Old Sins, Long Shadows

Arrivederci Roma

The sun splashed against the window. Morning refused to be held back. No matter. He had his memories of their night together, long and lingering, blossoming, passionate.

His eyes fell over her, savouring every curve, across mounds and valleys, ridges and flatlands. The precipice that took him tumbling into the ravine.

His lips brushed the line of her jaw.  Trailing a light touch down her shoulder, his fingers glided to her wrist before his hand covered hers in a soft caress. 

Her eyes fluttered, her smile was pure contentment. Without looking back over her body, voice in-between waking and sleep, she murmured,

"Snape, are you staring at me?"

"Mmm, Obviously."

"What's obvious about it?"

"Obvious because you asked. Obviously, you perceived someone staring at you. Obviously, I'm the only other person in the room."

Severus playfully glanced around the room, even lifting a mass of curls to peer underneath,

"Ergo, obviously I was staring at you."

Hermione chuckled,

"That's a very impelling response."

He kissed her shoulder,

"Thank you. Despite popular opinion, I can be quite persuasive."

"I doubt there is any magical being alive that would dispute that."

She turned onto her back, staring up into his black eyes. Upon further inspection, in the light, his eyes were a rich dark chocolate brown, the 70% cocoa blend, melting into the intense blackness that were his pupils. 

She traced the high ridge of his cheekbone,

"So, why are you staring at me?"

"I've forgotten."

She blithely slapped his shoulder. He sat up,

"It's our last full day in Rome. Ready for more sights?" 

Her eyes moved along the line of his body in profile. Long, lean, firm muscles padding over bone, solid structure strengthened by taut sinew, wrapped in the cording of his veins. As he leant a bit forward to rest his arms on his knees her eyes fell upon the full landscape of his back. 

He felt a delicate touch at his shoulder blade. He tensed. Might as well see it all now, be disgusted now, reject him now...rather than later after he had fallen for her completely, body and soul.

She sighed seductively,

"Or we could stay here...in bed...all day."

He swallowed, releasing the breath he had been holding. He was not ashamed of his scars. He had gotten over the shame a long time ago thanks to a Paris psychiatrist. During those psychoanalytical sessions he had come to realise that his scars symbolized perseverance, determination, courage in the face of extreme violence. Victory over unspeakable horrors, traumas that had killed other men...and women. He had survived some of Evil's worst. His scars, inside and out, made him stronger. 

It was not his fault if others saw them differently, saw him as repulsive. Their ignorance, and prejudice, were their problem.

He didn't look at her. He had seen pity in other eyes...he did not want to see it in hers,

"What about Rome?"

She had a few scars of her own. The thin pink line at her throat was thanks to that blackhearted Bellatrix. The scar across her breasts which, through the auspices of sheer dumb luck, was now only faintly visible . Both were a reminder of her own strength of character.