Categories > Books > Harry Potter
Postscript
2 reviewsSeverus Snape alone with his mind at a time when even the stars are tired. [major spoilers for DH.] (flashfic)
1Moving
postscript.
It's late. Or maybe it's early. It's one of those hours often lost in sleep, a dream itself to the average person. Unfortunately, he is not one of the lucky ones blessed with petty nightmares and simple reveries. He is one of the unluckies, the damned, the lost souls who will forever be running in a chase that has long since exhausted their will to go on, but will never allow them rest. He is running, always running, but it's not fast enough. In the forgotten hours he's tired and succumbs to the sensation of being eaten alive; it starts in his stomach and pools outward, tight and, at the same time, hollow, the feeling of a million voices chanting in his ear, "it's all your fault."
It's a blow he's already dealt himself many times before.
He's sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, a glass of whisky held aloft in one hand. So still is he that, despite the crackling flames dancing before him, the scene he creates can easily be mistaken for a photograph- but, no, the real photograph is in his hand; a faded grin that breaks his heart. A beautiful girl and her beautiful smile.
Lots of love,
He takes a sip and welcomes the fire in his throat, a liquid duplicate of the reds and oranges and yellows at his feet. The world around him falls out of focus, blurring the tattered photograph, and he welcomes that, too. Any and all distractions are welcome in the land of his despair.
There aren't enough distractions to blur the world behind his eyes, however, but he's grown too weary to resent it. Images and sounds bombard him, sorrow after sorrow, mistake after mistake. His life's foundation. Maybe if he hadn't made so many, his life would have crumbled and none of this would ever have happened.
He takes a gulp now, to remind himself that his demons do not allow the luxury of /maybe if/s. He closes his eyes, and the hazy image of the photograph floats in the darkness of his mind. When he opens them, the scene is in focus, his carpet, his fire, and his worn-out snapshot.
Lots of love,
His mistakes.
Lots of love,
His /mistakes/. So many. Too many. The words he said and the words he didn't. The things he's done and can never take back. The scars he bears. That blasted hat and that stupid girl.
Lots of love,
The letter is on his lap, its fire lit glow giving it an animation unbefitting of such a dated object. The loops of ink and the hand from which it came are also incongruent with the merry lights. She deserved more. So much more. That beautiful girl and her beautiful smile.
If she only
Lots of love,
If he only
Lots of love,
He wishes he could have given her the world.
Lots of love,
Lily.
It's late. Or maybe it's early. It's one of those hours often lost in sleep, a dream itself to the average person. Unfortunately, he is not one of the lucky ones blessed with petty nightmares and simple reveries. He is one of the unluckies, the damned, the lost souls who will forever be running in a chase that has long since exhausted their will to go on, but will never allow them rest. He is running, always running, but it's not fast enough. In the forgotten hours he's tired and succumbs to the sensation of being eaten alive; it starts in his stomach and pools outward, tight and, at the same time, hollow, the feeling of a million voices chanting in his ear, "it's all your fault."
It's a blow he's already dealt himself many times before.
He's sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, a glass of whisky held aloft in one hand. So still is he that, despite the crackling flames dancing before him, the scene he creates can easily be mistaken for a photograph- but, no, the real photograph is in his hand; a faded grin that breaks his heart. A beautiful girl and her beautiful smile.
Lots of love,
He takes a sip and welcomes the fire in his throat, a liquid duplicate of the reds and oranges and yellows at his feet. The world around him falls out of focus, blurring the tattered photograph, and he welcomes that, too. Any and all distractions are welcome in the land of his despair.
There aren't enough distractions to blur the world behind his eyes, however, but he's grown too weary to resent it. Images and sounds bombard him, sorrow after sorrow, mistake after mistake. His life's foundation. Maybe if he hadn't made so many, his life would have crumbled and none of this would ever have happened.
He takes a gulp now, to remind himself that his demons do not allow the luxury of /maybe if/s. He closes his eyes, and the hazy image of the photograph floats in the darkness of his mind. When he opens them, the scene is in focus, his carpet, his fire, and his worn-out snapshot.
Lots of love,
His mistakes.
Lots of love,
His /mistakes/. So many. Too many. The words he said and the words he didn't. The things he's done and can never take back. The scars he bears. That blasted hat and that stupid girl.
Lots of love,
The letter is on his lap, its fire lit glow giving it an animation unbefitting of such a dated object. The loops of ink and the hand from which it came are also incongruent with the merry lights. She deserved more. So much more. That beautiful girl and her beautiful smile.
If she only
Lots of love,
If he only
Lots of love,
He wishes he could have given her the world.
Lots of love,
Lily.
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