Harry Potter 1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: these characters are owned by JK Rowling, yadda yadda yadda.... But seriously, no offense or unlawful actions were intended in the making of this story, and if your opinion differs, I am dreadfully sorry.... Meanwhile, Ms Rowling is queen of the world right now, laughing as America scrambles to buy vomit-flavoured jelly-beans. mmm...I love the taste of vomit and comsumerism in the morning...  
  
This should be coming along depending on the time I have away from my thesis to work on it. If you wish to comment or inquire, please do so, I'm always open for suggestions, and I'm certainly receptive to compliments.  
  
Regards, Iphignia  
  
CHAPTER ONE  
  
It had, admittedly, started with her hands. He had watched her in the library one day, raising inquiring eyebrows and smirking at the look of concentration that often furrowed her face when she worked on a particular problem in his classroom. He studied her, as he studied everything. The way her elegant neck bent slightly sideways, letting her recently cropped hair brush it's ends over the nape. Her eyes were closed, as she visualized something beyond his reasoning, and her posture straight backed. She perched on the edge of a large, rather comfortable looking chair, and hummed under her breath, almost inaudibly. It was her voice that stopped him in the beginning, ringing breathily through the empty library, silent and deserted but for them; he, sneaking shyly in to pick up a book on potent wildflowers, and the young post- graduate student, seated at a desk, but facing away from her studies, towards the window, humming.  
  
It was her hands that really caught his eye though. Her elbows bent out from her shoulders in a graceful dancer's pose, and her right hand seemed fixed in a loose and elegant grip. Her other hand curled in front of her, moving up and down as her right moved back and forth. He watched the play of muscle over her right hand as the fingers switched positions, in accordance to her humming. Her hands were smooth and tapered, small and sleek, with perfect white crescents at the very ends. She wore no rings, and he could see from where he was standing, the grace and agility in those fine hands.  
  
It would be a grand thing, he thought, to actually hear her play.  
  
He wondered if she did this often, and how, after she had attended this school for eight years, he had never known that she played the cello. He had known she was shy, especially after having graduated, when he realized the reasons behind her being so close to the two maddening boys, who seemed to mistreat and ignore her at every turn. They had been her only friends.  
  
In the half a year that had followed her graduation thus far, she had continued her studies independently, working with her various teachers as advisors, and barely looking up from her books to eat or sleep. He had recognized it as a form of denial, as well as finally the release to pursue what she truly wished to do. And yet, there still was a loneliness about her. The subtle hint of a young woman in her prime, bending her straight back over a library desk, when the time of study should have concluded and her life experiences begun. At times, he would see her walk back to her quarters in the early hours of the morning, rubbing her long neck and rolling her shoulders to relieve some of the tension there. It had reminded him of himself.  
  
He stood to the right of her now, examining her fingers as her head bent slightly side to side, the chestnut curls that clung to her head in a fashion popular in the twenties, now escaping from behind her ears and falling to her chin. It suited her, he thought, though it seemed the change had been more practical than aesthetic, opting for short hair in order to better study without interference and to facilitate easy care. Now, he noted, it must have also been in order to play the cello without the bother of long hair. He had cut his own hair to a manageable length a few years ago, after tiring of the way it caught in the chin of his violin. Now it merely hung irritably into his eyes, and he was forced to stop his playing to sweep it back from his vision.  
  
He watched her for a moment longer, admiring the change from girl to woman she had made so subtly, and then he swept out of the library. He willed himself not to think of her skin in the moonlight through the window, her cunning hands playing the phantom cello, her shining hair meeting the white nape of her neck. He thought, instead, of her playing itself. How he had arrogantly thought himself the only wizard in the world who played muggle music, how his solitary playing had become his touchstone, and how, now, he felt less alone in the castle, with another secret shy wielder of both bow and wand. 


	2. Chapter Two

CHAPTER 2  
  
He sat in his study, idly spinning his globe and breathing in the smell of his violin polish that permeated the air. He reclined in his tall, burgundy leather chair, the book he had recently borrowed from the library open on his lap and forgotten, his bare feet resting on the ottoman. The room was lit well, with softly glowing lanterns, and a simple wrought iron chandelier that illuminated his fine rug from asia, which spread it's gold and crimson pattern all the way to the edge of his hearth. The hearth glowed clean white from the firelight that reflected off the polished sandstone, and added it's cheer to the little room, full of books and antique furniture, as well as various experiments in various states of completion that littered most of the surfaces. His harshness about cleanliness in his classroom was not apparent in his own quarters, which he kept tidy, but always seemed on the verge of cluttered. His right hand wandered over the convex surface of his standing globe again, spinning and stopping the sphere as his mind wandered lazily through the events of the day. Seeing the girl had put him in mind of those glorious and painful days he had spent as a post graduate, studying constantly, sleeping rarely, and finding exhilaration only in the pursuit of knowledge. His teaching and his years of serving as this or that for a lord who cared little for the life of a human being, had made him jaded and cold, he realized, pondering the contoured surface of the Himalayas. He had remembered that noncommittal, that attachment to only the present, and the information that had eluded him. It had taken him years to look up from his plodding search for the truth behind the wizarding politics, only to find that he had become a tool, rather than someone who wields their knowledge as power and in triumph.  
  
Sighing, he closed the book on his lap, placing it on the table next to his chair, and stretched. Closing his eyes, he willed sleep to come, but, as usual, it refrained. Silence filled his room. Even the fire was mute. He sat, eyes closed, letting his ears absorb the silence of the stone walls, allowing his mind to relax and discontinue thought on his past, on his loneliness, on the lovely, mahogany finger curls that brushed her cheek as she tilted her head in the moonlight through the library window. Just then, as he was becoming accustomed to the stillness of the room, a mournful and extended vibration of a note sounded mutedly through the walls, and continued steadily until it had filled his room. Severus sat shock still, listening as the note swelled, changed subtly, progressed into a series of notes he knew well, especially played so well. Bach's sonata no. 3, one parted, began to slowly filter into the room, and he let his eyes slip shut at the slower notes. It was excellently played, the bowing on the cello fantastic, and it was clear that the player was not new to the art. The rather doleful tune turned and changed and slipped into his mind with the agility of a tumbler, and he found himself deeply moved. Getting up suddenly, he moved to the east wall of his room, and turned his ear to the stones, trying to hear the tune louder. It played on, small and sad and beautiful, it seemed to come from the very rocks themselves. Standing, he pressed his forehead against the coolness of the wall. It could only be her, he thought, as the song continued. That night, he slept there, seated awkwardly in the juncture of the floor and wall, head resting against the surface of the stones, lulled to sleep by the gentle cello notes of Bach, and the presence of a kindred spirit. 


	3. Chapter Three

CHAPTER 3  
  
She played by moonlight, her eyes slipping shut and her fingers operating by muscle memory and sweet recognition of each note. With each sweep of her graceful bow, her breath drew in through her nose in a slow inward gasp at the rightness, the banishment of her loneliness. Bach, she knew, was the only one who understood her. She finished the movement, and let her bowing hand pause, resting at her side. She glanced out the window, magicked to appear in the basement dungeons in order to provide light to play by, and once again thanked Merlin that Dumbledore had had the kindness to provide her with a new practice space. Her quarters, located down the hall, also in the dungeon, were far from the arithmancy tower where she had been allowed to store her precious cello in the storage closet, and play it only in her sparse free time, which usually meant the dead of night. She sometimes longed for those lazy Saturdays when, at home as a small child, she had played and played until her left hand's fingertips were tinted silver from the strings, and her shoulders ached. At Hogwarts, she had played only in private, and only in short time slots, unwilling to be caught doing something that could merit a reprimand, or teasing. Muggle music was usually termed a joke amongst the students. Why bother with music like that, when a tune could easily be conjured out of thin air with nothing more than a wave of a wand? That's why musical instruments weren't technically allowed at Hogwarts. They took up space, time, and had nothing to do with the magic curriculum. But after a spotless few years, Hermione had appealed to Dumbledore, privately, to bring her cello, and to play it only in her free time. The headmaster had smiled, "Of course," he had said, "I can understand the need for a companion that does not dwell in one's dorm or within the pages of a book." Hermione smiled at the remembrance of his perfect understanding. Today, though, he had come to her, as she studied furiously in the library, and furrowed his brow at her. "You are working too hard, my dear," he said, glancing at the large book she was translating, "If you don't look up from your studies once in a while, you'll be lost. Or become jaded and lonely like our dear Professor Snape." Hermione had been quick to leap to his defence. "Professor Snape isnt' jaded.. He's just..well, you're right, I suppose, he and I are a lot alike." She smiled and blushed, embarrassed, and Dumbledore had nodded. "I think I have a solution," he said, his eyes sparkling with unmasked happiness at the industrious pupil who stared up at him with wondering, fawn colored eyes.  
  
If Hermione had known that Dumbledore would offer the room down the hall for her to use as her practice room, she would have been unable to contain her gratitude there in the library. As it was, he sent her an owl later, which dropped a small piece of parchment onto her desk before zooming off. The parchment stated that she had been invited to use the room, and that her cello had been moved there, and was awaiting her use. In an obviously humorous sidenote from Dumbledore, he had included that she hurry there before she become a permanent fixture in the library and the school need dedicate her as a statue.  
  
Pleased and pleasantly tired from her day of study, she had stretched, seated, turning towards the window, and thought of the sonata she had been working on the last time she had played. Closing her eyes, she imagined the weight of the instrument between her legs, resting against her collarbone, and placed her hands into position. Letting her bowing arm slide gracefully along the imaginary bridge, she allowed her fingers to walk through the positioning of the song. Without realizing it, she began to hum the melody, enjoying her brief sojourn into fantasy, and anticipating the reality of playing again for the first time in weeks.  
  
Now, she examined her tangible bow, frowning slightly at the wear. It was late, and, sighing, she gathered her cello into it's case, polishing it carefully, as well as wiping down the bow with an oily cloth and replacing it into it's holder. She leaned the case against the comfortable chair in the center of the room, surveying the other objects in the small, but cosy, stone room. There was a non-magical portrait of a woman, in profile, who was exceedingly pale, and wore a black dress, as well as a small table with a tea set and cookie box. The floor was carpeted with a beautiful rug in blues and greens, and there were soft, billowy curtains that brushed the floor of the room. A chandelier hung unlit from the ceiling, and a small bookshelf was tucked against the wall, that she noted had been thoughtfully filled with some books on muggle music. She had been elated when Dumbledore admitted to his love of traditional classical muggle music, and since then, he had been gracing her, every once in a while, with various pieces of literature on the subject which he happened upon. She allowed her fingertips to play over the spines of the books, then gathered her cloak, and left the practice room to return to her chambers for the night.  
  
When she arrived, she tossed her coat onto a small, old-fashioned couch that sat pleasantly in her room. She shed her below the knee, casual red skirt, her black turtleneck, and ran a hand through her chin length, wavy brown hair, before dropping, exhausted into bed. She stared at the ceiling, willing herself to not think of him. Willing herself not to fall back into the routine she had grown accustomed to. Willing away the thoughts of his black eyes, his long, slender white fingers, the beautiful black lock of hair that fell onto his forehead as he worked. Her feelings for her teacher had developed from a crush in her schoolgirl years, to something more in her last few months before graduation. She had been working on her final thesis for potions, an extra credit project that had taken up most of her last months as an undergraduate student, and resulted in spending most of her time in the potions lab, working on theories by his side. Though it had been strictly professional, they shared a camaraderie that she hadn't found in any of her schoolmates. Their mutual ambition for learning and their symbiotic interactions brought them closer together as the days progressed. When the project had been completed, she had felt the sudden melancholy of having lost the opportunity to spend time with him. But more than that, she missed his physical presence. The herbal smell of him, and his warmth at her side, the play of his soft hands over her shoulder when he alerted her to one thing or another. Her physical attraction to him was just another element of her relationship to him, although it was the only time in her eighteen years of life during which she had actually been physically and intellectually stimulated by anyone. Now, as she immersed herself in her studies, growing lonelier and lonelier, she often thought of him. Their contact during her post-graduate year was limited, a casual hello in the hallway, a nod, a smile. Though brief and non-committal, these encounters helped to keep her going, along with Dumbledore's endless support, the kind faculty, and now her cello playing. But at night, these moments were not enough to help soothe the ache of loneliness in her. Her body, prime and virile, longed for the touch of his hands, the presence of his body in her bed. She tossed and turned, angrily attempting to drive away the thoughts, but she knew, once she found sleep, he would fill her dreams. 


	4. Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR  
  
The next night found him, again, in his chambers, silently pondering the stone wall, this time with anticipation. His violin sat like an amber bird, spindly yet solid, awaiting his touch. The day had gone surprisingly quickly, evaporating in a steam of unimportant details as he thought of her playing the night before, as he reveled in the first, good night's sleep he had gotten in a long, long while. Ironically enough, he had taken his sleep in the crevice of his wall and floor. He shook his head, running his fingertips along the horsehair of his bow, testing the flexibility of a familiar tool. As the first note sounded from beyond the wall, he looked up, smiled. Picking up his violin, he listened for a moment, poised as he was with the instrument beneath his chin, and readied his bow. Ah, Mozart tonight. Steadying his posture, he breathed in deeply through his nose, and on his exhale, brought his bow to meet the strings, releasing a steady hum of harmony to her own note behind the stone wall. Playing along with her, they got through most of a movement before she noticed his presence. He felt her stop, her bow wavering, and turn towards his wall. He could almost see the expression of curious wonder on her face as she questioned, "Did I just hear.?" In a moment, the music continued, this time Bach again, a concerto. He picked up beside her, the song of the violin ringing out in melodious tune with her fine playing. He heard the music waver as she realized he had started again, but she was quick to recover her surprise, and through the tone, he could hear her excitement. They continued this way, well on into the night, as the duet rang on through the muffled halls of Hogwarts, separated by a stone wall, yet in all things, completing one another so perfectly.  
  
In the small hours of the morning, as they finished a tune, both panting and exhilarated, she paused, before sounding one long, low note of obvious thanks to him, before closing up her cello. He smiled from the other side of the wall, replacing his violin into his worn case, letting his hand pass along the wall in a signal of unseen affection. Whether she could tell it was he or not, he was glad they had played together. Perhaps, someday, they would play in the same room as one another. Smiling and shaking his head, he retired to sleep soundly once again with visions of her breathless from exhilaration dancing in his head.  
  
She took a moment outside the practice room to steady herself. The hallway was cold and dark compared to the intimate setting in which they had shared their music. She stopped herself from smiling too broadly, sneaking sideways glances at the door that led to his chambers. 'Of course it was him,' the thought seemed desperate, 'there's no one else who lives down here. And only he could play the violin with such obvious feeling.' She imagined him, broodingly bent over his instrument, his posture straight and bowing arm flying, his long, thin fingers working over the neck of the violin, playing in rhythm, in harmony with her, and she suddenly felt the unmistakable flush of arousal. They had shared something intimate, something deeply personal and exclusive to he and she. Smiling at his door, she turned to walk back to her own rooms with a light heart.  
  
The next morning, she stood outside on the Hogwarts grounds, feeling the rush of cold air through her small front lawn enclosure, where she stood drinking coffee and watching the sun sparkle on the snow. Her thoughts were on the previous night, and her surprise at finding a musical soulmate in the teacher she had considered her soulmate in all else for a long while. Hugging herself, she pondered whether to ask him to join her this evening, to actually play together, as opposed to through a stone wall. With a resolved sigh, she turned, and went into her rooms to prepare for the day of study.  
  
At night, full of new knowledge and the anticipation of hearing him play again, she hurried to her chambers to change into more comfortable clothes. She hummed idly as she dressed, and walked down the stone hallway to the doorway that led into her practice room. She paused there, her hand frozen on the doorknob, willing herself to face him. In truth, it would be a simple request, from one musician to another, to join her, to duet face to face, able to hear without the muffling wall, the true interweaving of their combined notes. But then, the very visceral crux of the question itself (would you care to join me?) would be posed to a man fond of his solitude, who's biting criticism and vicious perfectionism made him a strange companion to spend the evening with. Shaking off her fear of rejection, she gathered her cello and bow, running her fingertips over the burnished golden wood and taking strength from the familiar curves of the neck of the instrument, and stood resolutely outside the door to his chambers, her hand raised to knock.  
  
The knock came as a surprise to him, to say the least. He sat again in his comfortable chair, musing on the wall, the fire forgotten, awaiting the first tremulous sound of a note from behind the wall. He had looked foreward to it all day, in fact, imagining, upon seeing her pale face at the breakfast table, that she radiated the sweet tones from her very skin. Their encounter the night previous had left him exhilarated, and more than a little pleased at their remarkable compatibility as musicians. In all honesty, he was out of breath for more than the mere exhilaration of finding a partner to play with, but the thought of her beauty and elegance, as the vision of her pale arm as she extended it to bow, excited him to a level beyond arousal. A woman, many years his junior, still,, a woman with the same personal intensity as his own, a vital beauty that often left him speechless, and the shining talent and imagination that could only be expressed through the miraculous playing that ate away at him throughout the day, working it's way into his chest and squeezing. Hard.  
  
He longed to watch her while they played, to see her expression as he matched her, to watch the graceful curve of her neck as she wrought the clean, clear notes from the depths of what could only be her very soul. Perhaps, he thought, he would knock on her door, invite her to join him, implore her, cajole her. He was unable to contain a smile at the desperate wish he had to see her. As her teacher, he had been a cold and bitter man, but their slight friendship had begun to take place towards the end of her time as a student. He recalled those days well, working feverishly to develop the thesis, gathering data from their groundbreaking work, and the pleasantness of their brief interactions. Perhaps, perhaps, they could regain that closeness through their music. Perhaps, he dared to hope, they could cultivate a more personal relationship if they were to play together... At that moment, the knock sounded, startling him out of his reverie 


	5. Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE. When the large, heavy oak door swung open, it took her a moment to compose herself. He stood before her in a room well lit with lanterns, smelling of a faintly old fashioned chemical smell, as well as the faint whiff of herbs from a shelf of potted plants next to the large, French door, wrought iron windows that opened onto a magicked terrace. Soft, familiar music sounded throughout the room, and she noted a muggle stereo system in the corner on a cluttered table of cds. He was dressed in casual slacks, black, with a dark brown sweater over a white collared shirt. She had seen him in casual dress only a few times before, during her apprenticeship to him, when they worked late hours. It was always a thrill, especially when, like now, he donned the silver framed glasses, that shined softly illuminating his black eyes and softening his features somewhat. She smiled at him slightly, and was relieved to see him smile back, if somewhat tentatively. It was then that she recognized the music that played as one of Dante's operas. "Miss Granger, do come in." Ever formal, he ushered her in. She recalled the days when he had been a cruel, harsh man, accepting only the best from his pupils. Then, there had been a war coming. Since then, the defeat of the dark lord had softened his disposition a great deal. With the death of the evil wizard, he was released from the perpetual pain and gloom that had pervaded his life. He was no longer compelled to prepare his students to be ready to survive a long and gruesome fight. She thought that kindness suited him, but she was glad that it made it's appearance rarely still. He was still the sly, bitter man he had been before, only now his humor made it's presence known occasionally, and his harsh cruelty was no longer present in the halls or classrooms. He was, in fact, a solitary, stern man. And now, he was offering her a seat. She leaned her cello against the wall, trailing her fingers over a standing globe as she went to the chair he indicated. "Professor, I was wondering," He looked at her with slightly disguised interest, "Sir, I was hoping that, perhaps, tonight we might play face to face?" He seemed amused, "I will admit that the stone walls do little to amplify the music in between rooms, Miss Granger. I'm glad you asked, I would have done so myself tonight. Please, I would be honored if you would join me in a duet this evening." She smiled at him, and caught the slight startle at her smile.  
  
When she smiled, he felt his heart jump. She was gorgeous in the light from the fire and lanterns, flickering gold off of her skin, and the red of her sweater set off the blush of her cheek, the fire of her hair. She was glancing down now, at her hands, pleased at his acceptance to her proposal. He felt a gravity-like pull to her, and, resisting it, he cleared his throat, and rose to gather his instrument. Few words had been exchanged, and few arrangements were necessary. He stood, and sat at a cushioned stool he had provided for her. They shared a nervous energy. It was partially the enormity of playing with a matched musician, finally in the same room, and partially something else. A growing attraction was present in the room, slowly becoming too large for either of them to ignore, but too young to be cultivated as of yet. Together, they worked out a playlist on a roll of parchment he had gathered from his desk, and he placed it on a music stand before them. He rummaged around in his shelves before emerging with some of the sheet music that they might need, and spread it around the room to refer to. Then the paused, bows ready, looking at one another. "I'm glad for this, professor." "Call me Severus." And they played.  
  
The result of two musicians who have studied intently, practiced diligently, and have become matched in their playing, is a beautiful combination. When those two musicians share a passion that belies their solitude, when they are two individuals who shine among their peers, as scholars, old souls, and searchers of truth and light and beauty, when they have weathered strife together, share a deep, mutual respect, if secret, and if they possess a magnetic attraction to one another, their music will be something else entirely. Their music that night resounded in his chambers, echoing the notes that had been written and imagined by scores of composers, as their pure form, their most passionate, and infused with grace, elegance, and passion. Their playing, excellent in order to match one another, was symbiotic in nature, giving and receiving. It was sad, it was joyful, it spoke of avenues in Paris, ripe with golds and rich gowns, where the sun beat down on the Victorian lords and ladies. It spoke of deep, green plains of damn grass, stretching endlessly into a blue sky, and the subtle curve of a woman, touched by a hand on that feminine hip. In one night, their instruments created a world of human and wizard love, history, existence, that seemed to almost be beyond the creation of any written music, transcending the sphere of human abilities, to become something that could only occur between these two individuals.  
  
At the end of the evening, when the morning hours were small and dark, they paused in their bowing. Stretching of arms and fingers signaled their fatigue, and a comfortable silence stretched through the warm room. Severus sat, replacing his violin on the table, and turned to look at her, for the hundredth time thinking of how beautiful she was, stilling his thoughts on how much he would have loved to lay her down across the soft rug beneath them and explore the contoured plains of her body. Her mind and her playing excited him most. He dared to dwell on the concept of intimacy with someone he admired, coveted for her intelligence and talent, her amazing passion that was slowly revealing itself to him the more he heard her play. He thought of the noises she might make when he touched her, on her throat, on her hip, on the tender expanse below her breast.  
  
"Thank you for playing with me. You were wonderful." Her soft voice filtered his revery. "It was my pleasure, and I must extend my own gratitude. I don't often have the opportunity to play with anyone, let alone a musician so matched to my own skill." She blushed at his words, smiling again. "I recall a night when I was dining with the headmaster during your seventh year, when he told me of your playing. In truth, I had been shocked. I know of no other wizard who plays. It is the curse of our race that we reject even the most marvelous truths that have been born from our species." Hermione thought of the tumultous existance of the human race, reflecting on the music they had just created, together. "I feel the same about the discovery of your talent, Severus," she responded, revelling in her ability to refer to him in his first name. "Yes, well, I believe we share that privateness that accompanies our music." He smiled and she felt her stomach flip over. It was a wry, half smile, and one she had seen often enough when he would grace the class with his high humor. It never failed to make her chest siese up, and her throat constrict.  
  
They continued talking that night, late enough to glimpse the lightness of morning through the french doors. Beyond their fatigue, they held curiosity about one another, and a desire for knowledge, and to share. As the night wore on, the conversation turned from more philisophic topics to the more personal. They shared misconceptions revealed to one another, and pondered on their mutual love for things so similar. As they continued, the subject of Shakespeare arose, only to discover their equal adoration for the plays, mostly the darker ones, with a few comedic exceptions. Severus jokingly adorned her with the name "hermia," a name so ill placed upon her frame, that the concieted namesake seemed almost to sneer beyond the confines of her fictitiousness. Hermione could never be confined to the melodramatic comedy angenouges of shakespear; niether Helena nor Hermia fit her disposition. But Hermia, he had said, with sudden seriousness, was said to have a gift of beauty so rare, that even the Queen of the Fairies showed an inkling of jealousy. She had blushed, and he had called her by that name ever since, as ill fitting as it was in all else but her beauty. Still, it was melodic, harmonious, it rolled off his tongue easily both in adressing her, only in private, and when he spoke her name aloud while alone, feeling it resonate within him. Also, it rebirthed her in his eyes. She was no longer the irritating child pupil, Miss Granger, officially separate and beyond walls of stature and age; In her place was Hermia, or Hermione at times, the scholar, the musician, the poet and philosopher, the comrade and contemporary, as well as the achingly beautiful, sweetly sensual, maddeningly charming woman. And each night after she left, smiling softly at him and closing the door with a click, it was her womanliness that still remained with him. 


	6. Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX And so it went on, and each found themselves simultaneously soothed and invigorated by one another's presence. Their desire for each other waxed and waned with their proximity, and each found it harder to contain, as their time together grew more intimate. At times, Hermione felt, she could climax from the mere sound of his voice as he recounted an anecdote from his studies. He seemed to sweep over her in waves, and the smell of his chambers only added to her heightened awareness of him, her nearness to him. It was a constant fight to remain composed as she watched him play, his lean body tight and strong, the same body and mind and face that haunted both her dreams and waking hours. He stood with great refinement, yet his movements were somehow passionate, as his elbow led the retreat of his strong, long fingered hand that held the bow gracefully. His other fingers, nimble and sure on the neck of the violin, and his face a mixture of concentration and enjoyment. She imagined what his face would look like in the throes of passion, and had to mentally clear away her heated thoughts, in fear she might miss her entrance into the movement.  
  
In turn, he watched her, and often enough that he berated himself for being a dirty old man. He lusted after her, the back of her neck, the supple curve of her shoulder, the delicate inward flux of her waist. He found himself drawn to portions of her body and mind that he otherwise would never have given second thoughts to. Once, she had taken off her shoes to warm her feet in his rug by the fire, and he had watched her pale, smooth feet with keen interest, until tearing his eyes away as he felt himself harden at the thought of those feet crossed over his back, as he pictured himself slowly peeling stockings away to reveal them to his hands and mouth. At night, after she took her leave to return to her rooms, he would prepare for bed, complete his ablutions and stand, clad in his bathrobe, with his head in his hands, willing himself to resist the temptation to touch himself to her image. He was unable to control the heated dreams that would awaken him panting and stroking himself, unable to stop his hands and the sighs of her name, but he would not allow himself, a grown man, to be driven to a waking masturbatory fantasy about his colleague and friend. When he awoke, cursing and rising to clean himself off, he often would return to his study in his bathrobe, to sit in her chair, the large armchair she would claim whenever they weren't playing. She would curl up on the cushion, her feet tucked under her, to discuss with him whatever topic they chose for the evening, or to simply sit in his company, reading or watching the flames of the fire. Severus was slightly sad to admit that he didn't think he would be able to get used to her absence if she were not to come to his chambers at night. She had become an addiction, a welcome comfort and pleasure with which to end his day. The chair had come to smell of her, the slight fragrance of library incense and rose oil, with which she polished her cello, and which, he had realized early in their friendship, she perpetually smelled of. He would laugh, softly, to himself, recalling a particularly cutting comment he had inflicted onto one of his students that day, and wonder at what the students and faculty would think to know that he, Severus Snape, was one to breathe deeply of a slight scent for the pure longing for one woman.  
  
There came a night in mid December, cold and cruel outdoors. A storm wrapped itself about the castle walls, flinging it's raging, freezing rain against the windows, and creating in the castle, the feeling of impenetrability; the warm, golden feeling one gets from knowing that one is safe from the cold and wet. Hermione, exhausted from hours of translations of ancient potions runes, stumbled from the library feeling famished. Glancing at her timepiece, she smiled softly, speeding up her pace to arrive at his chambers at the usual time. Food nor rest had managed to lure her from the library that day, but she could not go without her nightly dose of tranquility, to be beside him and to join with him in their mutual love of the creation of music.  
  
She arrived at his door, cello in hand, and gave a tired but pleased greeting to his own. He took the instrument from her, a slight frown of concern gracing his handsome features, and placed it against the wall. "It looks as if you have been neglecting basic sustenance for your studies. Have you no sense at all?" he admonished, shaking his head slightly. "You're looking well, yourself, Severus." She responded, giving a slight chuckle to his rebuke. "You know very well the importance of one's health, Hermia, and therefore I suggest," he said, as he gathered his cloak, "that we briefly visit the kitchens in order to provide you with some nourishment before you collapse over your cello." Feeling relieved, she smiled, broadly, and followed him back out of his chambers, "Thank you, Severus, I truly don't know what I would do without you." They both startled slightly at the intimacy of her comment, before he placed a soft hand on her lower back in a gesture both chivalrous and kind, guiding her towards the kitchens without a word.  
  
About half way to the kitchens, Hermione turned to him. "Severus, why didn't we simply ask one of the house elves to fetch a platter and bring it to your rooms?" Severus looked slightly embaressed. "My chambers are tended to by myself. I have no need for house elves, their perpetual self- deprication wears my nerves thin, and I consider my chambers to be private." She felt an irrational burst of pride at the fact that he would allow her to spend time in his chambers. "Therefore, I have no means to contact a house elf, and, furthermore," he said, as he opened the large, white carved doors to the kitchens, "I believe that most of the house elves have Tuesday evenings off." He was right, as it turned out, and the kitchen was empty of elves, students or faculty. "Looks like we'll need to fend for ourselves," he pondered, as he began poking his head into cabinets and searching for various food items. Hermione ate a slice of chocolate cake as he told her of his own graduation from Hogwarts, when the joviality had been stifled by the rise of the dark lord. She listened with interest, and finished her cake as he ended his story. They were about to leave to return to his chambers, when she recalled Dobby telling her that there was a stash of tea in the pantry, and that were she in need of refills of her chamber's tea supply, which she currently was, she had but to ask. "One moment Severus," she said, as he turned back to her, "I just need to fetch more tea from the pantry." The small closet was lined with various foods, odd wizarding spices and, towards the back, next to the exploding chocolate bombs (reserved for special occasions for the students) were the tea supplies. Maneuvering herself into the small space, she reached for the tea, only to be caught around the wrist by what felt like a strong, invisible hand. She let out a muffled shriek, attempting to wrest her hand away from the offensive clamp. Severus, having heard her cry, rushed into the small pantry with her to investigate, only to be gripped around his own wrist, and they both gasped to see the door to the pantry close suddenly, with a loud and final bang. 


	7. Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN  
  
Of course. Severus fixed his glare on the large jar of peanut butter that was located on a shelf above her head. Of course, he would have to be stuck here, in heaven and hell, in a cramped little pantry with Filch's binding spell for thieving students clamped tightly to his wrist. And, of course, he would have to be stuck there with the object of his lust, affection and constant yet unrequited adoration, not three inches away from his rather uncomfortable body. Which, by the way, was growing markedly less comfortable with the struggled movements of her own body against his as she fought the binding spell. As soon as the door had closed, the magicked voice of Filch rang out through the pantry. "Well well well, You thought you were smart, didn'tcha? Well, I'll have you know that its against the rules for students to be out after hours sneaking snacks! Betcha didn't see that comin'! Once I am informed of your capture, I'll be right down to collect you and take you to the headmaster!" Unfortunately, as Severus had told the dismayed Hermione, the caretaker was away for the night, taking his cat to a wizard vet in the south of England. So there they were, trapped in a pantry at eleven at night, each with a wrist clamped in a binding spell, and forced to face one another in their claustrophobic encampment for, what was shaping up to be, quite a long night. As Hermione's struggles against her restraint became more frenzied, she began to make small gasps and growls, that were causing Severus to wish for a cold shower, or at least perhaps a sudden pantry monsoon. He reached out a hand, letting it fall on her hip, stilling her movements with a sudden silence. She looked up into his face, which had gone pale when he discovered the full extent of their predicament. "It won't break. We're stuck here until someone finds us, I'm afraid." She sighed, letting her struggle cease entirely. "Well," she said, and he noted that she didn't seem to mind that he had not removed his hand from her hip, both to hold her away from the evidence of his own response to her closeness, and to enjoy the feel of her skin beneath her sweater under his hand, "At least we won't go hungry." She smiled, looking tired and amused. He couldn't resist the urge to smile back. She leaned up against the shelves behind her, and he let his hand drop resignedly. She looked stunning, leaning her head against the peanut butter jar, her smooth white neck exposed to him, the expanse of creamy white skin dipping down to the v-neck of her sweater where the shadows of soft cleavage tormented him with their clothed demurity. The smell of roses and the library emanated off of her warm, live body, pliable and soft in cashmere.  
  
His stiff demeanor must have tipped her off slightly to the attraction he was feeling. She raised her hand, interest sparking in her eyes like that of a new, exciting research possibility. "Severus, I wondered." she hesitated, placing her unbound hand innocently on his shoulder and eliciting a shiver from him, "I wondered why you never married." Severus cleared his throat, and as he spoke, his face moved inadvertently closer to hers. "Well, I am, as are you, involved with my studies, and obviously a man with a great deal of privacy. My motivations tend towards my work and, until a few years ago, politics. I suppose, that in the crossfire of all of that," his face was inches from her ear, his mouth brushing warm air over her neck and into her sensitive ear, she closed her eyes, her breath coming short. "It never really.occurred to me." She had bent her head to the side, giving him wordless permission with the slow exposure of her neck to him. He gazed at the white skin beneath her ear, his mouth drawn to the spot as he spoke, unable to resist it's pull. "And so you see me now.a lonely man who.has never experienced..anything like what I'm feeling now.." And with that his mouth set lightly on her neck. Her skin was warm and fragrant beneath his lips, and he allowed his tongue to dart out and taste her there, his eyes slipping shut at the tiny moan it elicited from her, as she brought her hand up from his shoulder to the nape of his neck. Her fingers curled into the silky hairs there at the back of his neck, as he continued tasting the skin of her neck. His free hand sneaked around her waist to subtly pull her to him, and they gasped mutually at the touch of his erection to her stomach. He groaned and buried his eyes in her neck, making an attempt at composure so that he wouldn't push her up against the shelves, losing all semblance of control. She stroked his hair, and he noted that her hands were shaking, before she brought them around to his face, tilting it up from the crook of her neck to face her.  
  
Their mouths came together slowly. He was fascinated by the way her mouth opened slightly, her eyelashes fluttering as she neared him. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that these actions would affect their relationship forever. There was no way he could go back once they kissed, and he feared that with the touch of her hot mouth to his own, they might never be able to stop. Still, their mouths met, and for a moment, there was no noise in the pantry but their labored breathing through their noses, sounding in harmony. She dragged her lips over his own, letting the flesh catch and glide, and she nipped at his lower lip between her own, darting her tongue out to taste it. It was just about then, that all semblance of his control vanished.  
  
With a groan, he plunged his tongue into her mouth, delighting in the responsive gasp and hum from her. He backed her up against the shelf and his leg found it's way between her own. He was met with another moan, into his mouth, and it sent delicious vibrations throughout his whole body. Her free hand was running through his hair, over his neck, down his chest, driving them both mad as his muscles twitched under her touch. He ground into her hip, and they both gasped in pleasure, as their kiss became more frantic, searching. He could smell her, taste the chocolate on her breath, breath in the rose essence and let his hand travel the length of her back to tangle in the short, silky strands of her chestnut hair. Alternately biting and soothing, the kiss deepened until she pulled her head away, panting. Her eyes were slits of blackness in the half light, and she leaned to kiss the smooth skin of his neck, feeling him buck against her again at the contact. She traced his adam's apple to his ear with her tongue as he groaned and began thrusting his hips against her in a slow, steady, intoxicating rhythm. She whimpered with every thrust, and wondered how on earth she had managed to finally get to this place that she had wanted for so long. Pausing at his ear, she tried to catch her breath, leaning her cheek against his as they both struggled for air and control.  
  
Suddenly, they were blinded by the white light of the pantry door opening, and they sprang back from one another with eyes wide and frightened. Dobby stood poised in frozen shock, one hand on the doorknob of the pantry door, bearing a key. Severus, having composed himself somewhat, gave him a stern professor look. Dobby began to babble, "Proffessor, Sir, and Miss Hermione! Dobby is begging your pardons! Mr. Filch, sir, he gives Dobby the key to the binding spell, sir, saying that if any student were to be caught stealing chocolate bombs, Dobby should take the key and go to let them out and tell them to go to the head of their houses, Sir, and you see, Dobby thought it would be a student! Not Miss Hermione and Proffessor Snape, Sir!" All the while, Dobby was tottering into the pantry and inserting the key into a small keyhole in the floor, releasing them from the binding spell. Severus and Hermione rubbed at their wrists, Hermione looking down to hide her blush and regain her composure, Severus glaring menacingly down at Dobby.  
  
After much simpering and apology, Dobby excused himself and vanished in a puff. Severus and Hermione walked back towards their rooms in silence, side by side, both deep in thought. When they arrived at her door, Severus turned to her, prepared. "Hermia, I want you to know that I will not apologize for the way I acted, nor will I deny that those feelings have been building in me for some time. I can assure you that I am not a-" he faltered, "Sex-Maniac, and that the feelings stem from entirely altruistic ones. It's not just about sex." He said it as an admission of guilt. Hermione felt the relief and elation like a ton of bricks had been lifted from her shoulders. He looked up to gauge her reaction, only to feel her warm lips press against his own, briefly. "It's not for me either." she said, taking his hands in both of her's, "And we can continue this conversation, perhaps tomorrow after classes when we've both had some time to think and sleep. Is that alright?" "A stunning idea, as usual. I'll bid you good night, then." They stood a moment in silence, hands joined and eyes locked, both serious and tired. She leaned in, and kissed him sweetly again, then leaned closer to whisper, "Although, Severus, I wouldn't say that sex had nothing to do with it." By the time he recovered from his shock, she was standing in her doorway. "goodnight." She whispered, and shut the door. 


	8. Chapter Eight

Author's note: SO sorry for the delay on these next few chapters! Midterms and all. The very next chapter should be along shortly. It's all written, just needs some spacing and revision. In answer to the question: plot or none? Answer: quasi-plot. There's stuff happening.it's just mostly about the growing attraction and soforth. I was so wowed by the unbelievable plot of "Soul Searching" by Quillusion (can I mention another fic here? I promise it shall receive nothing but endless praise!!! Don't yell at me, please!), that I was a little hesitant to embark on any of the dark business I had planned before. So, this is mostly just a fluff, unless I get mad protestations and am forced to revert back to the plot I had planned. Anyway, on with the concerto.. (a spoiler to come: more classical music.) Ps: Thanks to all who commented! Your comments made me so very happy!  
  
-Iphy  
  
CHAPTER EIGHT  
  
The next day at breakfast, Hermione made a startling appearance. Usually, her presence was missed at breakfast due to her irregular study hours, and inability to digest anything other than coffee before eleven o clock.  
  
Severus looked up and felt his heart rate speed when he saw her, and, noting the other teachers sitting at the table around him, tried to pass it off as shock at seeing her up so early.  
  
Dumbledore looked at him pointedly from the end of the table, and Severus suddenly wondered, with slight indignation, whether the old wizard had purposely placed Hermione's practice room conveniently next to his own chambers.  
  
The headmaster shifted his sparkling gaze to the young woman entering the hall, waving her over to the teacher's table. As the only post-graduate student, her place to dine was among the faculty, though she dined in the great hall rarely.  
  
The teachers greeted her all around, and she engaged in brief, standing conversation with a number of them for a minute or two, mostly discussing her research, before discreetly making her way over to the unoccupied seat next to Severus.  
  
"Good morning," she said, the happiness at seeing him unable to hide in her tone. He poured her a glass of orange juice as he answered her own badly masked pleasure with his own, "good morning," equally elated.  
  
"I trust you had a pleasant sleep?" He asked, noting her slight nervousness at being so close to him. She blushed at his comment, looking slightly flustered.  
  
"Yes, I was graced with quite pleasant dreams, thank you, and you?" He was recovering from the potential sexual innuendo in her last comment, and cleared his throat before speaking,  
  
"I slept well, though the events of my evening previous wound me up to a state that made it difficult to sleep. I missed your playing. I've become dependant."  
  
"Severus," she said, her voice becoming low and quiet, "You have but to ask and I would be delighted to play for you." She slipped her closest hand onto his knee, and squeezed the kneecap slightly.  
  
She was rewarded by a slight startle, causing him to splutter some of his orange juice. God, he was becoming hard from just that touch.  
  
What compelled her, a beautiful, young, intelligent creature, to become enamored of his own slimy, dark, brooding self, he would never know.  
  
She had removed her hand as if it had never been there, but the slight smirk on her face as she ate her cereal, betrayed her knowledge of how her actions had affected him.  
  
Well, he thought, gathering his reserve, two can play at this game. He reached a long, slender pale hand over to her knee, noting the bare skin below the hemline of her skirt, and gritting his teeth at the contact. He heard her slight inward gasp as her spoon froze halfway to her mouth.  
  
"Miss Granger," he began, tamping down the desire and amusement he felt at the look on her face, "Your offer is quite intriguing. I shall have to take you UP." and with this he allowed his fingertips to skim up into the warmth of her inner thigh, slowly advancing upwards,upwards. ".On that."  
  
His fingers stopped inches away from where she had expected them to go, circling in tiny, lazy, maddening circles. All the while, his other hand toyed with his juice glass, and he silently prayed that none of the teachers were noticing their reckless actions.  
  
She, meanwhile, was trying desperately not to let herself go cross eyed with pleasure from his touch. She gripped the edge of the table, her breath coming shorter as his hand moved higher up her inner thigh. On a particularly extravagant sweep of his hand, his fingertip grazed her slightly, and she let out a slight whimper, shutting her eyes for a brief moment.  
  
He had though, previously, that it might have been impossible for him to get any harder.  
  
This was Snape, the dark and brooding professor, who had always seemed so tantalizingly reserved in her eyes, and who was now inching his hand up her skirt while at a table full of his colleagues. She felt what could have been joy at having finally caught his eye, but there was more to her emotions than joy, be they ever so clouded by desire. She felt something for him, this man, who expanded in her mind every day.  
  
She heard, from down the table row, the headmaster's voice, somehow through her fog of hormonal musings. "Miss Granger, so good to see you here at breakfast, my dear! I had hoped that more time to practice had given you the opportunity to garner more rest."  
  
Hermione nearly cried as Severus withdrew his hand, squeezing her kneecap in a promise to resume. "To be continued, Hermia. Will you save my place?" he whispered discreetly into her ear. She nodded, grabbing her glass of water and gulping down a few mouthfuls.  
  
By then, the headmaster had come to sit across from them in the empty seat. He smiled first at Hermione and then at Severus. "Well, it's good to see you two getting along. After all, Hermione should be due up to take the place of the potions assistant next year to fulfill her graduate degree. Have you two, in fact, discovered your other mutual interest?"  
  
Dumbledore looked pleased with himself. Severus longed to be out of the great hall, in some quiet, beautiful place, away from prying eyes and questions, with his Hermia.  
  
Hermione was stuttering an answer to Dumbledore's question. "If you mean, Sir, our love of the bowed instrument, then, yes, we have. Severus and I seem to be matched in skill level quite well, actually."  
  
Dumbledore was ecstatic, "Wonderful! I would certainly love to hear you two play a duet together. If you both ever decide to grace us with your talents, I know that the faculty at least would be extremely grateful for your performance."  
  
With that, the headmaster rose, excusing himself with a chuckle at Hermione's polite smile and Severus' usual scowl. 


	9. Chapter Nine

Author's note: Because it's been SO LONG since I last posted, due to a computer malfunction (my laptop spontaneously combusted), I thought I'd post an extra long chapter, for those of you still reading. (By the way, thanks for doing so! Your letters have been nothing but wonderful and encouraging, and I love to hear that people are being made happy/entertained/effected in any way, by what I write.).  
  
For disclaimer, read the first chapter, and for my illustration (I'm an art student, It's a compulsion) I'll, uh, get right on that... Just as soon as I pry my scanner out of the toilet, which is where I put it when it's naughty (you wonder just how spontaneous my laptop's combustion was). Don't read this if you're gonna get yourself, or myself, in trouble for it, deal?  
  
-Iphy  
  
ps: an apology ahead of time for the slight cliffhanger....  
CHAPTER NINE  
  
It had been obvious that their playing would reveal to their audience, a certain amount of insight into the relationship between these two musicians. It could not pass unremarked, it would seem, when they played.  
  
He, tall and lean and donned in a dark suit lined in silver, played with the same intensity as she, light and fair in a knee length, white wrap dress, contrasting his darkness with a somehow befitting air. The music that reached the ears of the guests gathered was like nothing any of them had ever heard in their long lifetimes, and they had heard a great deal.  
  
The student and the professor had been placed on a small platform at the head of the teacher's lounge, which was decked in golds and deep browns, hung with ornate picture frames of previous teachers, and heavily muffled by the numerous carpets and heavy armchairs that arranged themselves around a room-sized, pleasant fireplace.  
  
It had taken the headmaster a great deal of time to convince the two shy individuals to perform this evening, but eventually, they had agreed. He suspected her work behind his abandoned reluctance, but he said not a word. The professors had gathered expectantly around the high-ceilinged room, and awaited the concert with a polite interest. It was not until they had begun to play that the remaining teachers realized two things.  
  
One: Dumbledore had to have known something about these two people to have so ardently persuaded them to play this night. And Two: There was something elemental about the way they played together. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
Since the night of the pantry and the following breakfast debacle, Hermione and Severus had been swept up in the business of everyday life. Hermione's studies persisted, and Severus became tied up in the duties of midwinter reports for his students.  
  
When Dumbledore had begun to bother them daily about their possibly performing for the Professors over the winter break, they had agreed, finally, and set to practicing during their evening sessions. This left little time to talk, and with the expanding time, they found themselves growing more wary as to whether either should broach the subject of their growing intimacy at all. Though the cozy evenings remained pleasant and their actions continued to tend more towards their own feelings for one another, there was little talk or behavior that would signify a drastic change in their friendship.  
  
Which was driving them both slightly mad.  
  
The final night before their performance, they had just played through the entire schedule for the following day, and Hermione stretched her hands over her head. Her cello balanced on her shoulder, she closed her eyes and yawned, leaning back to let her head fall back to ease the tension in her neck. Tension, she admitted, that was mostly due to the man sitting not ten feet away from her.  
  
Her hair brushed between her shoulder blades and she rolled her neck from side to side, thinking of the dream she had indulged in the previous night. She recalled water, and music, and him, smiling and smiling at her, in the way he so rarely used to and how he had begun to grace her with more and more.  
  
"You're exhausted," he said, and her eyes shot open to see him with that same smile, collapsed in an armchair, his violin returned to it's stand. "You need to sleep. Perhaps tomorrow you should take the day off from your research." She returned his smile wanly. "You're just saying that because you've just made a breakthrough in your own research. I've still miles to go." She said, sighing. He chuckled slightly. "A good deal of progress I'm making in the world of potent sciences if I'm just divulging the secret variant on an already established potion."  
  
She couldn't help but admire the way his body folded over the chair, lean and taught. She bit her lip, thinking of that morning. She had saved his place, but how she longed to remind him of where it was. How soon would he take it up again?  
  
"Nonsense. The dreamless sleep potion is one of the more well-used potions of our time. It only makes sense that some brilliant mind such as yourself should explore the derivatives of such a mix. And besides," she said, standing to place the cello in it's stand, "I'm terribly fascinated with the prospect of creating one's dreams." They had discussed this before. Severus's research had led him to tampering with the varying ways of dealing with the collective sub-conscious. Dreams came from deep within the human mind, and could unlock forgotten memories, knowledge untold to the dreamer, and even tap into the parts of the mind that were used for the more primal magics such as extra-sensory perception.  
  
"I'm done in," She said, walking over to him as he stood from his chair. "I promise to take it easy, but we'll talk soon, alright? I fear we've both become so busy that it's stealing away from my time with you." Her comment, though lightly spoken, was laced with the inevitability of their impending discussion as to where they were headed. His heart leapt slightly, both in anticipation and worry over whether she had changed her mind or not. "Indeed, then. Sleep well, Hermia. If you need me tomorrow, I'll be here, as always, working." She bent, and kissed him lightly on the lips, each savoring the touch briefly before she stood, and with a sad smile, left him sitting in his living room, her taste on his mouth.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The performance had been an astonishment to the faculty. Mainly wizard born, the teachers had had little to no experience in the subtlety of muggle music. Entranced by the mingling notes of the violin and cello, the audience had sat spellbound until the very end of their playing. The tall, dark man and the light, ethereal woman had both stood to face them, and bowed humbly to their applause. It had been a simple performance, with not any pomp or circumstance, but it had been greeted as though they had played to a crowded Carnegie Hall.  
  
After they had returned their instruments to their cases, and had descended in tandem to speak with their audience and receive the praise they were, indeed, deserving of, MgGonnagal had leaned to whisper to the headmaster, "It is without question that they were made for each other." Dumbledore nodded, smiling slightly, and rising to greet the duet with congratulations and thanks for their time. Severus bowed his head to each compliment, a small and uncharacteristic smile gracing the corners of his mouth. Dumbledore had never seen him look so happy. *******************************  
  
That night, slipping out of his robes for the evening, the tall, lean professor regarded the vial of potion that sat on his worktable, the final conclusion of his last few weeks of research. It was late, and he was longing for the comforts of his bed, but, he realized with sudden apprehension, he needed to pack.  
  
The council of the underground wizard's tribunal had been roughly disbanned at the defeat of Voldermort, but they had remained in contact, discussing the possibilities of further deatheater attacks. Though their dark lord was dead, and many of them had been imprisoned, the few remaining Deatheaters retained a sullen manner towards the newly instated law against the use of discrimination of any form, in any wizard establishment. In the south of France, a training school for pureblood wizards only had been started, quite secretly. There had been a rumor that the school was formed to train up a new dark lord. Some even stated that they had heard that Voldermort had been reincarnated, and was currently receiving his tutelage at the institution.  
  
The group of three wizard spies that Severus was a part of, had decided that a meeting near the south of France, and a covert infiltration of this school was in order to maintain the order that had only recently been established in the wizarding world.  
  
It couldn't have come at a worse time, he had thought, as he had stared into the floo network and the two other worried-looking faces, rimmed in green flame. He had only just begun this torturously slow stumble towards happiness with Hermione, and this separation would only bring him further away from the only person who had ever calmed him enough to sleep at night, or excited his mind and body enough to find happiness in his waking hours. He had yet to tell her, and he was leaving the day after tomorrow.  
  
Reverting to the scowl that had graced his features so often before they had begun to play together, Severus angrily folded some of his robes and garments into a small bag, and threw the bag across the room to land by his bedroom door. He sat, sighing deeply, and rubbed his hands over his tired neck. Her face, unbidden, came to his view, and he felt his frown lessen.  
  
He rose again and wandered to his study, sitting in her chair and breathing in her scent. The smell gradually erased all the lines of stress his face had held since the conversation with the others of the tribunal the previous afternoon. He felt himself harden, swiftly, at the presence of her smell, and he cursed the frustration that had built between them that caused him this near-perpetual state of arousal.  
  
Turning his head to the fabric of the chair, he smelled her hair there and ran his hand lightly over the growing bulge between his legs. "Oh god..." He muttered, feeling himself respond to his own touch beneath the soft cotton of his black boxer-briefs. Slipping his hand, now, under the waist of his white t-shirt, he ran his fingers over the muscles of his stomach, groaning, his eyes closed, as he thrust up slightly into the empty air. Thinking of the way her breath had quickened that night in the pantry when he had stepped closer to her.  
  
Did she ever think of him like this? Touch herself to his image? Another throaty groan at the thought of her dipping her hand into herself, thinking of him. Somewhere in his mind he felt the logical part of his brain that had commanded him not to do this, slip away, silent.  
  
He thought of her slender neck, and how she would sound when he kissed her there. Her supple body as he had ground himself against her, and the way she had gasped with each thrust, bringing him closer to coming with his clothes still on than anyone had ever done. His erection had worked it's way out of his boxers, and he brushed it softly, thinking, almost humorously, how he wasn't going to miss this when they were together. It had been so many years since he had been with a woman, that he had lost count. They would show up at his door any day with his official "virgin" stamp again, having been inactive so long he'd have regained it.  
  
The idea brought another thought to his mind and he groaned again, tightening his grip on himself. Was she a virgin? She had never had a real boyfriend in school, and though he didn't see her over the summers of her tutelage, she had always returned seemingly unchanged. He thought that he'd be able to tell if she was suddenly devirginised, he surmised that she was still unchanged. How he would love to change her thus. He felt himself release, swiftly, a strained yell resounding off of the stone walls, echoing her name back to him.  
  
Feeling a fool, he tidied himself up. He hadn't come as quickly since he was in his first years at Hogwarts. He smirked, 'what she does to me...' he thought, throwing his boxer briefs into the hamper and donning a new pair to sleep in. He fell asleep soon after hitting the pillow, wishing, in vain, for her presence in his bed for what he was sure was the thousandth time.  
  
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
  
She did, as he had thought, not respond well to his news. Though he assured her that he would be gone a week at the most, she kept the hurt and frustrated expression on her face throughout their playing time.  
  
After they had finished, he had sat on the couch, and she had joined him there. They sat in silence, feeling their hearts wrench at the possibility that the other would forget their place in their steady incline towards a relationship, within a week of separation. She certainly hadn't forgotten his place, unable to hide her flushed face and heady breath at the thought of his hand, climbing the inside of her thigh.  
  
She was grateful for the solitude of the library during her research, as, in her breaks from studying, thoughts of him would cloud her mind and she would find herself breathless and flushed, five minutes having passed without her knowledge as she sat and thought of him.  
  
She had resolved that she would do everything in her power to consummate their growing intimacy by the end of the week. It was just her luck that his little foray had to land directly in the midst of her plans.  
  
She felt his hand land atop her's where it rested on the couch. "It won't be long, really. You'll be so wrapped up in your work, you won't even realize that I'm gone."  
  
"Pish. Of course I will. Stop self-deprecating for a moment and tell me honestly... How dangerous is this mission?" The question caught him off- guard. He hadn't expected her to be worried about his welfare.  
  
"Not dangerous, supposedly. The ministry should arrive by the end of the week, once we've confirmed our suspicions, and then I'm free to come home." He thought wryly of what she would think if she knew that his home was with her.  
  
"...Supposedly." Her tone was slightly cross. A mix between irritation and fear.  
  
She got up suddenly, crossing her arms uncomfortably and going to stand near the enchanted window out to his balcony. The snow swirled against the pane, and because it was dark, he could see her expression reflected in the glass. She looked so forlorn that he was tempted to fall to his knees and beg her for a smile. She sighed, and went to sit on her playing bench.  
  
She lifted her cello from it's stand and cracked her knuckles in preparation to play. He winced slightly at the sound. He berated her often over her habit of knuckle-cracking, but she insisted that it was a necessary ritual. She lifted her bow, closed her eyes, and he felt something constrict inside him as she leaned her head to the side, placing the bow against the strings.  
  
A solitary note drifted out from the instrument, and he watched, enrapt, as her face changed with the sudden sound. The note drifted into a string of notes, and he recognized it as the easily-identifiable Sonata No. 3, Adagio. Arguably one of the most telling and beautifully sad pieces of music ever created. Hayden had truly broken the mold with that one, and though Severus had never had the pleasure to play the piece, written as it was for cello and harpsichord or piano, he considered it one of his favorites.  
  
Her beautiful, tall, white column of neck, bent to the side with melancholy, proved too much for him, and he stood, walking over to stand behind her, admiring her hairline as she dipped her head with the swells of the music.  
  
He straddled the bench behind her, and came to sit there, his front facing her elegant back, her perfect posture unchanged by his nearness. His hands, he placed at her waist, careful not to jar her elbows in the process, and he let his head drop to the expanse of skin revealed by the neckline of her sweater, which narrowed to her neck. Her cool skin against his forehead felt like satin.  
  
The sonata continued, the note wavering slightly as Severus began to drag his lips against the back of her neck. She slowly leaned back against his chest, and his hands slipped around to caress her stomach, smiling slightly against her skin when her bow slipped a little on the strings.  
  
Her head tipped back, her eyes still closed, and displayed the smooth expanse of the front of her neck, so trustingly, to him. His breath was insistent against the back of her ear, then down the front of her chest, and she realized, at around the same time she could detect his hard length pressing into her lower back, that her hands had stilled at her playing, and her arms now lay at her sides.  
  
Her bow made a clicking noise as it hit the floor, and her bowing hand moved to caress his thigh through the fabric of his trousers. With her mouth parted, her breath coming shortly, she was exquisite. He felt himself harden impossibly against her, and a low grumbling moan resounded from deep in his chest, echoing into the spot between her neck and shoulder. Her breath rose another notch.  
  
She slowly inched back along the bench, flush against his body, and began to move subtly and rhythmically against him. Somehow, their discussion, which had bordered on becoming an argument, had turned into this.  
  
As his hands began their gradual ascent to the graceful curves of her breasts, slowly, slowly, a sudden noise from the fireplace interrupted their muted reverie. "Severus??" The familiar voice of the headmaster sounded hollow in their ears, their heads too full of the gentle pounding of their lust and gasps to understand that Dumbledore was on the floo. 


	10. Chapter Ten

Author's note: Again, I'm so pleased to see that people are enjoying this story. I've gotten wonderful comments, many from musical readers! I, myself, play the harp, guitar, piano, mandolin, and violin, and I highly agree to the sensuality that is garnered from the usage of music in a writing piece. Also, dispite the mustache, I was highly taken with Mr. Rickman in "Truly, Madly, Deeply" (be it the saddest movie that was ever created), and I found the concept of him as a musician intriguiing and perfectly suited to a great deal of the characters he played, Snape included. I am often moved by what I read, and I find that there is so much talent in the people who write here, and so much depth to the characters already, that I can only express my extreme gratitude and goodwill towards those of you who are becoming involved in this story. Thank you.  
  
Chapter Ten  
  
Dumbledore, as it would seem, was choosing this rather innopertune time to discuss Severus's leaving time for the following day. After they had disentangeld themselves enough to face him, they stood, not a little ruffled, in front of the headmaster's smiling face. Niether was smiling back. Hermione's face was bright red.  
  
"If you'll excuse me, headmaster, I should be getting to sleep anyway. Goodnight to you both."  
  
Severus's mouth closed and opened as if to stop her, but the headmaster spoke first.  
  
"Goodnight Miss Granger. I'd like to thank you both again for your performance the other night. Couldn't have been nicer. You get a good night's sleep, my dear. Wouldn't want to be groggy when you see off our Severus!"  
  
Dumbledore's good cheer went unanswered as she nodded to him and shot a brief, meaningful look towards Severus. He felt his chest clench briefly in that exchange, so full of longing and sadness.  
  
"So, Severus! I'll assume you're all packed then?"  
  
Turning his black look back to the cheerful face in his fireplace, he spoke finally.  
  
"I am. I have to congratulate you on your unfortunate timing, though. You interrupted a very serious practice session between myself and Miss Granger."  
  
"Yes," said Dumbledore with a raised eyebrow, "I can see that...."  
  
Severus tried to make his face a blank.  
  
"Well, lad, I don't want to keep you up on the night before the big day. Do get some sleep, Severus. After all, without your health, you might not be able to muster up the strength to attend those practice sessions, let alone...any performances!"  
  
Severus began to catch on that the headmaster was teasing him.  
  
"If you've had your full, Sir, I'll retire, as per your advice." He was already turning away, when Dumbledore called out, "Goodnight, and sorry to interrupt your "practice session." Don't fret, though, you'll have plenty of time for that once you get back. Sleep well, Severus."  
  
The headmaster's face was gone, then, and Severus was left alone, feeling an overwhelming frustration with his departed employer, with her for leaving so suddenly, and with himself for being unable to stop her.  
  
Sighing with resignation, he pushed his arousal down within him to be dealt with later, and went to bed. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The following day dawned grey and cold, and Hermione found herself unwilling to rise from her bed. Were she to rise, she would surely be faced with the harsh fact that Severus was leaving today, and would be going to, again, face peril and adversity that she could do nothing to ease from him. But so it was with him.  
  
The small group gathered at the gates; Dumbledore, Hermione, Minerva, and Severus. There was the customary wishes of good luck and triumph, the firm handshake from the head of gryffendor, the warm hug from Dumbledore, and then, they were alone.  
  
Unable to speak, they each watched the progress of the two elderly teachers as they wound their way back to the castle. Hermione's arms were wrapped around herself, hugging herself for warmth and comfort. Severus was the first to break the silence.  
  
"I suppose you'll bury yourself in work while I'm gone..."  
  
"Yes, I think so."  
  
"Do remember to eat and sleep once in a while, please?"  
  
"I will..."  
  
"And play... You should play more."  
  
She turned to look at him. "I don't think I'll have it in me... You know I don't think you should go."  
  
He sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. "I know."  
  
"For all you've done for the ministry, it's ridiculous for you to be forced into continuing their dirty work, especially without any sort of recognition."  
  
"You know I never wanted anything of the sort."  
  
"Yes. I know."  
  
"It's odd that you know me better than anyone I have ever known in my life. You know me better than Dumbledore, even. I can't tell you how it's changed me, only that I'm glad for it."  
  
"My presence, you mean?" She said, with a half smile.  
  
"Among other things." he returned her wry smile with one of his own.  
  
"I'll miss you. Not just the playing. You know what I mean."  
  
"I do. I'll miss you, too. Just... please..." He paused, clearing his throat. "I mean to have this out in greater detail when I return. We'll talk, yes? A serious talk?"  
  
"Yes. I think that would be quite beneficial. And, no, Severus, I won't forget anything. We'll pick right up, as long as you agree to it."  
  
He smiled then, touching her arm lightly. "I would like nothing better, my dear."  
  
"Kiss me, please."  
  
And he did.  
  
The warmth of the kiss belied the cold of the grey day, and their ardent near-confessions had built the tension to a near breaking point. It lasted, deepening and revealing, until they both shook slightly with the force of it. In the castle on the hill behind them, two figures stood in a tall window, watching them.  
  
"There, you see?" said the headmaster, stroking the sleeping pheonix that perched on his shoulder.  
  
"Yes, Albus. Quite a spectacle, really."  
  
"Indeed, Minerva... We shouldn't invade their privacy by watching them, eh?..."  
  
"You're right...It would be a breach in their trust towards us...."  
  
They continued their surveillance through the window, their mouths turning up at the edges as they watched the couple kissing at the gates. They stayed at the window and watched them until they parted and he apparated, leaving her looking lost and lonely, standing with her head bowed and her fists clenched.  
  
Still breathless and lightheaded, she had returned to the castle, unable to work, and had played mournful Debussy works for the remainder of the day. They echoed, strangely, around the castle, causing the students who remained to mope around, doleful expressions on their faces, until Dumbledore called for a cake-tasting in the great hall, where they gathered to escape her sorrow. 


	11. Chapter Eleven

I was suddenly inspired by all the wonderful reviews I've been getting! Another chapter soon, I promise. Enjoy! I'm so impressed that so many musical readers are reading along. I happen to think that this story goes well with most anything by Bach, though I tend to play any various instrument that lies in reach while I read fan fiction, so I make my own soundtrack. In answer to your post, potions mistress, please! go ahead and write the characters as musicians! I'm thrilled that you're taken with the concept as I was, and I look foreward to reading it if you chance to post it in my regular haunts. It feels really good to be reviewed, especially by such brilliant reviewers! ahem. and yes, I will agree with a great many of you, Dumbledore needs to be kicked for what he did in the other chapter! I don't know what came over him! -Iphy  
  
On the fifth day, came the conflict. Posing as a prospective parent for the school had been difficult, especially considering the fact that the polyjuice potion wore off so readily. It had been endlessly tedious listening to the droning headmaster and the smug teachers prattle on about their school's high standards and rigorous testing, but little had surfaced to put the school in a particular bad light.  
  
Severus was beside himself missing Hermione. The dank room where he was staying only added to the tedium, and the curt professionalism of the other two wizards who assisted him on the mission gave no balm to his loneliness. It had been a sierise of visits during the day, disguised as a pureblood wizard parent who wished to send his child to "Darmscouth School," that had taken up his time, and all in all, he was sick of the sight of the place.  
  
Finally, on the fifth day of his tour of the campus and facilities, a faculty member had let slip that their students were learning more than the normal curriculum of magic. Apparently, the parents were not even informed of their child's tutelage in the dark arts, and children by the score were being pruned for futures as death eaters. The three wizards planned their attack for the following day, informing the ministry to arrive with a number of aurors in order to perform the takeover smoothly.  
  
And now, Severus was trying to find something that would take up the remaining hours before the attack, to occupy the void of Hermione's presence. He conjured a ball, and threw it against the wall, the rhythmic thudding lulling him into near-catatonia.  
  
He was bored, and lonely. He missed her, the way her eyes would flash merrily as they talked, and her gentle and perfect sensuality that clung to her and caused in him near-madness. He thought of her body, the way it had felt against his that night before he had left.  
  
His room had been warm and lighted, then, scented with her own smell, rose oil, and the incense of plants and herbs. A drastic change, he thought, surveying the darkened, chilly room he stayed in. The walls were plaster, and plain white, without a speck of decoration, and the carpet, wall-to- wall, was a dull shade of grey.  
  
He sighed, shifting on the hard mattress beneath him. He had fared worse, he supposed, in his time during the wars, but all he wanted was to be home, in his rooms full of his books and his paintings and his furniture and his girlfriend.... He paused.  
  
Since when had she become his girlfriend? A girl, yes, and his friend? He counted himself lucky enough. But girlfriend? They certainly weren't JUST friends, though the term, as many in the English language seemed to do, served poorly. She was his love, the light of his life, the calm at the end of the day, safe harbor, his potential lover (he should be so lucky) and the woman who he lusted after and adored.  
  
He smiled to himself, leaning back against the headboard and crossing his arms behind his head. He would be home soon, and they would "talk."  
  
Though the concept of them hashing out a relationship with terms and confessions frightened him, he still found himself looking foreword to the meeting with relish. Would they make love afterwards? The thought seemed ludicrous at this point. Frowning suddenly, he realized that he wanted it to be more special than that. He wanted, he realized with sudden chagrin, romance. He wanted spontaneity and passion, not a civilized conversation that would lead to planned sex.  
  
An idea began to form in his mind, born from years of loneliness; he formulated a plan that would be ideally suited to them, to their likes.  
  
He imagined what she was doing at that moment, paused to consider the prospect that she was taking a bath. She had confessed, early on, that it was one of her favorite ways to release stress. Would she be stressed by his absence? He liked to think so. Would she light candles and sink into the bubbles, or was it a more conventional bath with simple hot water? Was she listening to music?  
  
Feeling himself harden at the thought of her dipping her toes into the bathwater, he touched upon the idea of checking up on her. He certainly wouldn't want her to be completely lonely, as he was, during his absence, and he did not relish the thought of coming home to find that she had not slept nor eaten in all the time he was gone.  
  
And why not? He was a wizard, and wizards can do things that others cannot. And if a muggle husband can call his wife at home across the globe, he certainly could take a mini-visit to her side to reassure himself that she existed.  
  
Though he could not apparate (the others could need his presence quickly) he could remove his consciousness to her quarters in order to see what she was doing.  
  
He tried not to let himself think of his consiousness stumbling upon her in the bathtub.  
  
He would just take a peek, and make sure she was alright, and then quietly spirit-walk back to this cold and lonely room and go to sleep.  
  
Sighing, he closed his eyes, concentrating on the distance between himself and Hogwarts. He felt his awareness travel over the English countryside, up the sides of the old stone building, through the maze of corridors, and pause outside the door to her room.  
  
He listened at the door (though he had no physical presence in this form, he still retained his sense of decorum) and then entered.  
  
Her rooms were simple and elegant, much like herself, and full of books that were stacked in odd places around the stone floor. An old-fashioned green couch with claw feet was placed against the wall, and looked well- lived in. She had large, full-length windows that she must have charmed to be such, on the far wall, and they looked out to a night, which sparkled against the hill. The room was very much like a place a student would live, littered with various parchments and research materials and clothing. Her bed, large and high, was further in, and she was not in sight. As he pondered whether she might be in the dining hall, or perhaps at her practice room, he was startled by a small sound from the well-lit doorway of her bathroom.  
  
Worried, he glanced in. She was there, slumped against the cabinet on the floor, dressed in a terrycloth bathrobe and hugging her knees. He suddenly felt helpless. She was sobbing, quietly, into the robe, and her face, when she looked up, was blotchy and red, as if she had been crying for some time. Her cat slinked around the doorframe to rub it's head comfortingly against her legs.  
  
"Oh crookshanks..." She said, her voice quavering. "What am I going to do about this?" The cat, naturally, made no response. "I mean," she continued, petting the cat as she spoke, "It's good that I'm in love... I've never been in love before..." Severus felt his heart swell. "But he's so far away, and it's so dangerous, and, well, I almost lost him in the wars..."  
  
Severus allowed himself to wonder how often his ladylove talked to her cat.  
  
"And, god, I'm so sexually frustrated, I could kill Dumbledore!" Severus was slightly shocked, and so suddenly aroused he was worried that he might pass out from blood loss. "I know he's coming home soon," she continued, "but not soon enough! Why did he have to leave NOW! Just when things were really getting good! He's gonna come back and we'll go back to just prancing around one another like the other will explode, and you know what? I just might!" She sighed.  
  
The cat had returned the safety of the bedroom, but Severus remained, watching her, seated on the floor of her bathroom, as she closed her eyes.  
  
"And then there's the issue of telling my friends, what little I have of them, and the school, and my parents, and all he needs is more conflict..." She was just sniffling now, and Severus was unable to take his eyes off of her.  
  
He knew that she was just overcome by the magnificentness of falling in love, heaven knew he had had these moments himself over the past few weeks. Moments where everything seems so amazingly huge that it threatens to completely overwhelm them both.  
  
He watched, riveted, as her hand slipped into the folds of her robe, brushing against her chest. Her pale neck tilted, and he recognized the way she had moved when he had sat behind her only a few nights ago. Was she replaying their little adventure? He felt himself grin, miles and miles away, and continued to watch as she smiled, and hummed softly to herself. Her fingers slipped deeper into the folds of her robe, and he watched, in mute wonder, as she fondles her breast. Her head lolled back and forth against the cabinet, and she murmured his name.  
  
He felt himself tense at the mention of his name. He knew he should leave, he had to leave, but here she was, touching herself to his image. It was a breach of her privacy already, he told himself, but still, he could not bring himself to tear his consciousness away. She reached up the hem of her robe with her other hand, and he watched, gaping, as she brought her other hand into play, stroking herself repeatedly, mumbling his name again and again, until Severus was sure his zipper was in great peril back at his body.  
  
"Mmm! Severus!" Ok, enough was enough. He would not stay for her release; he had tortured himself quite enough, already. He brought his mind as swiftly as he could back to the present place and time, and was soon shaking his head to clear it of cobwebs, back on the dingy mattress.  
  
Sighing, he stared down at his crotch, which was elevated several inches above the normal level, and willed his erection away. "Patience, patience," he muttered, thinking of his plans for his return.  
  
Sighing, he refused to examine the elements of her age, and the added reminders that they had yet to inform anyone of their imminent coupledom. They would work all that out later, he promised himself, not bothering to dwell on the potential reactions of her friends to their intimacies.  
  
Smiling to himself, he fixed a light dinner at the kitchenette that was adjacent to his room, and retired, being blessed with dreams of her for the entirety of the night. 


	12. Chapter Twelve

Author's note: Ok, before any of you beat me up for drawing out an extremely long and painful courtship, I promise that I will make it up to you! And I can completely sympathise with anyone who wants to kill me after this chapter, so I'm already hard at work on the next, which I swear will be less of a tease... I hope you're all enjoying this, I know I am. Again, thank you all for the wonderful reviews! So many kindred spirits out there! -Iphy  
  
Chapter Twelve  
  
The aurors had arrived, and the takeover had been swift and final. The teachers were questioned, convicted, and the headmaster incarcerated. The students were relocated, after a great deal of astonished parents were informed of the goings on, and the school was generally dispersed without a great deal of a to-do. The moment the last auror had brushed off their hands on their robe and smiled at the work they had done, Severus made his rounds as quickly as he could, shaking hands and nodding to the congratulatory praise from the gold-robed figures, and apparated to the gates of Hogwarts. He was slightly disappointed that she wasn't there, although there was no way she could have known he was coming in just then, and besides, it gave him a little time to prepare for the evening ahead. He breathed in the subtle smell of snow and the nearness of spring, and paced up the path to the castle. He felt good, he realized with a sudden start. He had begun to notice this benevolent feeling sometime after the war, and usually concerning Hermione, and the lack of pain and misery in his life. A beautiful day like today, and all would suddenly seem right with the world. This, he thought, as he surveyed the partially frozen lake and the forest that sparkled with melting snow and ice, is what it means to be in love. It improves everything, even this frigid campus, even having been away for a week, he could already feel her presence, and he was comforted by her nearness. As if in response to his contemplation of her proximity, he turned suddenly at the shout of his name from above him on the path. Racing down the hill, coatless and out of breath, was the most incredible vision he had ever had the pleasure to be greeted with. "Severus!" she yelled again, and he caught the end of the far flung word that changed elegantly into laughter. She ran towards him, and he felt himself chuckle as he spread his arms as her landing space. She collapsed against him, laughing outright, and he found himself laughing along with her. They stood in the late afternoon, the sun glinting off the melting snow around them, and laughed in the cold, at everything and nothing, at love. They were soon joined by Dumbledore and Magonnagal, who greeted Severus with pats on his back and congratulations. They noted, of course, that he kept Miss Granger at his side, tucked in his arm, throughout their exchanges. The four wandered up the hill together, Severus recounting his trials of the last week, and Hermione remaining oddly silent. The older two professors parted from them at the door, and walked with linked arms towards the great hall. Severus turned to regard the woman who remained tucked into his side. "I missed you," he admitted, enjoying the way she fitted her body against his own. "I missed you, too. I thought... I don't know. A great many things. I'm glad you're back." Her eyes were closed and she allowed herself to take deep draughts of his scent, her nose lightly brushing his collarbone. "I'm glad to be back. I suppose we should address a number of issues, now that I'm here to stay..." She nodded, solemn finally. "Yes, I suppose so. Where are we headed?" He considered for a moment. "The library, I think. It's common ground enough, don't you suppose?" She smiled, broadly, and he felt his heart lift at the sight. Cursing himself for a sentimental old fool, he took her hand, and they walked up to the library together. *********** She took a seat opposite him, and he could tell from her body language that she was nervous. She regarded his long form in the chair. Though she would have preferred at more private place, perhaps for what would follow their conversation, she was please by his choice. The library was lit well, and warm and comfortable, familiar and cozy. The fire was lit, and they sat in a small reading nook in two large, overstuffed black armchairs. He cleared his throat, and then began. "Alright. I suppose, Hermia, that you're aware that my feelings for you have progressed into something deeper and warmer than what I would term "friendship."" This is incredibly difficult. God, she's beautiful. "I have. and I would assume that you've noticed similar changes in my own outlook, Severus." Oh why does this have to be so hard! Look at him! Oh my god, he's never looked so gorgeous. With the light glinting off him from the fireplace... "Indeed. I would, my dear, wonder how you feel about your affection for a man so much older than yourself..." Oh god, she's repulsed. How could I have reminded her!? "To be honest, Severus, I've never considered it a problem at all. You're obviously in perfect health, and I can't help it if I've found someone who is ideally matched to myself and just happens to be a little past my own youth. I would ask you a similar question. Does the fact that I'm young and a former student of your's bother you very much?" Oh please let him be ok with it. What if he sees me as a daughter or something... well, not if our kisses or touches are any indication... He smiled. "I couldn't imagine an older soul. Or one more suited to my own." He examined her, curled in the chair, her legs crossed and bare beneath her skirt. She smiled, but her smile barely reached her eyes, which were dark with fatigue. Her usually straight back was curved, bent over, and he frowned suddenly, with the realization that she had barely slept a wink while he had been away. "Hermia... You're exhausted... Have you eaten today?" She shook her head, staring at her hands without realizing what she was admitting. She looked up, the fact dawning on her. "I'm sorry, Severus... It's just that," And then she grinned, "I've finished my thesis!" Ah, so that was it. She was elated, though so tired she could barely hold up her head. "Come," he said, smiling and extending his hand, "Let's get some food into you, and then you're going to sleep, and tonight, I will take you someplace very special." 


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Author's note: I'm so sorry, everyone, for the lack of formatting on the last chapter! Please excuse my mistake, and I hope I can make it up to you all. Also, I'm extremely sorry for the length, and the gross indecency of basically writing a chapter that said nothing. In terms of the plot: Ah Ha! you all thought I had nothing planned in mind for Severus's little surprise, didn't you? Admit it, you all feared it... ahem. And, again, a prenote, before anyone feels the need to wring my neck, I'm sorry for the rather sappily romantic turn this story is about to take. Try not to see it as such, and trust me, I'll keep it as cynical as I can get it. I don't know quite where this arc came from, but I would feel false not giving into it. What can I say? I'm an aesthete (Oscar Wilde). Anyway. On with the show. Oh, wait, one more thing. In response to a gleefully long comment I got on this story, I've taken off the anonymous ban for comments, so now anyone can comment on fanfiction.net.... Be gentle. -Iphy  
  
ps: I love you all! Please keep commenting, your comments inspire me to write more chapters!  
  
Chapter Thirteen  
  
Hermione awoke, hours later, feeling as if she had slept for a hundred years.  
  
It was the first time in quite a while when she hadn't awoken to the sudden realization that her thesis had the potential to be a disaster if her research didn't pay off. As it was, having the paper complete and the reactants proven to be conductive with the enzyme for the Melotromaut potion, she felt as if the world had been lifted from her shoulders.  
  
She stretched in bed, and idly wondered what Severus's surprise would be, this evening. The small lights of the evening were filtering through her curtains, and she rose to glance outside at the darkening sky. She surveyed the lake, which glinted in the moonlight, and was pleased to see a pair of black swans, gliding across the surface in silence.  
  
The sight was eerie, and somewhat prophetic, she supposed, in a strange and unfathomable way. She never was possessed of the mind for divination.She left the window, then, and went to her study, where her research still lay in disarray. It was a little past nightfall, and Severus would be there to pick her up, soon.  
  
Earlier, after she had eaten her fill of some of the shepherd's pie that was left over from lunch, he had instructed her not to dress for the evening. At her look, he blushed slightly, and excused himself. "I didn't mean it quite like that... You see, the destination I have in mind is particular and quite ornate in attire requirements, so I had intended to provide you with a garment that would suit the occasion."  
  
She wondered if the occasion would require undergarments...  
  
Presently, at her desk, she regarded her completed thesis. It sat on the oak surface, fat and almost ominous. The argument concerned the famous potion master, from the 17th and 18th century, Melotromaut.  
  
He had used the common reactants of the time period to perfect his most famous and ineffectual serum, and had added the elements of sound in order to complete it. When made using the right notes and voices, encrypted into the potion's recipe, as opposed to the spell, the serum created a powerful restorative potion that could be used to abate the plague (at the time) and now, even cancer.  
  
After the presence of music began to slip from the magical world, no one seemed to realize that the notes were encrypted into the serum. The reaction that bound the potion was meant to be triggered by the harpsichord, and a female alto. Testing on Magonagal, she had taken readings of the older woman's leukemia, and the results had been better than she had ever hoped for.  
  
A knock at the door to her rooms turned her head quickly, and she felt the beginnings of a smile creep onto her face from the thought of him, tangible and smelling as he always did, behind the heavy cherrywood. She adjusted her white silk pajamas, pulling at the shirt to rid it of some of the wrinkles she had accumulated from sleep, and opened the door.  
  
Severus stood there, bedecked in a similar outfit to the teaching robes he usually adorned for classes, but she noted slight changes. The coat was slightly ornate, with patterns of black on black, and around his neck was a silk, white cravat. The lace traveled down his chest, accenting his lean frame, and lace circled his elegant wrists. His hair was slicked back, tied in a short ponytail at the base of his neck, and, as she surveyed further down, his trousers ended directly below his knees, where they buckled, and silk, grey stockings accented his fine leg muscles and ended in perfectly proportionately large buttoned boots, very old-fashioned.  
  
He allowed her scrutiny, in turn taking in the silk pajamas with interest. Her hair was piled at the back of her head, unkempt and multi-hued, and she smelled like warmth, like linen and sleep and down comforter, as well as the subtle rose scent she always carried with her. He thought that Hermione, just recently awoken, could possibly become his favorite state of seeing her, and smiled, as he extended to her a box he had carefully packed with her attire for the evening.  
  
"Come in, please." She said, blushing slightly that she was still in her pajamas. She hadn't known which way to proceed, when he had told her not to dress, and she had opted to remain in her sleepwear, despite her discomfort, so that she could dress in whatever it was he brought for her. "Here you are, my dear. I trust the fit will suffice."  
  
She took the box, and gestured to the green clawed couch. "I'll just be a moment. Please sit." She hesitated only for a moment, as they stood in that slightly awkward greeting stance, just inside her doorway, before she stood on tiptoe and grazed his lips with her own mouth, a chaste greeting, but still connoting more than friendship.  
  
She realized her eyes were closed when she felt his lips curve into a smile beneath her own. Pulling away and returning the smile, she gestured to the couch again. "I'll be right out. Excuse me."  
  
He sat, watching her go into the bathroom to change, and admired the stacks of books and pleasantly academic atmosphere of the room. The furniture and stacks of books all smelled vaguely of her, and the place was positively drenched in her presence. With a start, he realized that he already felt comfortable there.  
  
In the bathroom, Hermione undid the ribbon around the plain white box, and from inside, she pulled yards and yards of fabric that seemed to continue for miles. The box must have been charmed to contain more than what seemed to fit from the outside. Taking out all she could find, she lay out the garments carefully, taking stock.  
  
Inside the box, she had discovered a number of marvelous treasures; One pair of lacy undergarments that most likely extended almost to her knees, a pair of lace white stockings, one rather appealing, peach coloured corset, made expertly with lace and silk and strong bones to add support, a cream colored skirt that fell way past the length of her legs, and was actually two skirts that enfolded one another, in satin and white lace, that somehow supported itself with inner mechanics to add a familiar and outdated shape to ones lower half, and an upper garment that appeared to be some sort of jacket, also in cream, that boasted sleeves that ended at her elbows, and a square-cute neckline that framed a good portion of her shoulders and chest.  
  
Among these large garments were also a pair of lace white gloves, a silver and amber necklace, a pair of white, button up high heeled boots, and some sort of contraption that would serve to hold her hair up in a precarious bun.  
  
Feeling apprehensive, yet delighted, she carefully maneuvered herself into the unfamiliar clothes, and adjusted her hair and makeup slightly. Examining her form in the mirror, she wondered how it was that Severus must have acquired the use of a time-turner for the evening, and what the future, or the past, held in store for them.  
  
Emerging from the bathroom, she paused to see Severus's reaction. He was seated on her couch, and turned, admiring the view from the full-length windows, when she cleared her throat softly, and stood awaiting his scrutiny.  
  
He turned to regard her, and she felt the sudden pain of happiness and love for him, deep in her chest. There was that sudden realization that he was there, he was present and human and real, and that he actually sitting there, smiling slightly crookedly at her from the musty antique couch in her own study. His hair was glinting in the moonlight from the windows, and his angular face was shadowed dramatically in the half-light.  
  
He rose, then, and offered her his hand. "You look elegant and gorgeous. I knew from the moment I had planned this outing that you would be divinely suited to this era. I don't suppose you don't mind some time travel this evening. I have a very special performance in mind, if you're prepared...?" She took his hand, smiling.  
  
"I am. You may need to assist me, though. I have little thought to the exactly proper way to behave outside of my own time."  
  
"I will do all I can, though I'd imagine you will have little to discuss with the other audience members. I have planned to put it about that we're foreign, and speak no Dutch. Now, are you fully prepared, my dear?" She nodded, squeezing his hand lightly.  
  
"Severus, may I ask what concert, precisely, it is that we are about to attend?"  
  
"Certainly, my dear," he responded, taking a lovely time turner on a silver chain out from within his buttoned sleeve and adjusting it to the mid 18th century . "In response to that question, we'd have to first discuss the Count Hermann Carl von Keyserlingk of Dresden, who, unfortunately and much like yourself, often had difficulty sleeping.  
  
Due to the fact that, at the time, there was no muggle cure for insomnia, he did the next best thing, and commissioned a dear friend of his to write some music that would be soporific, yet entertaining, in order for his personal musician, one Johann Gottlieb by name (or as he later became known, Goldberg) to play for him, and to thus put him to sleep.  
  
This composer friend of his was none other than J.S. Bach, the son of a long line of composers, and one who could be said outdid them all, and the music that he composed for the fatigued Count, were none other than what came to be known as the Goldberg Variations, after a stunning performance by the young (15 year old) Gottlieb of said variations.  
  
My dear," he said, lifting the time turner to eye level, "We are about to attend that very performance." 


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Author's note: I'm so very sorry for the variations on spelling McGonagall's name! It's one of those things I keep intending to go back and change before posting, but then forgetting all about it. In regards to the facts, the stuff about The Count and the 15 year old Goldberg lullabyeing him to sleep is all true (one of my favorite bits of information regarding one of the most incredible pieces of music ever created). As for this particular concert, I'm not completely sure about the facts. More likely it was a more private performance in someone's home, with a small amount of guests, as JS Bach really didn't gain very much notoriety until after his death, but still, this is how I've always imagined that this unveiling, so to speak, should take place. As always, thank you all so much for your input and compliments! We aims to please... -Iphy  
  
Chapter Fourteen  
  
Severus Snape was going mad. It was only a matter of time, he supposed, that he would lose every last faculty of his body and mind.  
  
His Hermia, clad in remarkably well-suited attire, had twined her graceful arms around his neck as he had spun the time-turner, and then apparated them to the alleyway behind the grand performance hall in the center of the Dutch metropolis.  
  
Her curves were molded slightly to his, and he reminded himself that an untoward advance on a lady was not exactly smiled upon in this particular setting.  
  
It was the middle, late 18th century, and his hands, curved around her waist where his thumbs caressed the satin of her bodice in small circles, were decidedly out of their proper place.  
  
He could feel the corset through the thin material of the gown, and he wondered, idly, what she looked like in simply the corset.  
  
The garment had been almost an afterthought, when, purchasing the clothes, he had readied to leave when the saleswoman had subtly reminded him of the necessity for undergarments. Handing him the various attributes, she also pressed on him the magical corset, that laced on command, eliminating the need for assistance. He had blushed, picturing Hermia laced in the delicate garment, and had pushed his coin across the counter hastily.  
  
Now, she stood before him, smiling slightly up towards his face. Her arms had remained twined about his neck, and he had noticed, with a tiny burst of pride, that her eyes had gone slightly glassy at his soft touch to her midsection.  
  
His mouth was slightly ajar at her beauty, and the nearness of her body to his, and, he noted, her eyes had fallen to said open mouth. He bent, as if to kiss her, but at that moment, she turned, suddenly, at a noise at the mouth of the alley.  
  
"Severus!" Her voice was breathless as she looked eagerly out the looming entrance to the alleyway. Her body almost trembled with excitement, and she felt Severus's near-reluctance to part from their solitude in the alley.  
  
Through to the street, she could see the Vienna night sky, lit by lanterns in low building windows. Stopped at the curb, was an elegant carriage. From the doorway, there emerged a bevy of skirts, that bloomed into the curvaceous forms of ladies bedecked in the modern fashionable attire. Gentlemen in waistcoats, much like Severus's own, proffered their hands to allow the ladies assistance in exiting the carriage.  
  
Hermione was conflicted by the rush of excitement, but still slightly disgusted to find herself in such a dramatic, flamboyant age. She felt uncomfortable due to the simple chauvinism and practices composure that surrounded them in this time, but then again, something in her felt compelled to cause her to grin uncontrollably at the sights and sounds around her.  
  
They walked, her arm resting on his in the way he had shown her, up the rambling, stone staircase, and towards the well-lit doorways of the concert hall. They could hear the sounds of Dutch, spoken in conversation, all around them, as the guests hurried into the theater for the performance.  
  
The entrance hall was full to the brim of ladies and gentlemen in their opera attire, mingling formally and sipping champagne from tall glasses. The chandeliers glowed overhead, and the air held the heaviness of impending glory.  
  
In her studies of classical music, she had read of this performance a number of times, always imagining how it must have been to attend such a feat. The young Goldberg had been only a lad at this momentous occasion, and it had been recorded that his poise and grace were almost unearthly for a child his age. She had remembered thinking how he must have grown up so quickly, much like she, herself, did.  
  
Severus wound a path through the crowd and eventually arrived at the main entrance to the auditorium. There was a man standing by the doorway, greeting the attendees as they entered. As they approached him, Hermione tensed, but Severus imperceptibly tightened his hold on her lower back, where his gloved hand guided her.  
  
He raised his other hand, in a semi-salute to the man, and the mustached gentleman turned instantly towards them, exclaiming, in a deeply Dutch accent, "Ah! Countess, and Count Smartwell! I trust your journey from London was satisfactory?"  
  
Severus acknowledged the man with a slight bow, and Hermione blushed as the mustached man bent to kiss her hand. "It was, thank you, Lord Stouten. And thank you, again, for your kindness in obtaining our entrance. My wife has long been an admirer of the clavis, so this is a rather exciting occasion for us all."  
  
"Ah, yes, my dear Count, Please, allow me to show you both to your seats?"  
  
He gestured towards a staircase, which led to a balcony, where they made themselves comfortable. Hermione preferred to allow Severus's mysterious plans in arranging this night to remain shrouded for the time being.  
  
The balcony was designed with the same colour scheme as the entire theater; reds and golds in silk and gilt. There were six chairs, each with gold embroidery on the deep red silk of the cushions, and they took their seats towards the front of the balcony, in view of the stage, where a grand piano sat, looking very new and, oddly, alien to it's surroundings.  
  
Severus leaned in, taking a slight breath of the warm, rose scented air that rose off of her skin, and said, "They have only recently made the transition from clavichord to piano. It's a somewhat new addition to the popular classical instruments of this time. The clavis instrument is plucked, rather than struck, so the change from a plucked string to a malleted one was a sort of revolution in and of itself. This is one of the first performances that was widely recognized that included the piano as the main orchestral leader."  
  
Hermione listened with interest, unable to stop herself from shivering at the sound of his voice, so close to her ear. His rich tones slipped together, the toffee of his language gliding over her skin and raising goosebumps over the exposed flesh of her chest.  
  
"Ah, here he comes." The theater resounded with polite, gloved applause, accompanying the rattling of pearl bracelets.  
  
A boy, in his middle teens, entered from the wings, looking as pale as the crisp, white cravat and cummerbund that he wore. He bowed, then sat at the piano bench, cracking his knuckles subtly.  
  
When he began to play, it was as if a sudden fast had been broken. The familiar notes wafted out over the silent audience, and Hermione and Severus felt themselves lean into the tones, their souls plying the hidden connection within the music to their own music that bound them, to one another and to the world they inhabited.  
  
Severus looked over, five minutes into the first movement, to see that Hermione's mouth had dropped open in a silent gasp. Her eyes glittered, and her breath came in shuddering gasps at the beauty and purity of this song, written for the performer, played with such youthful discovery.  
  
She looked, he thought with a small smile, like he had just kissed the breath from her.  
  
Turning his attention back to the performance, he nodded in appreciation for the young man's skill at the keys.  
  
Two attendees at the performance had taken their seats behind them, and Hermione, temporarily distracted from the youth onstage, glanced back at their companions for the evening.  
  
There, looking every bit like the placid, calculating portrait that she had memorized from countless books about his work, was the subject of her thesis.  
  
Flanked by a tall woman with long, straight red hair, and decked in his formalwear, was the potions master, Mesetonces Melotromaut. 


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Author's note: I've been listening, lately, to my new Glenn Gould CD set, that includes both of his incredible recordings of the Goldberg Variations (1955 and 1981) and an interview with the famous musician. I happen to believe him to be among the top three musicians of our age (even though he died, tragically, a few days after his 1981 recording, two years before I was even born). To listen to his voice, as he describes his work and his outlook on life, it's a simply awe-inspiring experience. I recommend the album to all of you, if you haven't heard it yet. The comparison between the two recordings is unbelievable. Well, as you can see, I've been in a mood for the past few days. After this chapter, I can finally begin writing what I've been looking foreward to the most! I have a scene planned.... So, soon it will be back to concentrating entirely on Severus and Hermione, but for now, bear with me on the plot. It's going somewhere, I swear.... Ahem. Thanks everyone! -Iphy  
  
Chapter Fifteen  
  
The problem with extensive, historical research that focuses, at least partially, on one figure in particular, is that in order to really enjoy oneself in the research, it's important to actually like the person. When one finds their subject distasteful, it becomes harder to immerse oneself in the research of their lives, motives, and accomplishments.  
  
Hermione's interest in the Melotromaut potions had been entirely academic. As she deepened her study in the potions master, she discovered the other side to the scientific mastermind. At first morbidly fascinated, she later found herself slightly ill at the thought of the madness that had inhabited this brilliant man's mind.  
  
Mesetonces Melotromaut was a famous potion's master, indeed, but he had also taken great pleasure from testing some of his more dangerous potions on muggle research subjects, and eventually, gave up almost the entire pretense of scientific advancement, and continued to torture and kill muggles, systematically, before finally was imprisoned and eventually died in Azkaban.  
  
Now, this brutal, horrifically smug and suave murderer was less than five feet behind them, blocking the exit from the balcony.  
  
Hermione calmed herself. Relaxing her breathing, she focused on the music, attempting to dissuade her panic. After all, this was a fairly safe setting, and they didn't exactly match Melotromaut's preferences in terms of victims.  
  
The soothing, familiar tones of the 12th variation, canon on the fourth, wafted up to their balcony. Severus was enraptured by the music, and fascinated by the intricate differences from either of Glenn Gould's magnificent recordings and this historical performance. He felt Hermione tense by his side, and glanced over to see her staring straight ahead, at the stage, a frightened look in her eyes.  
  
Subtly shifting his body, he flicked his eyes to the back of the balcony, spotting the smallish, smug-looking, and quite poised man, who's identity became apparent after a moment of studied recollection.  
  
He understood her sudden concern, and squeezed his Hermia's hand comfortingly. They couldn't just leave now, and the situation was still fairly free of danger, as long as they stayed out of the infamous potion's master's way.  
  
The fifteenth variation came to a close, and young Gotllieb, sighing in relief, rose to greet the crowd with a bow, taking to the left of the stage to drink from a glass of water and rest for a few moments while the crowd discussed the performance thus far.  
  
The intermissions were short in situations such as these, and the crowd could tell that the young man had every intention to prolong his brief respite from the high-pressure performance for as long as he could.  
  
Severus leaned over to her, noting her rapid pulse in the hand that he held in his own. "If we speak in low tones, I'm sure we shant disturb any of the other audience members." He whispered, though the rest of the crowd was speaking excitedly in Dutch over the success of the piece thus far.  
  
"I'm... perfectly assured, Severus.... Please, could you tell me more about what Gould said about this work?"  
  
They had begun this conversation some time ago. Glenn Gould was, for most classical and Baroque enthusiasts, a figure of no little import to the musical world. They had been discussing his philosophies earlier, and his singularity as a pianist that had shaped the Goldberg Variations indefinitely.  
  
"Well, he was often one to speak about things that were mostly interpretive, when it came to the pieces he performed. The study, consideration and performance of this particular one was always something of a magnum opus for him. Appropriately, for this particular night, he said that it was, "music with neither real end nor beginning, music with neither real climax nor real resolution, music which, like Baudelaire's lovers, 'rests lightly on the wings of the unchecked wind.' "  
  
She nodded, the center of her brow lowered to a concentrated point that he found intoxicating. She stared at the stage as it glinted under the large chandelier overhead. "He spent a long time alongside this piece. I feel he knows it better than even Bach might have. He lived alone, but I've always imagined that his soul was entwined impenetrably to the variations, like one human becomes entwined to another... I suppose that that's the kind of love for the operas."  
  
She was thinking of the scene from La Boheme, the aria; Vecchia Zimarra. The ode to the philosopher's overcoat. She had always recalled being touched that he had sung an ode to his worn-out coat before being forced to sell it in order to buy medicine for his dying friend.  
  
Perhaps, she remarked, sharing her insight with Severus, who gazed at her with something close to wonderment, Glenn Gould's death was like Mimi's, representing the end of a time and the close of what would never be again. The appearance of the variations at the very beginning and end of his career were like bookends to his life.  
  
Involved in her running speculation and comparison, neither noted the wizard behind them taking an interest in their conversation.  
  
The woman, thought Melotromaut, had a keen insight into the workings of music and opera, two interests of his own that he prided himself on his familiarity with their intricacies.  
  
He, of course, didn't recognize the "Gould" gentleman being discussed, but her voice and beauty were suddenly sparking her interest. It was not often, he thought, regarding the vapid lady to his right, who was stroking her own, red hair and gazing off into space, he discovered a woman who shared any measure of intellect close to his own.  
  
The dark gentleman who accompanied her began to speak, his mouth close to her ear. "Did you know that Puccini was an expert at divination? Some say that was why he was so melodramatic. He had seen the future, and found only wars, plagues and famine, and so his operas were focused on the hopeless despair of mankind."  
  
Melotromaut was fascinated. So they were wizards, it would seem. It would explain their subtle strangeness in this muggle setting. They were obviously both old blood, judging from their attire.  
  
These days, he had begun to panic over the rising number of wizards born of muggle mothers, or, in some cases, muggle couples.  
  
The presence of an old-blood, beautiful and refined witch, was enough to practically have him salivating. So pure, so young and unsullied by this muggle-infested world.  
  
The couple had continued to discuss operas, in earnest, forgetting those around them, until the applause started again to signal the beginning of the second half of the performance.  
  
Melotromaut stared intently at the exposed flesh at the nape of her neck directly in front of him, and vowed to speak to her after the performance, her escort be damned. 


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Author's note: My thesis is over a month and a half overdue, and am I working on it? No. I am not. I am working on this, because it's ever so much more pleasant than working on some ridiculously long piece of fiction that is meant to be true. So, anyway, on with the show. Sorry to keep any of you waiting! The next chapter promises to be, possibly, my favorite, so keep tuning in! Thanks to all. -Iphy  
  
Chapter Sixteen  
  
With the final chord resounding off of the walls of the magnificent auditorium, the audience erupted in applause that deafened the ear with it's enthusiasm.  
  
The ending to the performance had been bittersweet for the couple seated at the front of the left balcony. The experience of having borne witness to this incredible moment in the history of music, was unforgettable, but other delights awaited them for this evening.  
  
Hermione thought that she would never be able to abate the passion she had stored for this man. Months, it had been now, during which she had wanted him. She suspected that it had been years, indeed, since her lust had begun to build for him.  
  
Tonight, she was silkily smooth, perfumed and prepared. She had downed a contraceptive potion earlier, determined that, this time, there would be nothing that could halt their arrival at the point they had been approaching for months.  
  
Now, as the audience began to file out into the grand hall for a post-canon party, she felt her own impatience building. His nearness throughout the concert had been enough to induce a simmering lust in her, and his smell, now, as he leaned forward to offer her his arm to rise, was enough to send a signal to all the erogenous zones on her body, and set her breathing to quicken.  
  
Oh, how she wanted this man.  
  
Glancing back to the seats behind them, she noted that the notorious Melotromaut had, conveniently, already made his departure. Sighing with relief, she strolled out into the hallway, noting how Severus' dark beauty alongside her own elegant, pale form, elicited remarks from the other audience members who surrounded them.  
  
They proceeded slowly to the great hall, intending to make a brief appearance, take in some of the colour, and then retreat to their alleyway to spin the time turner to take them back to their own time and place.  
  
The hall was so crowded that the wide skirts of the ladies brushed one another, obscuring the marble floor and causing no little amount of difficulty in traversing the distance from the entrance to the auditorium to the door.  
  
The young Gottlieb was standing in a corner of the great hall, his champagne flute clutched in his hand as if to ward off the hoard of powdered and frocked ladies who pressed into his space, remarking on his youth and beauty and skill.  
  
Hermione was smiling at this image, never having read of this particular element of this concert previously, when a voice intruded into their observation.  
  
"Excuse me, Count Smartwell. I was wondering, if, perhaps, I could have a word?" It was Lord Stouten, the mustached man who had greeted them at the door. His face was slightly redder than it had been before.  
  
"Certainly, my lord, how may I be of service?" Severus turned and regarded the man with a look that bordered on annoyance. It was similar to the looks he used to give her in class when she interrupted his concentration.  
  
The man seemed uncomfortable discussing his business in front of Hermione. "Could you come with me, per chance?" He asked, touching his arm conspiratorily.  
  
Severus turned, and with a sighed apology, he excused himself, with her assurance that she would be all right alone for a moment. As the two men wandered off towards a more empty part of the hall, she heard Lord Stouten's exclamation, "Count, I seem to have made a miscalculation. Pardon my presumption, but it seems your payment for this evening was grossly larger than necessary!"  
  
Hermione hid her laughter from their retreating backs. It seemed that, though he had provided and planned for all else, Severus hadn't taken into account the different monetary values of currency the modern age of the eighteenth century. Oh well, the frenzied Lord Stouten could use a tip, she supposed.  
  
Surveying the room, she took a glass of champagne for herself off of a waiter's platter. It was truly a glorious evening, she thought, as she sipped. A voice, very close to her ear, broke her reverie.  
  
"Allow me to assess your abilities... I would have to determine as to whether you are a witch who's strength lies in charms... Or perhaps, the more concrete and elemental of crafts...Such as, perhaps, potions?"  
  
She spun at the lightly accented words. There, standing very close to her, was Melotromaut, who held his hands behind his back and wore, on his lightly lined face, a self-assured smirk.  
  
Calming her fluttering pulse, she realized that in order not to appear rude, she would have to respond to his rather indiscreet question.  
  
"I doubt, Sir, that that topic is easily approachable in this very public setting."  
  
"Ah, but, my dear, we are surrounded by those who don't understand the subtleties of the English language. No mind. I already can tell. You are a studied witch. None of this flighty and unreliable divination or charms for you."  
  
She was horrified, and somewhat perplexed by his similar disregard for the magic that Severus disliked. Perhaps, she rationalized, it was an old-blood thing. In fact, she pondered, while attempting to see clear to the exit, if not for Severus, and the fact that the man standing before her was a psychopathic murderer, she would find him fascinating... Dark, brooding, scientific and knowlegable, she might even, she supposed, have found an interest in him, at one point in time. Not anymore. Not in the slightest.  
  
It was at that point, she realized, that she was officially "taken," and had been for some time. No man could ever dislodge Severus from the pedestal and four poster bed that resided within her. But, another time to consider her new realizations. For now, she had to seperate her person from Melotromaut, who was edging closer to her as he slowly backed her into one of the marble columns.  
  
"Very keen insight, Sir. And now, I must take my leave. My escort-"  
  
He cut her off, "Is quite busy with Lord Stouten, discussing his disgustingly lavish overpayment for seating this evening. I would take this choice opportunity, my dear, to speak privately with you. Come."  
  
He took her arm, firmly, and began to lead her towards a small alcove that sported a bench and table. She thought about resisting, and felt for her wand in the disguised pockets of her gown, but, she realized, it would be far more foolish to disobey him. They sat, and she regarded the man seated, too close in her opinion, on the bench beside her.  
  
"Doesn't my lord have another lady he has promised his attention to, this evening?" She asked, proud that her voice only wavered slightly.  
  
"I dispensed with her. Poor company, I'm afraid."  
  
She was shocked that his tone had softened, and his face looked, actually, pleasant, if not slightly malevolent around the edges. She glanced into the crowd, seeking out Severus and finding only unfamiliar faces engaged in animated conversation in Dutch. She began to feel slightly frantic in her visual search.  
  
"And," he continued, "I was horrified to come to suspect that she was not entirely pureblood. There was a muggle, I think, somewhere back in her lineage. A disgusting tidbit of information that she failed to supply me with previously."  
  
Hermione felt a silent rage descend on her.  
  
"Unlike you, my dear." His hand reached as if to caress her chin, but she pulled away, attempting to make it look accidental.  
  
"I can tell by your refinement and obvious insight, that you can be nothing but pure, untainted..." His hand finally caught her chin, and held it there. His grip was painful.  
  
"If you'll excuse me, sir." She attempted to pull away, but his other hand clamped onto her wrist.  
  
"It's true, isn't it? You're not like them? Not like those... cattle." He gestured to the crowd. "You're better. You're far more than any of them could ever hope to be or become..." His breath was close enough for her to feel the hotness against her cheek. She felt panic and gorge rising in the back of her throat.  
  
"You are mistaken."  
  
The statement was simple, but conveyed what she had intended it to.  
  
She saw his eyes darken with fury. "No. You're pure. I can tell. I can always tell." His hand that gripped her wrist clamped down harder, and she cried out, inadvertently, attempting to maneuver her other hand into her pocket to get to her wand.  
  
But he was too fast for her, grasping his cane (which, she realised too late, had his wand concealed within it) and pointing it at her, he muttered a harming curse in Dutch, that knocked her off the bench, and onto the floor.  
  
She thought, though her Dutch was not so good, that it was possibly a curse that was used traditionally for beating women. The words "wife" and "Daughter" were briefly intermingled with the rest of the mumbled curse, and she felt glad that she had thought to attempt to recall his exact words before the aching pain in her side became too much to even think. It was not too much that she could not retaliate.  
  
Gasping for breath from having the wind knocked out of her, she managed to return a newer, advanced curse for tremors and hallucinations, one that he would most likely be unable to countercurse for some time. As soon as she gasped out the words, she felt strong hands lift her from behind, and was suddenly wrapped in Severus's shaking arms.  
  
Melotromaut was shrieking and staring at the tabletop in horror at what his mind had portrayed there, and her midsection felt like she had been beaten with a baseball bat for the past half hour. "Home, please!" she coughed out, and though Severus was trembling with rage, and barely restraining his temper to fly at the man, he pulled her through the gaping crowd and out into the alleyway, where they promptly spun the time-turner and apparated back to where they belonged. 


	17. Chapter Seventeen

Author's note: I'm terribly sorry that I failed to mention that Melotromaut is a character that I created, sort of a cross between Hannibal Lecter and Richard E. Grant, only wizard style. What can I say, I'm a sucker for a tasteful villain. Anyway, on with the show, that is, assuming I EVER go back to working on my thesis when I'm busy catching up on all the recently updated fics that have been surfacing. I must recommend "The Joke's on Her" by Goddessnmb1 (G: I hope you're reading this and that you don't mind me doing a little plugging for your terrific fic!)  
  
I have big plans for the next chapter... Guess what it is! You got it! A barrel more sexual tension, served up nice and repressed.  
  
Chapter Seventeen  
  
The hospital wing was, as usual, mostly empty when they arrived. Well, in truth, it had really been Severus who had arrived, bearing the, now, unconscious Hermione.  
  
Upon their apparation to the gates, she had one last, conscious and self- depreciating thought before passing out from the pain of Severus's hands at her sides, as they supported her weight. The ridiculous swoon at his strength when he had simply picked her up had caught her off guard. She had never thought of herself as the weak and simpering female that she felt at that moment, but there she was, decked out in her ridiculous garb from a more romantic time period, in the arms of a tall, dark and handsome man with shaggy and eccentric musician's hair and a fiercely protective look on his face.  
  
She felt a sudden hysterical horror at the thought that they must look like the cover of some cheesy romance novel like the ones Lavender used to read constantly back in school.  
  
It was after this dawning and hysterical revelation, that Severus tightened his grip on her, sending fresh pain into her aching sides, and the world went blurry, then black.  
  
His face was a mask as he strode angrily up the stairs. God, he was a fool to have left her there, even for that moment! He knew full well that a woman as gorgeous as Hermione wouldn't be left alone for long, especially with that.. .that.. Horror story of a wizard skulking around to prey on her!  
  
But no, she was not prey. Not at all. She had made her independent strength quite clear with the brilliant, as always, use of that particular charm on the disgusting Melotromaut. Severus inadvertently felt a smirk grace the corner of his mouth as he thought of the other wizard, writhing and shrieking in the little alcove, under the influence of a well aimed charm by an exceedingly talented and powerful witch.  
  
Just a few more steps, and they'd be at the door to the hospital wing. He sighed, hoisting her a little higher in his arms for the last bit of the trek. He had secretly hoped to see an entirely different individual other than Melotromaut writhing and shrieking this evening, and in an entirely different context.  
  
Hermione's body was warm in his arms, and her head was thrown backwards, baring her neck and a good portion of her chest. Her cleavage rose and fell with each breath, and he forced his eyes to the hallway in front of him, clenching his teeth.  
  
It seemed, he thought darkly, that fate conspired to keep them from any sort of consummation, no matter how they planned and hoped. He kicked open the door to the hospital wing, and was immediately unburdened of his load by Madame Pomfrey, who tutted at him for not simply using a levitation spell, when he could have completely thrown out his back carrying her manually.  
  
She levitated the unconscious Hermione to a bed, made a quick, visual check of her injuries without removing her clothing, and then turned to Severus.  
  
"I don't care what you were doing in these outrageous garments. Gods know I was once young myself, Severus, but honestly, why take her into an unsafe situation."  
  
"Madame, I had intended it to be anything but unsafe. We, unfortunately, cannot always account for the element of chance in said situation." Severus recognized the hint of petulance in his voice. He explained the night in short, frustrated tones, to the patient Pomfrey, who, when he had finished, shooed him into a waiting room and went to tend to Hermione's injuries.  
  
The mediwitch applied a poultice, and performed a few healing charms, but there was really not much to be done for bruising. It was not considered to be life-threatening, and time tended to heal most effectively when it came to such things, although, it did seem rather nasty to look at it.  
  
Ah well, there was no internal bleeding, so she tidied her up as best she could, and then went to fetch Severus.  
  
"Well, she seems to be healing nicely, Severus, though I would recommend surveillance and bed rest for a few days. She needs strength to recuperate, I know I can do little more, but it's nothing more than a few bad bruises. I've given her something for the pain, and I would ask that you see that she takes a dosage every few hours." She handed him a bottle. "I'll keep her here, if you can't be bothered, but I know that she'd prefer to be under your supervision."  
  
Severus nodded. "Indeed, I think she's much rather wake up in a bed rather than a cot, Madame Pomfrey. I shall see that she takes these."  
  
"Very good, and keep her out of trouble. I don't want her overtaxing herself. I entrust her health to your care, Severus." With that, she smiled, and he thought he could detect a hint of a knowing gleam in her eye.  
  
Severus flooed himself and Hermione down to his chambers, noting the nice glow from the well-lit fireplace, and the two wine glasses and bottle that sat chilling on his mantle. Grumbling at yet another reminder of their evening gone to waste, he set her down onto his bed. He arranged her as best he could, wincing as she moaned quietly in her sleep, and removed her shoes.  
  
Reluctant to remove any more of her clothing, for his own sanity's sake, he went to his shelves and removed a pepper-up potion, which he diluted slightly with honey and milk before carrying it back to her. He lifted her to a sitting position, and tilted the beaker to her lips, admiring the way the liquid poured into her mouth over her lower lip, which was pressed against the smooth, glass beaker. He replaced the empty beaker on the bedside table, before waiting a few minutes, still holding her upright.  
  
She came awake easily, rolling her head to crack her neck, and stretching as she looked up at him. "I'm so sorry, Severus," she said, looking contrite. "I've ruined the whole evening, haven't I?"  
  
He felt his insides tug, slightly, at her chagrin. "My dearest, you've done nothing of the sort. I'm only relieved that you're not more grievously injured. In fact, it's myself who should be apologizing. I shall never forgive myself for leaving you in the company of that...monster!"  
  
He shook with silent rage. His impotency to simply kill Melotromaut had built up his anger within him. The drawbacks to the paradox of time travel was the inability to actually do anything of import that would alter the future. He only hoped that Hermione's incident hadn't caused a rift, though he knew that the conflict had been unavoidable.  
  
Hermione settled in against him, noting his building rage. "You know, Severus, I think he deserved what he got, in the end."  
  
Thinking of the bastard's future at Azkaban brought him some amount of comfort. "Well, nevermind. You're spending the next few days here, if you don't mind. Your thesis is completed, and no doubt you have some extracurricular reading you've been dying to catch up on," at this she smiled, he knew her too well. "And I've been given the welcome task to keep you off your feet for a few days." He almost blushed at how that sounded, but he looked at Hermione, who was grinning, and shaking with repressed laughter, and gave in to a smile himself.  
  
"You know, Severus, if you don't kiss me, I'm going to have to resort to violence." His smile fading, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to her lips, allowing his mouth to mold to her's, capturing her lower lip between his teeth, then releasing it. He pulled away to see her looking at him slightly glassy-eyed, her mouth open tantilizingly.  
  
He cleared his throat, reminding himself of Pomfrey's warning against "strenuous activities."  
  
"It's late," he said, handing her a pair of his own pajamas. "You can borrow these for tonight, and I'll fetch some of your belongings tomorrow morning." He resigned himself to another night of celibacy, but not for long. In the numerous fantasies he had entertained during their aquaintance, he had always pictured them in perfect health and spirits, and usually with some sort of cushioning involved.This much unrequited lust and adoration eventually needed that sort of padding in order to preserve one's physical well-being.  
  
She smiled, grateful for his thoughtfulness, and rose to go into the bathroom, noting that she was still in the full regalia of the evening. She emerged, a few minutes later, washed of the night's makeup and grime, and decked in his favorite set of sleepwear.  
  
Severus looked up from his reading to see her there, framed in the doorway, looking tired and gorgeous in his white silk pajama set. She smiled at him as she limped back towards the bed.  
  
He had remained there, and as she approached, he tenatively held out his arms. She gratefully moved into them, breathing in his scent and sighing it out in warm, minty gusts against the fabric of his shirt. They lay like that for a while, side by side on top of the covers. He was still fully dressed, but she was all silk and smooth skin, smelling of her face soap and a slight spearmint from her toothpaste.  
  
Finally she asked the question that they both had been mulling over for the past five minutes.  
  
"Where will you sleep, Severus?"  
  
He opened his eyes, and raised his face from where it was discreetly buried in her hair.  
  
"I was hoping that we could, perhaps, share a bed. I can easily keep to my side of the mattress, and I need to wake you every few hours to give you some medication." He had been considering their accommodations for some time, and was hesitant to be so forthright in his assumptions, but he saw little other options.  
  
"I wouldn't mind at all, Severus." She reached over, her mouth searching his in a lazy, nonexpectant kiss that had him smiling into her mouth. He allowed his hand to rest on her waist, idly pushing up the silk of her pajama top so that it exposed the skin of her midriff. He brushed his thumb over the warm skin there, hardening unexpectedly at her answering shudder. Pulling back to regain his composure, he allowed himself a peek down at the exposed skin of her stomach. He gasped as drenching horror flooded him.  
  
"Hermia!" He practically yelled, jumping to his knees on the bed.  
  
She was confused at his slightly frantic behavior, still reclined, breathless, on the matress with her lips slightly reddened from their earlier activities.  
  
He pushed up her top to halfway up her ribcage, willing himself not to notice her apparent lack of undergarments. The pajama top lifted to reveal the deep, purple and green marks that ran all down the length of her sides. Matching bruising cut along both of the sides of her midsection.  
  
"Gods! What did he do to you!?" His desire rapidly deflated as he examined the horrific bruising. Looking up, he met her eyes resolutely. "Hermia, I have to insist. Nothing...strenuous until that bruising goes down."  
  
She made as if to protest, but he held up a hand, "No. I absolutely insist. I couldn't abide my hurting you inadvertently. I'm sure you'll be fully recuperated within a week."  
  
He looked at her body with a stare that was full of repressed longing. "I can wait, after all, I'm a grown man, Hermia."  
  
She sighed. Who was he trying to convince? "Very well, Severus. We'll wait, then. After all," and with this she pulled at his hand to return him to the mattress beside her. "It won't make it any less special if we wait a few days. It will be special because it's you."  
  
He buried his nose in her neck, cupping her shoulders in his palms, before kissing her lightly on the lips. "No, my dear, it will be special because it will be us." He said. She smiled as he rolled over onto his side. It was going to be a nice week. She shifted on the bed, and he could feel her heat from where he lay. He rose to change into his sleepwear. Yes, a nice week. Long, but nice. Long, but nice. 


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Author's note: Sorry about the delay, everyone! What a crazy past few weeks I've had, but I finally finished my thesis! So I've had lot's of time to work up the nerve and gumption to finally write this chapter. It's fairly long, to make up for the long time between posts. I hope you all enjoy it, and if you're uncomfortable with consensual love-making depicted in fiction, then please refrain from reading on. Yes, finally! One, maybe two, more chapters after this one, I think. I'd love to hear what you all think so far! Those reviews are absolutely wonderful.  
  
Chapter Eighteen  
  
The week passed in a blur of meals, reading, sleeping side by side, and a building lust that seemed to pervade the cozy chamber and make for a low level of tension between the two of them. It was winter holiday for the students, so Hogwarts was mostly deserted. Hermione remained in her pajamas for most of the day, and Severus enjoyed watching her padding around his apartments barefoot and clad in her navy blue sleepwear.  
  
He made her tea and brought her books and whatever she needed from her own rooms, which was very little. Hermione made a point to keep in her shoe, a shrunken emergency overnight kit that would last her a few days, so all she needed was her pajama sets and some of her casual clothes.  
  
They played their music together often, and Severus watched her carefully to make sure she didn't overtax herself, after all, he was eagerly awaiting her full recovery.  
  
It had been enough when her presence had been merely an attribute to his evenings, a bright point of light and exuberance and undeniable lust, but now she pervaded his every moment, sleeping and awake. At night in bed, it would be hours before they slept, lying on their sides, facing away from one another, each willing away their desire with all their might.  
  
There were warm waking moments in the dawn, soft drowsy evenings, delight at mealtimes and, as her bruises began to heal, chilly brilliant walks through the grounds of Hogwarts.  
  
It was on one lazy, sunny morning, early enough so that the air was still white-lit, when their time together took a sharp and irrevocable turn.  
  
Hermione had awoken early, as was her habit, and had found that Severus had already risen. Smiling, she rose from the bed, and finding the apartments empty, she decided that the best way to occupy her time alone was to curl up with one of his books and a cup of his good coffee.  
  
Severus, meanwhile, had gone to the hospital ward to drop off some of the skin-binding potion that he and Hermione had brewed the night previous. He had left it on the doorstep of the mediwitch's offic, as the ward wasn't open yet, and stopped by the kitchens to retrieve some warm pastries for their morning meal.  
  
He was in high spirits, as his work for the break was completed, and he had an entire week left in the company of his nymph. Despite the frustration and the occasional bouts of self loathing over his week-kneed adoration, he had never been happier in his entire life. Who would have thought that taking care of someone could make him so elated?  
  
He returned to his apartments, smiling in anticipation of her reaction to the pastries he had brought. If living with her these past few days had taught him anything, it was that she held a secretive and passionate love for food in her, and though her studies often got in the way of her culinary delights, she took every joy from eating, and he made sure that she could do this often. It had become a pleasure for him to watch her eat, and to mark the mischievous glint in her eyes whenever he laid a new delicacy on her plate.  
  
There had been a time when a lazy day like today would have found him consumed in the gloomy confines of his office, or spending a solitary day reorganizing his potions supplies, before finally returning to his quarters to play his violin until his fingers ached and bled.  
  
Days like this used to frighten him, shock him to the core that whenever he glanced up from the tedium and his consuming dedication to his work, there was little left for him to turn to.  
  
His receding fear of days like this was one of the reasons why he was so pleased to find someone to join in his solitary passion. His violin had been his sole comfort on days like this in the past, and now, both he and the instrument were treated to companionship.  
  
They had been equally emboldened by the potency of the simple pleasure of joining in the creation of music, and each began to notice the elements of their lives which brought them joy. They had found comfort in books, food, music; all sensual pleasures and indulgences that every human needs a certain quantity of in the course of their lives. As they began to give in to the indulgence of simply being in one another's presence, it occurred to them that they may require more of these simple comforts than a good deal of the rest of the world.  
  
Severus opened the door to his chambers to silence. He strode into the kitchen, depositing the pastries on his counter. He was on his way to tidy up the main study for their breakfast, when he froze at the door.  
  
Reaching a pale, slender arm up to one of the higher shelves on his bookcase, Hermione stood with her back to him, clad in white panties, and a light blue tank top that rode up as she stretched to reach the book.  
  
Severus was sure that his legs were about to give out as the blood rushed southerly so quickly. He had never gotten so hard, so fast, in his entire life.  
  
She was balanced on her tiptoes, stretching her fingers to coax a rather intriguing-looking volume down from a high shelf, when she heard a breath hitching behind her.  
  
She swiveled, abandoning the book, and watched as, at the view of her nightclothes from the front, Severus actually whimpered , suddenly clutching the doorframe for support.  
  
"Gods! What are you trying to do!? Kill me?!?" He gasped, trying to cope with the sudden dizziness.  
  
His reaction to her state of undress had been so sudden that she immediately felt the answering desire welling up within her.  
  
He was shocked at his own response. Of course, it had been quite some time since he had made love, but the mounting tension between the two of them over the last few weeks had come to a crescendo, peaking on this day, this morning, with the two of them silently regarding one another in the main study of his rooms.  
  
The sunlight streamed into the window, illuminating the dust that floated in the air, and the only sound was the accelerated breathing of the two figures who faced each other across the room.  
  
"I- I'm sorry to have made you feel awkward, Severus. I didn't mean to offend you with my sleeping attire," She said, suddenly feeling slightly self-conscious at her near nudity. The camisole she wore was thin, and her nipples were outlined behind the soft, clinging fabric. The hem rose up, exposing the flat of her lower abdomen, which was suddenly riddled with goosebumps as the silent pause deepened. "I suppose I'll go put on my dressing gown..." She moved to cross the room, but his dark form was in front of her in moments.  
  
"I didn't mean to be so harsh, a moment ago." His tone was apologetic. He took her wrist lightly in his cold fingers. Her skin was soft and dappled with golden hairs which sparkled in the sunbeam that slanted through the room. His hand looked large and white, with fine, black hairs across the back, a stark contrast to her small, honey colored palm.  
  
His knuckles brushed lightly against the smooth expanse of skin on her leg, where her hand had fallen, still cradled in his own, and he felt her shudder, rather than saw it. His mouth was ajar, and his eyes wandered over her face, meeting her eyes, which were large and almost entirely dilated. "You did...make me feel awkward, but... you see, I didn't mind so very much." With this his hand boldly pulled her palm to briefly nudge the area where his trousers had become increasingly uncomfortable.  
  
He watched her mouth fall open in a gasp, and her pupils dilate further, her eyes going glossy. He took a deep, calming breath to attempt some measure of control over the situation, and his stomach tightened even further in shocking arousal when he smelled the evidence of his affect on her, permeating the warm, dusty air of his study. Books and pastries and the smell of an aroused woman. He suppressed a groan.  
  
"G-gods..." She muttered, and allowed her forehead to rest tentatively on his breastbone, her eyes closed and lips parted. Her breath puffed against his chest. He glanced down at the smooth and lightly freckled skin of her upper body, and felt a nearly irresistible urge to bend his head to place his lips at the juncture of her shoulder and neck.  
  
She realized at that moment that they were both shaking. Her restless hand, still partnered with his own, felt his answering tremble in the quivering grip.  
  
She felt a brief stab of worry. Could they do this? This thing between them had become greater than any other emotion she had ever had to deal with. They were both individuals who were used to suppressing emotions. Could they allow themselves the vulnerability to allow those emotions to surface entirely? Could the take this...thing...to the next level without exposing themselves to the harsh problems faced in a sexual relationship between two such intense and passionate individuals? Where would they go from here?  
  
The questions arose, floated at the surface of her consciousness, and then sank again, one by one, at lull of the reassuring rhythm of his breath against the top of her head. His mouth sought the skin where her hairline began at her temple, and then he felt her smile against his breastbone.  
  
"It's been... a long time, Hermia..." He muttered into her hair.  
  
She paused apprehensively before responding, "Longer for me." Her voice shook.  
  
He groaned at her confession, his grip tightening on her fingers. "How is your..." He was worried about her injuries. One of his hands had wandered to her waist, and his thumb rubbed the fabric of her camisole over the skin that had been bruised in the conflict. The friction was heavenly, and she was fortified to reach the hand that had rested on his chest up to skim up to rest over the warm spot on the back of his neck, where her fingertips grazed the soft hairs at his nape.  
  
"I'm alright. See?" She untangled her hand from his and lifted up the hem of her shirt to expose the skin of her abdomen, where the bruising had faded to a healing flush, all traces of the dark purple having vanished over the last week.  
  
He drew a shuddering breath, and his palm cupped the offered skin of her side, warming in the convex inward slope of her waist. He felt himself harden further as she closed her eyes, slowly and languorously, at his touch.  
  
"Hermia..." He muttered, his eyes wide to take in the sight of her flushed face and labored breathing. As soon as the inward breath from the outward utterance of his name for her had slipped in between his parted lips, she stood on her tiptoes, and followed the same path with her tongue.  
  
Their last encounters had been sudden and shocking, fierce and brief. This embrace was measured, calculated, almost, and long expected on both parts. Both having prided themselves on their skills in observation and recollection about their previous embraces, they were shocked to recognize, with new and astonishing clarity, every detail of this kiss.  
  
In shoes, he towered over her in her bare feet, and his body bent over her own in a perfect arc. He was clad in his traditional black attire, so she was framed, white and frantic, against him as they kissed. His hand tightened at her waist, and his other arm reached behind her to pull her lower back to meet his midsection. She was shocked to hear his heart beat.  
  
With her breath coming in short gasps from her nose, she detached from his mouth to burrow into the hollow of his jawline and neck, opening her mouth to taste the skin there. Her tongue smoothed over the slight roughness of his stubble, then she applied a small amount of suction to the warmth at his pulse.  
  
His answered, strangled noise caused her to grin, briefly, against his skin, before returning to her ministrations on his neck. Gods, his neck, how did she know? Feeling his knees tremble, he decided that he should concentrate on her, not intending to be so frozen in delicious pleasure from her mouth on his throat.  
  
He slid the hand on her abdomen tentatively up to cup her breast through the fabric of her camisole, delighted at the surprised gasp from her, that sent shivers through him as it cooled the wet skin of his throat.  
  
He realized he was panting, and hoped he wouldn't black out. His hand at her breast cupped and molded, his thumb finding her nipple and brushing over it again and again, until finally, he slipped his hand easily under the camisole and found her nipple between his thumb and middle finger. She let out an astonished, "Ohh!" and her hips bucked against him.  
  
He slipped one of his legs in between hers, and his free hand pushed her lower back towards him. Her mouth had fallen open, and her head lolled back slightly, exposing her neck to his own mouth, a situation which he took greedy advantage of. Dragging his lips over the white skin of her neck, he felt her small hand cup his erection through his pants, and managed not to spasm too violently.  
  
She couldn't imagine a more pleasant way to die, she thought, as she attempted to slow the frantic beating of her heart. God, his hands. Those hands that played the violin so elegantly and adeptly, were now fully concentrated on her body, one pushed lazy circles against her lower back and caused ripples throughout her body, and the other, oh, the other, alternated rolling her nipple and molding her breast, smoothing the skin in circles.  
  
She felt her backside touch his desk, which was placed near the window of the study, and realized that they must have moved. With the desk as support, the hand at her lower back abandoned it's post to smooth over her backside, stretching the cotton underpants up slightly so he could graze the skin of her buttocks with his fingertips, before he moved it down and over her thigh to her inner leg, where it drew lazy, shaking circles, much like their little experience in the great hall that one day not so long ago.  
  
Her mouth returned to his neck, and her fingers switched from their rhythmic pushing against the fabric of his fly to swiftly undoing the buttons there. His head tilted upwards and he let out a groan as her fingers slipped into the fly of his boxer briefs. Her mouth was open, panting against the skin of his neck, and her hand was so smooth, tightening around his erection. His bucking into her hand pushed her body hard against the desktop, and she stood on tiptoe to push herself into a sitting position onto it's surface, then wrapped her legs around his waist to pull him nearer to her.  
  
His hand on her inner thigh slipped up, the palm landing in the juncture of her legs at the same moment that he captured her mouth with his own, stifling her moan. The heel of his hand rubbed at her again and again, and her rhythmic gasps cooled his lips. Her hips thrust against his palm, and his body was jolted at the promise of the warm, wetness beyond the cotton of her panties. His palm jerked over the cotton and flesh that covered her hard pubic bone, pressing into her clit, before diving lower to press into the softer part, repeating this process again and again.  
  
Her senses were overloading, and her skin tingled all up her arm where her hand gripped him. The electricity of the hot, firm skin that was cupped in her fingers was intoxicating. The warm, smooth outer skin glided over the impossible firmness of his erection as her hand wandered it's length, testing the textures and responses.  
  
Their lust had built to a nearly intolerable level, and had somehow managed to transform these two, sane, adult individuals, into panting, groping, mutually masturbating teenagers. The disarming thought was erotic, and as their movements quickened, their mouths pulled apart, slightly to suck in air, but remained opened against one another's, colliding slightly as they spasmed with pleasure.  
  
She dragged her hooded eyes from her admiration of his mouth, that was open, with his sexy, characteristically crooked lower teeth exposed from where his bottom lip had fallen open. When her eyes finally met his, black and half closed in pleasure and concentration, she let out a startled cry of near-completion, and he pressed against her harder, causing her eyes to cross slightly as she came hard against his palm, shouting, and gripping him harder in her fist.  
  
This final grip combined with the vision of her spasming against his hand was enough to trigger his own release, and he managed to keep his eyes open and fixed on her as he came, groaning harshly. "Hermia....."  
  
With all their energy spent for the moment, they toppled backwards like a sailboat in a heavy wind. They lay on the desk, panting in rhythm with one another, his head cradled against her chest. Her legs remained propped against his lower back, and his knees made a valiant effort to support his weight, to little avail.  
  
That was fine with her, though. His weight was heavy against her hips and stomach, and his warm body on top of her felt like something she had wanted for some time. As her senses slowly returned and her vision cleared, she looked down at the sleek, dark head on her chest and ran her hands through his smooth hair, revelling in the heightened feeling in her nerve endings due to her recent orgasm.  
  
Gods, he had made her climax from the simple rubbing of his palm and the skills of those talented, slender fingers. She felt the stirrings of arousal again, wondering what, if that had been the result of foreplay, what lovemaking would be like between them. She lifted her head to check his status again, reminding herself that she should hold her patience. She knew what she was getting into, loving an older man than herself, but he would have to get used to having a young lover.  
  
At her glance, she realized that he was still fully clothed, with only his pants undone, and she was clad only in a rumpled camisole and panties that had been soaked through. A heavy fatigue settled over her, the remainder of her shattering orgasm, and he stirred slightly on her chest. His cheek scraped slightly against the soft, smooth belly that had been exposed during their interlude, and he rested his chin on her breastbone, his eyes soft on her face. She realized then, at the amused look in his eyes, that she was grinning from ear to ear.  
  
"Something funny, my dear?" he inquired, his voice ragged. His mouth quirked up at her exuberant expression. Talk about afterglow, she positively beamed.  
  
"No, nothing funny. You're still dressed." He glanced down at himself, briefly, before looking back up at her, a crooked grin on his face. There they were, framed for a moment, bent over the desk and grinning at one another, their breath still regaining normal tempo.  
  
He stood up, after a time, and took her hands to pull her up. She raised an eyebrow at his rumpled appearance. She would have to become accustomed to seeing him less than immaculate.  
  
He, in turn, examined her shirt, which was pushed above her navel, and her wild hair that curled around her jawbone. Her grin only added to the sex- kitten facade, and he laughed inwardly that this gorgeous, mature, talented woman could become a flushed and pleasantly debauched lover, in so short a time.  
  
They stood, their bodies touching slightly, and hands still entwined. Examining his suddenly easy demeanor, she was finally convinced of her suspicion. "I'm in love with you, you know." She said, now slightly more somber.  
  
He smiled lazily again. "I know. You've already told me." He tilted his head, indicating the cello which leaned against it's stand by the wall. "In the same way I've been telling you."  
  
She looked at his violin, which perched on his table, and nodded, smiling to recall the passionate conveyal of his feelings through the music that he played for her. "Come on. Let's go to bed," she said, burrowing her face into his neck again. It was a gesture that she had grown quite fond of, much to his approval.  
  
"Gladly." He replied, leading the way, one hand tugging hers.  
  
"Just a minute," she said, pausing at the door. "Do I smell... Pastries?"  
  
He laughed aloud at her eager curiosity. "Danishes, yes. I picked them up from the kitchens. Would you like one now?"  
  
She thought for a moment. "No. No. I think I'd rather work up my appetite a little more before we eat, what do you think?" Her hand was on his chest again.  
  
"I think... that you're going to need that danish to fortify you. I don't want your energy waning, and I know that once I take you in there, you're not coming out for a good... Week or so." His mouth brushed over hers, which had broken in a grin again.  
  
"Then I'd better go get some of those carbs, if I'm to survive the day!" She trotted barefoot to where he had abandoned the bag, grabbing a danish and gripping it in her teeth before letting her hand graze his bottom as she passed him on her way into the bedroom.  
  
Her laughter carried them both through the door to his bedchambers, in which they had spent chaster times than the one to follow. 


	19. Chapter Nineteen!

Author's note: I finally, FINALLY completed this chapter.   
  
Huzzah! Anyway, it's a little too adult to be posted here. I wouldn't  
  
want to get into trouble, so for those of you who are over eighteen (or around  
  
that), here is the link to the nineteenth chapter in the  
  
posted story on "Adultfanfiction.net."  
  
http://adultfan.nexcess.net/aff/story.php?no=6882&chapter=18  
  
Please review! enjoy.  
  
-Iphy 


	20. Chapter Twenty

Author's note: Well, folks. This is it. I apologise to all of you for the long waits in between chapters, and I am so glad that those of you who kept up all this time will finally be able to finish. Here's a drawing I did for another fic, and I thought I'd post it here as well, as it's mostly generic.  
  
And this is why I've been so behind on getting a post up. I got a new kitten!  
  
Please comment! I'm eager to hear from all of you! -Iphy  
  
"Dr. Snape? Are you in here?"  
  
A student was cautiously making his way through the maze of musical instruments that cluttered the Hall of Sound. His footsteps were cautious and barely audible over the low and ringing tones of her cello. She glanced up at him from the dias at the center of the room, where she bent over her instrument, and noticed that it was Lawrence Tate, her pupil on the saxaphone, and from what Professor Korin had said, a marvel with the magical properties of paint and ink.  
  
Good.  
  
She smiled. He was a friend of Artie's. He must have been sent to fetch her. She paused at her bowing, and the slight, swirling mist that had been concentrated in the space in front of her began to dissapate.  
  
"Yes, Tate. I'm here. Is it starting?"  
  
The division of arts and musics within the school had been established with the aid of a great deal of funding and support from parents and faculty alike, but mostly it was attributed to the work of the Snapes. Eventually, the school had become known for it's magnificent additions in recent years. The Hall of Sound alone was enough to create for Hogwarts a new reputation among it's competitors.  
  
The other schools of witchcraft and wizardry had yet explored the amazing new field of magics that were associated with creativity. Dr. Hermione Snape had begun the research in her graduate years, and now the studies were making leaps and bounds, and the newest form of magic discovered was attributed to her foundations.  
  
"Yes! It's nearly beginning! Arturo's due on any minute!" Tate was beside himself. The boy had come in five years ago, and thus shared his year with Artie. He was an enthusiastic pupil, expectedly so, considering the fact that his house was Ravenclaw, and Hermione had taken a liking to him straight away, due to his single-mindedness when it came to the exploration of the magic that she specialized in, and because of the easy way he had made friends with her quiet, serious son. Of course, it had a little to do with the fact that he was also muggle-born.  
  
She sighed, leaning her cello up against the grand piano nearby, and rising to meet him in the jumble of instruments of all persuasions. Tate was carefully examining an ancient witch's instrument from the middle ages that was said to have healing properties. She carefully took it from him, "May I?" and plucked one of the thick metal bars.  
  
The note that resounded from it was high and deafening, but filled the both of them with a feeling of goodwill. He grinned up at her, and she smiled in return. "Come on, then, Tate. You can tell me about this latest painting of yours while we walk."  
  
They soon arrived at the grand performance hall, built only a year ago and modelled after the Vienna Opera House, the newest addition to Hogwarts offered a cultural outlet that added to the school tremendously.  
  
Upon entering, Hermione made a brief, almost automatic scan of the assembled group for Severus, but he was not among the crowd. He had, two months ago, taken the advanced sound-magics class, a group of one fifth year and four seventh years and the only class in her department that he taught, on a tour of the world's musical meccas. It was somewhat of a pilgrimage and somewhat of a research study. They intended to perform and to test the cathedrals and theaters for residual magics from the time when wizards were unaware of the magics that their music created.  
  
But they were due back today, and the welcome-home performance was about to start.  
  
She found a seat among the faculty in the front row, and tried to steady herself for seeing her son and husband for the first time in two months. The calm, studious head of the creative magics department at Hogwarts School was not often seen with her nerves so wrought. Her anticipation had been the reason that she had retired to the hall of sound in order to play away her impatience.  
  
Her son was the first to enter the great hall, serious and dark. His black hair curled tidily over his forehead like a roman emporer, he clutched his umber classical guitar by the neck, and his eyes saught her own. They exchanged a brief and exhuberant smile, and she softened at the sight of her husband's grin upon the face of her lanky son.  
  
She recalled her pregnancy more vividly than any other time in her life. His feet kicking energetically against the back of her cello where it rested against her swollen stomach. It had been difficult for her to play during her pregnancy, due to the ever decreasing space at her front in which her cello rested. She recalled Severus' hands on her abdomen, and how a simple sight like his fingers splayed with obvious glee against their unborn child, their Arturo, could evoke in her more powerful emotions than any concerto, any crescendo of masterful song that she had ever been privilege to hear.  
  
When he was born, dark of hair and eye, and serious as the both of them combined, he had become their world. An only child, he was gifted at almost any instrument that he touched, and by age four, he had begun to perform piano pieces that were frankly evidence of genius. Severus had laughed, at the time, and told her, "And you expected any less from a son of ours, my love?"  
  
She recalled his eager interest in the dark and more fanciful stories that his parents concocted for his pleasure. He delighted in the tale of the evil wizard Melotromaut, who had mastered his musical arts, but had lost it all when his blindness and violent ways resulted in his stumbling upon one highly reactionary witch during a particularly grand performance, and thus his life ended in madness.  
  
Hermione had hinted only slightly to her involvement, but little escaped the boy's notice, and it was likely he already knew the extent of her doings. Now, at age sixteen, still as serious and intelligent as ever, he stood on the stage of the grand hall, and winked at his mother in the audience.  
  
Hermione tore her eyes away to find the familiar, tall figure of her husband, as he glided onstage, similarly seeking out her sight. He looked tired, she thought, as his eyes roved over the crowd in search of her. Gorgeous, dramatic and like balm to her nerves, but still, tired.  
  
The other members of the class, all seventh years other than the fifth-year Arturo, lifted their instruments as the applause died down. They looked to Severus, who's eyes still roamed the crowd, and then he bent to whisper to Arturo, who pointed towards her seat, and then his eyes finally fell upon Hermione, who's face broke into a relieved and lovestruck smile.  
  
Smiling crookedly in return, he lifted his own violin, and broke their gaze to direct his leadership to his small sextet. What followed next was the culmination of an extended study of the traditional musics of the world, and the history and culture behind each definition of such. The piece was constructed excellently, and Hermione could sense some of Severus's own touch threading throughout.  
  
As always, he looked positively edible while he played, especially after such a long drought of the sight of him. Artie was seated, his eyes closed as his fingers, long and elegant like his fathers, saught out the exact placement upon the fretboard and plucked over the soundhole with precision.  
  
As the piece continued, Hermione let her eyes drift over to the tall, shapely girl seated next to Artie, who, like herself, played the cello. Miranda. She was a seventh year Slytherin, and it hadn't taken long for Hermione to notice her son's interest in the girl. And why not? She was pretty, intelligent and talented. Severus had muttered his approval, in hushed tones to Artie, but Hermione was still reluctant to allow the girl her trust. Arturo was, after all, her only son.  
  
The piece came to an end, and the applause from the great hall flowed over her. She stood before the others could and moved swiftly through the crowd to greet the musicians as they stepped from the stage. Many of them had been her pupils from their first year, and she found herself swelling with pride as they beamed at her as she shook their hands while they descended.  
  
Artie was smiling his warm, familiar smile, and she gathered him to her. His hug was clumsily one-handed, still clutching the neck of his guitar, but his grip was firm.  
  
"I missed you, Mom."  
  
"I missed you too. You sounded positively brilliant up there. I see you've been working on that finger-style that I was trying to teach you."  
  
He smiled again. "Yeah. It came in use after all... Mom, can we have dinner at home tonight? I'm not feeling quite up to the great hall..."  
  
She laughed, "Of course. And you two can tell me everything about the trip."  
  
An exasperated voice burst from slightly above them on the staircase. "Yes, you can tell her every little detail, but if you don't move aside this second, Artie, I'm going to send you back to Bavaria by yourself!"  
  
Severus Snape was standing on the top stair from the stage, where his path to his wife was effectively blocked by his son, who, at the moment, was looking quite intrigued at the possibility of a trip to Bavaria without adult supervision.  
  
"Hey! Artie!" It was Tate, waving his hand, who lured away their son into the fray of classmates and teachers.  
  
Hermione was soon enveloped in Severus' familiar scent, and her arms wound around his neck as if they had been there all along. She breathed in the hot air off of his skin, and felt like everything had fallen back into place.  
  
Well, not everything. "You know, Artie want's to eat in tonight." She muttered into the side of his neck. Her comment was met by an irritated groan.  
  
"He would. He threatened to babysit us with the way we behave, and told me that he enjoyed being an only child a great deal."  
  
"Oh, and here I was just thinking he missed our little family dinners," she teased him.  
  
"I'm serious," he said, "He persisted in teasing me incessantly on the trip about my doleful state. I'm afraid to say that he caught me at one of my weaker moments. I was buying you this."  
  
He pulled from his inner pocket a beautiful, antique bow, with the tips guilded with silver. "I'll never hear the end from that boy. He actually had the audacity to tell that Miranda Morgen that I was 'mooning about like a lovesick cow.' I told him that it was thanks to that mooning that he had ever been concieved in the first place. Shut him up nicely. Do you like it?" He asked unnecisarily, as she fingered the bow, awestruck.  
  
"An actual Domenico Montagnana bow. It's gorgeous. How on earth did you find it?"  
  
Severus looked inordainately pleased with himself. "In a tiny shop in venice. He was, after all, known as 'the mighty venician.' Does it please?"  
  
"It does," She responded, kissing him lightly.  
  
"Are you sure we can't convince Artie that it would be better to eat with his friends?" He growled, letting his tongue glance off her ear. She gasped in response.  
  
"mmm. I'll do my best, but at this point we may want to relocate our reunion. You sulked for weeks after that little episode on Valentine's day, not to mention Atrie's response..."  
  
The previous valentine's had been a slight disaster when, after a week apart due to her conference in America, three troublemaking students had discovered the two of them, disheveled and making out like teenagers, in the hall outside their quarters, unable to make it all the way inside before descending upon one another.  
  
The news had spread like wildfire that the straightlaced music professor and the strict professor of potions had been discovered in such a state, and Artie had refused to speak to either of them for a week. Severus hadn't been as cantankerous since they were newlyweds and were discovered mid- coitus in the library by The-Boy-Who-Lived, who had come to inquire as to whether Hermione might join him over tea to discuss his latest partner.  
  
Severus had remarked, at the time, that it had been foolish of him to expect that his newlywed friend be at his beck and call, and had soon recovered from his mortification. At present, though, Severus was tempted to forgo any embaressment he might feel, and take his gorgeous wife right there on the stage steps. It had, after all, been the longest they had been apart, well, ever.  
  
With a wistful brush of his thumb over her pulsepoint at her wrist, slightly glassy-eyed they rejoined the throng of students who were making their way towards the great hall for dinner. Severus scanned the tops of the heads of students, picking out his own son's dark, curly head and tapping him lightly on the shoulder to indicate that they would meet him in their quarters after he had recieved his congradulations from his friends. Arturo nodded solemnly, exchanging a similarly serious smile with his father, before turning back to his housemates.  
  
Hermione was standing at the top of the steps to the hall of instruments, smiling and holding her new bow. "Care to try it out with me?" she asked, fingering the silver leafing on the wooden bow.  
  
"I'd be delighted."  
  
They wound though the maze of brass, percussion, string, reed, and all others ever concieved by wizard or man, and arrived at the dias, where Hermione had laid her cello previously. Severus still held the case to his violin from where he had taken it from the stage, and he joined Hermione, poised with bow arm raised over his strings, and, for a moment, admired the way her pale neck was framed with loose curls, before they began, in synch as always.  
  
And as her antique bow slid across her strings, she watched her husband, with his pale, solemn grace, as he flicked his eyes to hers over the bowing of his violin. It had been so long since they had first played this way. It was hard to believe that they had begun this symphony from opposite sides of a thick, stone wall. As the movement drew to a close, their last note subtly hung in the air between them, tangible and sharp.  
  
At the final note, a tawny owl glided into the hall through the grand, arched doorway and skimmed over the tops of the instruments to where it alighted on Severus' shoulder. He untied a small note, and smiled as he read it aloud.  
  
"Mother and Father, I have spoken with Miranda, and she mentioned that I should probably allow you two some time to become, as she put it, "reaquainted." And so, I have changed my mind and decided that it would be best that I dine in the great hall this evening with my classmates. The members of the music expedition are dining at their own table, and Miranda wishes to further discuss the cathedrals we discovered in Venice. I hope you both aren't TOO dissapointed, though I'm sure you'll think of something to occupy your time... Tell mother that I shall have tea with her tomorrow to tell her all about how Father and I missed her so terribly. Goodnight. Love, Arturo Ps: Father, is it possible to do a sabbatical in another school house starting halfway through the year? Slytherin, perhaps?"  
  
"Our son has picked up a few bad habits, I see. I take it that the trip may have tried your nerves a bit? I've never seen him this glib." Hermione smirked as she rose from her seat and began to walk towards him.  
  
"You're just upset because this proves that I was correct about him being right for Slytherin." Severus was handing a treat to the owl, which flew off and out the door again.  
  
She wrapped her arms around his neck, "Just because he fancies a girl enough to want to temporarily switch houses, doesn't mean he belongs in Slytherin, although, I must say that I finally approve of his fascination with the girl. She's obviously another brilliant mind."  
  
"Yes, I must agree. We must remember to send her a thank-you note. Her persuasion skills could come in handy more often." Severus was grinning now, his hands wandering lower on her back.  
  
"Sweet boy. I wonder if it's genetic that he be attracted to an older Slytherin..." Hermione mused.  
  
"Well, if he took after his father, he'd be switching into a Griffyndor first year's bedroom. I think that his tastes, and your's, aren't the worst we could have had to contend with."  
  
Her laughter echoed through the enhanced acoustics of the hall. They walked out the archway hand in hand, and hastened to their quarters to do as their son suggested and "get reaquianted."  
  
End 


End file.
