Severus laid barely breathing, ragged rattles escaping his body as Crowley bent over his lifeless frame — begging for anything or anyone to save her professor, her head of house, the man she loved but never confessed; until this night, in secret, upon dying ears.
“Please.. don’t leave me.. Severus don’t die.” She gasped between sobs as she poured silver liquid onto his wounds, shredding his clothes to get to the serpent marks. Essence of Dittany burned through him like molten lava.
“Come on..” she said through gritted teeth, tears caked under her lashes.
The scene faded away in streams of black, memories — tampered ones.
His hand was clasped around a coffee mug, ebony locks with specks of ivory splattered in no particular fashion were framing his face as he read The Daily Prophet.
The Order of The Phoenix meeting was soon to be underway, all members were present except for one.
“Where is Crowley?” Hermione said as she wrung her hands, nervousness encapsulating her.
Crowley had been married for approximately a little over six months to a former death eater named Atticus Crowley, a fearful man who all but kept the female counterpart to himself and most definitely away from The Order; but on rare occasions where she could finagle her way to a meeting she would remain suppressed in every manner.
Suppressed in the way she spoke, fed upon Molly Weasley’s home cooked meals, the way her eyes never quite left her hands, the way even her breaths were stifled as to not perturb the others.
A woman who only six months prior would fight for her world, fight for her freedom and fight to any death laying in wait — now reduced to a meek skeleton of herself.
“Sorry I’m late..” she squeaked like a mouse being caught in a trap, sliding her chair backwards and slipping into it; a plate quickly appearing in front of her, a slice of roast laid on it with carrots and potatoes, her wine glass half full with moscato (her favorite). She noticed a hand stilled and quickly, subtly flickered her eyes to it; it had belonged to Severus, just as quickly as she noticed the hand that filled her glass, she ever so flicked them down to her plate. Raise no suspicion, start no fight she reminded herself as she picked at her dinner.
Atticus had let her go to the meeting this time, telling her that his lover were coming to fulfill the needs she couldn’t satisfy.
It was constant — the onslaught of insults and echoes of his passion with another woman, Daniella Fairchild; a beautiful witch around Miss Crowleys age, body more fascinating than what she seemed to see in hers.
“You want to go to.. a Phoenix Meeting?” Atticus drawled, his eyes lifting from his journal; the fire was roaring, crackles making her flinch just like his eyes and voice always seemed to do. Maybe it was a side effect of the marriage that would vanish sooner rather than later.
“Will he.. be there?” He hissed softly, a serpent in waiting to strike.
Atticus knew Severus, he knew what he had done to bring the demise of their Lord, he knew everything and still married her.
He despised the Order of the Phoenix, Severus and even his new bride.
“Yes but you know how I’m rather fond of Molly’s cooking, I really only go for the food, darling.” She whispered, hands twitching as she folded them into another.
She watched as he pondered her request with a sickening silence, quill rested securely in between his forefinger and thumb.
“You may go.. Daniella is to be here so try not to disturb us when you return.” He said coldly, waving her off.
So here she was now, Y/N Crowley, Order of the Phoenix member, First Class Order of Merlin recipient, wife of Atticus M. Crowley, a Former Death Eater only due to Voldemort’s downfall — once a spitfire now reduced to a mere flame that was on the verge of snuffing out.
“Crowley, how is the uh, husband?” George Weasley muttered as he had sat beside her on the couch in the office of 12 Grimmauld Place.
“He’s good, thank you, George.” She said timidly, avoiding his eyes and keeping herself subdued.
George eyed her before nodding, standing up as he saw a familiar darkened cloak billowing his way out of his peripheral.
Crowley quickly stood making her way to the terrace, lighting a cigarette that rested between her pout before Snape could have even coaxed her into a conversation.
Every time she saw him it reminded her of the night she saved him from deaths grip.
Every time she saw him she was constantly reminded of what if.
What if she had confessed beforehand?
What if he had heard her incessant sobs of how she had loved him as he laid dying?
What if she hadn’t forced herself to marry Atticus Crowley?
What if she would have married Severus Snape instead?
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