This started as a very simple 3×100 words drabble, well, to be more honest, it started with four little words that popped into mind (Hermione’s last line). Scary, how my mind works. It’s now official, I cannot write a short and concise story.

Read more »

EYES ONLY (I’ve always wanted to use this in a sentence HEHE)

This is not a blog entry. Just a rabid plot bunny that has refused to leave my mind in peace for over a year. I finally succumbed and went ahead to get it out my system.

Author: Little Sev

Title: (as of now) Miss Granger
Fiction Rated: T
Genre: Angst/Romance
Status: Not completed
Warning: Minor character death
Pairing: Hermione Granger and Severus Snape

Any canon inaccuracies might be derived from my lack of love for book 7 XD

.
-OVERTURE-

.
It is a well documented fact that men love to delude themselves with the idea of second chance, for often in their uncherished lifetime, -either due to their inherent human foolishness or other equally nonsensical whims men entertain, only them and the gods of their choices know for certain-, they leave many great things unspoken, do harm and make mistakes they later wish they hadn’t.

And such a sweet escape from reality it is to think that once the game is over, there is a restart button lying somewhere waiting to be pushed, that they can relive the past all over again, only better decisions will be made this time. Excuses are always concocted by the restless dead who felt the urge to make some amends of sort, for all the apologies and regrets that needed to be said aloud lest the weight of sin on their shoulders never lighten, and I love you’s that were never spoken in a lifetime spent on flaws searching and fingers pointing. What life men let wasted away, they long to have back after it is for ever, gone.

Thus, Second chance is an elusive privilege almost all of them were extremely undeserving of, so much that the Supreme Being finally decided to grant it to only the most deservings once every seven hundred years. However, a secret condition to the rule was never disclosed: Those who greedily covet, don’t get. Those who never wish, get.

And so, for hundreds and hundreds of years, not one dead soul was granted a once-in-a-deathtime chance to go back on Earth. Yet, both the dead and the living alike, never cease to dream, as is evidenced by the abundance of similarly themed fables and tales that conveyed all kinds of wrong moral to their descendants: A generic, one dimensional hero embarks on a journey back to his past (as it’s only human to err the first time around), faces -and by default, conquers- his own personal demon and as most fairy tales reach their convenient end, he will come to live happily ever after.

But this is not such story. For starters, the person that is about to be presented is the antithesis of generic. His exact character, well, nothing is ever exact about him. He is a man of a hundred masks, deeply and singularly layered; each, when peeled off will only serve to reveal another hundred possibility of combination of layers. And he is all of those things, case-hardened, calculative, mean, never nice but always good, and too perversely intriguing it is simply inconceivable (feel free to try) to even attempt to confine his persona in a couple of adjectives.

Also, consider yourself appropriately warned that said character would never ever, for the love of Merlin and what was sacred, be caught dead living a happily ever after scenario. Now if you said, live snarkily ever after…

No, this is definitely not such story, which you can tell in about, say, five sentences into it.

It was night-time in the afterworld. Beyond the veil. Heaven. Or whatever else we Muggles like to call it, there’s something there. It was a night not unlike any other night, moonless with only the blanket of stars provided the dimmest of light on Something, except that it wasn’t. A small crowd of the dead, whose feet never quite touching the ground as they glided silently, had assembled in front of a decrepit windmills that bore the impression of a complete neglect. Waiting.

What would transpire today, on the night of the 700th Year had long been whispered around, wondered aloud and, if it was possible for a dead person to do, dreamed about. However, none anticipated the disappointment that would soon wash over many of the hopefuls as the night passed yet nothing changed, simply for the reason that they had hoped.

Situated behind the building, was a solitary tower that must once had stood opulently, yet now had started to lean away from its original bearing, its foundation weakened by time. Residing in the room of the top tower was a dead man, laying stiffly on spreads of linen on the cold stone floor.

When the time had come for this particularly irritable wizard to be awoken with a sudden jolt of life, the first thing he did was to growl, so very loudly at the rude interruption on his slumber. He felt no feeling resembling joy or bliss (for such thing would be an amazing stretch of character), only an extreme annoyance for the offending party that had decided to tamper with both his life and death yet again: Fate.