A/N: Suffering from Snarryian withdrawal symptoms is not the most pleasant of things ;-D Allow me to welcome you to my brand-new Snarry story! I find it hard to believe that this is my fifth one! Once again, thank you for following Tears of Healing, and I am looking forward to another journey with you as I write When You Touch Me. In fact, by reading and reviewing my stories, you write along with me, too. Updates and info can, as usual, be found on my Snarry blog (cf. profile page). Hugs, Steppi. PS: Harry's utterances are indicated in slashes – because they are telepathic ;-)


Your eyes are black. In figurative speech, especially, darkness is portrayed as the embodiment of ignorance, blundering and evil. It is ridiculous. For me, black is the colour of knowledge. Of life. Of love. I just have to look into your eyes or run my hands through your long black hair and I know that I'm right.

Yesterday, I observed that it really ought to be written down. The whole story. Although I really don't know where to begin. It's the usual problem. It's kind of like trying to find the beginning of the beginning. You smiled that special smile which only I have the privilege of witnessing. You stooped and whispered into my ear, saying that I should start right away.

I have just finished attending this evening's teaching class and now I'm nibbling at my quill and dog-earing a piece of parchment. I hear your footsteps behind me; you have finished grading the first-year-students' Potions essays. You end up seducing me away from my timid attempts to set down our story on parchment and make sure that the whole of me responds to your touch - like an entranced listener to Orpheus's music.

"Something to add to the chronicles of our life. Perhaps for the epilogue," you drawl to me afterwards, your arm wrapped around me. I look into your eyes, and I see it all there. Love. Life. Two things you never had, as you told me when Spinner's End was destroyed – Sinner's End, as you called it with that trademark cynicism of yours.

I inform you that there is no epilogue.

"What is there then?" you whisper to me. Your breath is gentle, and for some reason or the other, I think of a dandelion spore floating on a breeze, or a dust mote drifting and whirling in the air.

/How about an endless beginning?/ I suggest. You laugh and run your fingers through my hair. Laughing genuine happy laughter is something you never used to do. Until the two of us, of all people, ended up getting married. It was Dumbledore's fault, of course…and one of his more infamously brilliant brainwaves.