Author's note: I'm so very sorry for the variations on spelling
McGonagall's name! It's one of those things I keep intending to go back and
change before posting, but then forgetting all about it. In regards to the
facts, the stuff about The Count and the 15 year old Goldberg lullabyeing
him to sleep is all true (one of my favorite bits of information regarding
one of the most incredible pieces of music ever created). As for this
particular concert, I'm not completely sure about the facts. More likely it
was a more private performance in someone's home, with a small amount of
guests, as JS Bach really didn't gain very much notoriety until after his
death, but still, this is how I've always imagined that this unveiling, so
to speak, should take place.
As always, thank you all so much for your input and compliments! We aims to
please...
-Iphy
Chapter Fourteen
Severus Snape was going mad. It was only a matter of time, he supposed, that he would lose every last faculty of his body and mind.
His Hermia, clad in remarkably well-suited attire, had twined her graceful arms around his neck as he had spun the time-turner, and then apparated them to the alleyway behind the grand performance hall in the center of the Dutch metropolis.
Her curves were molded slightly to his, and he reminded himself that an untoward advance on a lady was not exactly smiled upon in this particular setting.
It was the middle, late 18th century, and his hands, curved around her waist where his thumbs caressed the satin of her bodice in small circles, were decidedly out of their proper place.
He could feel the corset through the thin material of the gown, and he wondered, idly, what she looked like in simply the corset.
The garment had been almost an afterthought, when, purchasing the clothes, he had readied to leave when the saleswoman had subtly reminded him of the necessity for undergarments. Handing him the various attributes, she also pressed on him the magical corset, that laced on command, eliminating the need for assistance. He had blushed, picturing Hermia laced in the delicate garment, and had pushed his coin across the counter hastily.
Now, she stood before him, smiling slightly up towards his face. Her arms had remained twined about his neck, and he had noticed, with a tiny burst of pride, that her eyes had gone slightly glassy at his soft touch to her midsection.
His mouth was slightly ajar at her beauty, and the nearness of her body to his, and, he noted, her eyes had fallen to said open mouth. He bent, as if to kiss her, but at that moment, she turned, suddenly, at a noise at the mouth of the alley.
"Severus!" Her voice was breathless as she looked eagerly out the looming entrance to the alleyway. Her body almost trembled with excitement, and she felt Severus's near-reluctance to part from their solitude in the alley.
Through to the street, she could see the Vienna night sky, lit by lanterns in low building windows. Stopped at the curb, was an elegant carriage. From the doorway, there emerged a bevy of skirts, that bloomed into the curvaceous forms of ladies bedecked in the modern fashionable attire. Gentlemen in waistcoats, much like Severus's own, proffered their hands to allow the ladies assistance in exiting the carriage.
Hermione was conflicted by the rush of excitement, but still slightly disgusted to find herself in such a dramatic, flamboyant age. She felt uncomfortable due to the simple chauvinism and practices composure that surrounded them in this time, but then again, something in her felt compelled to cause her to grin uncontrollably at the sights and sounds around her.
They walked, her arm resting on his in the way he had shown her, up the rambling, stone staircase, and towards the well-lit doorways of the concert hall. They could hear the sounds of Dutch, spoken in conversation, all around them, as the guests hurried into the theater for the performance.
The entrance hall was full to the brim of ladies and gentlemen in their opera attire, mingling formally and sipping champagne from tall glasses. The chandeliers glowed overhead, and the air held the heaviness of impending glory.
In her studies of classical music, she had read of this performance a number of times, always imagining how it must have been to attend such a feat. The young Goldberg had been only a lad at this momentous occasion, and it had been recorded that his poise and grace were almost unearthly for a child his age. She had remembered thinking how he must have grown up so quickly, much like she, herself, did.
Severus wound a path through the crowd and eventually arrived at the main entrance to the auditorium. There was a man standing by the doorway, greeting the attendees as they entered. As they approached him, Hermione tensed, but Severus imperceptibly tightened his hold on her lower back, where his gloved hand guided her.
He raised his other hand, in a semi-salute to the man, and the mustached gentleman turned instantly towards them, exclaiming, in a deeply Dutch accent, "Ah! Countess, and Count Smartwell! I trust your journey from London was satisfactory?"
Severus acknowledged the man with a slight bow, and Hermione blushed as the mustached man bent to kiss her hand. "It was, thank you, Lord Stouten. And thank you, again, for your kindness in obtaining our entrance. My wife has long been an admirer of the clavis, so this is a rather exciting occasion for us all."
"Ah, yes, my dear Count, Please, allow me to show you both to your seats?"
He gestured towards a staircase, which led to a balcony, where they made themselves comfortable. Hermione preferred to allow Severus's mysterious plans in arranging this night to remain shrouded for the time being.
The balcony was designed with the same colour scheme as the entire theater; reds and golds in silk and gilt. There were six chairs, each with gold embroidery on the deep red silk of the cushions, and they took their seats towards the front of the balcony, in view of the stage, where a grand piano sat, looking very new and, oddly, alien to it's surroundings.
Severus leaned in, taking a slight breath of the warm, rose scented air that rose off of her skin, and said, "They have only recently made the transition from clavichord to piano. It's a somewhat new addition to the popular classical instruments of this time. The clavis instrument is plucked, rather than struck, so the change from a plucked string to a malleted one was a sort of revolution in and of itself. This is one of the first performances that was widely recognized that included the piano as the main orchestral leader."
Hermione listened with interest, unable to stop herself from shivering at the sound of his voice, so close to her ear. His rich tones slipped together, the toffee of his language gliding over her skin and raising goosebumps over the exposed flesh of her chest.
"Ah, here he comes." The theater resounded with polite, gloved applause, accompanying the rattling of pearl bracelets.
A boy, in his middle teens, entered from the wings, looking as pale as the crisp, white cravat and cummerbund that he wore. He bowed, then sat at the piano bench, cracking his knuckles subtly.
When he began to play, it was as if a sudden fast had been broken. The familiar notes wafted out over the silent audience, and Hermione and Severus felt themselves lean into the tones, their souls plying the hidden connection within the music to their own music that bound them, to one another and to the world they inhabited.
Severus looked over, five minutes into the first movement, to see that Hermione's mouth had dropped open in a silent gasp. Her eyes glittered, and her breath came in shuddering gasps at the beauty and purity of this song, written for the performer, played with such youthful discovery.
She looked, he thought with a small smile, like he had just kissed the breath from her.
Turning his attention back to the performance, he nodded in appreciation for the young man's skill at the keys.
Two attendees at the performance had taken their seats behind them, and Hermione, temporarily distracted from the youth onstage, glanced back at their companions for the evening.
There, looking every bit like the placid, calculating portrait that she had memorized from countless books about his work, was the subject of her thesis.
Flanked by a tall woman with long, straight red hair, and decked in his formalwear, was the potions master, Mesetonces Melotromaut.
Chapter Fourteen
Severus Snape was going mad. It was only a matter of time, he supposed, that he would lose every last faculty of his body and mind.
His Hermia, clad in remarkably well-suited attire, had twined her graceful arms around his neck as he had spun the time-turner, and then apparated them to the alleyway behind the grand performance hall in the center of the Dutch metropolis.
Her curves were molded slightly to his, and he reminded himself that an untoward advance on a lady was not exactly smiled upon in this particular setting.
It was the middle, late 18th century, and his hands, curved around her waist where his thumbs caressed the satin of her bodice in small circles, were decidedly out of their proper place.
He could feel the corset through the thin material of the gown, and he wondered, idly, what she looked like in simply the corset.
The garment had been almost an afterthought, when, purchasing the clothes, he had readied to leave when the saleswoman had subtly reminded him of the necessity for undergarments. Handing him the various attributes, she also pressed on him the magical corset, that laced on command, eliminating the need for assistance. He had blushed, picturing Hermia laced in the delicate garment, and had pushed his coin across the counter hastily.
Now, she stood before him, smiling slightly up towards his face. Her arms had remained twined about his neck, and he had noticed, with a tiny burst of pride, that her eyes had gone slightly glassy at his soft touch to her midsection.
His mouth was slightly ajar at her beauty, and the nearness of her body to his, and, he noted, her eyes had fallen to said open mouth. He bent, as if to kiss her, but at that moment, she turned, suddenly, at a noise at the mouth of the alley.
"Severus!" Her voice was breathless as she looked eagerly out the looming entrance to the alleyway. Her body almost trembled with excitement, and she felt Severus's near-reluctance to part from their solitude in the alley.
Through to the street, she could see the Vienna night sky, lit by lanterns in low building windows. Stopped at the curb, was an elegant carriage. From the doorway, there emerged a bevy of skirts, that bloomed into the curvaceous forms of ladies bedecked in the modern fashionable attire. Gentlemen in waistcoats, much like Severus's own, proffered their hands to allow the ladies assistance in exiting the carriage.
Hermione was conflicted by the rush of excitement, but still slightly disgusted to find herself in such a dramatic, flamboyant age. She felt uncomfortable due to the simple chauvinism and practices composure that surrounded them in this time, but then again, something in her felt compelled to cause her to grin uncontrollably at the sights and sounds around her.
They walked, her arm resting on his in the way he had shown her, up the rambling, stone staircase, and towards the well-lit doorways of the concert hall. They could hear the sounds of Dutch, spoken in conversation, all around them, as the guests hurried into the theater for the performance.
The entrance hall was full to the brim of ladies and gentlemen in their opera attire, mingling formally and sipping champagne from tall glasses. The chandeliers glowed overhead, and the air held the heaviness of impending glory.
In her studies of classical music, she had read of this performance a number of times, always imagining how it must have been to attend such a feat. The young Goldberg had been only a lad at this momentous occasion, and it had been recorded that his poise and grace were almost unearthly for a child his age. She had remembered thinking how he must have grown up so quickly, much like she, herself, did.
Severus wound a path through the crowd and eventually arrived at the main entrance to the auditorium. There was a man standing by the doorway, greeting the attendees as they entered. As they approached him, Hermione tensed, but Severus imperceptibly tightened his hold on her lower back, where his gloved hand guided her.
He raised his other hand, in a semi-salute to the man, and the mustached gentleman turned instantly towards them, exclaiming, in a deeply Dutch accent, "Ah! Countess, and Count Smartwell! I trust your journey from London was satisfactory?"
Severus acknowledged the man with a slight bow, and Hermione blushed as the mustached man bent to kiss her hand. "It was, thank you, Lord Stouten. And thank you, again, for your kindness in obtaining our entrance. My wife has long been an admirer of the clavis, so this is a rather exciting occasion for us all."
"Ah, yes, my dear Count, Please, allow me to show you both to your seats?"
He gestured towards a staircase, which led to a balcony, where they made themselves comfortable. Hermione preferred to allow Severus's mysterious plans in arranging this night to remain shrouded for the time being.
The balcony was designed with the same colour scheme as the entire theater; reds and golds in silk and gilt. There were six chairs, each with gold embroidery on the deep red silk of the cushions, and they took their seats towards the front of the balcony, in view of the stage, where a grand piano sat, looking very new and, oddly, alien to it's surroundings.
Severus leaned in, taking a slight breath of the warm, rose scented air that rose off of her skin, and said, "They have only recently made the transition from clavichord to piano. It's a somewhat new addition to the popular classical instruments of this time. The clavis instrument is plucked, rather than struck, so the change from a plucked string to a malleted one was a sort of revolution in and of itself. This is one of the first performances that was widely recognized that included the piano as the main orchestral leader."
Hermione listened with interest, unable to stop herself from shivering at the sound of his voice, so close to her ear. His rich tones slipped together, the toffee of his language gliding over her skin and raising goosebumps over the exposed flesh of her chest.
"Ah, here he comes." The theater resounded with polite, gloved applause, accompanying the rattling of pearl bracelets.
A boy, in his middle teens, entered from the wings, looking as pale as the crisp, white cravat and cummerbund that he wore. He bowed, then sat at the piano bench, cracking his knuckles subtly.
When he began to play, it was as if a sudden fast had been broken. The familiar notes wafted out over the silent audience, and Hermione and Severus felt themselves lean into the tones, their souls plying the hidden connection within the music to their own music that bound them, to one another and to the world they inhabited.
Severus looked over, five minutes into the first movement, to see that Hermione's mouth had dropped open in a silent gasp. Her eyes glittered, and her breath came in shuddering gasps at the beauty and purity of this song, written for the performer, played with such youthful discovery.
She looked, he thought with a small smile, like he had just kissed the breath from her.
Turning his attention back to the performance, he nodded in appreciation for the young man's skill at the keys.
Two attendees at the performance had taken their seats behind them, and Hermione, temporarily distracted from the youth onstage, glanced back at their companions for the evening.
There, looking every bit like the placid, calculating portrait that she had memorized from countless books about his work, was the subject of her thesis.
Flanked by a tall woman with long, straight red hair, and decked in his formalwear, was the potions master, Mesetonces Melotromaut.
