Dancing With Your Ghost
Hermione Granger sat at her desk in the Gryffindor common room, her eyes scanning the pages of a dusty ancient textbook. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across her furrowed brow and the furtive glances she threw over her shoulder. Her quill hovered in the air, poised to scribble notes, but she was too lost in thought to make a mark. Her mind was a tumult of spells, potions, and a secret that burned brighter than any firewhiskey.
Her heart clenched at the memory of Severus Snape, his sharp features and piercing gaze never far from her thoughts. Despite his allegiance to the Dark Lord, she knew the man beneath the mask. The man who was her soulmate. The man who had sacrificed everything for the greater good. The man she had watched die in the boat house.
The war was over now, the battle won, but the victory felt hollow. The castle's halls, once bustling with students, now echoed with the solemn footsteps of survivors. The Order of the Phoenix had triumphed, yet she couldn't find joy in the victory. Her secret meetings with Severus, the whispered confessions and shared moments of tenderness, had been her anchor in the storm. Now, she felt adrift, unable to share her grief with anyone.
Her friends, Ron and Harry, tried to comfort her, but their words felt like whispers in a tempest. They didn't know the depth of her loss. They hadn't felt the warmth of his touch or the gentle brush of his lips. The weight of her secret grew heavier with each passing day, until she could no longer bear it. Hermione decided to retreat to a place where she could mourn in peace: a small, secluded vacation home owned by her parents, nestled in the Scottish Highlands.
The house was a stark contrast to the grandeur of Hogwarts, with its simple stone exterior and thatched roof. Yet, it was here, surrounded by the quiet solitude of the moors, that Hermione felt closest to Severus. Every corner held a memory of their stolen moments: the spot where he'd taught her a particularly complex charm, the window seat where they'd shared a rare laugh, the desk where they'd plotted together. She would sit for hours, her eyes unfocused, as the world around her swirled into the past.
Owls arrived with persistent regularity, their feathers brushing against the windows like whispers of a ghost. Letters from her friends, filled with concern and love, piled up on the kitchen table. Professors McGonagall and Flitwick sent her warm, hand-written notes, urging her to return to the school she had once called home. The Weasleys, too, sent owls, their letters brimming with tales of the rebuilding efforts and the newfound peace of the Wizarding World. But Hermione couldn't find the strength to respond, the words on the parchment a painful reminder of the life she'd left behind.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the living room in a soft orange glow, she saw him. A ghostly figure of Severus, standing in the shadows, his hand extended towards her. Her breath hitched in her chest, the room spinning around her. It was as if her heart had conjured him from the depths of her sorrow. His eyes, once so cold and calculating, now held a warmth that seemed to pierce the veil of death. The sight of him brought a bittersweet comfort, a flicker of hope in the ashes of her grief.
With trembling fingers, Hermione reached out and grasped his hand. The moment their skin met, the room filled with music. A haunting melody that seemed to resonate from within her very soul. The air grew thick with the scent of ink and parchment, and the flickering candlelight took on a bluish hue, dancing in time to the rhythm. The music grew louder, wrapping them in a cocoon of sound, and she felt the weight of the world lift from her shoulders. For a brief, glorious instant, it was as if Severus were alive again, standing right beside her.
They began to move, their bodies swaying in a silent ballet of sorrow and longing. The furniture around them blurred into the background, leaving only the two of them to twirl in the center of the room. The rustle of his cloak was the only sound in the stillness, as their feet glided over the worn rug. The dance was one of remembrance, a silent conversation of touch and movement that transcended time and space. Hermione closed her eyes, letting the ghostly embrace of her soulmate envelop her, the warmth of his hand anchoring her to the present.
When the music finally faded, she opened her eyes and whispered, "Severus, I miss you so much." Her voice cracked with the pain of his loss, and she felt the cold reality of his absence once more. Yet, in the fading echoes of the melody, she found a spark of determination. If there was a way to change the past, she would do it. She couldn't live in this half-life, forever haunted by what could have been.
The ghostly Severus looked down at her, his eyes filled with a sorrow that mirrored hers. He spoke in a soft, almost inaudible voice, "I miss you too, Hermione." His arms tightened around her waist, and she felt the warmth of his embrace, a stark contrast to the chill of his spectral form.
They continued dancing around the living room, their movements growing more urgent with each beat of her racing heart. The candles on the mantle flickered in time with their steps, casting eerie shadows across the walls. The dust particles in the air swirled around them, caught in the invisible currents of their grief. The dance grew wilder, as if trying to outpace the pain that threatened to consume them.
As the last note of the ethereal melody disappeared into the quiet of the night, Hermione stepped back, panting. Severus's hand slipped from hers, and she watched in horror as his form began to dissipate like mist before the dawn. "No," she choked out, reaching for him, her fingertips brushing against the cold emptiness that had once been his warm flesh. "Don't leave me again!"
But it was too late. The spectral figure of her soulmate had vanished, leaving her alone in the silent room. The candles continued to flicker, casting erratic shadows that seemed to mock her desperation. The only evidence of his visit remained in the lingering scent of ink and parchment, a cruel reminder of what she had lost.