CHAPTER FIVE.
When the large, heavy oak door swung open, it took her a moment to compose
herself. He stood before her in a room well lit with lanterns, smelling of
a faintly old fashioned chemical smell, as well as the faint whiff of herbs
from a shelf of potted plants next to the large, French door, wrought iron
windows that opened onto a magicked terrace. Soft, familiar music sounded
throughout the room, and she noted a muggle stereo system in the corner on
a cluttered table of cds. He was dressed in casual slacks, black, with a
dark brown sweater over a white collared shirt. She had seen him in casual
dress only a few times before, during her apprenticeship to him, when they
worked late hours. It was always a thrill, especially when, like now, he
donned the silver framed glasses, that shined softly illuminating his black
eyes and softening his features somewhat. She smiled at him slightly, and
was relieved to see him smile back, if somewhat tentatively. It was then
that she recognized the music that played as one of Dante's operas. "Miss
Granger, do come in." Ever formal, he ushered her in. She recalled the days
when he had been a cruel, harsh man, accepting only the best from his
pupils. Then, there had been a war coming. Since then, the defeat of the
dark lord had softened his disposition a great deal. With the death of the
evil wizard, he was released from the perpetual pain and gloom that had
pervaded his life. He was no longer compelled to prepare his students to be
ready to survive a long and gruesome fight. She thought that kindness
suited him, but she was glad that it made it's appearance rarely still. He
was still the sly, bitter man he had been before, only now his humor made
it's presence known occasionally, and his harsh cruelty was no longer
present in the halls or classrooms. He was, in fact, a solitary, stern man.
And now, he was offering her a seat. She leaned her cello against the wall,
trailing her fingers over a standing globe as she went to the chair he
indicated. "Professor, I was wondering," He looked at her with slightly
disguised interest, "Sir, I was hoping that, perhaps, tonight we might play
face to face?" He seemed amused, "I will admit that the stone walls do
little to amplify the music in between rooms, Miss Granger. I'm glad you
asked, I would have done so myself tonight. Please, I would be honored if
you would join me in a duet this evening." She smiled at him, and caught
the slight startle at her smile.
When she smiled, he felt his heart jump. She was gorgeous in the light from the fire and lanterns, flickering gold off of her skin, and the red of her sweater set off the blush of her cheek, the fire of her hair. She was glancing down now, at her hands, pleased at his acceptance to her proposal. He felt a gravity-like pull to her, and, resisting it, he cleared his throat, and rose to gather his instrument. Few words had been exchanged, and few arrangements were necessary. He stood, and sat at a cushioned stool he had provided for her. They shared a nervous energy. It was partially the enormity of playing with a matched musician, finally in the same room, and partially something else. A growing attraction was present in the room, slowly becoming too large for either of them to ignore, but too young to be cultivated as of yet. Together, they worked out a playlist on a roll of parchment he had gathered from his desk, and he placed it on a music stand before them. He rummaged around in his shelves before emerging with some of the sheet music that they might need, and spread it around the room to refer to. Then the paused, bows ready, looking at one another. "I'm glad for this, professor." "Call me Severus." And they played.
The result of two musicians who have studied intently, practiced diligently, and have become matched in their playing, is a beautiful combination. When those two musicians share a passion that belies their solitude, when they are two individuals who shine among their peers, as scholars, old souls, and searchers of truth and light and beauty, when they have weathered strife together, share a deep, mutual respect, if secret, and if they possess a magnetic attraction to one another, their music will be something else entirely. Their music that night resounded in his chambers, echoing the notes that had been written and imagined by scores of composers, as their pure form, their most passionate, and infused with grace, elegance, and passion. Their playing, excellent in order to match one another, was symbiotic in nature, giving and receiving. It was sad, it was joyful, it spoke of avenues in Paris, ripe with golds and rich gowns, where the sun beat down on the Victorian lords and ladies. It spoke of deep, green plains of damn grass, stretching endlessly into a blue sky, and the subtle curve of a woman, touched by a hand on that feminine hip. In one night, their instruments created a world of human and wizard love, history, existence, that seemed to almost be beyond the creation of any written music, transcending the sphere of human abilities, to become something that could only occur between these two individuals.
At the end of the evening, when the morning hours were small and dark, they paused in their bowing. Stretching of arms and fingers signaled their fatigue, and a comfortable silence stretched through the warm room. Severus sat, replacing his violin on the table, and turned to look at her, for the hundredth time thinking of how beautiful she was, stilling his thoughts on how much he would have loved to lay her down across the soft rug beneath them and explore the contoured plains of her body. Her mind and her playing excited him most. He dared to dwell on the concept of intimacy with someone he admired, coveted for her intelligence and talent, her amazing passion that was slowly revealing itself to him the more he heard her play. He thought of the noises she might make when he touched her, on her throat, on her hip, on the tender expanse below her breast.
"Thank you for playing with me. You were wonderful." Her soft voice filtered his revery. "It was my pleasure, and I must extend my own gratitude. I don't often have the opportunity to play with anyone, let alone a musician so matched to my own skill." She blushed at his words, smiling again. "I recall a night when I was dining with the headmaster during your seventh year, when he told me of your playing. In truth, I had been shocked. I know of no other wizard who plays. It is the curse of our race that we reject even the most marvelous truths that have been born from our species." Hermione thought of the tumultous existance of the human race, reflecting on the music they had just created, together. "I feel the same about the discovery of your talent, Severus," she responded, revelling in her ability to refer to him in his first name. "Yes, well, I believe we share that privateness that accompanies our music." He smiled and she felt her stomach flip over. It was a wry, half smile, and one she had seen often enough when he would grace the class with his high humor. It never failed to make her chest siese up, and her throat constrict.
They continued talking that night, late enough to glimpse the lightness of morning through the french doors. Beyond their fatigue, they held curiosity about one another, and a desire for knowledge, and to share. As the night wore on, the conversation turned from more philisophic topics to the more personal. They shared misconceptions revealed to one another, and pondered on their mutual love for things so similar. As they continued, the subject of Shakespeare arose, only to discover their equal adoration for the plays, mostly the darker ones, with a few comedic exceptions. Severus jokingly adorned her with the name "hermia," a name so ill placed upon her frame, that the concieted namesake seemed almost to sneer beyond the confines of her fictitiousness. Hermione could never be confined to the melodramatic comedy angenouges of shakespear; niether Helena nor Hermia fit her disposition. But Hermia, he had said, with sudden seriousness, was said to have a gift of beauty so rare, that even the Queen of the Fairies showed an inkling of jealousy. She had blushed, and he had called her by that name ever since, as ill fitting as it was in all else but her beauty. Still, it was melodic, harmonious, it rolled off his tongue easily both in adressing her, only in private, and when he spoke her name aloud while alone, feeling it resonate within him. Also, it rebirthed her in his eyes. She was no longer the irritating child pupil, Miss Granger, officially separate and beyond walls of stature and age; In her place was Hermia, or Hermione at times, the scholar, the musician, the poet and philosopher, the comrade and contemporary, as well as the achingly beautiful, sweetly sensual, maddeningly charming woman. And each night after she left, smiling softly at him and closing the door with a click, it was her womanliness that still remained with him.
When she smiled, he felt his heart jump. She was gorgeous in the light from the fire and lanterns, flickering gold off of her skin, and the red of her sweater set off the blush of her cheek, the fire of her hair. She was glancing down now, at her hands, pleased at his acceptance to her proposal. He felt a gravity-like pull to her, and, resisting it, he cleared his throat, and rose to gather his instrument. Few words had been exchanged, and few arrangements were necessary. He stood, and sat at a cushioned stool he had provided for her. They shared a nervous energy. It was partially the enormity of playing with a matched musician, finally in the same room, and partially something else. A growing attraction was present in the room, slowly becoming too large for either of them to ignore, but too young to be cultivated as of yet. Together, they worked out a playlist on a roll of parchment he had gathered from his desk, and he placed it on a music stand before them. He rummaged around in his shelves before emerging with some of the sheet music that they might need, and spread it around the room to refer to. Then the paused, bows ready, looking at one another. "I'm glad for this, professor." "Call me Severus." And they played.
The result of two musicians who have studied intently, practiced diligently, and have become matched in their playing, is a beautiful combination. When those two musicians share a passion that belies their solitude, when they are two individuals who shine among their peers, as scholars, old souls, and searchers of truth and light and beauty, when they have weathered strife together, share a deep, mutual respect, if secret, and if they possess a magnetic attraction to one another, their music will be something else entirely. Their music that night resounded in his chambers, echoing the notes that had been written and imagined by scores of composers, as their pure form, their most passionate, and infused with grace, elegance, and passion. Their playing, excellent in order to match one another, was symbiotic in nature, giving and receiving. It was sad, it was joyful, it spoke of avenues in Paris, ripe with golds and rich gowns, where the sun beat down on the Victorian lords and ladies. It spoke of deep, green plains of damn grass, stretching endlessly into a blue sky, and the subtle curve of a woman, touched by a hand on that feminine hip. In one night, their instruments created a world of human and wizard love, history, existence, that seemed to almost be beyond the creation of any written music, transcending the sphere of human abilities, to become something that could only occur between these two individuals.
At the end of the evening, when the morning hours were small and dark, they paused in their bowing. Stretching of arms and fingers signaled their fatigue, and a comfortable silence stretched through the warm room. Severus sat, replacing his violin on the table, and turned to look at her, for the hundredth time thinking of how beautiful she was, stilling his thoughts on how much he would have loved to lay her down across the soft rug beneath them and explore the contoured plains of her body. Her mind and her playing excited him most. He dared to dwell on the concept of intimacy with someone he admired, coveted for her intelligence and talent, her amazing passion that was slowly revealing itself to him the more he heard her play. He thought of the noises she might make when he touched her, on her throat, on her hip, on the tender expanse below her breast.
"Thank you for playing with me. You were wonderful." Her soft voice filtered his revery. "It was my pleasure, and I must extend my own gratitude. I don't often have the opportunity to play with anyone, let alone a musician so matched to my own skill." She blushed at his words, smiling again. "I recall a night when I was dining with the headmaster during your seventh year, when he told me of your playing. In truth, I had been shocked. I know of no other wizard who plays. It is the curse of our race that we reject even the most marvelous truths that have been born from our species." Hermione thought of the tumultous existance of the human race, reflecting on the music they had just created, together. "I feel the same about the discovery of your talent, Severus," she responded, revelling in her ability to refer to him in his first name. "Yes, well, I believe we share that privateness that accompanies our music." He smiled and she felt her stomach flip over. It was a wry, half smile, and one she had seen often enough when he would grace the class with his high humor. It never failed to make her chest siese up, and her throat constrict.
They continued talking that night, late enough to glimpse the lightness of morning through the french doors. Beyond their fatigue, they held curiosity about one another, and a desire for knowledge, and to share. As the night wore on, the conversation turned from more philisophic topics to the more personal. They shared misconceptions revealed to one another, and pondered on their mutual love for things so similar. As they continued, the subject of Shakespeare arose, only to discover their equal adoration for the plays, mostly the darker ones, with a few comedic exceptions. Severus jokingly adorned her with the name "hermia," a name so ill placed upon her frame, that the concieted namesake seemed almost to sneer beyond the confines of her fictitiousness. Hermione could never be confined to the melodramatic comedy angenouges of shakespear; niether Helena nor Hermia fit her disposition. But Hermia, he had said, with sudden seriousness, was said to have a gift of beauty so rare, that even the Queen of the Fairies showed an inkling of jealousy. She had blushed, and he had called her by that name ever since, as ill fitting as it was in all else but her beauty. Still, it was melodic, harmonious, it rolled off his tongue easily both in adressing her, only in private, and when he spoke her name aloud while alone, feeling it resonate within him. Also, it rebirthed her in his eyes. She was no longer the irritating child pupil, Miss Granger, officially separate and beyond walls of stature and age; In her place was Hermia, or Hermione at times, the scholar, the musician, the poet and philosopher, the comrade and contemporary, as well as the achingly beautiful, sweetly sensual, maddeningly charming woman. And each night after she left, smiling softly at him and closing the door with a click, it was her womanliness that still remained with him.
