Disclaimer :

Harry Potter belongs to J. K. Rowling.

I am making no profit.

Nor am I claiming creation or ownership of anything Harry Potter related.

All of it is J. K. Rowling's, or Bloomsbury Books, or the WB's, or whomever's.

It's not mine.


Author Notes

The focus of my Harry Potter fan fiction a romantic relationship between:

The Potions Master, Professor Severus Snape, and Hermione Granger.

Please note that the age of consent where they live is sixteen (16).

However, in my stories the younger (Hermione Granger) of the two, is over the age of eighteen (18) BEFORE any romantic relationship develops.

Remember, not only is she a birth year older then her classmates; she gained years, and expirience, with her use of a Time-Turner as well.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

In my stories, (I am only speaking about my fan fiction and it's characters) the Potions Master, Professor Severus Snape and Hermione Granger are completely equal in their relationship, on all levels; emotional, intellectual, etceteras. Severus' emotional development is a bit delayed, no doubt because of his past. Whereas, Hermione is very advanced for her age. You will find that in my stories, she is no longer a student of his, prior to the development of their relationship. When she was his student, Professor Snape hardly noticed anything about her, other then her incessent hand raising. He was never a mentor to her, they were not friends, or close in any way when she was young. They never knew anything about each other, except for the fact that the other existed and was an annoyance.

There is no harm being done to either party in their relationship, on any level including; psychological, emotional, and physical.

(Nor is their relationship harming anyone else.)

Far fetched?
However, that is why they call it fan fiction.

With that said, if you are still interested, please read on!

This ficlet has not been beta read.
There is nothing nice here,
nothing nice at all.
This way lies madness and serious character death.


When I was a child my mother would take me to the library once a week, on Saturday. I would check out the maximum number of books allowed. I always had them read in the first couple of days. I had re-read them all by Wednesday or Thursday. It was one one of those Wednesdays, and I had just finished re-reading a book on Victorian customs. I was fascinated by their complex mourning customs and rituals. The book set me to thinking about death. It was that day, when I was seven, that I made up my game.

I would play death. I know it sounds morbid, but really, it was just a very innocent attempt to understand life and death. I would lie on my back completely still. A flower between my hands, hands that were crossed on my chest. I would close my eyes and pretend that I was in a coffin many feet under the ground. To my child's mind death was equated with eternal sleep. I thought that one would lie there and think, perhaps sleep a bit. That was it. It was an innocent pass time. A means to understanding, nothing more.

I am no longer a child. I am long past innocence. Yet today I play death. Yesterday I played death. Tomorrow I will play death again. The game is no longer innocent. I understand death now. Oh, I don't pretend to know what happens after the body ceases to function. I don't know what death is to the dead, but I know what death is to the living. I know what death is to me.

I lie here now in my heavy black robes of Henrietta cloth, covered entirely with crape. I never remove my widow's cap with the long crape veil. Only the white of my collar and cuffs relieve the stark blackness. More then four years have gone by now, but I will never change my attire. It is an honour and a tribute to my husband. My mourning clothes echo his mode of daily dress through his life. His clothes. One of his ensembles lays beside me. I charmed it to retain his unique and wonderful scent, it will never fade. A blend of spices and herbs, commonly used in potions. They say scent is the strongest trigger of memory. Now my existence is spent in my memories, and memory drivenfantasies. Yes I know it's not real, but most times I can believe it's real.

My old friends think me quite mad, and perhaps I am. I lie here and pretend that I have been buried with my husband in the Muggle fashion. That we lie together under the fragrant earth. Even though I have never heard of a coffin for two, it's my fantasy world, and I will make it to suit me. I talk to him as if he were here beside me, in those carefully preserved clothes.

"Dearest heart," I say. "They came again this morning, that's why I had to leave you for a while."

People do come. Sometimes I recognise them, mostly I don't. I know they were my friends when I was alive, when he was alive, when we were alive. Oh I still breathe, my heart still beats a painful rhythm in my chest. I am no ghost. You see I promised him. In order to give him ease, I swore to him that I would not take my own life.

I know he wanted me to live on, to move on. Just as I know he would understand and forgive me for not doing so.

I take out the lock of his hair I clipped from his dear head before his final resting ritual all that time ago. I stoke this silky blue-black hair and find a measure of comfort. I wear it always in a phial, strung around my neck under my mourning raiment.

Midgey enters the room. She is the one who maintains this place for me. She was our, and she is still, head elf. She wouldn't take clothes. She served my husband's family for years. She is very old and she was important to him. She was the light in his horrible childhood. I now barely tolerate her brief daily appearances. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate her. It is just that I want to be left alone with my memories, my thoughts, my reminders of him. Midgey is good though, she doesn't interrupt me much. She cares for my corporeal needs, helping me keep my promise. The promise that brings me only intense pain. But I gave him that promise and I will honour it.

I eat what Midgey offers mechanically, while she magically dusts all my pictures of him, of us. She takes care of my place, this room. She respects it. It was our bedchamber, his and mine. He is everywhere here. When we were in here there was only us. We had other rooms, still do, but I prefer to stay in here. It is the place where we could be together without intrusion. When we were in here there was only he and I, no one else in the world existed. It was our retreat: we'd talk; we'd read; we'd make love; we'd just be together in here. So here is where I choose to stay. It is sacred. A few rude people who have pushed their way in here in recent times have accused me of making this room into a shrine. That is not so. It is just where I go to surround myself with my reminders, with the physical things that I have left of him. More then one has tried to take me from here, but I will not be moved. Here is where I will stay. Blessedly submerged in my memories, weaving my fantasies, creating my own reality in which he still resides.

Midgey knows, she understands. I have finished the food she brought me, what it was I cannot say. I no longer have a real sense of taste. I only taste in my memories. I only taste in my mind, I taste what we ate together.

Midgey gives me wine now. I drink some and it is done for today. This has been my routine for more then four years now. I eat and drink what Midgey brings. I do this only to maintain my promise to him. That cursed promise to not take my own life.

Midgey leaves, taking the tray with her but leaving my unfinished wine.

"We are alone at last my love," I breathe.

It has been a difficult day. I had to leave my sacred space to go to the people who broke the wards. There were many. They called a name, "Hermione!" I know it was, it is, my name. I will never respond to it unless I hear it in his voice. His voice. Sometime later they spoke to me, some words I heard; "unhealthy, obsession, not right, wasting." Most words I didn't hear. Why wouldn't they leave me in peace? I didn't respond to them. I wanted them to be quiet, to be gone. I only wanted, I only want, I will only ever want, to remember. I need to concentrate on his voice, his hands, his eyes, him.

I couldn't see their faces and they could not see me through my veil. No one may see me if he cannot. I wear this veil for him. It is an outward symbol, it reinforces the fact that I am not here. Why can't they ever just see that I am not here. I am with him, I always will be. Even if it is only in my mind, I am with him. Once someone tried to remove my veil. I can't feel with my body anymore, no touch is perceived by my senses. But when they tried to take my veil off, it felt like they were pulling my very skin off. The terror, the agony, was unbearable. I screamed, and screamed, and screamed. No one has tried since. I hear these shadows who say they want to help me. They refuse to understand that I do not need help. I wish they would leave me alone. I hate coming out, even with my veil on.

But I did, I sat in the other room while they talked nonsense that I could not take the time to understand. They don't understand I need that time, all my time to be spent in thoughts of him. There is nothing else for me. Why won't they understand that? Which room this was in, I am not sure. All of my self was centred on getting back here. I cannot bear to be away. It is a physical pain to be out of this room. Away from all that I have left of him.

Pain. He suffered so much in his life. He endured so much pain. We had so little time together, seventeen years. That's all. What is that to a witch and wizard? Seventeen years together. We should have had at least a hundred and fifty, at least! perhaps more. He was only thirty-six when we really saw each other for the first time. And I, I was eighteen. I only had seventeen years with my love. These four years since, they don't count. My life's counting stopped when his did. Seventeen years is all we had: seventeen short years to ease his tortured body; to soothe his tormented soul; to admire his brilliant mind; to cherish all of him and to give him all my love. It was not enough, not enough.

My breathing is difficult. This isn't normal. What could it be? I finish my wine. The wine. I don't taste or feel anymore, but I can still smell. The goblet smells odd.

Midgey returns. She speaks to me. That is not normal either.

"Good Missus. You drinks your wine. Midgey waited. She waited for Master's sake, he would have wanted Midgey to make sure. After four years, I is sure. Missus hurting doesn't stop. Missus hurting will never stop. Missus wants to end her hurting but Missus doesn't. Missus promised the Master she wouldn't, and Missus loves the Master. Missus does what makes the Master happy. Just like the Master always did what made his Missus happy. Now Midgey make Missus happy. Midgey send Missus to Master. Not to worry, Midgey will come with Missus to care for her and Master."

I see Midgey uncork a phial and drink. "I may be a few minutes behind Missus but I come," she says. "This is Master's work. Master make everything perfect. The right amount of this potion heal. But take to much and nothing heal you. As much as we take Missus... We will see Master soon. Midgey promises. Soon Missus be with Master and Missus not hurt anymore. Missus close eyes, Midgey will sit with you."

I reach toward my favourite photo of him. Midgey hands it to me. I clutch it to my chest.

I can barely hear Midgey as she says, "Not long now Missus." She strokes my brow soothingly.

I am so sleepy. I am drifting off.

Only my whisper was heard, "Severus..."

finite fabula