Disclaimer: The regular disclaimer still stays in place, I owe nothing but the AU and OC. The rest belongs to JKR.
My mind lives in the Harry Potter fanfiction world though my body is still thankfully anchored in the monotonous reality of existence. My themes, plotline, and storyline may, therefore, get indirectly influenced by many of the brilliant fanfiction writers on this site. And I humbly bow to such creative genius who give me much needed literary pleasures to see through the toils of mundane life. Lastly, I don't have a beta, so please be merciful. Reviews would encourage this introvert writer to peep out of her literary closet.(pl)
Chapter 22
The moment he had felt her stir, felt her whimpering grow by the passing seconds, and was certain she would wake up with a scream at the loss of her lover, he had closed his eyes and had pretended to sleep.
He had tried to build up stronger mental shields. But this bond that he now shared with his new wife resisted his efforts. In a haze of dense clouds, the very ones he enjoyed escaping into, on his broom, while he was still a new Potion Master at Hogwarts; he saw them run across an empty beach, he saw him giving her some flowers…The rest, he had seen them too. Those moments right before she woke up and pushed at his prone body.
He had felt her hastily retreat, had felt the bed creak, and the weight above it shift away to the edges. And all the while he had felt those three letters crush him. They weighed him down in the depths of the Lake, and all the while the surface of the water was never too far above. He could see the sun glazing the surface of the rippling water, struggling for breath, struggling to reach above, while the weight of the word "Ron" kept pulling him down, even the mere-folks were watching him drown from afar.
He had seen her enter the bathroom in a hurry. She had managed to drape the tunic around her to hide her modesty, but he had seen the evidence of his wild lovemaking, growing in prominence over her thin shoulders. Soft as a feather, meows like a kitten, growls like a lioness, preys on his self-control like… like illusive pantheress. A true Gryffindor. His wife. The woman, he had exhausted and had in turn allowed himself to get tired under her fierce and subtle ministrations. He had felt the bristle of magic, the sealing of the bond when he could no longer delay his unbecoming at her sudden outburst of ecstatic orgasm. She had rocked his world, body, mind and soul.
He had heard the sound of the shower and had to stop his mind from imagining how the water droplets might enjoy rolling over her body. He envied each one of them. Each one of those tiny drops was daring to touch HIS wife. He was a spy for most of his life. And over the time his senses had gone sharper. The mumbling in between the sound of the shower, fragments of her inner monologue echoed in his aggrieved mind. Severus heard her cry through the door. Her screams had left him shattered.
Hermione was too young. And she had loved Ron Weasley fiercely. Severus Snape could not bring himself to feeling jealous. No, even he had loved Lily Evans too much, that even her death could not make him walk away and look ahead. But Time was a healer they said. And he was just the fourth hand, of a broken clock. The other three hands of the hour, minutes and seconds had kept time like eternal soldiers, but he had simply stood still from the moment he had hugged his unrequited love's dead body.
He had sold his body to the two sides of this war, that took every ounce of his energy, his mind, and his capabilities and had feasted on them like scavengers. He was barely living until Hermione Granger had taken his proffered hand and had decided to accept the proposal of walking by his side for the rest of their lives. And he had dared to look past his personal Hell, hoping this new lease of life would give him peace.
She too is healing, hurt and war-worn, Severus. How was he going to argue with his inner monologue? Well, he had seen how close those three Gryffindors were. So many died, so many couldn't continue. And that second wave of new attacks led by Fenrir Greyback. Snape had suspicions, but with the war growing so close, with his role as a puppet Headmaster, there was little he could do.
These days they were saying, Greyback was trying to become the next Dark Lord. Yes, there were attacks and people were getting abducted from their homes at the dead of the night. The most common argument was that the werewolf was plotting to take advantage of the present state of the dwindling wizarding world and establish werewolf supremacy at its helm. And in that calculated raid at one of his lairs, Snape had seen the werewolf's atrocities. Even from something so heart-wrenching and gruesome, something innocent and beautiful could be born. He was yet again a godfather. When Draco was born, he was young and still grieving over Lily. But the moment he had held this baby girl, he knew he had to learn to live again for her. Time had healed him gradually, and he had started looking forward to the days that were waiting for him.
And if it meant that he needed to be there for Hermione, he would. He would have to be mature enough to see past her raving about dead Weasley. He would have to teach himself to love and show affection, at least within these walls of his chambers. She must heal. He needed her. They needed her and Snape was not going to let her give up.
He could still feel the raising sense of despair. Perhaps all this was due to their bond, or perhaps a bit of him was still lodged into her conscience or maybe the vise versa. But it was painful. He had tried not to cry out in the growing agony squeezing his heart. But then things had turned foggy. Like a mist creeping over a deserted meadow. He was not so shocked at the bang of the door. But Hermione's face had thrown him off. Those eyes, mirrored hate, death, and murder of ambition, zeal to live. And he had never seen her look so bereft of optimism.
A bang of another door. The bedroom door this time, then another, this one was of his quarters. He had jumped out of the bed. He had tried to call her out. "Mis…Her…". What would he call her as? Shaking his head in dismay, he had sharply rebuking himself at his own stupidity. "Ron, I am Coming." His eyes had bulged out at that ringing admission. He had hardly waited for his mind to work out whether he had heard it in his mind or whether his ears had picked up that call of distress. Snatching his robes from the peg beside the open door, he had broken into a run. His body was still healing from the shock of spells he had undergone through the Battle of Hogwarts and in the Greyback lair strike the bang of wizards had organized. But he could see her dashing up the stairs. And his heart had sunk deeper and deeper.
Pushing himself, he had taken the stairs two at a time, to get to his hysteric wife. Why were the stairways heeding to her requests? Did sentient Hogwarts already start recognizing her as a part of him? The moment the door to the Astronomy door gave in to her silent persuasion, he had started panicking. No, No, No. He had flung himself up, the next of the remaining steps, bruising his knees at sharp edges. Growling in pain, he had picked himself up and had run, just in time to grab the young woman at her petite waist, circling his arms around it and hurling both of them backward.
As they had fallen back, crushing against the hard floor, she had started throwing her legs trying to hit his knees. Shrieking like a madwoman, she had started hitting his arms, her nails had drawn fresh blood. She had nearly knocked at his nose with her swinging head, but he had succeeded in thwarting her suicidal attempt. She was very much alive, locked in his arms. He had rolled their joined bodies onto one side and had pleaded her, without even realizing it. "Please, don't, Please, please, please, I can't, dear, please."
His baritone voice, breaking into sobs by the minute had quietened her. She was tired and had melted into his arms. Those seemed secure and comforting. But his pleas had anchored her back to his side. She had felt his tears drop on her red cheeks. Severus Snape was pleading to her and was crying for her. She had started shifted a bit. And Snape had adjusted themselves, so that, now she was nestled in his embrace, her head resting on his chest. They were holding on to each other, eyes closed and crying together.
He had to be sure that she was not leaving, so he had whispered into the night air, "Please, stay, don't give up." She was gasped and had gone still for some time. A small wet and defeated whisper had fired his resolve, "Give me one reason, Sir?" Swiftly, he had brought his hands up and had caged her wet face in between his bony palms. Tilling her head up, he had looked into her glistening eyes, her shock could have halted him, but even Time would bow in front of a determined Snape. Bringing his head down he had captured her lips in between his own. She was his, he was hers, and let Death be damned, if magic had decided through their bonding that they were meant to be together, so it be.
