Disclaimer: Not my characters, please don't sue.
A/N: My first finished fanfic. I'm working on a few others, but they won't be up for a while. Please rate, tell me how to make it better if you choose to flame. Thoughts italicised. Note: From Severus Snape's POV. Some of the sentences are run-on, and I realize this after the fact. I still like the story, though.
You're gone; you left me, Miss Granger. My thoughts reminded me, as I gazed into the fire, trying to forget the pain and the emptiness, using the name I used for her in class; trying not to remember the love we had for each other, and the stupid things that love made her do. I express the only way I know how anymore; I pick up the polished blade, fingering the ornate handle; no longer wanting the blade to be the orange of the fire, but the crimson of my blood. You were surprised when you realized that my blood was red, that I was human; not the cruel, heartless monster always assumed by the other students.
I'd been discovered to be a spy, and instead of hurting me, the Dark Lord chose to kill the only person who had gotten past my cold veneer. I could have saved you. But I had been a coward, and instead of facing his wrath, I hid; and in doing so put you, my only loved one, in danger. How could I have been so stupid? Yet you made me promise, your last dying breath, not to waste the life I'd been given. So, no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't drink that potion that I had brewed in case I wanted a permanent escape; thus making me live this half, cursed life. And, like always, Potter had to play the hero, and avenge your death.
I took the blade, and brought it down close to my arm to cut away at the skin, already a patchwork of scars. Just before the kiss of blade to skin, I remembered...
The last time I had done this, you'd been upset; you always were whenever I had a new cut. The routine was always the same, our parts as lines from a play. I'd argue that it was an accident this time; but you always knew better. You hated it and asked me to stop, but I'd never promised.
I got up off my armchair in front of the fire and returned the blade back to it's scarlet velvet box, closed the lid, and finally locking it with a skeleton key (I've always thought that ironic, the skeleton key, considering how many times I've considered suicide while holding that blade) with a click that resounded through the dungeons.
You can't fall from the floor, I mused, as I returned to the faux-leather armchair basking in the minute warmth of the fire. I gazed into the dancing, sorrowful, purging flames, and for the first time in a very long time, I put my head in my hands and allowed the healing tears to flow.
A/N: My first finished fanfic. I'm working on a few others, but they won't be up for a while. Please rate, tell me how to make it better if you choose to flame. Thoughts italicised. Note: From Severus Snape's POV. Some of the sentences are run-on, and I realize this after the fact. I still like the story, though.
You're gone; you left me, Miss Granger. My thoughts reminded me, as I gazed into the fire, trying to forget the pain and the emptiness, using the name I used for her in class; trying not to remember the love we had for each other, and the stupid things that love made her do. I express the only way I know how anymore; I pick up the polished blade, fingering the ornate handle; no longer wanting the blade to be the orange of the fire, but the crimson of my blood. You were surprised when you realized that my blood was red, that I was human; not the cruel, heartless monster always assumed by the other students.
I'd been discovered to be a spy, and instead of hurting me, the Dark Lord chose to kill the only person who had gotten past my cold veneer. I could have saved you. But I had been a coward, and instead of facing his wrath, I hid; and in doing so put you, my only loved one, in danger. How could I have been so stupid? Yet you made me promise, your last dying breath, not to waste the life I'd been given. So, no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn't drink that potion that I had brewed in case I wanted a permanent escape; thus making me live this half, cursed life. And, like always, Potter had to play the hero, and avenge your death.
I took the blade, and brought it down close to my arm to cut away at the skin, already a patchwork of scars. Just before the kiss of blade to skin, I remembered...
The last time I had done this, you'd been upset; you always were whenever I had a new cut. The routine was always the same, our parts as lines from a play. I'd argue that it was an accident this time; but you always knew better. You hated it and asked me to stop, but I'd never promised.
I got up off my armchair in front of the fire and returned the blade back to it's scarlet velvet box, closed the lid, and finally locking it with a skeleton key (I've always thought that ironic, the skeleton key, considering how many times I've considered suicide while holding that blade) with a click that resounded through the dungeons.
You can't fall from the floor, I mused, as I returned to the faux-leather armchair basking in the minute warmth of the fire. I gazed into the dancing, sorrowful, purging flames, and for the first time in a very long time, I put my head in my hands and allowed the healing tears to flow.