The Invisibility Cloak felt like the midnight air.

It had been almost two years since Hermione had worn it, and yet she felt its familiar weight and inhaled its scent with such anticipatory delight, it surprised her.

Every waft of the mothball smell kept bringing back affectionate memories of her first year in school. It was always her railing behind Harry and Ron, keeping a careful eye on them as they broke every school rule possible, and all the while, secretly enjoying every minute of it.

It was difficult to wrap her mind around such a thing as an invisibility cloak. To describe, accurately, what wearing one felt like was difficult. It seemed to her to defy all common sense. And the only tangible evidence that one existed, was that you couldn't see your feet as you walked, and no one could see you… unless, that is, you carelessly allowed a limb to stray from under its protective folds.

Suddenly, an appropriate analogy dawned on her.

It was like wearing fog.

From under it, the view was obscured, and it was a thick feeling, having it on, weightless and invisible as it was.

Guilt rose in Hermione suddenly, at the thought that Harry didn't know she had borrowed it. But, the now imperceptible Hermione Granger figured, he wouldn't mind—considering the fact that he had, in all likelihood, seen the painting.

And if he had, he would probably want her to get away and think things through. As well as ask, in the kindest way, if she needed a professional councilor.

But she forced that thought into the box in the farthest corner of her mind. At this point in time, it was the least of her worries.

The long hallway that lead to her room was pitch black, and thanking the gods that Harry had the good sense to return her wand to her room, she whispered a fervent "Lumos!"

And even with Lumos lighting her way, the castle was foreboding, seemingly going out of its way to make this night unnerving.

Hermione's room was the only one on this floor of the tower. But she knew that it would not be the only within.

Turning another corner, she came to a door where an old, rusted nameplate announced that what lay beyond her in the darkness were stairs.

"Alohamora," she whispered. But it was not necessary, as the door was already unlocked. Swinging it open, she was startled that she had heard nothing but a soft "click", as she was expecting a creak of hinges and a swirl of dust motes.

There was only a slight change in temperature, as the tall staircase came to view and lifted a humid aroma of ancient wood and parchment onto her face.

Heat rises, makes perfect sense.

And then she climbed, with a quickened pulse at the unexpected exertion. Each step giving way to another just after it.

She moved upwards in a circular motion, coiling around a center cylinder of stone, as she counted each step… seventy one…seventy two… one hundred and four.

Hermione's heart pounded, and the rush of blood brought new color to her skin. Heat radiated from her body, and she held her arms out from her sides in an effort to cool off. And in a pose highly uncoordinated, she took in what the landing had to offer.

The stone was slightly damp here, in spite of the heat. There was a small window just beyond the reach of her left hand, and at her right, her wand lent its light to reveal the secret.

All the way up here, she was surprised to find a door, obviously marked for a purpose by the barely visible plaque that hung in its center.

Pressing her body against the aged wood, she could feel each year that the tree had been alive. Her wand followed the raised letters, and with a sharp intake of breath, Hermione immediately decided that she would, indeed, go out onto the "Mezzanine" to enjoy the rest of her night.


The sound of a cauldron crashing against the stone walls of the dungeons reverberated and filled the cold place with its strange echo.

The wail of the furious Potions Master, who had viciously hurled it across the office, was almost equally unsettling.

"Damn it to everything!" The simple statement was spit through a clenched jaw and fueled by two and a half hours worth of all-consuming frustration. Snape, as usual, was not happy.

"A whole… A whole year I've worked on this!" His tone closely resembled that of a child absorbing the reality of death. It was not a sight one normally saw, that of Severus Snape on the verge of sobs, with hot tears pricking his narrowed eyes.

He was stewing with emotions that he didn't care to acknowledge. Mainly fear, as he realized, with resentment and fury, that the potion he had set out to create was far more complex than he had anticipated.

In all of his years as a Potions Master, he had never quite understood why the ingredients needed for the most powerful potions were fairly simple, while the ingredients needed for potions that accomplish single easy tasks were the rarest and hardest to find.

In fact, he had always based his recreational research on experiments that set out to prove this theory wrong. But now, his careless decision with this particular potion had set him back a great deal of time… time that he did not have to waste.

With misplaced malice, he seized his notes from the nearby table and ripped them into pieces, growling with every violent movement. He twisted on the balls of his leather-clad feet and sent his cloak swirling quickly around him. Waves of his hands and kicks of his legs sent unfilled potion bottles to the ground, and various contents of tabletops went crashing to the stone floor at odd angles. Shards of glass instruments lie glistening in the firelight, a testament to his utter vexation… dangerous if you were to get too close, but dazzling if you were to look at it the right way.

He moved through his office with precision, destroying his work with every swift move he made. And at the moment, he didn't care what was broken. Even the more precious items didn't matter. He knew that they would be left to waste in the wake of his impending death anyway.

Indeed. He knew beyond a doubt he would be killed if, in the end, this particular potion failed.

What was eating away at his composure most, beyond the fear, was the tight-chested sensation of utter helplessness. And though it looked as if his face betrayed his heartache, Severus Snape was never known to feel such things. This ache was simply the vulnerable feeling of knowing that he did not know how to move from this point, concerning the plan, and this task he was intended to fulfill.

He clenched his jaw, as well as his fists at his sides, and turned to survey the destruction once he was nose to stone with the wall at the far end of his office.

Tossed parchment made pattering sounds as it settled in a tangled heap on the floor, over top of what he knew was a toxic mess. His shoulders slumped in defeat and he balanced his weight on the palms of his hands as he pressed them against the slick, cool stone of the ancient room's wall.

He heaved a sigh and allowed his head to drop, framing his sweaty brow with his chin-length hair and focusing his eyes upon the first object he saw… a crystal ball.

A Christmas gift from Sybil.

And if he hadn't been so soft, he would have smashed it against the wall like the cauldron. If she had walked in and given it to him at this moment, he probably would have smashed her face in with it. The horrid thought was slightly pleasing, and he shuddered as a wave of guilt passed through him.

This was the familiar darkness beginning to stir again. And who could blame the old bastard? Playing both sides of the chess board for so long had destroyed so much… he was barely able to muster the emotion to enjoy a simple cup of coffee… at least he thought so. This all-consuming thing was the shameful gloom that made him weak in the first place.

In retrospect, he thought the gift of the crystal ball was wasteful. She had meant well, but now he saw it as foolish. To give a murderer something out of appreciation and… affection?

Certain people didn't deserve Christmas presents. It wasn't right. He wasn't right.

And so, like the beach is exposed as the tide rolls out… in the wake of his fury he felt that overwhelming desire to die.

In fact, he would have been the first wizard to perform the killing curse on himself, if it wasn't for the not-so-simple task of playing double-agent. His redemption, as if there were such a thing.

All this, just so the damn Potter boy could kill his former master. So the wise old Albus Dumbledore could stand in his victory robes and greet the whole of the world from the peak of the highest hill on the grounds, clutching a white death mask as a symbol of the defeat of evil forces. A mask that he wore monthly, and painted with gore.

His found his fingertips tracing patterns on the smooth glass of the orb. Trelawney had insisted that its contents were unknown. And since he knew that the old bat was a loon by virtue, he wanted nothing more than to tip it from its stand, expose what was really beneath, and prove her bloody wrong.

He would have, had he not been fading.

In the dim glow of the aftermath of his failed year of work, he couldn't help his tired mind blurring into memories of his childhood… his father backhanding the tearstained face of his mother… He hated himself now for not loving her more. For not showing her that he was stronger. For all those nights he lay motionless in bed, listening to her screams and hearing her pain while she was losing her mind.

It was beyond him now, as a grown man on the verge of weeping in remembrance. The fact that, as a boy, he couldn't have understood the possibility of emotional stress as a trigger for his decisions haunted him. He was even then, as a tiny, filthy ten-year-old, losing his mind along with mum. Tiny bits of his reasoning escaping with every sob that escaped her mouth.

It doesn't take a wizard to understand depression. Intangible things that resemble it - like trust and love, cannot be broken down into a simple spell.

If they are true, they cannot be captured in magic… Not the wizarding kind, at least.

Wise words of Albus Dumbledore echoed and whispered over and over again somewhere in his restless head.

And it was in that moment a certain wizard chose to speak up from the doorway he was standing in.

"Severus?" he whispered. The smooth crackle of his voice against Severus' labored breathing was soothing, even though Snape could not bring himself to admit it.

Albus moved into the messy room, carefully dodging fallen textbooks and broken jars of beetle eyes. He moved in determined strides to reach Severus, until his hands were near his shoulders and his soothing voice was inches away.

"Severus, I sensed your distress." He spoke with such tenderness that the prickling feeling of teardrops came back to Snape's eyes too quickly for his comfort. "What has happened?" he asked then, placing both hands upon his shoulders.

Suppressing sobs like a child, Severus swallowed the lump in his throat as he prepared to tell the old man that all was lost.

"The potion, Albus, it's-"

"Yes, Severus, the potion is going to require much more testing and research. I already knew that." He smiled. "But the real concern is why you've destroyed your laboratory. Or rather, what it is that has tormented you…"

Snape turned and gave a look to the headmaster. A rising of both dark brows and a quick closing of his eyes could not conceal, no matter how much he wished it would, a single teardrop that escaped the inner corner of his lashes, resting a little below the crook of his beautiful nose.

"I… I do not deserve to be comforted, Albus." He kept his eyes closed as he spoke. "Nor do I deserve to be treated with any form of respect."

"I think you do." Albus was smiling again. His gaze a little more glazed than usual, as if an uneasy emotion had seized him as well.

"No." A simple reply as Snape turned his back again and took a few strides towards the fireplace, a section of the office that had not been littered with supplies.

"Yes, you do." There was such emotion behind that- a powerful trust that Severus felt he did not deserve. He felt so unworthy of the powerful wizard's affection that he couldn't bring himself to look at the man. The single tear drying and tightening its path, his eyes opened and stared directly at the dancing flames past Albus in the hearth.

"Leave me, Albus." He said with a soft voice.

"I won't."

"Please, Albus, just go." He struggled with the words because all he wanted was for him to stay. "I don't need you anymore."

Of course he didn't mean it, Albus knew. But, just to hear the words cut deeply. This war was causing him to lose his touch. Or, was it that Severus was falling into territory that no one could reach?

"I need you, though," Albus said with a slight clearing of his throat.

"And you have me, Albus. Here to serve you. No matter what, even if it means death. I owe you my life!" He quit yelling as he watched the headmaster's head droop a little. Defeat made Dumbledore look like an imposter. Squaring his shoulders, "You cannot change me," Snape said.

And then there was silence.

"No, I cannot change you, Severus." Dumbledore picked up one of the fallen desk chairs and sat in it.

Continuing after he had secured Severus' reluctant eyes, "Changing people is nearly impossible, unless they want to change." He smiled again. "I know that I am not the one who will change you, Severus. I am vain to think that I have the power to." He twisted his beard between his fingers.

"But, you will change. I feel it in my bones." He smiled a scheming smile. "There is someone with the power to do so."

"What are you going on about?" Snape looked at him sharply.

"There is someone for you… Someone who will change you, Severus."


The Mezzanine level of West Tower was beautiful. Even in the wee hours of the morning, when light could scarce be seen, the intricacies in the stonework glistened and twisted with mystic detail.

Hermione found herself running her fingers over the sandstone carvings. The Invisibility Cloak lay forgotten on the floor, and her bare arms absorbed the moonlight. The antique rose garden was a labyrinth of shadow below, sweetening the air with its fragrance.

Her red satin nightgown lifted in the chilly breeze, until she felt exposed from the free circulation of it. The thin straps slid down her shoulders as they always did, and as she leaned forward beyond the balcony, her left breast was exposed completely.

Having nobody around to see, she lazily reached to cover herself, noticing the result of the chill, and how sensitive the fabric felt brushed against her there.

She thought of the painting then, and how it had elicited the same reaction.

And she thought of him.

She thought of his face, and how challenging it was to paint. His features, so delicately cruel. She thought of how he moved through the halls, and the shapes his cloak created as it billowed, and the breeze it left in its wake when he brushed past. She thought of how much she longed to know him, even though she could not understand why.

He could have thrown her against the wall, slapped her, stripped her of her Head Girl title… she wouldn't have cared. She would be captivated as ever.

When a distant thumping of footsteps brought Hermione from her thoughts, she darted for the cloak and threw it about herself in an ungraceful whirl.

Someone was coming up the stairs she had just taken, heading for the door, heading for her.

She moved swiftly into the nearest corner of the balcony and stood pressed against its cold surface. Standing still, as if she too had been carved into the stonework. Just in time for the heavy handle of the Mezzanine door to click slowly and reveal the form of the very man she puzzled over, even ached for.

Between them, only her nightgown and the liquid fabric of the cloak. She thanked the gods for the latter, or else she would have been so dreadfully exposed in practically underwear.

The satin chaffed again against her chest and she was mesmerized.

But it was not only his nearness that allured her.

The moon touched his face as he leaned upon the balcony, and caused his cheeks to glisten with fallen tears.

He was not harsh in this moment—only the saddest, most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. And as she watched, she too could feel the prickling of tears.

He wore no cloak, no black coat over his loose, white linen shirt, and his strong hands gripped the stone with such a despair, it was unbelievable she had been standing in the same spot not moments ago.

The black orbs that were his eyes appeared to sting as they absorbed the garden below, and it took him ages to blink. His chest rose and fell like he had to force himself to breathe.

She couldn't think of anything that could possibly crumble the walls Snape had built up around himself, but the sadness in contrast to his classroom persona was startling. He looked so helpless.

It was the moment she started to wonder why he had decided to come here, that he turned on his heel and moved his graceful hand to the bridge of his nose.

He traced the wall with his left index finger and Hermione watched in amazement as a door materialized with his touch.

His touch.

She watched as he stepped through, and in that "now or never" moment she chose to follow, brushing only far enough behind to keep herself unnoticed.

Until she was inside… another hall, filled with paintings. Wizards, hundreds of them.

And at a closer inspection she realized they were all artists.

In here, it smelled like a blend of strong tea and dark chocolate- bittersweet and spicy. The walls were completely black, composed of tall and ancient ebony wood, which drew the eye to the artists in their frames that adorned them.

Picasso, Monet, Van Gogh. They all seemed to look down at her, telling their secrets with their stares.

She noticed that some moved within their frames, while others did not. And, being of Muggle descent, she knew this meant that the unmoving possessed no magic but their art.

And she felt an even greater appreciation for these stationary canvases. She held close to her heart many memories of nights when all her books were set aside, and she reached for the brush instead of the wand.

A man with a short gray beard winked at her, his dark eyes kind and gentle, his robes trimmed in gold.

Startled, she recognized the pained face of Henry de Toulouse-Lautrec, his fingers clutching the infamous Absinthe Cane to his chest.

Her eyes searched his canvas until she realized she had come within a dangerous distance of the dark man she followed. Invisibility cloak or no, she'd be damned if she walked right into him.

Snape had stopped.

His shoulders were slumped, as opposed to habitually rigid, barely hinting at his exhaustion.

He breathed a few incantations and a portrait materialized upon the wall, three times the size of the rest, and, within seconds, Leonardo da Vinci positively beamed at them both.

Though he was only a portrait, the kind mischief in his eyes was enough to give Hermione the impression that he knew she was there.

But she had but a moment to notice this, as the most peculiar charm took place before her eager eyes.

Snape moved closer and the canvas became transparent, displaying a glorious room beyond the bearded face of the wizard.

From where she was standing, Hermione could make out an expanse of marble floor and a large, blazing hearth.

He must live here. How can this be?

But it was just so. A man this unique would never cease to amaze. And Hermione understood at once why he was a not a man to dwell in the dungeons.

He's a man of class.

Snape stepped through the portrait and disappeared to the left. And it was only too soon that he'd done so, that Hermione saw the room disappear.

No.

All she saw now was da Vinci, smiling down at her as if she were the most important thing in the world.

There was definitely competition material for Dumbledore with those eyes—those kind, vivid baby blues. Yet, that could not convince her to leave her Potions Master here, not the dark man wrapped in a mystery behind this painting… that she had held her breath to chase.

She moved forward and lightly touched the paint.

Solid.

Removing the cloak from the upper portion of herself, she cleared her throat.

Da Vinci did not seem in the least surprised. In fact, he winked.

"I need a password for you to enter, my dear." His soft words startled her. He had a sweet medieval tone and it accented his silver tunic and tall wizard cap.

"I am sorry, I don't know it," she said as she blushed. She knew that she was not to be here, and the guilt began to rise in her cheeks.

"You're up to something aren't you?" he asked. His eyes never lost their sheen of delight. He never dropped his smile—In fact, it broadened.

Hermione smiled back.

"I didn't plan to be, Sir." She paused. "You see, I live in this tower, and I was curious to follow the staircase. I had no idea…"

"That Severus lived here as well?" He finished her sentence.

"Well… yes." She frowned, and looked down to her feet… or at least, where her feet should have been.

His mouth curled into another smile.

"Of course he does, my dear," he said. "He is talented, after all, isn't he?"

Hermione shot him a puzzled look, but smiled, thinking that she understood. Perhaps she had found someone at last, besides Dumbledore, who actually appreciated Professor Snape for what he was.

"Yes he is," she replied.

What did he mean by talented? Of course Snape was talented. You couldn't teach Potions without being talented. And he was, in fact, talented enough to play both sides of the war… yet, coming from an artist such as Leonardo da Vinci…

"Ah, but do you know just how talented?" He cocked his head to the side, his beard sliding against the silver and black embroidery of his chest.

Gesturing to hush, he pressed a finger to his lips.

He motioned for her to come closer. And as he did so, he became once more transparent.

Hermione stepped closer to da Vinci as he had instructed, letting go of the cloak as she did.

"You cannot go beyond the frame, my dear. But in return, he cannot hear you," he whispered to her from the enchanted wall.

"Mischief suits you, you know," da Vinci said through airy yawn. She was now so close that she could no longer appreciate his portrait. Yet, she wasn't afraid.

For beyond the new window was her Potions Master. And he moved to what she could only describe as the most marvelous piano she'd ever seen.

It's rich, warm wood was glazed and gleaming in the firelight, its open hood was facing her and branded with the Slytherin crest. The floor was so immaculate that the fire caused a blurred reflection of Snape at the bench.

His fingers deftly moved the pages of a blank songbook until she recognized his pointy scrawl in notes. Heavy black dots and lines created an intricate composition that she was anxious to hear.

Piling the invisibility cloak against her back, she leaned against the edge of the frame as he moved to strike the first chord.

And it was minor. Sweet, melodic… it moved. And it touched the next note like a catching fire. Building, burning, and erotically sad.

A chord, and it was rich. Tingling.

At once her eyes prickled and she felt the tears there as gooseflesh rose from her arms and legs.

Her breasts were pressed against her knees and she was all too aware of them as she watched.

The melody was painfully dark and deep. It hurt, it really did.

It cut and bled, and the piano moaned. Chord after chord and the little comforting notes between pulled a force stronger than gravity.

Snape's chest heaved and he swayed a little as he gripped for each key. Pressing his elegant fingers to each as if they would disappear and leave him with nothing.

He caressed them with such tenderness she thought she would snap in half if he were to touch her in the same manner. The pain of not knowing what it was that she needed made her all the more frustrated.

She was caught between anguish and arousal. Between anger that he could never treat her so tenderly, and compassion for the fact that he could only alleviate his demons through this gorgeous instrument.

And she was watching this, as she shouldn't be. And yet, it felt as though she was meant to be there with him. Just to see him, and to comfort him with her unknown presence.

He allowed a tear to slip then, past his deep-set cheeks, and she raised a hand to the invisible glass, pressing against the barrier—pretending to catch it with her fingertip.

It slid away from her.

This moment may have been her only chance to see a part of Snape that she had never been able to know.

And so she listened to the sonata in such a way that she was certain she would never forget.