I wrote this for my friend, Helenarickman. She's a brilliant writer, and a lovely friend to me. Please enjoy this little snippet of an unforgettable summer.
Author: lenaa1987
Title: Silence
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1100+
Summary: Professor Granger's first summer at the castle proves fruitful.
Silence
The castle was quiet without the students. It was a decadent kind of quiet; after months of chattering, nattering teenagers, Hogwarts was still. She firmly believed that it was a reward – that after her first full year, the castle was indulging her with pin-drop silences and space to breathe.
Summer announced itself slowly that year; it took its sweet, unapologetic time. The first week after the students left brought rain, rain and more rain. Grey clouds hung heavily overhead. The wind wrapped around her. She tried to scowl it away, but it did not obey.
The new season snuck into existence not long after. The sun shone, and it was harsh upon her face. The wind still batted her hair around her forehead, but the air was sweet and the wildflowers near the lake were more than enough to dull her need to slather moisturiser on her cheeks.
Hermione spent her days exploring. She would take both a folder of sixth-year projects and a paperback, and search for spots to sit and lose herself in realism or non-fiction, depending on her mood. Since she rarely saw another Professor save for dinners when the few left would surface, she surmised that the others either did the same or left entirely.
He was no different.
.
.
On the first day, she came across Snape in a sunlit courtyard. There were stone benches surrounding it, and vines creeped their way up the walls. A fountain was set in the corner. She stood near an outer archway; it took her rather too long to realise that he'd spelled the fountain silent.
He was cross-legged on the ground with his back against a bench. His face was tipped back; the sun turned his skin a brilliant shade of gold.
She was loath to interrupt. It felt private; intimate. Holding her breath, Hermione backed away, unsure of why sweat was beading on her palms.
.
.
She tried to be courageous on the second afternoon. "Good afternoon, Professor Snape," she called quietly, pausing a few steps away from him. He was a sea of black amongst the stone.
The reclusive Professor did not even open his eyes. "No, Professor Granger."
There was an old, tattered book face-down on his lap. She had wanted to only ask what it was – be polite, in her own way.
Chastened—and embarrassed—she turned on her heel and left him there.
.
.
Hermione would never have confessed it, but on the third day, she again sought him out.
He was not there.
.
.
The fourth, fifth and sixth days were likewise unfruitful.
.
.
On the seventh day, she gave up and retreated to a quiet corner of the lake. She sat in the tall grass and awkwardly shed her button-up summer dress. She tugged on one strap of the black one-piece, feeling oddly exposed, but soon forgot her discomfort as she dove into the cool depths.
Hermione swam for an hour, though mostly she floated. Her thick hair spread out around her as she drifted. When she closed her eyes against the glare of the sun, she wondered why her lids burned not with reds or pinks or yellows, but with a marvellous gold, the colour that lit up the Professor's cheeks as he basked in the light.
Snape was an unobtrusive, soundless man. There was almost nothing to him – he muttered, he murmured, he instructed in such a low undertone that students now edged closer rather than away. He strode through corridors with nary the noise of a foot-fall; he ate at the staff table silently, hardly clinking cutlery. Next to her enthusiasm, she felt him a silent sentinel. Her exuberance swallowed him whole.
She liked it, though. He was constant. She bounded along; he walked his path without wavering. She waved her arms during conversations; he crossed his at his chest and stared, black eyes speaking volumes even though his lips barely uttered a word.
.
.
She gathered her things and towel-dried her hair. The white dress stuck to her wet swimsuit, and Hermione might've charmed it dry, but it was summer. She ate as she walked back to the castle, taking a side entrance that took her past the outer courtyards. She wasn't looking for him; rather she was studying the bright, shining red apple in her hand. Her teeth carved the skin away, and the fruit inside was left to be a most vivid white.
Hermione hummed to herself, considering the colour. She walked, eyes on the apple, until she paused.
He was there, in his courtyard. Again his back was against the bench, backside on the ground. His legs were outstretched this time, and his black hair hung straight past his shoulders. He held a book in front of his nose; his pale wrists shone, and there was a black band looped around one, ready to tie back his hair.
She shifted on her feet; thought for a moment.
Carefully, Hermione stepped into the courtyard. He did not move. She took another step, and then another. It felt as though everything hinged on the movement of her bare, still half-wet feet.
Wordlessly, she folded her limbs down beside him. Snape did not look at her, though his body was tense. It was a book of poetry that he was reading, though the front was too wrinkled for Hermione to catch a particular collection's name.
She sat beside him until her hair was almost wholly dry. Her dress was another matter; under the shade of her sprawling hair, the white fabric was still transparent due to the now-cold wet swimsuit.
For an hour they sat. Her eyes were closed, and she merely listened to the delicate sounds of him. His breathing, the pages turning. Gradually, the firm line of his shoulders began to soften.
She did not know whether it was because he'd gotten sick of her presence, or because he was forcing himself to be civil. But he began to speak, and his voice was low, hoarse and stern. She wanted to track his eyes and find if he was reciting by heart or reading from the page, but she stayed silent lest he stop. Hermione tipped her face to the sun as he read aloud; she felt as if his voice was slowly covering every inch of her skin. Gooseflesh rose on her arms.
"…For whatsoever from one place doth fall, is with the tide unto another brought: for there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought."
Snape cleared his throat and closed the book. She swallowed; stood. Without a word she left him there; somehow she sensed that he would not wish for her conversation to intrude on the stillness. Still, Hermione turned as she left the courtyard. He was watching her, his dark gaze considering and pensive. Hermione smiled and backed away, beginning the long walk back to her chambers.
She would return the next day.
fin.
*Excerpt from 'The Faerie Queene', as recited by AR in 'Sense & Sensibility'