Disclaimer: Harry Potter and its characters belong to JK Rowlings. I'm merely playing with her toys.

Special thanks to Rilla for beta’ing and helping with the plotbunny!!

Author: WendyNat

Slices of Memory

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Memories, as stark and plain and real as the days they occurred; words, as pointed and barbed and slicing as the moments they were uttered. Many days, many moments, many memories.

Many slices.

“Don’t be silly! I love you, not him…”

But not enough.

His soul bled.

“I’ve… I’m sorry… I… I have to, you don’t understand…”

No. I don’t.

Pain smothered him.

“It’s for the war, I can’t leave him alone, not right now. He needs me, don’t you understand?”

I never will. Even when I am old and stooped, peering back bitterly at the past.

Not then. Not now.

“It’s… he doesn’t mean to put me in danger… it hurts him. You know that, I’ve told you that. Please don’t blame him. You know this is my decision.”

No, I don’t know that. I don’t trust him. I never did. Not when I first saw him staring at me in the Great Hall, not when he asked for your hand in marriage ‘for the war’, not when he demanded you stay at his side ‘for the war’. His concentration? His needs? What about my needs? What about your needs?

The slices ran deep. Years later, he bled still.

Decades later.

His boots crunched on smooth rocks as he walked along the path, the sound helping to ground his thoughts. The present reasserted itself; decades after the Final Battle against Lord Voldemort, he was approaching the tomb that had been erected for the heroes. And heroines. The stone façade was uncompromising. Tall. Strong. Massive. Dark.

Like his heart was revealed to be – her husband’s heart. She had trusted him, and look where it had led her. Here. To lie for all time, preserved by memory only - memory and a plaque. A plaque.

Did that make it worth it, to her? Was it worth giving up her youth, her love, her life, simply to have a plaque with her name on it?

He ran a hand through his black hair and frowned. Scowl lines were permanently ingrained in his skin – lines that, combined with his famous hooked nose, created a rather forbidding visage. He didn’t care. He hadn’t cared for years – no, decades. Not since he had lost the one that meant the most to him. She hadn’t cared. She had said it was part of his charm, part of his draw.

Perhaps.

But not enough of a draw to keep her safe, to convince her to come with him to his family’s Manor house… to refuse the other man’s selfish proposal. She should have denied the request; she should have stayed with him, remained in hiding and fought her battle from that secure location. She should have been working behind the scenes, her mind used, not her skill with a wand. Not on the front line. But she was too kind, too worried for her friend, unable to say no. Unable to say no when asked to help, unable to say no when that friend asked for her assistance, her support, her love, her life…

It was a tragic accident, they said. The Final Battle. A hex thrown. Green light, flaring. She jumped in front of it, they said… in front of him. The one who had already asked so much from her… He had known it would happen, known… the crazy bat in her tower had foretold it, and her friend – her husband – had known. If Hermione appeared at the Final Battle, she would fall. Fall defending the one she thought was the key…

The key.

Perhaps the man she married had been the key. Voldemort was defeated, after all. The Dark Lord fell, as foretold, and peace came to the land. Such as it was. For some, peace wouldn’t come.

Oh, he had some mild satisfaction. He had married another in his attempt to escape her memory, trying to bury deep the sound of her voice and the touch of her hand and the feel of her lips. He was famous – it was simple to find a biddable woman. A vessel. Someone to raise his children, someone to support his grandchildren. Great-grandchildren, now. So many. He was successful, respected, envied. A long life, a devoted wife, fortunate beyond what most would have imagined. He took true delight in the children’s antics – particularly since he could now send them home, to their own beds, when the antics were too much to bear.

His progeny.

But they should have been hers… theirs…. Yes, Ginny Weasley had proven to be an able wife. He loved her, in a way. But not with the same burning fire and jagged need that overwhelmed him when brown curls entered his memory; it was his great secret… his secret guilt.

He kissed his wife, and pretended she was another.

Was it still a betrayal, if that other was dead? Buried, in a forbidding stone building… tall, strong. Permanent. Decades, she had lain there. Decades.

Swallowing hard, he bent his head. He would ever love her. He would never forgive the one that had sent her to this place. The one who had fooled a young woman, newly graduated, fresh-faced and ready to help in any way she could.

The one who took my rightful place.

“Sir?”

He raised his head. He saw the recognition dawn in the guard’s eyes.

“My word! Aren’t you-“

“Yes.” Shaking black hair back from his face, he scowled at the shorter man.

“Right. Of course,” the man stammered. “May I ask-“

“I haff come to see the tomb of a… friend.” A deep breath. “I vish to see Hermione Snape.”

The guard stared at him, patently confused. The man’s mouth opened, but a scowl stilled the question before it was uttered. “Right. Well, right this way, Mr. Krum.” Nodding, he followed the man, silently thanking the guard for not delving too deep… for not opening more slices to bleed in the harsh light of day.

~The End~