See disclaimers on Chapter 1

Chapter 6

Severus Snape was not, by nature, a dawdler.

In fact, he loathed anything that smacked of wasting time. It annoyed him to no end to see students loafing in the common rooms, chatting and playing games like that ridiculous Exploding Snap when they could be doing something more worthwhile. Years of living dangerously had given Snape a new perspective on the matter – when one spends his days only inches from Death, he learns to cram as much productive activity into each hour as possible, on the chance that tomorrow would never come. Time was a gift, and to fritter it away in useless diversions was a crime.

All of which explained the mild sense of disgust he felt when he realized he was now doing that hateful thing himself.

He tried to tell himself it was because he awaited Algernon's return from the National Library. It had been four days since Snape sent the old owl off with his request for more information on Empathy, and he grew more impatient as the hours passed with no news. He had not left his chambers for fear that he would miss the bird's arrival – or so he rationalized. Deep down he knew Algernon would be able to find him no matter where he was, but it was somehow easier to use that as an excuse to hole up in his rooms than to admit that he was afraid.

And so he loitered about his quarters, thumbing through old issues of Potions Master's Monthly and straightening bric-a-brac that was already in perfect order. Four frustrating days of self-imposed inactivity. Four frustrating nights punctuated by dreams of warm skin, sweet-tasting kisses and bodies molded together in blessed forgetfulness.

He was going stir crazy.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck ten, and Snape decided it was time to stop acting so foolishly. If the other morning was any indication of their working relationship, Minerva and Hermione would certainly have finished breakfast long ago. Surely there was no harm in his venturing up to the Great Hall at this hour.

The gamble paid off. Dumbledore was the table's sole occupant when Snape got there, the other places already cleared and set for lunch. The Headmaster had a copy of The Daily Prophet open before him on the table, reading it over the top of his spectacles as he sipped a steaming cup of tea.

"Good morning, Severus," Dumbledore greeted him pleasantly as Snape sat down. "I trust all is well with you this fine day."

"As well as can be expected, Albus," Snape replied, helping himself to a few triangles of toast and a scoop of eggs. "No major disasters as of yet."

"Well, the day is still young," Dumbledore said. "Perhaps your luck will change." He glanced up at Snape with smiling eyes.

Snape frowned at the Headmaster's comment. Dumbledore was joking, he knew, but in his present frame of mind it seemed more like a prophecy than a jest. He did not respond, concentrating instead on the job of spreading a thin layer of orange marmalade to the very edges of his toast. Thankfully, Dumbledore seemed to sense that the younger man did not feel like talking – after all, this was not an unusual occurrence – and turned his attention back to his newspaper. They sat in companionable silence, broken only by the clink of silverware on china and the riffling of newsprint.

Snape was pouring his third cup of tea when the choppy beat of a bird's wings echoed through the Hall. A moment later, Algernon perched on the back of his chair, flapping his broad wings smartly a few times before tucking them neatly in at his sides. The owl dropped a sky blue envelope bearing the crest of the National Library into Snape's lap, then dipped his beak into the glass of water his master held aloft before heading off for a meal and some rest in the owlery.

He turned the envelope over in his hands, debating if he should open it there or wait until he got back to the privacy of his chambers. He had just decided to do the latter when Dumbledore spoke again.

"I assume McNair found the information on Empathy you wanted?" the old man inquired.

Snape sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. "Headmaster, have you been intercepting my correspondence?" he snapped.

"Not at all, Severus."

"Then would you mind telling me exactly how you knew I had written to McNair for help?"

"I'm omniscient, my boy, didn't you know?"

Snape opened his eyes and glowered at his mentor, whose smile grew even broader in the face of his annoyance. "Albus…" he began, but Dumbledore held up a hand to silence him.

"Madam Pince mentioned that both you and Miss Granger were asking about Empathy the other day. I reviewed what little information we had in our library and assumed that you would try to find out more. And I got a similar envelope from McNair on an unrelated matter just last week. It was simple deduction, nothing more."

"All you need now is a magnifying glass and a physician sidekick and you could star in your own series of detective stories," Snape replied dryly. Dumbledore never failed to amaze him.

"What I don't know," the Headmaster continued, as though Snape had not spoken, "is why there is all this interest in Empathy of a sudden. Would you care to enlighten me?"

Snape took a moment to consider his response. He had not intended to tell anyone else of his suspicions. But Dumbledore was the closest thing Snape had to a friend, and nothing if not discreet. And knowing the old wizard's uncanny way of finding out about practically everything that took place within the castle walls, there was little hope of keeping it from him for long, anyway.

He took a deep breath. "I… have reason to believe that Miss Granger is a True Empath," he said haltingly.

Dumbledore's eyes widened. "Interesting," he murmured. He paused for a moment, then said, "And who is her Object?"

Leave it to Albus to come directly to the point. "It would appear that I am the unlucky recipient of that dubious honor."

To Snape's surprise, the Headmaster's face stretched into a delighted grin. "Indeed! How very intriguing. I wonder how it is that we did not know of this before now."

"I suppose it's because I never allowed her to get close enough to touch me before," Snape barked, suddenly angry for reasons he did not fully understand. He glared at Dumbledore, whose expression changed again as the meaning of Snape's words became clear.

"I see," Dumbledore replied. With deliberate casualness, he curled his index finger through the handle of his tea cup and raised it to his lips. "And I suppose you intend never to allow her close enough to do so again?"

"What choice do I have?" Snape spat. "I've no desire for my life to become an open book. To anyone."

The Headmaster placed his cup back on its saucer. "I wish you would reconsider, Severus."

Snape was dumbfounded. His mouth dropped open in surprise as Dumbledore continued. "Think of it as a scientific experiment, my friend. So little is known of Empathy. It could mean a great deal to a great many if you were to explore this more fully."

Snape sat forward in his chair, black eyes blazing. "There is a great deal about my past that I do not wish to share with the world at large, Albus," he hissed. "I would have thought that you – of all people – would understand that."

"I do, of course. But you've no longer any reason for fearing your past, Severus. Everyone who posed a threat to you is either dead or locked up at Azkaban. If you are truly worried about it, I can arrange it so that any sensitive information Miss Granger uncovers is not released until the time of your death."

"And what of Miss Granger herself?" Snape bulleted, enraged in the face of Dumbledore's unruffled demeanor. "Don't you realize how dangerous it could be for her to be exposed to the Dark in this way?"

"Oh, that." Dumbledore waved his hand dismissively. "If that's what concerns you, put your mind at rest. You have no traces of the Dark around you any longer, Severus. If you did, do you truly think I would allow you to be around these children?"

Snape's breath rushed out of his lungs in a sudden huff. It had never occurred to him before, but the logic was inescapable. Dumbledore would never have taken such a risk with so many young, impressionable minds.

"Now, what other objections did you come up with while you were skulking about in the dungeons these past few days?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes twinkling once again. When Snape did not respond, the Headmaster pushed his chair back from the table and rose to his feet.

"Give it some thought, Severus," he said, placing his hand lightly on the younger man's shoulder. "The Muggles are fond of saying that confession is good for the soul. You have been given an opportunity to exorcise some of those demons you carry around with you. Don't be so hasty to throw that opportunity away." He patted Snape's shoulder paternally, then turned and walked away.

***

Minerva had been right – Transfiguring a piano was no easy task. In fact, it was beginning to seem bloody impossible.

For days, Hermione had closeted herself in the staff room, experimenting on one of the overstuffed armchairs. She had lately come to think of herself as a relatively powerful witch, but the lack of success she now faced quickly humbled her. After hours of exhausting struggle, she managed to get only as far as creating the outer shell of the instrument. That was the easy part. Achieving the more than 5,000 moving parts inside of it, however, was a horse of a different color.

It didn't help a bit that she was having trouble concentrating. Her thoughts seemed to drift toward the enigma known as Severus Snape on an hourly basis, and more than once she had to shake herself out of daydreams with sharp internal rebukes to FOCUS, damn it! She had not seen him since that morning at breakfast when he had snubbed her attempt at reconciliation, and judging by the way he had deflected her attempt to speak with him that afternoon it was painfully obvious that he wanted nothing more to do with her. This business of allowing him to live in her head had to stop. There was not enough room in there to accommodate both him and this Herculean task.

"Try visualization," McGonagall had suggested that afternoon when Hermione collapsed into a chair in her office, complaining about her lack of progress. "It's not enough to just think about a piano as you cast the spell. You must see it, feel it. Picture yourself seated at the bench. Feel the keys. Visualize the movements of the hammers as they strike the strings. Think about the sounds and vibrations of the music. You must recreate the whole instrument in minute detail in your mind in order to be able to fashion it in the physical world."

Hermione took the advice to heart and tried again after dinner that evening. She closed her eyes and let her mind run free, picturing her parent's piano in every detail, even down to the scratches in its lid. With this picture firmly in mind, she flicked her wand at the stubborn armchair and cast the spell.

Closer this time. Much closer. But not quite. A few keys were still missing, their absence giving the keyboard the appearance of a mouth lacking its front teeth.

She tried again. And then again. Over and over, each time screwing her eyes shut and creating a more vivid mental image of her goal.

No luck.

A quick glance at the majestic grandfather clock standing guard in the corner told her she'd been working for nearly three hours. This is it, she thought wearily, closing her eyes yet again. One last attempt. If it doesn't work this time, I'm packing it in for the day and going to bed. She lifted her tired wand arm and muttered the spell.

Hermione opened her eyes slowly. And stared.

It looked right. All the keys were in place, the pedals were in their proper position, the wooden case scratched in all the right spots. She cautiously lifted the lid and gazed in at the strings and hammers, all seemingly arranged in the desired fashion. She sat at the bench and tentatively played a few chords, wincing as the notes echoed across the room. It was badly out of tune.

No matter, magic could easily fix that little problem.

A few charms later, she was playing scales. Her fingers were rusty from disuse, but they quickly warmed to the action of the keys. Damn, it felt good to play again! Lethargy forgotten in the glow of accomplishment and the excitement of doing something she truly loved, she bent her head and lost herself in different kind of magic.

***

Midnight found Snape wandering the darkened corridors of Hogwarts. It was his habit to walk through the castle each night before retiring, a routine born during his years as a spy when insomnia was a constant – and unwelcome – companion. He slept easier now that the Dark Lord's gluttonous shadow no longer consumed everything it touched, but he continued his late night strolls nonetheless. It was oddly comforting to walk in the silence, to sense the tranquil presence of those sleeping behind the stone walls and to know he had played a role in preserving their peaceful slumber. This was especially true at times like this, when there were no miserable little brats around to muck up his reflections by sneaking about after curfew.

He climbed the steps leading from the dungeons to the ground floor and pushed the door open. Faint measures of piano music reached his ears and he stopped short, a puzzled frown creasing his face. There was no piano in this part of the castle – in fact, as far as he knew there was no piano in the school at all. On the handful of occasions he could recall when one was required, Minerva had Transfigured one out of a table or armchair and then changed it back when the need for it had been met. But surely, Minerva was not up playing the piano at this hour. Snape knew she kept to a rigidly defined schedule, turning in early and never venturing from her chambers at night unless she was needed in her House.

His curious feet drifted toward the source of the music. As he approached, the indistinct sounds coalesced into the unmistakable strains of a Mozart piano concerto. The pianist was obviously skilled, for the concerto was a difficult one, and he idly wondered if perhaps Lupin or Sprout had charmed their fingers in order to pull off such a masterful performance.

Just ahead, the door to the staff room was ajar, a bar of light spilling out into the darkness like a beacon. Snape strode to the door and was about to pull it open when the music within stopped and a new piece was begun. This one was far more contemporary than the work of the old master, but no less beautiful in its simplicity. He froze, drawing a surprised breath as he recognized the melody.

Snape knew the song well. It was part of the soundtrack of the happiest – and therefore briefest – period of his life, and though many hard years had passed since the last time he heard it, he remembered every note as clearly as if he had heard it only yesterday. He leaned into the sound, suddenly immersed in a flood of bittersweet memories.

Brigid… he thought, and a hand clamped around his heart.

The pianist played slowly, as though trying to remember the next notes, running through the prelude a few times before achieving it without mistakes. Then a voice began to sing the familiar words, its pitch an octave higher the original composer's:

They say that these are not the best of times,
But they're the only times I've ever known.
And I believe there is a time for meditation

In cathedrals of our own.


Now I have seen that sad surrender in my lover's eyes,
And I can only stand apart and sympathize
For we are always what our situations hand us…
It's either sadness or euphoria.

Hermione's voice.

Snape opened the door noiselessly and stood in the doorframe. Hermione's back was to him, her head bent low over the keyboard as she played the song from memory. Clearly she had not heard him enter, and she continued singing.

So we'll argue and we'll compromise,
And realize that nothing's ever changed.
For all our mutual experience,

Our separate conclusions are the same.


Now we are forced to recognize our inhumanity,
Our reason co-exists with our insanity,
And though we choose between reality and madness…
It's either sadness or euphoria.

His fragmented mind automatically supplied the sounds of woodwinds as she played through the bridge, his lips moving in silent accompaniment to the last verse.


How thoughtlessly we dissipate our energies,
Perhaps we don't fulfill each other's fantasies,
And as we stand upon the ledges of our lives,
With our respective similarities…

She stopped suddenly, sounding a single key repeatedly while cocking her head to the side. A sharp pang knifed through his chest when the music ceased before she sang the last line, the line that always struck him as the perfect encapsulation of his own life.

"It's either sadness or euphoria," he murmured quietly.

***

Hermione whirled on the bench and leapt to her feet. "My God, you scared the life out of me!" she said, her heart pounding with a sudden rush of adrenaline. It was even money whether this hormonal blast was caused by the shock of being unexpectedly interrupted or by the thought that she had seen the face of the man now standing before her contort in orgasm. "What are you doing here?"

Snape entered the room, moving slowly with a strange expression playing on his features. "I heard the music and came to investigate. I didn't know you played the piano."

"And I didn't know you were into Billy Joel," Hermione replied peevishly. Seeing him again lit a new flame under the hurt she'd received at his hand.

Her tone seemed to bring him out of whatever reverie had captured him, and his eyes swam back into focus. "Yes, well, I am familiar with that particular song, anyway. An acquaintance of mine used to listen to it on occasion. It was a surprise to hear it again." He paused. "Would you play it for me once more?" he asked quietly.

He could not have astounded her more thoroughly if he had asked her to remove all of her clothes right there in the staff room. The stranger she had slept with a week ago had returned, apparently alive and well and making himself at home in the body of the Potions Master. She blinked rapidly a few times before turning back to the piano and slipping into place at the bench.

He sat beside her as she played, and when she finished he stilled her hand on the keyboard by cupping it with his own. He's happy, she realized, as their fingers interlaced. Waves of it radiated from him, bright yellow plumes that made her heart swell with their intensity, though all the while underneath there were hints of anxiety and melancholia, as well. But she was too delighted at the role she had played to bring the positive emotion about to reflect on why the negative ones existed in tandem.

"I take it this means I'm forgiven?" she ventured, instantly regretting her words when he drew his hand away. She reached for it again, curling her fingers into his palm and pulling their joined hands into her lap. "Severus, please. This Empathy thing… let's just forget about it, shall we?"

He shook his head. "No. We cannot. Now that the door has opened, you will receive impressions from me every time we come into contact with one another." He lifted his eyes to hers. "The only way out is for me never to touch you again. Is that what you want?"

"No," she whispered. God help me, that's not what I want at all.

"Then we must find a way to make peace with the situation." He shifted on the bench and turned so he was facing her. "Hermione, there's something else you must know before this goes any further. There is a certain element of risk here that you may not be aware of."

Her eyebrows quirked. "What kind of risk?"

He paused for a moment, and she could sense his reluctance to explain. "Let me ask you this: why do you suppose most witches and wizards are afraid to get involved with anything even remotely connected with Dark magic?"

She frowned at the seeming randomness of the question. "I guess it's because they don't want to get into trouble with the Ministry."

He shook his head. "Don't guess, think! Dark magic has been around a great deal longer than the Ministry has." She stared at him blankly, uncertain as to exactly what he wanted her to say. "Think of it this way: imagine being the type of person for whom power is ultimate thrill. The ultimate ambition. More than anything, that person wants to be in control, to make a difference. He is desperate to stand out from the crowd because of his personality or his accomplishments, and for whatever reason he is unable to do so via conventional means. Or perhaps he is seeking something else that he cannot obtain, perhaps love or revenge or redemption.

"Now, imagine such a person being placed in a position where he holds the power of life and death in his hands. Where he can impel someone to do whatever it is he wishes, and if they do not bent to his will, he can punish them with searing pain until they do. That, Hermione… that is supreme power. And to a person such as the one I've described, Dark magic is like a drug. Use of it makes him feel like a god."

Snape's voice dropped and he closed his eyes. "He gets drunk with it. The results might be evil and painful to others, but to the one wielding the power, it feels… so… damn… good… It's too strong… too strong…" He broke off.

"You make it sound like an addiction," she noted when it was apparent he was finished speaking.

He opened his eyes. "Yes, exactly. It is an addiction."

"What?" she whispered, eyes widening.

"An addiction," he repeated. "A psychological addiction, like a wizard's drug. You've no idea of the power of it, or how easy it is to get ensnared in it. It doesn't take much exposure before you lose yourself. Sometimes, all it takes is being around a powerful Dark wizard, even if you don't invoke the Dark yourself. Trust me, I know whereof I speak." He sighed and shook his head. "It becomes a compulsion – you have to engage the Dark more and more frequently or you feel as though you will die if you don't. You need that control over the lives of others because you no longer have control of your own life."

She swallowed. "So you… you were an addict?"

He nodded, turning away, and she could sense the guilt and shame welling up within him. "Everyone associated with Voldemort was addicted to the Dark."


"Harry…?"

"No. He seems to have escaped it, just like he escaped the Killing Curse. The Teflon Boy Who Lived." He sneered at the thought.

"And are you still addicted?"

He sighed again. "Like all addicts, I will have to struggle with it for the rest of my life. The compulsion is still there. But it no longer rules my every waking moment like it used to. I am able to function in society without worrying that exposure to me will cause others to be lost to the Darkness."

"Then what does all this have to do with me?"

"Perhaps nothing. But there is also a chance that Empathic contact with my thoughts and past experiences will place you at risk. I want you to think about that, and think about it carefully before you decide if this is something you want to do."

Their eyes met, and she squeezed his hand gently. "I will," she said softly. Then she leaned in and brushed her lips against his cheek. He stiffened slightly at the feathery contact but did not pull away. And though he did he move to reciprocate, Hermione could feel that he was not displeased.

"Come to me when you have made up your mind," he said, rising to his feet. "And if in typical Gryffindor fashion you foolishly choose to pursue the matter, be prepared to know both sadness and euphoria."

And then he was gone.

***

Hermione did not sleep much that night. Her nerves hummed as she lay in bed, electrified both by her success with the piano and at the idea of being given a second chance to get closer to such a strangely compelling man. It also didn't help that Crookshanks spent the better part of the night tearing around her rooms, jumping on and off the bed and diving under the furniture in pursuit of some figment of his overactive feline imagination.

She moved through her day like an automaton, performing the work Minerva assigned for the morning while continually turning Snape's words over in her head. The afternoon found her on the piano bench again, playing an impromptu concert for the Headmaster and a few other professors who clapped delightedly and asked for encore after encore. She had no chance to break free of her responsibilities until after dinner.

When the meal was concluded (sans Snape), she hurried back to her rooms and changed into fresh robes. As she dressed, she caught sight of the pressed rose she had retrieved from the floor of The Three Broomsticks in the open jewelry box on her bureau. On impulse, she scooped it up before heading out the door.

The air was cool and still in the dungeon corridor, making her shiver as she traversed it. Snape's office door was closed, and for an instant she feared he would again refuse to answer her knock. But she needn't have worried. She barely had time to lower her arm before the door was jerked open and Snape stood looming in the doorway.

Neither spoke for a long moment. Then Hermione reached into the pocket of her robe and extended her hand, proffering the dried rose in her palm.

"I've decided," she said simply.

He curled his fingers around her hand, pulling her into the office and shutting the door behind them.

A/N: The characters' interest in Billy Joel is the only vestige of Mary-Sue-ism I will allow them, I promise. The lyrics are from the song Summer, Highland Falls, (c) 1976, from the magnificent Turnstiles CD. Used without permission.

Also, I've read so many fics lately that I can't recall which author came up with the idea of Potions Master's Monthly. I'm fairly sure I didn't come up with it myself. If it was your idea, please let me know and I will give you proper credit in the author's notes of a future chapter.

Anyone actually reading this? Does it suck? Is it worth continuing? Let me know – you can email me through my profile if you'd rather not respond publicly. Any suggestions/comments/feedback/flames/kudos/whatever are more than welcome.