Severus has never had anything of his own. And he wants what others have.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so many emotions for one character reading a story. … Your writing is just enthralling.
This is amazing. Dark and evocative, and I absolutely love your use of language here. … sometimes lyrical and sometimes visceral.
There is something of the Greek tragedy or the Shakespearean in your work. But then again, I’ve always felt Snape would have fit quite well into either genre. Well done.
The first time it happened, they could pretend it was an accident. He came to her broken in body and bloody in mind, and she took him in and healed his wounds and soothed his soul (he had one, he was sure of it), first with her wand and her hands, then with her body. She had wounds too, he discovered, though none so visible as his.
He wept afterwards.
The next day, he retreated into the dark double-life he had inhabited for sixteen years, and she stepped out into the first blinding-bright morning of hers.
It was love. He knew that as surely and suddenly as he knew that the Dark Lord was a madman and that Albus Dumbledore was a bastard. She was the first woman who had looked at him and said to herself, This will do.
For him, it was forever. For her, it was for now.
He knew that, didn’t he?
She came to him with her doubts about Harry Potter, and the war, and, finally, about Dumbledore. The Headmaster hid things from her, she told him; she knew that, and she was mostly content to leave the whats and the wheres and the hows to Albus. She came to Severus for the why.
It was several weeks before he realised that he was a reagent of sorts. She needed him only to test the boundaries of her love for the man whose ring she wore.
He didn’t care.
Did he?
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