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.
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.
