Touch the Air Softly

by Jessa L'Rynn

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. J.K. Rowling created them and writes them with a genius that has never been equaled. Warner Bros. owns the right to do dumb things with them and doubtlessly will once Jo's finished with them, unless she kills them all. I try to fight the urge to put words into other people's visions. But every once in awhile, something yummy like this comes along and I find myself committing what I have been told is both crime and honor. With all due respect to Jo Rowling and her marvelous world, here is my attempt to "steal from the best".

Chapter 13: Swing Gently

When Snape came up from the dungeons, he found the group of Gryffindors (and Weasley's Ravenclaw girlfriend) crowded around the Head Girl, wishing her well, offering her advice and comfort, and it almost enraged him. He wasn't a mad slasher, after all, even if he was the evil Potion's master. He towered over Ginny Weasley, the smallest of them, and waited for them to notice him.

None of them said anything to him, but hugged the girl as though she was going to the gallows and walked away one at a time. Potter whispered something that made her laugh, and the Weasley girl whispered something that made her blush. He thought she looked surprisingly different when all flustered with her cheeks red and her entourage elsewhere. He snapped "25 points from Gryffindor" after Potter, who waved carelessly back at him. Granger looked up at him disapprovingly and headed out the door without glancing back to see if he was following.

Dumbledore must have asked Hagrid to arrange something, because one of the thestral-drawn carriages was waiting for them. Snape knew it was polite, so he offered her his hand to step up into the carriage. She took it gingerly and clambered up, releasing him as quickly as possible and taking her seat to stare at her hands as the coach rolled down the drive.

Snape watched the thestral move through the window over Granger's head, and tried to figure out something to say to her, something to tell her that she was safe from him being such a cold bastard to her, and that he was not really as evil as he tended to behave. He looked down at her and found her pulling her hair out of her face, as it whipped around in the wind from the carriage's passage. He rolled his eyes. "I see, Miss Granger, that you still have no concept of practicality where your hair is concerned. Do put it up, won't you?" Inside he was shouting at himself. Why did he always say things like that to her?

She looked up at him and her brown eyes were ablaze again, like last night. This time, though, it appeared that he had finally hit her last nerve. "Professor Snape, if there is anything you can do about your teeth, I suggest you do it. If not, my parents are professionals, and they'll be delighted to help."

He recoiled as though slapped. In fact, he felt he might have been happier if she had slapped him. Without apparently realizing the significance of it, she had pulled down years of difference between them, and showed him exactly the sort of bully he was.

They rode in bitterly uncomfortable silence all the way into Hogsmeade and down to catch the train. He had no idea what was on her mind, but what was on his was the glaring irony of finally seeing himself in the mirror she held up. It was not a pretty sight, a grown man who behaved with all the rank and glaring childishness of the eleven year olds under his tutelage, and their petty, juvenile insults. "I see no difference..." he thought to himself and winced as the memory of that poorly behaved encounter rolled over him time and again. Her face, he realized, had never looked so much hurt or insulted as betrayed, and now he began to suspect he knew why.

As they got onto the train, he escorted her to a private compartment and put down his bag. As soon as they were moving, he left her without a word. If she looked up at this, he didn't know - he was too caught up in his own thoughts to even consider it.

Hermione looked up as he left and gratefully dove for her bag, pulling her books out and throwing them on the seat next to her, determined that she would neither look at nor speak to him even once for the rest of the train ride. She had no idea where this train was even heading and if he got them lost in London or South Wales, she would call her parents to rescue her and just leave him wherever his arrogance took him. She was beginning to wonder if Dumbledore and the boys hated her to put her in this situation with that stubborn, evil man.

She opened the Encyclopaedia Esoterica and started reading about potions made with demiguise fur, determined to look like she was paying attention to it, even if her mind was a million miles away.

The problem, of course, was the dreams from last night and the feeling she had that everything should have worked out between them but hadn't. The first thing that bothered her about that was simple. Before all this craziness started, around her birthday this year, she hadn't really remembered her dreams very often, except for her nightmares. None of this would have been called a nightmare - well, maybe if Ron was having them, or Harry, but she had entertained her silly girlish crush for years before this.

The second problem was simply how disturbing the Snape in her dreams was. While he was completely out of character for the snarky git who had just deserted her, in the dream, the way he had behaved had made perfect sense. That Hermione had learned to see past his dark facades, that Snape had made actual effort to become her friend. It was strange, it was unlikely, but it had felt so right and so real, as if that man was actually hiding behind the cold, black eyes of this one, peeking out at her, but only when she wasn't conscious of it.

The third, and possibly most difficult part of the problem was manifestly what they had shared. The images before last night, from the first one she remembered right through to the strange ideas that had plagued her in class all that very day, were of fantasies, not romantic ones, but sexual ones, based entirely off desire and passion, and requiring very little more feeling than longing. But the emotions that drove this newest set of images were more real, with depth and endurance that the passion simply could not have summoned.

She sighed and sank into her book, drowning out the voices clamoring in her head. There was very little sympathy in her for rank folly, even if it was her own. She was a child, and she loved a bitter fool, and she had no idea how or why, but Hermione Granger had learnt anything she set out to do, and she would just have to learn to live with it.

When Snape returned about an hour later, she read patiently through the sound of him shuffling around the carriage, the sounds of things crinkling, bags moving, parchment crackling, and Snape muttering quietly to himself. The sound was reassuring. She hadn't realized how worried she had been until she had to stifle a sigh of relief at the sound of his voice. She forced herself not to look up at him and, especially, not to argue with him about their route. It would take all day by train, whereas by car, they could have been there in a few hours.

When all was finally quiet, she risked a peek up at him, to find him dressed in muggle clothes - and looking very strange for it - and reading a book of similar size to her own. There was, strangely, a tin of biscuits lying on the seat next to her, in chocolate no less. She looked at it, bewildered. Snape never said a word, but seemed to sense her confusion and gestured at the tin in what, from anyone else, would have been an invitation.

For one hysterical moment, she wondered if he had poisoned them. After that, she tried to decide if he actually was Severus Snape and not some Death Eater impersonator. This was serious. His hair had been pulled back neatly in ponytail not unlike the one Bill wore - or Lucius Malfoy, she thought with a shudder. His clothes were tasteful and immaculate - the sort her father wore when her parents met the bankers. Just seeing Snape in a white shirt was astonishing enough without the embellishment of a fine silk tie with a diamond studded clip. She narrowed her eyes and studied the tie until she realized that it was a Slytherin tie, obviously designed to match the school ties, but suit the professors from that house, or possibly just the Head of House. Of course, if any of the other professors had been in Slytherin, she wasn't aware of it, except maybe Vector or Sinistra. Certainly Trelawney hadn't been, the silly old fraud.

Snape noticed her concerned glance and rolled his eyes. "The Headquarters," he whispered, "of the Order of the Phoenix can be found at #12 Grimmauld Place, London."

It was simple, but it was brilliant. The dilapidated old house was under the Fidelius Charm still, and only the secret keeper could say a word about it, except to those already in on the secret. Only Snape could have told her, and only she could have been told - the simple sentence verified both of them. She beamed at him and was, surprisingly, awarded with the briefest flicker of a smile.

An old man huffed into the compartment with two very young children in tow. Hermione stared blankly at them but Snape rolled his eyes, rose, and lifted Hermione's books from the seat beside her. He sat himself next to her quietly enough but, from the thunderous expression on his face, one would have thought he'd been asked to sit next to a Marauder. Lupin would probably be the right one, because something in the pained furrow of his brow seemed to suggest that his seatmate might at any moment decide to bite him.

Their new companion took a seat and watched them owlishly for a moment, while his young charges glared at him and whispered to each other alternately. The littler of the two girls leaned up to whisper to the old man and he smiled in that gracious way adults have with ill-mannered children. "Why don't you ask them yourself?" he rumbled, a deep bass noise that seemed impossible to come from such a wizened, frail old creature.

"I'll do it," said the older girl. "Who are you? I'm Antigone Devereux and this is my sister Portia and my grandpa, Dr. Aristotle Devereux and we're here from America to see everything, and you two look like you're here to see ghosts, so who are you?"

Hermione and Snape exchanged a quick glance, shrugged at each other and then Hermione turned back to the child. "Jane Grange," she said. "I'm accompanying Professor Snape on a business trip."

Snape nodded and seemed quite pleased with her conclusion. Hermione felt his vague approval as deeply as if he had awarded her ten points to Gryffindor in front of the whole school. "We're both familiar with your work, of course, Doctor Devereux," said Snape politely to the older gentleman.

Hermione smiled at the children. "But I'm afraid we were unaware that you had such charming assistants."

"It's ok," Antigone explained in her piping American drawl. "I'm only getting started in the field, but I can already brew a simple restorative draught."

Hermione smiled at her fondly. "I'm sure it will all come to you when you're older, dear."

"I'm eight," the girl said, obviously completely wounded. Her sister had yet to say anything, only sucked her thumb with great determination.

Antigone looked for a moment to become completely belligerent, but Hermione hadn't had to deal with an angry child since fifth year, and didn't know how to get out of it. To her lifelong astonishment, it was Snape who came to her rescue and what he said would have caused her to pull her wand on him had she not already verified his identity incontrovertibly.

"Miss Grange is one of the brightest rising stars in the field, Miss Devereux, but even she was in second year before should could brew a Polyjuice Potion."

"Second year?" said Antigone and Dr. Devereux as one, though obviously for different reasons.

"Second year is," Hermione counted on her fingers, "Sixth Grade."

"Wow!" breathed Antigone and looked ready to launch into yet another of her speeches, but Dr. Devereux interrupted.

"I see your students continue to impress the world, Severus." At Snape's start, the old man smiled a knowing smile. "Oh, yes. Three of my apprentices have studied under you, and I've had great success with each of them. Pity I retired - the brightest star would be something truly to be seen. Though you'll want to be careful not to lavish such praise on her regularly, or it will surely go to her head."

Hermione forced herself not to roll her eyes. She had gotten this all the time at home when young - adults talking like she wasn't there simply because she was the topic of conversation. "I assure you, Doctor, Professor Snape wouldn't dream of such a thing."

They talked for perhaps a half hour about the arts and sciences of Potion-making at its best, and the only down side was finding themselves stopping every other sentence to endure a lengthy, breathless, and unnecessary lecture on something they all understood from the boisterous Antigone.

Finally, the door to the cabin opened again, and an elderly woman, neither frail nor infirm, strode in with her head held high and her eyes bright and angry. "There you are. Ari, how often do I have to tell you not to wander off with these children? Oh, goodness, and you've been boring these good people, too, and they on a holiday, for shame, Ari, how could you?" It suddenly became very clear where Antigone's speech pattern and habits had come from.

"Doctor Devereux and Professor Snape were just discussing fire technique," said Hermione brightly. "They both seem quite pleased with the discussion."

The woman smiled at her. "Poor dear, have you had to endure this claptrap, then?" And she clucked sympathetically and did fully five minutes on how sad it was that Hermione had to listen to such things, it was bad enough that Antigone had started to pick it up, all the time smiling and nodding as the two men continued a conversation Hermione really wanted to join. "And interrupting your quality time, too, I see," she concluded at last, noting the books. "Come along, Ari, bring the children and allow these young people to return to their business." She beamed at both of them with a too-happy smile that implied knowledge of all manner of things.

"Madam," said Snape, in that snide sneer he usually saved for Harry and Neville, "I assure you that my student and myself were quite interested in Dr. Devereux's conversation. However, we are grateful for his time and should be getting back to Miss Grange's lessons."

"Lessons," chirped the old woman. "Of course, how silly of me." As she bundled the children out, Snape rose and assisted Doctor Devereux to the door. "Thank you, have a delightful trip. So nice to see young people so happy," she said and faded into the distance.

"My apologies," Doctor Devereux boomed. "I'll owl you that formula, Severus, it's been a pleasure meeting you at last. Don't mind Electra, she's just silly. Though she is correct that it's nice to see young people happy, especially in times like these."

Snape closed the door behind them finally and slumped against it.

Hermione looked up at him with wide, astounded eyes. "Please, sir, please tell me I wasn't like that!"

Snape straightened, then looked at her very seriously. "Miss Granger," he said, "in your worst moments, when I despaired of ever gaining your silence, I only once invented undetectable ways to slip you silencing draughts."

"And for these two?"'

"Four a minute," he said, honestly.

She smiled. Then, before she knew it, she was laughing. "'I love seeing happy people,'" she chirped in a high, false voice.

Snape looked at her and, for her second shock that hour, grinned broadly at her. It was a nice grin, friendly and absolutely free of any of his usual taints of sneers, snarls, or maliciousness. "I suppose one of us should apologize for that error," he said, when they had finally settled to straight faces.

Hermione picked up her book and buried her face in it, afraid to remind the professor that he didn't have to sit beside her anymore because she wanted him to so much. "Yeah," she agreed. "I vote Professor Dumbledore."

Snape's snort of laughter promised that this trip wouldn't kill them both after all.

It was another ten minutes before she realized what he'd said about the Polyjuice Potion.

The next two hours crawled by at a pace that Hermione rarely experienced, especially while reading. She remembered with a shudder her days with the time turner and wondered if those borrowed hours were finally catching up with her, all at once, standing between her and the end of this miserable trip.

It was miserable, too. At first, it was only faint - the barest hint of random spice and something like dark magic, a whiff of a fragrance that brushed her nostrils like the first snow of winter. Slowly, the scent coalesced into the backdrop of her dreams, an evocative smell that was both foreign and familiar. She inhaled shallowly but the air, though only lightly dusted with it, was becoming charged by it. Closing her eyes kept it closer instead of further away, but she couldn't find it in herself to push it away, even a little.

She faded away into quiet dreams of them, together, making potions, working on formula, teaching children, living life. The pictures were as deep as her dreams, but also touched by the wicked feeling inside her that the one she wanted slept quietly beside her, and that a simple touch would be just the easiest thing in the world.

There was an abrupt jarring as she thought this. Or perhaps the hardest thing in the world, since he would leave her immediately, and she didn't think she could bear the loss.

"Wake up, Miss Granger," said Snape. "We've arrived."

Hermione looked up and realized, to her dismay, that she had her head on Snape's shoulder.

"Come along," he snapped briskly. Groggily, she rose to follow him.