Snamione One Shots

Eternal Nightcap

The thought of freedom was strange, a word known but not really understood, having never been appreciated. And it was certainly not something Severus Snape, of all people, deserved.

-

Someone asked him once what he would do when the war was over.
He fixed his face with a well-known sneer and told them he hated Divination and dared not hope such a day would come to pass in his lifetime.

The concept of peace was frightening to one whose entire adult life had been lived in war. Those eleven years of bogus amity brought no respite for a man gambling on both sides of the coin; they only served to widen the chasm between himself and his awkward allies.

Sitting quietly in his chambers, two weeks after the Boy-Who-Lived did just that, he wondered what life would be like for the next generation of young witches and wizards. Growing up in a world of peace was as foreign a concept to him as those Muggle metal boxes filled with moving pictures.

The thought of freedom was strange, a word known but not really understood, having never been appreciated. And it was certainly not something he, of all people, deserved. There was no freedom for a heavy conscience. No peace in life for the damned. Hell would be a welcome respite, for no matters of the mind weighed on the souls of the dead.

Those who had thought him to be a friend had gone before him… many by his own wand, his own hand. Those who had fought shoulder to shoulder with him were the same people he had alienated himself from for the past twenty years. He had made a point of belittling and ridiculing them at every opportunity. Was it any wonder they eyed him suspiciously when he was looking, whispered baseless theories of twisted betrayal when he wasn't?

Certainly, the portrait of an old fool would smile with twinkling eyes and assure him he was blameless in the deaths of so many. Young fools would stare at him and whisper behind his back, positive his last-gasp display of power against the Dark Lord had been a means only to save his own skin, when the victor of the battle was all but known.

Of those left alive, only she knew the whole truth.

Only she understood who he really was, when all masks had been cast aside. Only she looked at him with compassion that could not be mistaken for pity, trust in place of hate, and, dare he even speak the word aloud, love.

Eighteen months had passed since the first night she had come to his aid. Eighteen long months of war, death and pain. Through it all, she had been the constant, the one thing that always remained, grounding him, bringing him back from the brink of his very sanity, chafed and battered by events of the present and memories of the past.

But that was over now, too.

The war had been won, and she was free.

Free to live her life beyond the sheltered walls of Hogwarts, free to be with whomever she chose.

He had never expected to survive the war; he had never wanted to, until she gave him a reason to exist.

She needed him, she had said. She loved him.

He'd foolishly told her she was too young to know what love was, and, if she survived the war, to experience the real world before making such brash proclamations.

She had brushed off his words as insecurity at the time, and so even in his doubt he hadn't expected her to take his words to heart.

He hadn't seen her since she'd finally been discharged from the Hospital Wing two days ago; he had confined himself to the solitude of his rooms, rather than have to face her inevitable departure from his life; it disturbed him how much he missed her already. Her absence was a painful reminder she had other, dearer friends to be with.