Title: My Immortal
Author: MidKnight
Email: MidKnightslair@juno.com
Notes: Inspired by Evanescence's My Immortal.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and assorted characters do not belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended.
Severus locks the door with an absent flick of one hand, the other finding it's way to the bottle hidden amongst all the other bottles on the potion master's table. His fingers settle around it with a certain desperate familiarity; it was one of the things she gave him and this is one of those days that he needs her.
He remembers her voice even as the scent of the liquor fills his senses; always calm and even, maybe a little sad. There was always something haunted about her.
He remembers her complaining of the ever-present chill. He remembers her chaffing her hands on her arms at Quiddich Matches, in the Dungeons, in Hogsmeade. She never could get warm.
The bottle touches his lips and he's startled. Can't even remember lifting it, but the scent of it is warm and welcoming though the memory of it makes him shiver. Too many memories. He swallows fast, and it burns his mouth.
She never could get warm, but even now the liquor is like slow fire in his blood.
An absent hand goes to his collar and releases a button. It seems he's on autopilot tonight, but he doesn't mind, trapped in the past as he is.
He remembers her on the Knight Bus, a little too drunk for her own good and three boys were harassing her. They wanted her to go home with them, and they'd crowded around her seat like they'd carry her off if she wasn't willing.
He'd just gotten out of some dank little muggle dive where the liquor was cheap and the patrons un-enchanting, and having caught the gist of the scene as soon as he boarded he took a seat.
Meaning not to get involved, of course.
If only things were that simple. Or not. Knowing what he does know of her he couldn't have let it happen.
Finally the boys had muscled her onto her feet, and the bus had been slowing, and he'd suddenly found himself at her side, hexing the boys to hell and back.
Another moment of autopilot then, and now, as he drank again, remembering.
The boys had left the bus walking awkwardly. It still brings a smirk to his face.
He guided her home, such as it was, and let her have the bed in a remarkably un-Slytherin move. She slept it off, awaking something like 18 hours later, which suited him just fine.
The sofa wasn't that bad, after all.
After that, things were somewhat inevitable.
Here a study session spent talking about everything except school, and there a midnight forage into the Forbidden Forest for god-knows-what, and then that night in London wandering the foggy streets until all hours in search of some bar.
He remembers her in some dark-wooded room, the lights down low and her throwing her head back in drunken abandon laughing at some mutual joke.
He remembers the way her hair fell around her shoulders, the color of her eyes, her face.
Everything. He closes his eyes and drinks again.
He looks out the window and wishes Lily would wrap her arms around him.
