𝐒𝐀𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄 || Severus Snape x OC ||

EPILOGUE

*.·:·.☽ ✧ ☾.·:·.*

It had been a few months after the battle of Hogwarts. Harry Potter, who heard news of Alice through Luna and the correspondence Alice kept with the fairy-like witch, spoke of what had happened and what the bravest man he ever knew went through all these years. It was Harry who stood his ground, not letting the Ministry come after Severus for the death of Dumbledore, and it was Harry who wrote to Alice, sending his regards to Severus, and telling her of his excitement that the witch planned to join the Ministry in hunting down dragon poachers. Harry didn't, of course, neglect to write to her about his new position as an Auror under Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt – without having to take his NEWTs. It had brought a mischievous smile to Alice's lips when she told Severus of Harry's decision to drop out of school. He might have played a crucial part in saving the world as the witches and wizards knew it, but to Snape's unconfessed fatherly gaze, Harry was— still— a high school dropout.

Alice could never get tired of the snarky, sarcastic wit of Severus that escaped his lips ever so often. Nor of his arching brow that foreshadowed the words that would leave his mouth. He still bore a faint scar on his neck from when the dark lord had once tried to kill him, and a raspy echo in his deep, soothing voice, laced his every word.

Alice was mindful and caring, helping him adjust slowly to the idea of a normal life, a happy life, one that he'd never before known. In truth, neither of them ever knew something like that. But they were finding their way, casting away the solitude and torment of the past, bit by bit each day.

There were times when Severus was quiet, closed, inscrutable, and a part of him dwelled on the past. And Alice would ease his mind, sitting on his lap, brushing his curtaining strands from his face, and tracing gentle kisses upon his lips, his cheeks, and his neck.

Other times, Alice would jump up in her sleep, panting from a nightmare. And Severus would wrap his arms around her, holding her tightly, soothing her, easing her heart with his shielding embrace and his silky, soothing, drawled murmurs.

And when they rolled between the sheets, more and more often as time went by, their bodies seeking each other, needing each other, there was nothing in the world to stand between them.

That Sunday morning, with the coming of Spring, Severus found Alice curled up in his threadbare armchair— whom Alice categorically continued to refuge to change— reading through one of his old, leatherbound books. Long legs folded and displayed, kissed by the gentle light of the sun, moving a little up and down against each other as the witch remained focused on the book's pages. That was her favourite spot in that little house at the borders of Hogsmeade. It was Severus who eyed it, and Alice who turned it into a home, salvaging of course from his old gloomy house on Spinner's End every single one of his books, the pictures of Severus's mother she'd found in an old, crooked tin box, and his threadbare armchair. What she found in that tattered piece of furniture he couldn't understand, but Alice's answer was always the same: "It tells a story".

Leaning against the doorway, Severus watched her reading, and a soft smirk tugged his lips to the side.

Winky inched closer to his side to ask if they needed anything, and Severus brought his index finger to his lips, gently hushing her so as not to draw Alice's attention.

Winky nodded and paced away without a sound. There was a little smile on the house-elf's lips. For she had a family now, and a loving home that treated her as an equal, not as a servant nor a slave. Her steps were swift and steady, and she had learnt to trust Severus more and more each day as he helped her through her journey out of her butterbeer addiction.

"Book to your liking?" the deep rumble from his chest claimed the witch's attention. She unfolded her bare legs, oblivious still of how the man enjoyed the view of her, curled up as she was on his armchair.