Author's note: I'm so sorry, everyone, for the lack of formatting on the last chapter! Please excuse my mistake, and I hope I can make it up to you all. Also, I'm extremely sorry for the length, and the gross indecency of basically writing a chapter that said nothing. In terms of the plot: Ah Ha! you all thought I had nothing planned in mind for Severus's little surprise, didn't you? Admit it, you all feared it... ahem. And, again, a prenote, before anyone feels the need to wring my neck, I'm sorry for the rather sappily romantic turn this story is about to take. Try not to see it as such, and trust me, I'll keep it as cynical as I can get it. I don't know quite where this arc came from, but I would feel false not giving into it. What can I say? I'm an aesthete (Oscar Wilde). Anyway. On with the show. Oh, wait, one more thing. In response to a gleefully long comment I got on this story, I've taken off the anonymous ban for comments, so now anyone can comment on fanfiction.net.... Be gentle. -Iphy

ps: I love you all! Please keep commenting, your comments inspire me to write more chapters!

Chapter Thirteen

Hermione awoke, hours later, feeling as if she had slept for a hundred years.

It was the first time in quite a while when she hadn't awoken to the sudden realization that her thesis had the potential to be a disaster if her research didn't pay off. As it was, having the paper complete and the reactants proven to be conductive with the enzyme for the Melotromaut potion, she felt as if the world had been lifted from her shoulders.

She stretched in bed, and idly wondered what Severus's surprise would be, this evening. The small lights of the evening were filtering through her curtains, and she rose to glance outside at the darkening sky. She surveyed the lake, which glinted in the moonlight, and was pleased to see a pair of black swans, gliding across the surface in silence.

The sight was eerie, and somewhat prophetic, she supposed, in a strange and unfathomable way. She never was possessed of the mind for divination.She left the window, then, and went to her study, where her research still lay in disarray. It was a little past nightfall, and Severus would be there to pick her up, soon.

Earlier, after she had eaten her fill of some of the shepherd's pie that was left over from lunch, he had instructed her not to dress for the evening. At her look, he blushed slightly, and excused himself. "I didn't mean it quite like that... You see, the destination I have in mind is particular and quite ornate in attire requirements, so I had intended to provide you with a garment that would suit the occasion."

She wondered if the occasion would require undergarments...

Presently, at her desk, she regarded her completed thesis. It sat on the oak surface, fat and almost ominous. The argument concerned the famous potion master, from the 17th and 18th century, Melotromaut.

He had used the common reactants of the time period to perfect his most famous and ineffectual serum, and had added the elements of sound in order to complete it. When made using the right notes and voices, encrypted into the potion's recipe, as opposed to the spell, the serum created a powerful restorative potion that could be used to abate the plague (at the time) and now, even cancer.

After the presence of music began to slip from the magical world, no one seemed to realize that the notes were encrypted into the serum. The reaction that bound the potion was meant to be triggered by the harpsichord, and a female alto. Testing on Magonagal, she had taken readings of the older woman's leukemia, and the results had been better than she had ever hoped for.

A knock at the door to her rooms turned her head quickly, and she felt the beginnings of a smile creep onto her face from the thought of him, tangible and smelling as he always did, behind the heavy cherrywood. She adjusted her white silk pajamas, pulling at the shirt to rid it of some of the wrinkles she had accumulated from sleep, and opened the door.

Severus stood there, bedecked in a similar outfit to the teaching robes he usually adorned for classes, but she noted slight changes. The coat was slightly ornate, with patterns of black on black, and around his neck was a silk, white cravat. The lace traveled down his chest, accenting his lean frame, and lace circled his elegant wrists. His hair was slicked back, tied in a short ponytail at the base of his neck, and, as she surveyed further down, his trousers ended directly below his knees, where they buckled, and silk, grey stockings accented his fine leg muscles and ended in perfectly proportionately large buttoned boots, very old-fashioned.

He allowed her scrutiny, in turn taking in the silk pajamas with interest. Her hair was piled at the back of her head, unkempt and multi-hued, and she smelled like warmth, like linen and sleep and down comforter, as well as the subtle rose scent she always carried with her. He thought that Hermione, just recently awoken, could possibly become his favorite state of seeing her, and smiled, as he extended to her a box he had carefully packed with her attire for the evening.

"Come in, please." She said, blushing slightly that she was still in her pajamas. She hadn't known which way to proceed, when he had told her not to dress, and she had opted to remain in her sleepwear, despite her discomfort, so that she could dress in whatever it was he brought for her. "Here you are, my dear. I trust the fit will suffice."

She took the box, and gestured to the green clawed couch. "I'll just be a moment. Please sit." She hesitated only for a moment, as they stood in that slightly awkward greeting stance, just inside her doorway, before she stood on tiptoe and grazed his lips with her own mouth, a chaste greeting, but still connoting more than friendship.

She realized her eyes were closed when she felt his lips curve into a smile beneath her own. Pulling away and returning the smile, she gestured to the couch again. "I'll be right out. Excuse me."

He sat, watching her go into the bathroom to change, and admired the stacks of books and pleasantly academic atmosphere of the room. The furniture and stacks of books all smelled vaguely of her, and the place was positively drenched in her presence. With a start, he realized that he already felt comfortable there.

In the bathroom, Hermione undid the ribbon around the plain white box, and from inside, she pulled yards and yards of fabric that seemed to continue for miles. The box must have been charmed to contain more than what seemed to fit from the outside. Taking out all she could find, she lay out the garments carefully, taking stock.

Inside the box, she had discovered a number of marvelous treasures; One pair of lacy undergarments that most likely extended almost to her knees, a pair of lace white stockings, one rather appealing, peach coloured corset, made expertly with lace and silk and strong bones to add support, a cream colored skirt that fell way past the length of her legs, and was actually two skirts that enfolded one another, in satin and white lace, that somehow supported itself with inner mechanics to add a familiar and outdated shape to ones lower half, and an upper garment that appeared to be some sort of jacket, also in cream, that boasted sleeves that ended at her elbows, and a square-cute neckline that framed a good portion of her shoulders and chest.

Among these large garments were also a pair of lace white gloves, a silver and amber necklace, a pair of white, button up high heeled boots, and some sort of contraption that would serve to hold her hair up in a precarious bun.

Feeling apprehensive, yet delighted, she carefully maneuvered herself into the unfamiliar clothes, and adjusted her hair and makeup slightly. Examining her form in the mirror, she wondered how it was that Severus must have acquired the use of a time-turner for the evening, and what the future, or the past, held in store for them.

Emerging from the bathroom, she paused to see Severus's reaction. He was seated on her couch, and turned, admiring the view from the full-length windows, when she cleared her throat softly, and stood awaiting his scrutiny.

He turned to regard her, and she felt the sudden pain of happiness and love for him, deep in her chest. There was that sudden realization that he was there, he was present and human and real, and that he actually sitting there, smiling slightly crookedly at her from the musty antique couch in her own study. His hair was glinting in the moonlight from the windows, and his angular face was shadowed dramatically in the half-light.

He rose, then, and offered her his hand. "You look elegant and gorgeous. I knew from the moment I had planned this outing that you would be divinely suited to this era. I don't suppose you don't mind some time travel this evening. I have a very special performance in mind, if you're prepared...?" She took his hand, smiling.

"I am. You may need to assist me, though. I have little thought to the exactly proper way to behave outside of my own time."

"I will do all I can, though I'd imagine you will have little to discuss with the other audience members. I have planned to put it about that we're foreign, and speak no Dutch. Now, are you fully prepared, my dear?" She nodded, squeezing his hand lightly.

"Severus, may I ask what concert, precisely, it is that we are about to attend?"

"Certainly, my dear," he responded, taking a lovely time turner on a silver chain out from within his buttoned sleeve and adjusting it to the mid 18th century . "In response to that question, we'd have to first discuss the Count Hermann Carl von Keyserlingk of Dresden, who, unfortunately and much like yourself, often had difficulty sleeping.

Due to the fact that, at the time, there was no muggle cure for insomnia, he did the next best thing, and commissioned a dear friend of his to write some music that would be soporific, yet entertaining, in order for his personal musician, one Johann Gottlieb by name (or as he later became known, Goldberg) to play for him, and to thus put him to sleep.

This composer friend of his was none other than J.S. Bach, the son of a long line of composers, and one who could be said outdid them all, and the music that he composed for the fatigued Count, were none other than what came to be known as the Goldberg Variations, after a stunning performance by the young (15 year old) Gottlieb of said variations.

My dear," he said, lifting the time turner to eye level, "We are about to attend that very performance."