indentation that gave away her disillusioned wedding ring to only the most observant of individuals. Its steady warmth had been a comfort while they had been on the run; she couldn't see him, but she knew he was somewhere out there in the world, safe, breathing. When she was on the floor of the drawing room in Malfoy Manor, his unwavering warmth had given her the strength she needed to endure. But now, in the stale air of the Shrieking Shack, the steadfast warmth was wavering; her ring was growing cold on her finger, the chill shooting from her left hand to her heart. Her beloved – yes, beloved – was dying.
Severus Snape was sprawled out on the floor before her, propped weakly against the wall, face pale. His fingers twitched, grasping at nothing; his eyes were half-lidded and glazed with pain and escaping memories.
"Sorry . . . Granger," the man choked out, his voice trailing off with a sickening gargle and a bubble of blood from his neck. His fingers stopped twitching, settling on grasping the edges of his cloak. "I couldn't. . ."
She shook her head, moving her hands to his neck to apply some pressure to the wound. The thick, sticky blood that immediately flowed over her fingers caught her eye, stark even in the dim light. "No, you can't blame yourself. Whatever you're apologizing for, it doesn't matter now." Her husband's eyes were staring into hers, imploring her to understand something that she couldn't catch. "I can't!" she cried, throwing her head back, wishing she could understand him, willing to give anything if it could save him. She closed her eyes, crying harder, sobbing now as she realized that the blood seeping from the wound beneath her fingers was not stopping. She glanced to the side, catching Harry's confused expression before meeting Severus' gaze once again. "I have to – need to tell you. I love you."
Harry stood, corking the vial of memories and wiping the dust from the knees of his robes. "Hermione, I – I don't know what's . . . Hermione, we have to go now." He touched her shoulder briefly before retreating to stand beside a bewildered Ron. When Hermione didn't move, Harry softly added, "We have to return to the battle. I need to view these memories. I can't say I understand, but we're here for you."
Hermione gave the faintest of nods, and Harry and Ron moved toward the entrance of the tunnel that would take them back to the Hogwarts grounds. Her eyes never left her husband's as she felt the ring grow colder still. She had no plan; she could see no future beyond this battle and this moment and this man whom she had so grown to love, dying in front of her. Nothing could save him, not a spell or a potion or all of the smashed Time Turners in the Department of Mysteries. She would never again get to join him for dinner and a cup of tea made exactly to his liking – a splash of milk and one sugar. She would never again see the spark in his eye as he leaned forward in his favorite armchair and spoke of a subject he was passionate about. She would never get the chance to know him better, to learn more about the man who was so reserved that he had hesitated to even reveal his secret love for caramel. It finally registered that Harry and Ron had left her alone now, and she knew explicitly that despite any explanation, they would never understand the way that she had married her stoic professor to save his life and ended up falling in love with him along the way.
"Miss . . . Granger," Severus attempted, his voice choked out by another gargle. Hermione's heart clenched at the sound.
"Hermione," she reminded gently, removing one hand from his wound and finding his. Her blood-smeared fingers slid between his and she clutched his hand desperately. She could feel his wedding ring, hot against her palm.
His lips twitched, this time with the effort of attempted speech. "Hermione."
Her eyes met his, and as her ring lost all warmth – the magic faded and gone – she recognized the look in his eyes for what it was. Love.