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.