Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to J. K. Rowling. I make no profit from this story


He looked at the picture on the wall, amongst many others. It was taken at the party for Potter’s twentieth birthday. She had been his colleague for over a year at that point; colleague and friend. So unlike the earlier pictures, where they stood stiffly side by side, on that particular picture his arm was thrown casually around her shoulder and they were both laughing at something. He remembered that night so well…

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‘Severus, what are you doing here all alone?’ He lifted his head and watched Hermione walk through the garden of Grimmauld Place to the remote bench he had claimed for himself.

‘It is too hot inside. Besides you know I detest crowds.’

She sat quietly next to him and looked up at the cloudless sky.

‘The stars are beautiful.’

He watched her, his heart pounding madly. She was more beautiful than the stars, more beautiful than anything he had seen or felt before and the love he had for her was threatening to spill over. He sighed inaudibly. Fate was mocking him again. Why did he have to fall in love with her of all people? She was as bright as the sun and he was old and empty as a dried husk.

‘Severus? Is there something on your mind?’ She was looking at him, her eyes intent and worried. Something inside him snapped and the words were out of his mouth before his horrified mind could catch up.

‘I love you,’ he choked, ‘I know I shouldn’t, but Merlin help me, I do.’ He sat there, miserable, waiting for her outrage, or worse-her pity.

Hermione’s arms slowly wrapped around his waist and she whispered hoarsely in his ear. ‘That’s great, because I think I love you too.’ And she kissed him, he kissed her back and they toppled over into the bushes.

Later, their friends didn’t seem terribly surprised, even though not all of them approved. Eventually they got married and left Hogwarts. Severus sold the dilapidated estate at Spinner’s End and bought a small house in Hogsmeade. In several years they were the owners of a prospering apothecary and had a baby on the way. Severus was surprised that all his strictness evaporated around his daughter and her brother that arrived some time later. If it weren’t for Hermione, the children would have been spoilt rotten; or so Minerva used to say. As they grew older, his love for his infuriating Gryffindor wife never faltered...

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‘Severus? Is something wrong?’ He averted his eyes from the picture and looked at her. At eighty-nine, his eyesight was starting to fail him, but even if he were blind, he would have been able to describe each and every feature on her face. A few months after her seventieth birthday, Hermione Granger was still a beautiful woman.

‘No, Hermione; I was wool-gathering. It seems senility is catching up with me. Thank you for the tea, I should be heading home for a nap.’

‘Nonsense, Severus. You continue to instil terror in your students and I am sure your mind is as sharp as ever.’

Her eyes travelled along the many pictures documenting their lifelong friendship until they settled on the one he had been staring at. A wry smile curved her lips.

‘I remember that night in the garden. I asked you if there was something on your mind then, and you said you had too much to drink. Then you left. Tell me honestly, was that the truth?’

He tried to look away from her piercing eyes, but he couldn’t.

‘That was half a century ago, woman! Even if it wasn’t the truth, what difference does it make?’

‘It makes a difference to me. I can’t tell you how many nights I spent awake in my bed, wondering “what if”. I made up names for our children, Severus! Sebastian and Aiden.’ Tears were glistening in her eyes and his own vision was blurred, but he didn’t care. So many years wasted because of cowardice...

‘Seraphine and Gavin,’ he managed to say. ‘I wanted a girl.’

She closed her eyes and nodded once.

‘Tell me now. What you would have told me then if you hadn’t been too scared to say it and if I hadn’t been too insecure to say it first. I want to hear it.’

So he told her. It was too late for many things, but still, it felt good.

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“For all sad words of tongue and pen,

The saddest are these, 'It might have been'.”

-John Greenleaf Whittie

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A/N: I honestly don't know if this makes any sense. It was a vicious plot wererabbit that caught me unaware and I almost set fire to the kitchen while I was writing it, because I left a cigarette burning. I watched the movie Boy Culture the other day and there was a guy with a major "it might have been" issue, so the general idea came from that direction.
It sucks, it rocks, whatever your opinion is, I want to hear it.