Chapter 4
Snape ran his finger over the crease of the paper in his pocket. Two hours writing and all of his heart poured into the words on this page. Oh! And God help him if anyone besides Hermione should read it. He could already picture the look he hoped she would wear as her eyes traced the words written. Suddenly he pitched forward, scraping his palm against the wall until the pressure allowed him to regain his balance. He scolded himself mentally, he shouldn't be allowing his daydreams to interfere with completing this errand. But after all, he rationalized, the steps to the owlry were definitely steep. And it didn't help that the darkness prevented him from seeing anything. But really, he thought as he proceeded, I must be more careful. It really would be bad if...
*Swack!*
Snape yelped and leapt back, tottering on the edge of the step for a moment. He brought his fingers up to gingerly test his nose. Not broken, slightly bleeding, but nothing bad. He thanked God it was no worse. He could just imagine trying to explain to Dumbledore an hour from now at breakfast, why his nose had fragmented into several pieces. And where he had been to warrant such damage. NOT an appealing thought. Snape extended his arms carefully, feeling with his fingers for the doorknob. Ha! There!
Snape tiptoed in carefully and closed the door behind him. The floor was littered in hay and he could feel it cushioning his steps. He could barely make out the shadows of the owl perches in the sparse light. The moonlight shown through the slender slits in the stone, falling in a soft pattern upon various birds. He moved forward, past several owls until he reached the one he wanted. Forward his hand reached, grasping it's black legs, gently. An owl of snowy feathers and emerald eyes. Such an entrancingly beautiful creature, he thought, the perfect messenger for such a mission as this. He thrust the hand not containing the bird into his pocket, bringing forth a folded piece of parchment, and a lavender ribbon. Snape wound the parchment precisely around one of the bird's legs and secured it with the ribbon. He could feel the soft silk under his fingers, being slowly tied into an exacting bow. Snape walked over to the window and released the bird. Tracing the blur of white through the ever lightening sky, watching it's wings beat in perfect rhythm, he smiled. Today was his day of reckoning, the point of no return. How would she react to such a confession as this? A piece of parchment, painstaking torn from his journal, all of his hopes reflected on. He knew his life as he knew it hung by one slender thread, her reception. But as he stared into the early morning sky, watching the sun peek over the horizon, he realized he didn't care. After so many years of constant restraint, of forbidden secrets, he knew he had one thing to be proud of. He loved her, had always loved her, and took pride in the fact. No one could make him feel guilty of it. He had banished the fears of yesterday, why should it be indecent? She was not a child, and if age was measured by maturity, had never been one. She was a woman, fair and beautiful, wise and delicate. And he loved her.
When the tiny owl had landed beside her plate, Hermione stared at it, as though in time her gaze would explain the inexplicable. Who would send a single piece of paper, tied with a ribbon of her favorite color? Her stomach twisted inside her, for she knew the answer before she touched the paper. But after yesterday, and his show of such utter disgust, what could he have written? An apology? But if it was, why must it be a public display? Why had he planned it so everyone watching would see her expression as she read it and know she was weeping inside? There were no answers she would receive until she unwound it and forced words to form from those many letters. And if he despised her? If her performance yesterday had proved to him that she was no better than the lowest animal, if he wished never to see her again, then what? The same fear that had encased her last night was present now. Never had she been rejected, never had she been so blatantly honest as yesterday. And if today he felt only scorn, then what? How could she live, her dreams shattered on the rocks of despair? How could she face him, everyday, sweeping past him in the hall, brushing against his robes? How could she bear his penetrating gaze during class, holding only malice? How could she now, knowing how she felt, knowing what these words might cost her, how could she read them? Because, she thought, because they might not be what I fear they are. They might not.....She tried to reassure herself as she unwound the parchment from it's delicate bearer. She unfolded it slowly, as if to forestall the inevitable. Inside she steeled herself against what she knew it must say. She was prepared, nothing could shock her, nothing but... Her eyes widened as they skittered over the words. She read them repeatedly, he heart threatening to burst as she digested the contents of that wonderful letter. Finally, convinced, her arm dropped to her side and she let out a laugh. A laugh devoid of contempt and ill humor, a sound such as the smallest child should utter. The sound of innocence, light, carefree and happy danced in the air. A sound that represented not mirth or joviality, but serenity. The sound of one that knows life is a gift and nothing could happen to prevent it from being such. Those around her wondered aloud. But Hermione was oblivious. The memory of those words danced in her head as she laughed. The one thing she had been unprepared for had taken her by surprise in a way nothing else could.
My dearest
It has been said that a love between two such as us would be indecent, a blemish upon the otherwise flawless beauty of life. For years this false pretense has kept me from declaring to you my love. I realize now that until this moment everything I have lived for has been irrelevant, worthless. To love you fully and in the way I wish is not a blemish, it is to erase all previous blemishes. Is it to sweep free the clutter of wasted time and start life anew. It is to be fully alive, fully whole, fully innocent. A man can only love whomever he respects, whomever he sees the brilliance of his values reflected in. In you I see everything I have tried, and failed, to live for. The beauty of competence, earned and granted, reassurance that all that comes from you is your best. The sweetness of innocence in it's highest form, the expression of a life lived as desired, no restrictions placed upon it. A depth of beauty, thrust proudly into the world, afraid of no ridicule. And pride. Pride in your accomplishments, proud that you are who you are. No apology in you for being as brilliant and successful as you are. That is what I love most. That you are never ashamed to admit your worth, never ready to denounce yourself and everything you have worked so hard for. You are the embodiment of perfection, and to love anyone less would be a disservice to anything I have ever valued.