Title: The Girl Who Must Die
Pairing: Snarriet
Gift: Laventadorn's birthday was a couple days ago and I wanted to gift this little Drabble I've been working on.
There was always a certain disguised tenderness evoked between them. Perhaps it was the intimacy formed in war, cuffed to their mutual damnation.
"Harriet must die," Dumbledore's eyes were as blue as the morning's sky. Somber.
Something in his heart squeezed. Hard.
"You're lying," because it could not be true. Not Harriet. Never. She, who deserved to live, who was kind as she was stubborn, could not die. "You're lying." Snape's voice dropped to a whisper, but he might as well screamed it. Something smashed but he was hardly aware. Nothing could stand his wrath, just a wizard with mournful eyes but a will as hard as steel.
"Harriet must die, it is the only way. If there was a way to spare her, if there was a way…"
"Dumbledore, there has to be a way! Or we will find it."
He always lied. His life depended on him lying and this…this wasn't any different.
The mourning of his soul did not stop, not even as he stepped through the threshold of his quarters. Immediately, he strategically placed himself in the direction of the door. Eyes hooked. Like clock-work, the door finally creaked open and green eyes peered inside.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," but the tenderness as he grabbed her hand and led her beside him, was unlike him. Immediately, her eyes reflected his worry. Her half hazard blouse buttoned wrong, revealing her thin collarbone and the beginning of the swell of small breasts. His arms wrapped around her waist. He never hugged her, never like this. She stilled.
He said nothing else.
Her eyebrows drew together in confusion, "What's wrong?" A hand soothed its way through her hair, potion stained but reassuring. He kept it placed on the back of her neck, placing her head above his heart. He smelled like an ashtray.
Thump…thump…thump
"I can't say."