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The darkness surrounds me	By : lilith395 Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 1898 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters. I don't get any payment from this story

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The knock at my door sounds like it had so many times before. I do not want to open it. I never want to. But I always do. It’s been a while since the final battle, but I have no idea exactly how long. I know I have mildly recovered. Meaning I am home and am only pestered by Poppy once a week for my check-up, and I can wallow in peace. Or, I had hoped.

The darkness in my mind and my heart have not lifted, and I have lost my ability to find pleasure in anything. I cannot find my peace of mind in my books anymore, and my lab has accumulated a large layer of dust. So has everything else around me. Both my house and myself have been neglected, and I can’t really bring myself to care.

The nightmares are frequent, but I can barely drag myself out of bed to take a dreamless-sleep potion. I have flashes during the day of a fanged mouth closing in on me, of the dead eyes of former lovers and friends staring back at me.

Never, in all my life as a spy, has it ever been this bad. It seems ironic that now, when Riddle is dead and the war is over, that my life has come to haunt me.

I spend my nights awake, staring out of my window, looking over the fields behind my house. I can almost see them walking towards me through the mist, Bella and Narcissa, and sometimes, I have the feeling they will walk through my door like they did that night. It had been the night it had all gone downhill.

I wish I had the possibility to go back and change it. Change my entire life. Go back far enough to stop myself ever taking the mark. To stop myself ever falling for the small redheaded girl who lived a block away from me.

I regret my life. Every decision I made, every step I took, every order I followed. I want to sit on my windowsill, staring out into the night, where I can just make out the outlines of her old house. I want to meet my end here, waste away into nothingness while seeing the reason for the road I have walked right outside the glass.

I do not eat when I am not forced to, I do not see the point. I cannot remember the last time I have taken a shower, or combed my hair. I can’t be bothered. The pain inside of me has grown, and my heart is overflowing with darkness. It takes an overwhelming amount of strength to merely lift my hand.

The walk to the door is tiring, and once I have opened it to her disgustingly cheerful face, I retreat back to my window and settle myself in my own little nest of filth.

I try to tune out the sounds of her bustling around my home, going into the kitchen to make herself some tea, laying out the books she reads to my deaf ears, setting up the chessboard which I always refuse to play. I don’t have a clue why she still comes to me, but I let her.

She is always cheerful, and I often wonder how she does it. The few times she takes Potter with her to meet me, I stare into his eyes in understanding. His equally dead eyes stare back at me.

Every time I look into the dead green eyes, I see my failure and am reminded once more I should be dead. I am thankful for the days when she comes alone. She is not my obligation, she never has been. She brings back no memories, no nightmares ensue from our meetings. Though her cheerfulness is nauseating, I rather see her than anyone else.

“Severus?”

She probably wants me to eat, but I feel no hunger. On my worst days, she used to feed me. She has this overwhelming urge to keep me alive, to keep me imprisoned in my suffering. Though I might not have the courage to take my own life, I have no qualms with starving myself. I continue to stare out of the window, barely acknowledging her presence.

The firm grip on my shoulders turns me from the view, and she pulls a chair up in front of me. She meets my eyes with her own, catching my cheek in her hand.

“Please eat something, Severus. You know you break my heart when you do this.”

I merely shrug and try to pull my head away from her hand, but not eating has severely weakened me. I would never have thought this feeble woman would be able to overpower me, but she does. The look in her eyes tells me I have no choice. With a heavy sigh I grab a piece of bread and try to chew it down. My stomach fights me every step of the way, but I manage. She smiles at me.

Noon finds us sitting on the couch, and while she is trying to engage me in a conversation I don’t want to be in, I once again marvel over the world outside. She chatters on about new children being born and marriages taking place. How the world is still spinning amazes me. When the world around you caves in, it is hard to imagine others have no such problems.

“Are you listening to me?”

I snort, of course I’m not. But fine, I’ll humor her. I tilt my head slightly and raise an eyebrow. What?

“I saw Lucius Malfoy today.”

Now, she has my attention. My head snaps back up and I drop the eyebrow. She smiles at me, she knows she has me.

“He asked about you, you know. He came to me, me of all people, to ask about you. He must love you a lot, if he chooses to come to me over Minerva. She knows how you are doing, mostly. I tell her when I’ve come to visit you.”

I feel my attention wandering, and she notices. Once again,, she grabs my face in her hands and makes me look at her.

“He’s doing quite well, actually. He wishes you would go see him. They have moved out of the manor, you wouldn’t have to go far.”

I wrench my face out of her grip and stagger back towards my window. I do not leave my home, and she knows it. I will not go out there. Even if I don’t care about how I look, or even smell, within the confined space of my home, I still have a semblance of pride. I cannot let my former best friend see me the way I am today. And I would rather stay inside and rot than go out there and be mocked by my former peers.

I feel her hand on my shoulder, but I ignore it.

“I know you don’t want to, but it might do you some good to see them. I could go with you.” She offers.

“We could get you cleaned up. No one would have to know.”

But they would. I have stopped brushing my hair mostly because of the gaunt face staring back at me in the mirror. When I look into my own eyes, I see nothing staring back at me. Nothing which I used to be, nothing which used to drive me. There is nothing of worth left in my body, and I am pretty sure my soul has withered. I don’t look at her.

She sighs and I hear the sound of a chair scraping on the floor. She sits down next to me and puts her arms around me, slowly, as if she might spook me if she moves to fast. I don’t.

I let her do whatever she wishes, mostly because she is the only person who cares. She is the only person who still comes to me, who still wishes to be in my presence.

Though I am sure it is the guilt she feels which motivates her to come to me, I cannot bring myself to kick her out. I do not feel anything towards her, but I know that if she doesn’t come, I would be dead within a week. On my worst days, I wish for her to leave, but on my far more rare, better days, I almost appreciate her presence. I live only for those days. The days that the words she speaks reach me, the nights that I actually sleep. The days that the nightmares pass by my window because she is lying next to me.

I live for the days when she reaches me and touches my heart. Today, as she sits with me in my world, instead of trying to pull me back into hers, is one of those days.

This morning, I hear her coming. She is stalking up the street, stomping on the street as though it has offended her. Before she can knock I open the door, and she freezes, staring into my eyes. I nod and turn when I see the tears in her eyes. I don’t want to see them. I am merely moving around in the room, it is no great accomplishment.

She sniffs, but I can hear her trying to push the tears back down. I limp towards my window, the imaginary pain in my uninjured leg is killing me. I cannot wrap my mind around the fact that even though I know it’s not real, it can still hurt me so.

I have the overwhelming urge to make her proud of me, to make her feel I am making headway, even though, in my head, I’m not. For the first time since she has come to me, I remain standing. I don’t sit down.

Why am I so intend to prove myself to her? Why now, after all of this time, do I wish to show her there is still a little of my old self inside of me, even if it is locked away so far down that I don’t even feel it’s presence most days? I have no idea, and I am not inclined to find out. I only know I do. It gives me a purpose, a purpose to take the food she offers me, to try and stay alive.

I hear a stifled sob close behind me, and watch my stomach as her arms enclose my waist in a smothering embrace.

Why do I not push her away? Another mystery. I don’t want to, but there is no clear reason why. I see my hand raise of its own accord, and hold her hand in mine.

I feel her sob against my back, trying not to make a sound because she know it irks me. We stand there for what feels like hours, and I feel I’m having another good day.
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The darkness surrounds me