Think, But Do Not Cry

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought

I summon up remembrance of things past,

I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,

And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:

Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,

And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,

And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,

And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er

The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,

Which I new pay as if not paid before.

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,

All losses are restored and sorrows end.

--William Shakespeare

The darkness of night crept into the room, the solitary candle fluttering as the wax reached its end. A figure, hunched over at his desk, swore gently as the flame died and reached for a second candle huddled in the back corner, his hand stretching through the darkness.

As his fingers brushed the wet ink of the letter he was writing, he cursed softly again and quickly lit the candle, casting new light over his now ruined letter. He sighed softly and reached for the wand at the side of him, quickly muttering a spell and clearing up stray ink.

It took him a few minutes to finish the letter: the scratching of the quill was his only companion in the dark of night. He found himself lost in thought, unable to put those thoughts on paper. He was stuck in his own little world, all thoughts taken up with her.

He could remember all of her: her smile, her smell, her hair, and the way she lit up a room when she entered. He could remember the way she moved, so delicate yet powerful at the same time. He could see the glint of determination in her eye, the passion that was imprisoned, and was never to be released. The way she had spoke so passionately of love and romance.

He had wanted to break them up when she started going out with him. He had wanted her to himself, to have that smile and those eyes all to himself. To wrap his arms around her gentle body, kiss her soft hair, her gentle lips. He had failed, he knew that. None of his dreams had come true, and after, he had spent the best years of his life with those who he meant nothing to. With those who had nothing to offer him except misery and pain.

A tear slid down his cheek, landing on the ink and ruining it once again as the scratching of the quill stopped. Another tear escaped his eye, and he brushed it back angrily. He was not used to crying. He couldn't remember many times he had cried: he was not used to it. It was not in his character to cry.

She was gone. He knew it with every fibre of his being. Though he had not been there, he knew she was dead, and any chance of a happy reconciliation with her was dashed. There was no way out now. His mind turned over the memories of her in his head. He could remember that horrible mistake he had made, the one that had cost him everything. That one that had cost him their friendship, her smile and her happiness. The one that had cost him the chance to be with her, the one he loved more than anything in the world.

The tears returned, and they began to slide down his cheeks. He made no attempt to remove them: instead, he let them fall, to give away his emotions. He could afford it this one night. No one was here to see it. No one could see how weak a normally cold-hearted man was.

He cried for his lost love, the unrequited love that had been his whole life. His one chance at true happiness fuelled his tears, the one chance he had thrown away and now lost forever.

The tears came faster, hitting the ink of the letter again. He didn't care: the letter was useless. There would be no point in sending it: when would she ever read again? She would be unable to know all the things he wanted to tell her, the things he had waited too long to say. He hadn't had a chance to truly apologise for his mistake, and the letter had been his one last chance that had now gone.

He hit his leg hard, hand bunched into a fist. Pain came from the point he had collided with, and he welcomed it. He wanted to pay for his mistake, for his treachery. He needed to pay as if he had not paid before. As if he still needed to pay for what had had done to try and win her heart back.

He forced an image of her into his mind, an image that dried up any tears as he attempted to recall every tiny detail of her face: ever freckle, every blemish. Every dip and every turn in her skin. Every curl in her hair.

It did not do her justice: the image in his mind was nothing compared to the real thing that he had seen many years before. He slammed his fist against the table, standing up.

No. He would not think of her. He would forget about her and devote himself entirely to his other friends. He would cease his grieving: he was a strong man. He would not cry, not even for her and her heavenly way of making things happy, making things right.

Severus Snape crunched the letter into a ball and threw it into the bin as he walked out of the room, head held high.