I'm very excited that everyone is still following along. I plan to have this finished before the Big Day so watch for rapid updates starting Monday. Don't forget to review, of course, sometimes great things happen when you review!
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 15: The Moon Rows Away
When the girl knocked at his door the next morning, he was still trying to transfigure the strange muggle appliance back into what it had been when it woke him with its benighted, infernal beeping. The sound had shattered a rather unpleasant dream and had seemed so much a part of it that the spell just jumped from his lips.
"It is absolutely a wonder to me that muggles are even sane," grumbled Snape, letting her into the room, "especially if they must wake up to this every morning."
She looked at the small plastic box turtle squatting dejectedly on the television, her face a perfect picture of surprise. "Ron blew his up last time he visited - he tried to stun it, I think." She pulled out her wand and transfigured the turtle into a statue of a turtle. "Best I could do," she apologized, picking up the little statue and pocketing it. "Muggle technology doesn't do well after it's been enchanted."
"Of course," said Snape. He sat down on the window seat that looked out over the front of the house and gestured vaguely at the bed with his wand, satisfied that it made itself up without arguing. The girl was smiling at him whimsically when he looked up from putting on his boots. "Is there something on your mind, Miss Granger?" he asked, surprised that he had managed it without even a trace of his usual snide. It was rather too early in the morning to ask anyone to be pleasant in his opinion, and certainly not someone who was quite comfortable with a perpetually bad attitude.
She blinked, surprised. "Ah, sorry sir, no. I mean, yes. I mean... bother." She stared at her feet.
The image rose unbidden in his mind, assaulting his senses with its realism, an image of rising and drawing her to him, holding her tight, whispering in her pink shell ear, "There's something on my mind as well. Shall we discuss it?" It was his own voice he heard in his head, but huskier. Snape shook his head but the image wouldn't clear. It was stronger than ever any of his ideas of her had been. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and looked deeply into his eyes, hers soft and innocent gazing back at him. He leaned toward her and watched a precious desire bloom in the rich brown depths. His hand moved of its own accord to touch her face...
There was a clatter, the sound of his wand hitting the floor. He blinked rapidly and forced himself not to breathe hard or gasp. It was like coming up from a dive. The room swam briefly. Miss Granger seemed lost in a small daze, so she hadn't noticed his moment of weakness. He cleared his throat and she jumped.
"I'm sorry sir," she said, her voice a little high and a little breathless. "Breakfast is waiting for us, if you're hungry."
He fought off an entire series of hallucinatory suggestions for responses to that statement, and rose briskly with only a nod. A quick search around the tile work near the window seat returned his wand to his custody, so he followed the Gryffindor girl, desperately searching his mind for an explanation of this... this... disease he had acquired. He was the pureblood head of Slytherin House, a Potions Master, a defected Death Eater, a traitor, a spy. She was a know-it-all muggleborn Gryffindor with unsavory friends. And she was only eighteen, not a child, but didn't a person have to be a pervert to put aside that kind of age difference? He was almost 40 and all hope he had ever had for happiness had ended... he paused with surprise, though his feet went where they needed to, and realized that he had actually never before thought of that at all. Had he ever been happy?
They arrived in a completely different room from last night, a room with a large bay window that looked out onto yet another section of grounds. There was a single table set for two right in front of the window. "Miss Granger," he said, having found his voice at last, for something safely mundane, "precisely how large is this house?"
"Rather ostentatious, isn't it? It belonged to the family several generations back, we think. Dad inherited it and we moved here when I was very small. They've been restoring it for years - Dad says it's a money pit."
Snape held her chair for her, and smiled to himself at the look of bald shock she wore as she sat down. "I have always imagined many of these old manors to be rather like that. I divested myself of one the moment it came into my possession for precisely that reason."
She smiled encouragingly and gestured him to the breakfast that had been laid out for them. He checked the tea and poured out, preparing her cup from memory of what her father had given her last night. This did not seem to surprise her at all. "How did you end up with a manor?"
"The same way any pure-blood son did in those days." He sighed and spooned eggs on to his plate, then helped himself to a few sausages.
"Oh," she said quietly. She nibbled at her toast and jam and poured herself a glass of orange juice. He didn't mean to watch her, but caught himself spreading butter on his bread after it was already completely covered, watching her nervously watch her hands.
"What is your itinerary for the day, Miss Granger?"
"I need to buy a new dress, so I need to do that this morning. The funeral is this evening, and there'll be people here all day tomorrow, so I'm going to need proper clothes."
"You woke me with some defective muggle contraption in order to buy yourself a new dress? Transfigure something, woman, you're a witch!" This would have sounded more in character, if he hadn't marred the whole effect by immediately smiling at her.
She grinned cheekily back at him, an expression that almost snatched his breath away. "I woke you up, and now I'm dragging you out shopping! Your day's just getting better and better, Professor."
The worst thing about shopping with Severus Snape, Hermione thought, was that she was already confused enough before they started the trip. She drove them to the nearest shopping center after breakfast. (Hermione was only slightly more comfortable behind the wheel than on a broomstick, but she didn't explain that before they left.)
Snape insisted on following her everywhere she went, though she thought he would have been more comfortable ignoring her, perhaps in the doorway with a book. "I'm so totally out of character," she told him, rummaging through a rack of rather interesting black dresses. "I only own my school uniform in black."
He actually smiled at this. "Basic black can suit anyone."
"You would know," she agreed merrily, eyeing his black trousers and black polo shirt critically. There was a tiny, vividly green snake where the horse should have been, but otherwise the emulation was perfect.
It was another ten minutes before she completely lost it. "What do you think?" she asked him, holding a rather sedate dress against her to look at and then looking up in horrified realization of whom she was talking to. "Oops," she said.
"Shouldn't you choose something more in keeping with your age?" was all he said, glaring at the dress with a critical distaste. He looked up at her and rolled his eyes. "Choose something, please, Miss Granger," he added, and it almost sounded forced, as though he was trying to convince her that he was irritated, rather than genuinely being irritated.
She went through three more racks before he did get truly annoyed. He looked at the rack, scanned the items with a critical eye, and finally pulled off a dress that she had ignored before because of the skirt. "Put this on," he said, grimly.
"But... the... Yes, sir." She sighed and went to the changing rooms, and shook her head as he checked inside, and then ushered her in.
She felt somewhat embarrassed but found that the dress did look nice, and so what if it was a little short in the skirt, it was also very professional. It wasn't like Snape would be looking at her legs... no matter how much she might want him to do. When she stepped out, she was absolutely floored to find him waiting for her again, with something else, this time a dress, a small peasant-top like affair with a long, flaring skirt. "This is more appropriate to a young witch, even a muggleborn one," he said. "You should not select clothing that you can share with Professors McGonagall and Vector."
Some naughty little demon must have whispered in her ear because she batted her eyes and moved close to him, affecting a simpering smile. "Why, professor," she said sweetly, before she could stop herself, "I didn't know you cared!" She even giggled. Hermione Granger giggled.
Snape turned his best poison glare on her, the one that could put a hippogriff off its lunch. She snatched the dress and ran into the changing room, unable to figure out what had come over her and wondering if it would be safe to come out soon - or ever.
The professor made it much easier for her. Faintly, but for the first time in her life, she heard a sound rather like disused machinery. Hogwarts just might fall in on itself - Severus Snape was laughing.
Snape thought he was doing fine through lunch - some disreputable muggle concoction of dough and sauce and cheese, surprisingly edible for all that it looked thoroughly defective.
He managed to eat it without wearing any of it. Miss Granger was not so lucky, and when they returned to her parents' home, she dashed upstairs with her bags, holding the front of her ruined blouse away from her body. It wasn't his fault, he maintained that firmly, and he would not be responsible, even though the slippery coverings had slid off the dough as she was holding it at an awkward angle, gaping at him as he told her a joke he had heard at the last Order meeting.
He seated himself in the dining room with the London Times and the rest of his drink from their lunch and wondered what else could go wrong. He was behaving very strangely around her, and he knew it, but he couldn't find any way or reason to stop it. Just as she had teased him on what was so obviously a mad impulse, so he found himself unwilling to stop the course of gradually losing the formality between them. He didn't dare entertain the hope of what he had realized while watching her sleep - had it only been two nights ago? But he couldn't stop himself, at least a little, from daring to try for something - a little kindness between them, perhaps, a friendship.
Yes, that could be a blessing enough to change his world at least a little. There was war on and sorrow everywhere, and viciousness enough in both their lives that they didn't need to waste their anger on each other. These had been his late lessons of the past two years, and the girl's presence in his life was starting to bring it all into sharp retort.
He went back to his paper, comforted.
Fifteen minutes later, Miss Granger had not returned, but her mother had been through the room six times, speaking politely each time. He noted on her third trip that Madam Granger had become decidedly more distraught than the last two trips. By her sixth trip, the poor woman rather resembled McGonagall the day the first years' letters went out, only without the mad tendency to transfigure things into small objects and tread on them.
He stopped her politely when she greeted him. "Is there something wrong, Madam Granger?" he asked.
The girl appeared in the doorway at that very moment, bearing what seemed to be a welcome tea tray. He took the tray and situated it on the table, giving the girl time to calm her mother and get the older woman situated in a chair.
When they were all in possession of the proper cups of a nice Darjeeling, Madame Granger finally confessed the problem.
"Nancy was going to sing, of course, but she came down with laryngitis, I tried Margie next, but she and Ted are on vacation for the next six months. Six months - who has that kind of money! The Conners have a new baby and Andrew isn't up to it yet. Of course Edith volunteered, but I'd rather be run over by a truck than listen to that woman squawk, and I know Aunt Gretchen absolutely despised her AND her singing voice."
As the woman continued, Snape wondered idly where they kept the fire whiskey in this house - the woman desperately needed some in her tea. He found an unfamiliar sensation of deep sympathy and fought it as hard as he could. However, as the panic in the mother's face transferred to the daughter, he found himself defenseless.
"I can help," he heard a voice say, and hated it, because it was his own. "I know Bist Du Bie Mir. Will that suffice?"
He heard a crash, then the quiet, consecutive murmurs of "reparo" and "evanesco". He looked at Miss Granger and she grimaced at him, sheepishly. "You'll never cease to amaze me, Professor," she said quietly. "Another custom among the Pure-blood sons?"
"Look my mother up in your Wizards in the Arts book when you get back to Hogwarts," he suggested.
She nodded. "I will, thank you."
The expression Madame Granger wore conveyed a profound sense of relief. "Hermione, if you can play that hymn she always had you play - whatever it was - I think those two pieces will be perfect."
"Erm... I haven't touched my violin since last summer."
"Then you'd best go practice," her mother said.
The Gryffindor nodded, set down her neatly repaired cup, and flounced upstairs. "Is there a music room in this house?"
"Hermione's practice room is upstairs - she did something to it last summer so we don't hear her?"
"Silencing charm," he said.
"Yes, that's what she said. And the music room is three doors that way and on the other side of the hall.
He nodded gratefully and left her calmly sorting decorations she pulled from the huge china hutch.
Hermione would never remember most of what happened at the funeral. She stood and played that old folk hymn on her violin, cheerfully bemused that it actually sounded as perfect as it ever had. Of course, she brought the better of her two instruments, the one Aunt Gretchen had bought her when she was seven. She was rather pleased that the little old women sitting on the row with her parents nodded and smiled as she played.
Some time later, as her thoughts had stopped wandering around death and the purpose of a life, she realized that the Professor had just risen to sing. She didn't know what to expect - his speaking voice had always been a thing of elegant sophistry so she imagined his singing voice would probably be quite nice.
What she wasn't prepared for was how incredible that sound really was. It was a clear, rich baritone, the sound that a cello made, really, with hardly any of the customary vibrato of a classically trained musician. Rather, it was an innocent sound, dark but somehow made safe and gentle, like a winter night before a warm fire. It stole her away from her body in a way that nothing else ever had - it turned her mind off and sent her hurtling into a world that was all moonbeams and music on water. She knew she might have heard more lovely sounds in her lifetime, but none of them was pure, distilled magic.
She would never forget this for the rest of her life. Her imagination had given her only a cool shadow of the truth and now that she had it, she wanted it forever.
It was only when she looked up, and her father was handing her a little pamphlet with the German actually translated, that she realized he was watching her. "Be thou with me and I'll gladly go/To death and to my repose..." she read.
Snape came and sat beside her, and she leaned over him to whisper, "Thank you, Professor," in his ear. She was just imagining, she was sure, that he trembled.
After the service, all sorts of people came up to them and said something about her song, about Snape's, a heartfelt sympathy to her parents. "We'll have to play together, some time," said a warm, friendly voice Hermione hadn't heard in quite a while.
"Professor Lupin," she said, happily, turning to shake his hand. "I didn't know you played," she added.
"I didn't know you did - we could have done something together, sooner. Severus has always had a lovely singing voice, though."
"No doubt," she agreed fervently. The way he was studying her face made her feel somewhat nervous - Harry had suggested once that Lupin read minds as well as Snape did. "Are you a friend of the family?" she asked.
"My mother was a friend of Gretchen's - a muggle, as you may know."
"Oh, of course. Then I must introduce you to my parents."
"In a moment," he said and carefully drew her aside and out of immediate earshot of anyone. "I was wondering why Severus didn't take his eyes off of you the whole time he was singing. Now I know. How long?"
Hermione crinkled her face up and frowned at him, genuinely confused. "How long what?"
"How long have you been with him?"
"Never, or a few minutes less, why?" She glared at him as sternly as she could.
Lupin chuckled. "He's already rubbing off on you, I see." Abruptly, he sobered and looked her firmly in the eye. "Be careful, Hermione. And let me know if there's anything I can do for you. You were a good friend to me and I owe you at least one favor, probably more."
She nodded this time, generally relieved and, on impulse, hugged the werewolf like she would her father. He pulled away and, five seconds later, started sneezing uncontrollably.
This went on until Lupin managed to blow his nose and catch a deep breath. All the while, Snape was standing there, smugly, one hand inside his coat. "Hello, Lupin," he said politely enough. Aside to Hermione while Lupin accepted a cup of water from the funeral director, he added, "Werewolves are notoriously allergic to powered aconite leaves. No one else is, though."
She smiled up at him, feeling her lips curl in a manner similar to his own. "And you just did it for the verification, of course."
He grinned cheekily at her. "Of course."
Professor Lupin smiled at both of them. "Thank you for the charming gift, Severus," he said in his most polite (and for Lupin that was something amazing) tone of voice.
Hermione led him off to meet her parents and greeted a hundred other guests who came to pay their respects to the kindly old woman and her family. But all that day, and into the long night (where she fell exhausted into her bed two minutes after getting to her room, but did not manage to sleep for hours), she could not get Lupin's words out of her mind. Had Snape really been watching her? She couldn't help herself, even when sleep finally claimed her, from hoping against hope that he had been.