Title: The Alumni
Challenge: Late Paper Challenge
Length: 100 X 9
Category: Angst, angst and more angst
Warning: Character Death
Summary: Hermione reflects back on a life…
A/N: I own nothing, I’ve beta’d nothing. I’m feeling a little lonesome, and this is what happens when I do…
She just wanted, just once, for him to say it. He never did. From the first day in class, she expected him to acknowledge her, like the other professors. Even now, after it’s all over, she wants to run to his class and say, “See, I was worthy! I could think outside the textbook! I could be a warrior!”
She tried every angle; she was aloof, enthusiastic, funny, sweet, stubborn, determined, quiet, noisy. She set fire to his robes; nothing. Whatever it took to get his attention, she lacked it. He simply looked through her as if she wasn’t there.
What started out as a puzzled frustration became a crusade. Her potions were perfection and her parchments were twice as long as required. Surely this would make him notice. He graded with scathing remarks as if he didn’t know to whom the parchment belonged.
She watched, in petrified terror, as he gently cradled her in his arms and fed her the potion to release her. Even as life stole back into her limbering body, pins and needles flooding agony into her waking limbs, he was walking away. Not even saving her life meant enough to stay behind to acknowledge her.
He cut her dead, after Sirius Black escaped. Not even his fury at being knocked out cold was enough to deign him to speak to her. She had menses now, and her powers were growing with her estrogen, and she understood that it wasn’t just that she wanted him to look at her, but that her body recognised his magic.
It had a kinship with hers, and even as she tried to show him that she was a good student and a good witch, his magic would wash over her like smoke. It wasn’t sexual; it was instinct, blood; belonging.
She wanted to feel like a princess; it was her first dance, and she wanted to be seen as someone other than Harry’s friend, the bookworm, the insufferable know-it-all. Funny that when he finally took notice, he sliced her to pieces with it.
Too old to be young and too young to be old; that was her. That’s where he was, too, she thought. Her magic could sniff fear on him now, and it was a grim, metallic thing that made her protective and caring.
He saw her at the ball, alone and crying. He walked past without a word.
Parry, hex, block, jinx, shield, hex. In the DA she drove Harry to bring out everyone’s best; she avoided Umbridge, she worked diligently and kept her head down. Now that she wanted to be inconspicuous, she would see him watching her, a puzzled expression on his face.
Perhaps his magic could sense the changes in her, the rebellion, the fact that she no longer wanted or begged for his attention. At times he would appear wherever she was, and she would run from him. At mealtimes, they would sometimes stare at one another for several minutes, each daring the other.
She avoided looking at him. His eyes followed her everywhere when they were together. She no longer tried to answer questions in class. She avoided him. He would always meet her on her rounds as a prefect, and she would turn the other way.
In the spring he cornered her in the dark, close and frightening. She could feel his magic lapping against her like the river Styx. “What do you want?” he said, softly, unsmiling, unloved.
“To help,” she managed.
He spun on his heel and walked away. Three days later Dumbledore was dead. She cried for his murderer.
The Quibbler loves for her to be guest editor. Sales increase 200% when she does. It has been ten years since she saw the light fade from his eyes, and his sweet, powerful magic receded like the tide and never returned. She knows from her research that this kind of binding only happens once in a life; she will never experience it again.
She only wanted to get to know him, to make him like her, to feel the rush of powerful magic pull over her like a canopy of light. She has only memories now, and they are fading.
She has sat before an empty parchment for two weeks, trying to sum up her feelings for him for their readers. What can she say that hasn’t been said, or will be understood?
He was unique and precious and was only appreciated after his death, which angers her and makes her bitter and snarky. When she called Ron a dunderhead a few years back he called her Miss Snape.
She soon ended their engagement. Anyone other than Severus Snape would be worse than a poor substitute. She knew she would never feel whole again.
Her magic would mourn him forever.