Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Everything	By : reapergirl Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 2917 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HARRY POTTER OR ITS CHARACTERS. I DO NOT MAKE PROFIT FROM THIS.

Chapter List
- 1-EVERYTHING
- 1
The man in the silver portrait on the wall shifted awake. His dark eyes reflected confusion, then understanding and a deep sadness not unlike her own. Though she couldn't see his curious contemplations, because her back was to him, she immediately felt his questioning eyes rest upon her.
Out of habit, she sat up straight, trying not to spill the drink in her hand as if she were once more in his potions class, waiting to be scolded for her carelessness. She feared, that even in death, he’d judge her harshly for being the mess she was. She only wanted to lose track of time and gaze, longingly, at the crackling fire.
“What plagues your mind?” the man in the portrait asked gently, and her heart clenched. She waited for a snarky follow-up comment, something like, “Breaking into the Headmaster’s office, Miss Granger? Your disregard for the rules astounds me,” but it never came. Instead, he said, “The noise in the castle indicates ongoing festivities, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Yes,” she said quietly and lifted the glass shakily to her lips to take a sip. She savored the smooth burn of the Firewhisky that slid down her throat. There was something else she savored more, however. “The festivities will extend well beyond this evening, I’m sure.”
If she were to turn around, she would see his smoldering black eyes, trying to peruse her mind like he used to be so skilled at doing. Tears trailed down her cheeks as she took another sip—a bigger sip.
“Then why, Miss Granger, are you up here alone?”
His baritone voice lulled through her. It had the same effect as the Firewhisky. Or, maybe, she had more to drink than she originally thought. A steady haze took over her mind, and her body hummed.
She slowly set the glass down on the table beside her and said, “I'm not much in the mood for celebrating.”
“Why not?” he drawled.
She mulled over his question. It shouldn’t have taken her so long to form a reasonable answer, but there she was, feeling more lost than ever. She shrugged her shoulders and said, “I have nothing to celebrate.”
“Is that so?” he growled. It was familiar, and she exhaled in relief as he continued bitingly, “You have nothing to celebrate? Not your life?”
She stood up from the couch, swaying slightly. She spun and finally met his eyes. But they weren’t his eyes. They were a recreation, a perfect embodiment, like the rest of him: pale skin, long black hair, a firm jaw, a crooked nose, and those damnable eyes. It’s too perfect, she thought morosely. How she wished, with everything she was, that he was real, and alive, and in reach. She wanted to touch him, hug, and scream at the real him for dying. The portrait of him would have to suffice.
“A life that is less worthy than those who died for it,” she snapped, glaring at him. She stumbled over to his portrait to be as close as possible. “I wasn’t meant to live but, please, professor, go on. Tell me how foolish and insufferable I’m being, floundering about in self-pity!”
He glared menacingly down at her. They were locked in a game, or a battle, of sorts. Neither of them could look away. If either did, it would mean the other was right. She didn’t want him to be right. Alive, he had always been right. She knew if it had been the real him, and not some portrait poser, she would’ve already averted her eyes. She would’ve already submitted to him like she’d always done. That wasn’t the case anymore because he was gone.
A moment later, his face relaxed, but his voice remained dark and firm as ever, “No need for me to say when you’re quite aware.”
Her eyes darted around his face frantically, waiting for something else. When no other biting remark came, she laughed. She turned away from him and laughed like a loon. She stumbled over to her drink and gulped the rest of it down, then faced him again, frowning.
“Of course,” she said icily, “what a Snape-like thing to say.”
“Surely, you understand. I only exist as an intimate collection of his thoughts, emotions, and memories before his death, Miss Granger. I’d never claim to be him.”
“I was wondering when the portrait would show itself,” she scoffed. “It’s nice to see you have a dual nature even in death, Professor.”
He scowled at her and growled, “Don’t you have anyone else to annoy, insolent girl?”
She frowned and said dejectedly, “No, I’m afraid not.” he studied her curiously with furrowed brows, so she added, “I’d like to stay a bit longer if you don’t mind—”
“I do—”
“That’s unfortunate,” she cut him off, “You see, I never got the chance to know you, though I’d like to.”
He gazed at her in disbelief for several heartbeats, then said, “Miss Granger, I don’t have the patience nor the—”
“Time?”
The silence was deafening. She watched the realization stretch across his face, making him even more pale if that were possible. Those black eyes held so much pain in that moment—pain that she didn’t think possible for a mere portrait—and it overwhelmed her.
She inhaled a sharp breath and looked away. She had to remind herself that is was a portrait and not the actual man. Witnessing that much emotion, however, made it difficult for her to reconcile the two. She wanted to confess her feelings so badly, but knew it wasn’t the right time. It probably would never be.
“It seems you have plenty of time, sir,” she said softly and looked up to be met with glossy eyes. She was struck by the image, and her heart clenched painfully. She wondered if he was going to cry. Could portraits cry?
He sighed in acquiescence, “So it seems,” he paused and asked, “What would you like to know?”
“Everything,” she whispered with barely contained excitement, and she thought she saw, for a short-lived moment, an upward twist of his lips. For her sanity, she chose to believe it was a trick of the light.
- 1
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