Chapter 4
Though the potions master did protest more at bedtime about sleeping in Hermione's bed, he eventually gave up—weary and depressed-looking—on the grounds that such pointless banter would be certain to bring about a migraine. Thus, he retired without another word.
Morning came, and though Hermione wakened excited to see her professor trapezeing about the house half asleep in naught but his pyjamas, the girl found herself too late. The evidence of someone having bravely made coffee in a foreign environment littered the kitchen counter . . . a bag of coffee beans left out and delicious aromas from the pot. Hermione counted the absence of exactly one fresh sourdough muffin from the basket her grandma had brought over two days before. She might have measured the butter, but, as she knew not the measurements of the stick in the refrigerator prior to that morning, she did not. When she approached the library, a gentle light seeped from under the door.
Damn. He's such an early riser Hermione decided, noting that the clock read 6:14.
………………
She debated going to the library and, as yesterday, sitting with him in studious mutual silence, but chose against such course of action. It might be better not to cramp his style at first. Instead, she went up to her room.
Well—her room that was also now his room, the his part being the most important in this instance. The very idea sent cliché shivers down her spine. Cautiously, as though afraid the notoriously-reclusive man might have set intruder-repelling spells or other wards, she poked open the door. Nothing happened, but, then, the light was off. Her hand drifted from her side to the wall and found the lightswitch. Almost expecting a thousand spiders or bats to fly at her face with the sudden illumination, she threw the switch and took an abrupt step back. Then she laughed. Virtually everything looked normal.
A small valise was propped against the bed, closed and neat. The bed had nary a rumple in the fabric and the pillow neither. Hermione, in a fit of mischievous malice, threw herself upon the bed.
Hm. He must have firmed the mattress. She was certain it always had been softer than what she felt.
With a sigh, she stood, then decided the new-made creases in the blankets too mean. With a touch more temperate than the breath of the south wind in spring, she straightened the blankets.
Yet an impulsive desire thus seized her again, and she pressed her nose against the pillow on which he had lain his head overnight. She found herself again sending peals of laughter throughout the room. Traces of her mum's shampoo—the kind meant for dyed hair, with a scent only barely fitting its title of 'lavender'—lingered on the fabric. Apparently, her potions master did have presence of hygiene enough to at least wash his hair, though his taste in selection may not have been the most discerning!
Before choosing her own day clothes, Hermione walked about in her drawers, pondering the idea that Snape, in all probability, had also been quite deprived of clothes in this same room not 24 hours ago. The prospect of what he looked like after his shower definitely thrilled her, and she reveled in the notion to a great extent.
…………………
Snape spent an inexplicably long time in the library. Mrs. Granger and the Doctor left Hermione at home as they left to their Harley Street office, almost forgetting their strange new guest. It was just Hermione and the professor alone at home today.
Throughout the morning, Hermione rampaged about the house as loudly as she could with the hoover, wondering if the noise—certainly a strange one for anyone who lived only in the wizarding world—might draw the antisocial old bat from his new domain. This was to no avail.
At eleven, she prepared tea, hoping the warm smell would disturb the potions master enough to surface from the habitat of books, but again this failed.
Deciding she needed a better ruse, Hermione began to clean the kitchen, though there was very little to do. In the process, her eye lit upon the calendar.
Oh drat. She had a piano lesson that day.
Mrs. Granger inherited a mahogany baby-grand from her great aunt before Hermione's birth, and ever since wanted someone in the family to become acquainted with the instrument. The task fell automatically upon the first- and only-born Hermione, who truthfully could care less about any amount of Chopin or Schumann. Yet, the girl put no protest when her mother started to send her to the little old crone down the street for lessons on what Hermione termed in her mind as 'la beaste jolie', or 'the pretty beast'.
Years after she began her weekly institutions with the aforementioned elderly woman, she dearly regretted her lenience and docility in complying with her mother's plans. Seating herself upon the bench with a forced resignation, Hermione opened her scale book. They were cursed demons, scales. She hated them.
Dutifully completing them nonetheless, she moved onto Mozart's Rondo Alla Turca (Turkish March).
Who in the world would ever want to write a Turkish March? her inner voice growled.
As her hands thumped over the keys, she became vaguely perceptive of a presence over her left shoulder, but in her concentration paid little heed to the awareness.
"C sharp, Miss Granger" corrected an oily bass voice from behind her, stern and melodious as an iron bell.
Hermione stopped her halting rendition of the once-quite-popular piece with a hearty glare. Snape stood behind her, eyes looking a bit strained, but his brows knitted with faint amusement.
"Can you play it better, then?" the female braniac spat, a bit irritated. She did not like the idea that he had entered so silently—when did he ever come out of that library, anyways?—also coupled with the faint embarrassment which ineveitably followed the use of expletives said in presumed privacy.
Snape slightly moved his shoulder in an unvoiced response, and Hermione gratefully forfeited her place on the bench. Lacing his fingers and cracking them audibly, Snape took a straight-backed, prim stance at the piano and began to play the march. At first, he sounded not really much better than Hermione, but, after a few measures, his slender fingers seemed to accustom themselves and attain a new life on the ivory. He must have known the piece by memory, for his eyes did not focus on the written music, but drifted to a lampshade.
A few measures away from the conclusion of the Coda, he hit a wrong chord for the first time.
"Blast." There, he abruptly stopped and flipped wordlessly through the music, a trifle ruffled.
"You're very good," exclaimed Hermione, before realizing her pronouncement quite the understatement. "Where did you learn?"
At this point, he found his place again and stared at the notes a brief moment before replying.
"My . . . my mother reveled in the arts. The wretchedly afflicted woman insisted upon my learning."
A sudden thought struck him then, and he shivered almost imperceptivity.
"Well," Hermione stated again, "You're really quite a grand pianist. I mean . . . I've been learning since I was about five and still . . ." She shook her head. "I'm no good yet, but I suppose I have no aspiration to be."
She watched his left hand—such a long, beautiful, almost aquiline hand!—stroke the silk-smooth wood of the instrument.
"It's an excellent bit of craftsmanship," he commented dully.
"Can you play anything else?" queried Hermione, at once desiring to hear more of the enchanting music made by her teacher.
Snape paused, blinking perplexedly, unsure what to answer.
"Do you," he decided, "Enjoy Carl Maria von Weber?" Without waiting for a reply, he drew the bench purposefully forward, rolled his sleeves about six inches up his sinewy arms, and began to play.
Oh, but what a dainty touch he had, yet what fire and passion came forth in his dramatics! Fierceness and strength faded to pensive tranquility, to follow with a calamitous wildness and appealing pathos. Hermione felt her emotions fluctuating with the music more easily than she thought them susceptible. One moment, an indefinable anger filled her chest, though it softened to a gentle sense of reflection, changing to a reckless joy and gradually a piercing lamentation and loneliness so great that she felt despair settle upon her as a dark impenetrable fog.
This all broke with the slamming of the front door.
"My God! Hermione! What did you do? You never—" Mrs. Granger waltzed into the room. Snape, startled, stood abruptly, knocking the piano bench over with a resounding crash that made both him and Hermione cringe. It being one of those with a compartment in its main body, the latch came open and sheets of music fluttered out in a gigantic spread across the floor.
"I'm quite sorry," apologized Severus haltingly, and bent to hurriedly gather music, his eyes shifting as though caught in a guilty act.
"Well!" Mrs. Granger looked at the scene before her. Hermione sensed that her heart was in her mouth, and dared not say anything lest it jump from between her lips. Instead, she shook her head in silent amazement and grinned widely.
"Right. I just came back to get my purse—forgot it this morning, and we're going out to lunch," Mrs. Granger explained. "You two eaten yet? I'd like to take you."
"Certainly," exclaimed Hermione, standing.
Snape said nothing, continuing to gather the spilled articles from the floor. Setting the bench upright once more, he gave a bitter smile.
"Unfortunately, I must decline, Mrs. Granger. Thank you nonetheless."
Of course! He can't leave the house!
What a desperately humiliating situation. Hermione opened her mouth to volunteer staying, but Snape anticipated her words.
"No, Miss Granger, do not trouble yourself. You deserve whatever time beyond these walls you might attain. I am satisfied." Giving a hearty glare—but one that seemed rather contrived, Hermione mused later—he stalked off, in all probability to the library.
…………………….
"Professor?"
She walked into the library hours later, a postmedial white bag in her hand that wafted smells of warm chocolate. An elongated sigh testified to his location, accompanied by the scraping noise of books moving. Hermione found the potions master demurely in the process of rising from the floor, his crepitus loud as usual.
"What in heaven's name is it, Miss Granger?" he asked, a bit tritely with a look acerbic. The bag rustled as Hermione opened it.
"My mum was very thoughtless earlier, but not without good intentions. This is a boon to regain your good graces."
"What made you think you had them before?" he asked, but with the voracity of a foxhound, his nose poked into the proffered article. "Cake, is it?"
"Brownies. Much better."
He seemed to consider for a fleeting moment, then with much finality stated, "No thank you, very much."
"Come now," persuaded Hermione, "They have pecans. Did you even have lunch?"
"No, but I had work to do . . ." He gestured to piles of parchment littered in undecipherable scribbles and a dark mauve quill laid carelessly aside.
"First, you might do well with a desk" his hostess suggested dryly, "Second, I must say that it's not as though your work is really 'work', in the strict sense of the term, just merely something for you to pass the time of day. Third, even if it were really 'work', it should hardly interfere with your health."
"Food is barely essential to man's survival except in the minor quantities," Snape replied with an uncivil sneer. "That's Sir Jocelyn Maggot."
"If you had read 644 Out of Date Ideals Stipulated by Wizards by Martin Lefoe, you would have learnt that Maggot died in his twenties, and was gay as hell. I believe it was syphilis that did him in, additionally."
Did she detect a bit of color evaporate from his temples?
"I don't believe such a statement of Lefoe. He has always commented widely on his admiration for Maggot."
"Well, his latest editorial in History of Wizard England, if you've read that, clearly states that his opinions have been greatly revised in the past year based off a set of personal letters he uncovered from Maggot to his purported lover, Jean-Cristophe Serna."
Snape frowned. "That is hardly possible. History of Wizard England is rarely revised. When was the latest edition, the one you seem to have perused?"
"This most recent one, released just June of '98."
Her potions master grimaced as he thought of this. "If you would be so kind as to prove such . . .?"
"I'll find it if you share these with me."
Without further ado, the girl found herself seated comfortably on the floor in a sort of seiza similar to the Aikido stance. Awkwardly, the older personage followed, but leaving his legs outstretched. Hermione admired how they extended so far that he almost had to fold them in order to fit in the space between the shelves.
Two brownies soon were spread upon the top of the white pastry bag, and Hermione noted with a happy amusement that Snape—once persuaded to actually partake in the fare—claimed the slightly larger piece as his own. She decided that his show of modesty and self-denial was only a façade to hide his innate greed, but did not mind this contemplation one bit. It seemed to make the man more enticing still, as if she needed any help!
"So," she asked tentatively while still savoring the very sight of the chocolate confection in her hand, "What exactly are you attempting to manufacture?"
" . . . Researching wizard geniuses who are known to Muggles . . . but not as wizards . . ." Snape declared between swallows of brownie. His bit had a considerable dent in it already.
"I see." Hermione leant over a pile of parchment to try and decode it.
"You will not be able to read my work, Miss Granger. It's in a peculiar shorthand of my own invention."
Rather disgruntled, Hermione resumed her most upright posture and glared at the ardent scholar. "Why are you such a genius?"
"Genius is a relative term, Miss Granger." Now all traces of brownie disappeared as he brushed his fingers absentmindedly on his robe's side.
Did she just imagine it, or did he seem rather nervous at the sudden diversion of subject onto him?
"Don't you think you are? I don't think you possibly could not."
He turned towards her, cold black eyes calculating and austere.
"I might possibly ask the same of you, Miss Granger."
Hermione felt a sudden push of resentment fire within her. "That's not true. I'm merely book-smart. No talent involved in that. You . . . my God, you've achieved the greatest public speaking skills I've ever seen with an amazing fluency with potions, you've developed your own writing system, have a magical strength beyond practically everyone in the wizarding world, plus you have your hidden talent of piano at a professional level . . . all that's genius. Not my simple memorization of facts and figures."
He seemed to weigh this carefully in his mind. "Then comes the point at which one must determine between artificial and natural genius," he stated rather oddly, but then stood. A crumb of brownie fell from his robes and hit Hermione's hand, though he did not notice.
"I believe I will retire for the evening. Feel free to disturb whatever you care to there, but mind you put it all back in some amount of order. Have a fair evening."
So saying, he departed rather anticlimactically, not even bothering to flourish his robes as usual.
I really ought to stop bothering him, Hermione mused, but I really wish he'd not just stalk off whenever I want to talk . . .
She settled for leafing through the books he had pulled out, which included a few on Leonardo di Vinci, Cyrano de Bergerac, and Shakespeare, and began to work through the pages he bunny-eared.
Ok, that was short, but I'm really busy lately and I just wanted to give you what I could. Next chapter will be another with Ron . . . and I promise it will be entertaining!
More review replies! Wow, there were a lot this chapter, thanks everyone!
Pstibbons: Glad you're intrigued. Oh, she will soon enough, never fear! The HGSS will actually not take as long as one might expect, so this story won't be really REALLY long. Just a good solid 30 chapters or so. As to the star signs . . . yeah, that might be a little OOC. Something more Luna-ish to notice. I'll avoid that in the future, thanks.
Yapyap: That would have been really difficult. I started composing the scene . . . it ended up just being too awkward and weird. Not coming out how I liked at all. I scrapped it and moved on to this more entertaining chapter.
Whitehound: Mm. 'Tis not often I get a comment of pure criticism. Rather set my day off balance.
Anyways. True, Ron is good at chess. And I am not really trying to portray him as very stupid, either . . . just too stupid for her. Being a sort of Hermione-ish figure in real life myself, I have had relationships very similar to that of Hermione and Ron, and they were completely and utterly frustrating. Sometimes even nauseating. Dear me, I guess this sounds like I'm making Hermione into a sort of embodiment of me . . . well, actually, I guess I am. But I do that with all characters I write about--I compose it so that they all have something in common with me.
Now as to Watson. I personally agree with you, but, remember, this is from the point of view of a person who, in all probability, has not read the books in a while. If she had watched the movies lately, Nigel Bruce does NOTHING for the image of Watson, either. I took a more Bella Spelgrove approach on her view of Watson, if you've seen the musical of Sherlock Holmes of listened to the soundtrack. There's a part called 'Men Like You'. (B: But is he pretty? Is he fragrant? S: Watson? Of course not. He's as pretty as a walrus and as fragrant as a something. But for all his faults, he's Watson. B: Ha! S: What do you mean, 'ha'? B: How typical! How typical, hiding behind such a feeble excuse, 'He's Watson! Such a loveable goose.' Who's only held in high regard because he flatters your facade! S: Facade? B: A totally arrogant masculine attitude, highly insensitive, full of ingratitude. Because you are frightened of women your friends are all wet. There's no intellectual stimulus, challenge or threat.) That's exactly what I want Hermione to think of Ron, from Bella's point of view.
The main point was that Snape resented that she didn't even try. She and Harry just stood there and watched him die, not even making a move to stop the bleeding or anything. Who knows? They might have saved him. In this case, he somehow saved himself, though.
Misuse of words? Well . . . if you read my profile, you would see, I'm still just a learning writer. I haven't even had my 16th birthday yet. I keep words in my brain, but sometimes use them inappropriately. I apologize for any instance I do. Thanks for the correction on the 'nee' . . . I could not remember which way it went. That was a mistake that might have been avoided, I'll grant you.
Thanks for at least giving my story a try. .shrug. I must say, though, if you're trying to look for a story perfectly in accordance with canon . . . you'll find the majority of fics on fanfiction dot net do not fit those standards. Now this is technically not major AU, I do not believe; it takes place in between Hermione's house and Hogwarts. So please don't give me that response.
Thanks for your time.
Duj: I give you full permission to slap me on the forehead. That was pure imbecility on my part. Well, maybe not imbecility, but unconscious neglect. Whatever. Ok, I am officially saying now: the idea about Australia was that the Australian Wizarding Ministry is just as (and maybe a bit worse) than the English one, that's why it'd be so bad for Snape to have to go there. Yup. Thanks for that. Snape anticipated some 'reading material' in Hermione's home, but he's completely blown away and very jealous. But not as tortured as Hermione, who wants nothing more than to snog him senseless. Haha. Poor dears. Excessivelyperky: Thanks. I'll probably do the same if/when I get married. I might just make my entire house a library. That would be tres cool. Merci for reading, as always!Colymcnolie: That's what you'll see right now!
Kazza, XxObScenexX, Lady-Isowem. Dizi85, notwritten and annabelle67: Well, if you actually got here, this was more. :)