Quiet Moments
Severus Snape closes his eyes against the offensive, and he thinks deliberate, stupidity defiling his sturdy, if splintered, desk.
Neville Longbottom, of course. He scrawls a sharp "T" at the top of the page, flinging the quill aside and rubbing the crick in his neck. He looks around for the next stack of essays, the light of a single candle throwing his quarters into dramatic, shabby relief.
He works steadily until he feels the weight of the night press into bones, starting in his brow and finally settling into his fingers. It should be okay to stop now , he thinks without any real conviction.
It always hits him quiet moments, when the strength of his mind and motion of hands can no longer keep the longing at bay. He fills each stolen minute with half-truths and things that could have been. Memories of brushed finger tips and sudden awkward moments. The smell of her hair in the snow and the way her stubborn shoulders set the red strands on fire.
He lets his eyes close as a wet draft flutters across the back of neck. He likes to pretend she is the wind.