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That day, Petunia found herself inside the hotel, held in an unfamiliar embrace, her heart granted a brief moment of peace.
Petunia woke and sat up from the bed, the sheets sliding away from her slender figure.
A faintly cool night breeze drifted across her bare arms, carrying with it a thread of chill.
She shivered lightly, and a subtle flush of shyness rose within her.
Thinking back on the bold thing she had done that day, Petunia felt the warmth rise in her cheeks once more.
She turned her head quickly, her gaze landing on the quiet head resting on the pillow beside her.
That black hair had not yet dried completely, still carrying a faint trace of dampness.
His features were, as ever, tightly drawn, as though concealing endless secrets.
And his breathing remained long and steady, as if in the stillness of the night he alone was playing a quiet, unhurried melody.
Seeing that Snape was still lost in sleep, Petunia felt a quiet sense of relief settle over her.
She gently pressed her hand to her chest, feeling the flutter there.
Looking back on it now, what had happened a few hours ago still filled her with a vague sense of surprise.
She did not understand how things had come to this.
She meant, specifically, that she could not make sense of Snape’s sudden change in manner.
Someone like Snape, it was plain, would never easily develop any fondness for her.
Could it be that his behavior was nothing more than some brief indulgence?
From his clumsy and hesitant movements, it was clear he had almost no experience in such matters — like a blank page.
Then what had driven him, a man so accustomed to being in control of everything — to willingly let her take the lead like that?
Never mind.
She would stop thinking about it.
She barely knew him, so there was no way to guess at the reasons.
Still less could she simply go and ask him directly; all the twists and subtleties of it seemed veiled in a thin, soft mist, impossible to grasp.
Petunia reached out and took the watch that lay quietly on the nightstand — its hands pointed soundlessly to nine o’clock, announcing that the night had grown late.
Petunia’s heart clenched, and she hurried to sit up fully, beginning to dress in a flurry.
She knew she had to get home at once.
There was no strict curfew at home, but staying out until deep in the night would inevitably stir up unnecessary trouble.
As she prepared to leave, Petunia’s eyes held a trace of reluctance, and she stood quietly gazing at Snape as he slept.
If what Ruth had said truly made sense, then her deep attachment to Snape perhaps really did stem from that unfulfilled fixation.
Now, that fixation had at last been realized, and the nameless longing she had carried inside ought to dissolve along with it.
She thought to herself, silently, that from this point on, perhaps she would no longer meet him in her dreams.
Like the end of a journey, tinged with a little regret.
In that one instant, as if driven by some invisible force, she found herself drawing close to Snape without meaning to, and she poured all her tenderness and joy into a single soft kiss, pressing it against his still, quiet face.
The hotel room door swung open and closed, letting out a low, muffled sound.
In that moment, Snape’s eyes slowly opened, a light of some indescribable quality flickering in their depths, as if he had been called awake by Petunia’s sudden kiss.
In the hotel room, the clothes that had been scattered across the floor had undergone a kind of transformation.
Everything that had not left with Petunia had been neatly gathered and arranged on the nightstand.
The small umbrellas that had accompanied them, spent from use and stripped of their original purpose, had been tossed into the waste bin by Petunia.
They lay there in silence, quietly telling of the joy and passion that had been.
In the room, the air still held a faint lingering scent, the trace left behind after their abandon.
That scent, like a soft whisper, spoke without sound of the story between the two of them, stirring the imagination.
The entire room felt as though it had witnessed a secret rite, leaving behind a deep impression, yet at the same time quietly giving off a flavor that was impossible to put into words.
Petunia made her way home wrapped in the deep dusk, her steps light and quick, as if every footfall landed on a note of happiness.
She hummed softly to herself, the melody flowing like a gentle stream, easy and unhurried, carrying a joy that was impossible to name.
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