The Funeral portrait by the French Press, Chapter 1.
The tap drips. It's something she's been
meaning to have fixed for a while.
A note for the Superintendent of the building is stuck to the
fridge with a magnet. The hollow sound that rings
through the flat when the fat droplets beat against the metal
basin is rhythmic. Keys hit the ceramic bowl
they're stored in by the entry as she shoulders her way in,
arms laden with a crate she had not left with.
Her foot connects with the door, kicking it shut behind her as
she wanders through the sitting room.
Placing the wooden box down on her coffee table, Hermione drops
into the armchair before it, staring at the envelope resting
on top. The familiar spiky scroll spells
out her name across the front, and she feels her chest tighten
in response. While she'd been sitting in the
Ministry legal offices earlier, her heart had felt so squeezed
she could hardly breathe. The official handed her the
crate and the envelope before she was sent packing.
It all felt very cold and perfunctory to her.
There is a lump in her throat as she swallows, tongue darting out
to wet her lips. She hasn't cried today.
She'd expected to cry, but nothing came.
The reading of his will had come late, despite how long ago the
funerals for the fallen had been held.
Snatching up the envelope, her thumb traces over her name, the
texture of it rough against her smooth skin.
She feels a little sick now that the numbness has worn off.
It helped that she'd been able to get through the first half of
the day with her occulancy Shields raised.
Now she drops all of her mental Shields.
It's far too draining to maintain such complicated spell
for more than a few hours at a time.
Now she is alone at her flat with no one but her thoughts for
company. She has a box full of his
personal effects and belongings sitting on the coffee table
before her and no idea what to do with it all.
Now she is well and truly alone in the world.
All she has left of him is contained within that crate.
She sighs softly, the otherwise empty room echoing the sound
back to her. Her fingernail catches the seal
on the back of the envelope and she flicks it open.
He's left her a novella. His black, spiky script is small
and evenly spaced across the parchment before her.
Despite the deep ache growing within her as her emotions
return, she smiles at the sight of it.
It's been two months since the last time she has seen it.
It's been two months since the war ended, and once again,
everything was flipped on its head.
It's been the two longest months of her life learning to live
without him. A SOB catches in her throat at
the thought. Closing her eyes, she can feel
the burn as she tries to regain her composure.
Sucking in a sharp breath, Hermione gazes at the top of the
page and begins to read. Hermione, if you are reading
this, then I am gone and my will has been read.
I never meant for you to have to see the end of this mess on your
own. I have no doubt perished in some
undignified fashion at the hands of a brute bent on retribution
for my defection from the cause, though I hope that is not the
case. Perhaps you are wondering why I
have bequeathed most, if not all my earthly belongings into your
hands. To explain that, we must go back
to the very beginning and hopefully it will afford you
some clarity. You already know of my past and
the unfortunate repercussions that came as a result of my
friendship with Lily Potter and the unforgivable things I said
to her in my shame and anger. But I did not address the times
I was compelled to be unkind towards you as a student.
I justified my behaviour at the time with the pathetic excuse of
trying to maintain some sort of charade for the Dark Lord.
This might have been true, but at any rate, I was in a position
of authority over you at the time, and my treatment of you
was not befitting that of an educator.
For all the times I belittled your intelligence, made cruel
jokes about your abilities, or insulted you, for any of the
times I made you feel lesser, I sincerely apologize.
I am truly sorry for any harm I caused with my callousness.
I know you are likely to attempt to absorb some of the blame, but
you were a child then, and you were blameless.
You did not deserve it then, and you do not deserve what has
happened to you since as a result of the war.
There are innumerable other things I should likely be
apologising for. Not in the least for all the
times I could have been kind to you.
But I chose to hold you at arm's length.
I berated you, lectured you, lied by omission, yet you bore
it all like no one else could. I should have come clean about
my sentiments, but I was a coward and I used the waging war
as an excuse to continue to guard myself.
That you are reading this now means I was wise to do so, if
only to save us both from pain. I should have told you that I am
enthralled by you, Hermione Granger, as I have seldom been
by anyone else. I should have told you that I am
fond of your eyes and your warmth, and there were many
times I wanted to bask in your glow and forget about the rest
of the world. I should have told you that you
are the smartest, bravest, most beautiful which I have ever
known, and my fool heart has given itself to you.
Even if you had rejected me outright, I at least wouldn't
have died never knowing what you might have said in response.
It has been an honour to know you, Hermione.
I know my possessions are meagre, but I will all of them
to you. At the very least, I hope we
were able to make our world a safer place for you to live in
before I died. Please forgive me, Hermione, for
all the many ways I wronged and failed you over the years.
Yours always, Severus Snape As the parchment falls from her
fingers toward the coffee table, one of her hands cups over her
mouth to muffle the sobs threatening to escape.
Tears run down Hermione's face as she blinks them away.
She can't see, she can barely breathe, and there's a ringing
in her ears as her emotions pour out of her.
The ache in her chest is angry and raw, almost as if he'd died
again while she read the letter. He loved her, she thinks as the
waves of sadness continue to buff at her.
He loved her, she thinks, as she mourns what could have been.
He loved her, she thinks as her heart breaks anew, swiping
furiously at the outpouring of tears which coat her face.
She's sure she looks a wreck, but finds it difficult to care.
She loves him still, and this feeling within her of unbearable
loneliness, of having her last remaining friend taken from her,
of the unrequited love that still endures within her.
Love which will never abate. She gasps now.
Huge sobbing breaths come rapidly and a panic attack feels
imminent. The crying continues until she
feels empty and there are no tears left within her to shed.
The flat now feels unbearably small as she lifts his letter
off the floor where it had slid down.
With trembling hands, she folds it as carefully as she can
before tucking it into the envelope.
She makes a silent vow to keep it for when she needs a reminder
that Severus Snape loved her. Hermione has no energy left to
go through his belongings now, so she leaves the letter and the
crate on the coffee table as she wanders hollowly around her
flat. She goes through the motions,
but there is no conviction behind any of her movements.
She feels like an empty shell, a ghost, and can't imagine that
it's likely to change anytime soon.
The sobs continue on and off throughout the evening until she
crawls into her bed and passes out from sheer exhaustion.
In the morning, she wakes with puffy eyes she can barely open.
It's from the wine and the crying.
She isn't normally a drinker, but she had justified herself
that the revelations of last night had warranted it.
Sharp, loud knocking sounds from her front door, and Hermione
groans as the noise makes her throbbing head feel as though
it's been put through a wood chipper.
Pulling her dressing gown around her, Hermione passes a mirror in
the hall on her way to answer the door.
She looks worse than she feels. Disgruntled, she drags her feet
as she goes to the door. There isn't anything she can do
now. At the door, she clears her dry
throat, wishing for some forethought with regards to her
drinking from last night before. In vain.
The door swings open and Hermione is immediately frozen
in place. Her body trembles
uncontrollably, and her fingers itch to reach out and touch the
man standing before her, if only to confirm that he is there.
It isn't real, she reminds herself.
He remains silent and impassive as her eyes dart over him.
He looks exactly the same, but now the hair at his temples is
shot liberally with silver S savers.
She can't help the stammer of her voice.
She must be hallucinating. A small smirk appears at the
corners of his mouth and she nearly swoons.
Hermione. He breathes, his voice quiet.
You died, She finally says, putting voice to one of the
questions swirling through her mind.
It's chaos, but she needs to know, because she's just spent
the better part of the past two months mourning him.
It did appear that way, yes. How?
His smile is wider now, a story best told inside perhaps.
He crooks a dark eyebrow at her and her heart skips a beat.
Merlin, she has missed him. Hermione steps aside and before
he can walk inside, right before she can second guess herself as
she always does, she throws her arms around his neck.
He grunts softly as he catches her and soon their lips are
connected, meeting gently as tears flood her eyes once more.
They kiss like two people who have been walking the desert
without a drop of rain. When they part for him to walk
the rest of the way into the flat, Hermione stops him once
more with a gentle hand flat over his heart, having him
essentially come back from the dead.
She doesn't want any more secrets.
I love you. The words leave her mouth and
hang in the air between them. He smiles again, his Obsidian
eyes sparkling with the warmth of which his letter claims she
is comprised. Severus isn't so guarded now.
The lines of stress and exhaustion are mostly faded.
There is still an important conversation to be had, but for
now, she is filled with relief. I love you too.
Time grinds to a halt as everything else fades into the
background as she beholds him. It matters not if there is a
leaky tap, nor that their conditions are hardly ideal, or
that matters is that he is here. Why did he wait until now?
It's been a week since he showed up at her door and they were so
distracted how Miney forgot to ask the important questions.
She turns over to lie on her side so she can face him on the
bed, uncaring that the sheet covering her slips down from her
movement. His dark eyes fix on her face
before he shifts towards her, one of his long arms wrapping
around her middle. It wasn't safe before, he tells
her. I needed to be certain things
would settle the right way after the war, that you would be taken
care of. You weren't planning to come
back, were you? She asks.
Severus shakes his head. I was not, but you did.
A smile curves his lips. I did that letter.
I wrote that letter the week before things came to an end, he
says, cutting her off. I wanted you to have the letter
because you deserve the apology that was written in it.
I am not very practised at apologising to people, but you
always deserved 1 and I thought it would be the easiest way.
I told you that I loved you in the letter because I wasn't
planning to return, but after I knew you received it, I knew I
wouldn't be able to keep myself away.
I missed you. She knows exactly how he feels
after living together in that safe house, just the two of them
for so long. Even her tiny flat felt empty
before. Now Hermione feels a sob rising
in her throat, and as it unwillingly escapes her, he
tightens his hold, tucking her head beneath his chin.
His long fingers stroke her back as the tears escape her once
more and she cries, the tears falling under his skin between
them. Severus came back for her.
He could have escaped this world and his old life, but he chose
to come back. It takes a few minutes for her
tears to subside, and when she looks up at him, his face bears
a mask of concern. She smiles to reassure him,
leaning up to press a kiss to his willing, yes, willing lips.
So willing, in fact, that he gently pushes her onto her back
and tangles his long fingers in her hair as he presses his wiry
body between her thighs. So willing that his lips travel
over all of her exposed skin as he takes his time to memorize
her taste. So willing that he chants her
name over and over as they move as one and find their completion
together. After his magic whispers over
her skin as he cleanses away the evidence of their activity,
Hermione moves close to him again, grateful that she can
press her nose against the spot where his neck and shoulder
meet, breathing in the scent that is wholly his, her breath
tickling his skin. His deep, rumbling chuckle
vibrates through her, and she loves it.
She never got to hear it all that much before, and now she
plans to give him as many reasons as she can to make that
sound. He picks up the book that
they've been reading together from the night stand, turning it
open to where he'd left off reading the night before.
Death strode away, stopped, and came back.
He pointed A skeletal finger at the duck man.
Why? He said.
Why are you walking around with that duck?
What duck, ma? Sorry.
Tears of mirth fill her eyes as she laughs at his impressions as
he speaks. Soul music is a favorite of hers
from the early years at Hogwarts, and she is thrilled
that he seems to be enjoying it. Also, he refused to read it when
they were stuck together in the safe house, but now she knows
why he was trying so hard to distance himself from her.
They still have so much to discuss, but for now, she knows
that he is here to stay and she no longer has to worry that
he'll disappear. She wonders vaguely if this is
some elaborate hoax her mind is playing on her, a beautiful
dream it has concocted to protect her from the reality of
actually losing him. Hermione finds she doesn't care
much if this is a dream. She is content to live in it
forever. Flicking the end of his
cigarette with his thumbnail to knock off the ash, he lifts it
to his mouth to draw in another lung full of acrid smoke, an old
habit he recently picked up again.
It isn't long before he reaches the end, crushing it into the
stones of the cobbled path he is crouching upon.
Closing his hand around the butt, it is disposed of with a
whispered spell. He walks the short distance
towards the hospital, away from a corner he smokes at, entering
through the main doors. The receptionist, Elsie, greets
him with a small wave and a nod. He comes here every day, so they
know him well by now. The lift takes him up to the 4th
floor and he disembarks to follow the same path he always
takes. He stops in front of the room at
the end of the hall. Originally, her room had been a
little closer to the healer station in case there was a
sudden need for medical attention, but her condition
hasn't changed in months, and now her room is located in one
of those furthest away. Severus knows what this means.
They've given up on her. He peers into the room through
the little glass window from the other side of the door.
She is as she has been every day for the past six months.
Her eyes are shut, eyebrows scrunched together like she is
in pain. He knows there is no physical
pain, the healers made certain of that.
No matter what they try, she is unreceptive to it.
Back again Sir. The voice jolts him out of his
thoughts as his eyes dart to the left from where it originates.
Padma Patil is 1 of Hermione's healers, and if it is a choice
between her and her Gryffindor twin, Severus would choose this
one, no questions asked. In the beginning, he had been
embarrassed at being caught visiting her.
Now he no longer cares. The only thing important to him
is the witch lying in a coma in the room before them.
Healer Patil. His voice is gruff.
She is the first person he's spoken to all day, and he is
almost certainly dehydrated. No changes, I assume?
Padma shakes her head. No, Sir.
He shouldn't be surprised, but every day he returns, he allows
himself a moment to hope in vain that something has changed.
Nodding at the young healer, Severus gazes back into the
room. Padma takes this as her cue to
leave. He is grateful the witch never
lingers or asks too many questions when he is there.
He stands around the outside of the room for a while, trying to
get his emotions in check. The lump in his throat makes it
difficult to swallow and he shoves his clammy hands into his
pockets to dry them before pushing the door open.
His chair is awaiting him by her bedside, and he assumes it
quietly. Her hand rests limply above the
bed covers, and when he wraps his fingers around them, they
are cool and unresponsive. His chest feels tight, a deep
ache that settles in his gut like a stone.
Hello, Hermione. He says aloud.
Speaking to her is part of his daily ritual now, and even
though she gives no indication of having heard him, he does it
every time. Breathing shallowly, he pulls A
shrunken copy of soul music from deep within his pockets and
starts to read aloud. Hermione once told him she
enjoyed listening to him speak, muttering something about
wanting him to read a Muggle phone book.
So he reads to her every day, allowing himself to imagine for
a moment that things are different.
You could say to the universe that this is not fair.
And the universe would say, oh, isn't it sorry?
You could save people. You could get there in the nick
of time and something could snap its fingers and say, no, it has
to be this way. Let me tell you how it has to
be. The words catch in his throat
and he has to pause in his reading to summon a glass of
water. As he drinks, he also swallows
back the tidal wave of emotions that threaten to spill over.
He refused to read this book several times when Hermione
offered it to him during their time in the safe house.
Now he is filled with regret over one more thing he felt he
should have done while he still had the chance.
On the day the war ended six months ago, Severus had searched
for Hermione after the battle was won, only to discover she'd
been struck down by a curse. Now she is locked away inside
her mind, trapped in a dream that even his skill with
Legilimacy cannot breach. The healers might have given up
on her already, but Severus won't.
He still works tirelessly on a potion that might one day
restore her to consciousness. After he finishes reading a
chapter, Severus pauses to gaze at the woman he loves.
Her eyes are closed and she always looks more peaceful after
he's been reading to her. His throat feels like it might
close up as he looks over her. Each visit he is filled with
anger at the situation and himself.
He should have told her he loves her long ago.
Now he might never have the chance.
Instead of dwelling on his foolish feelings for the woman
in the bed, he continues to read to her until his throat becomes
dry and the daylight beyond the windows dims.
Severus leaves her room after giving her hand another gentle
squeeze, every time hoping that her fingers will return the
gesture each time. Disappointed.
When they remain still, he leaves the room and with a final
glance at Hermione on his way out, Severus walks back the way
he came. Padma is at the Healer's station
when he passes and smiles up at him as they both stand there.
It's impossible to not admit to themselves that even with the
tireless work and a desire to heal her, Hermione Granger might
never awaken. I won't give up on her either,
Sir, she tells him. He is surprised by her words and
inclines his head. Thank you.