This is a birthday fic to the always awesome, delightful, and kind TheFrenchPress, whose birthday on the 28th.
I will be posting a chapter every other day, until their birthday.
Something to look forward to and cheer her through the next ten days!
Enjoy love.
Biggest shout out to my beta CorvusDraconis who not only pecked this into shape, made great jokes in the notes, and kept me motivated, but made the moodboard for me too! Corvus got out the drawing tablet and the glove for me, which is a big deal! You may not know how big a deal, but it is.
I am so bad at moodboards, I try so hard, but art is not my thing as much as words are.
The gravel crunched under his feet as he made his way along the familiar lane. The spring sunlight warmed his back as he leisurely strolled along. There would still be enough afternoon light for what he wished to do, and if he was lucky, he'd have the whole golden hour to work. As the striking marble columns of his destination came into view, Severus quickened his pace.
St. Walter's Botanical Gardens and Museum of Fine Arts was not more than three blocks from where Severus currently lived and worked. He'd moved to the outskirts of Aberdeen nearly three years previous, after the gruelling two-year recovery from the war that had included not one, but two trials in which his life hung in the balance. Once his life was truly and finally his own, he dismissed any ideas of returning to teaching and used what money he had from selling his childhood home and savings to purchase a shoppe with two apartments above it.
The Cauldron and Cork did well enough, and Severus was still frugal as ever, meaning he did not have to rent out the 2nd-floor apartment above his living space. Instead, he'd turned it into his art studio.
If anyone had told him that he had any artistic talent five years ago, he would have snarled at them until they recanted their words and turned fleeing from him. But, as fate would have it, it appeared he did possess some skill—skill that had only come to the surface when he'd been forced to find a way to retrain his hands in a way that did not have the potential of blowing him up.
The vile serpent's venom was a neurotoxin, he'd known this long before ever being bitten. As such, it had done substantial damage to his entire nervous system, stealing from him precious control of his body. It had affected his hand-eye coordination, fine motor skills, and for a while even his gross motor skills. The esteemed Potion's Master had gone from fluidity and grace to a potion's disaster, a danger to himself and others in a way that Finnigan could have only dreamed of.
It had been Longbottom, of all the wretched people on the surface of the globe, who had suggested he try drawing—not anything overly complicated, he said, but perhaps try drawing some of his potions ingredients or even a chair. At first, Severus had plainly ignored the man, paying no mind to the pencil and sketch pad laid on his bedside table. However, one night when the castle was quiet, and he cursed the tremble in his primary hand, Severus decided to give it a try. If for no other reason to tell Longbottom he was an idiot in the morning when he returned since it would inevitably fail.
The diagram of a thistle flower he was trying to recreate from memory was a disgrace.
It looked as if a toddler had scribbled across the page.
But—
His hand stopped shaking the longer he tried to put the image from his mind onto the page. Severus told himself that was the reason he had continued at first, not because he had found some peace in it. And he never once gave Longbottom the satisfaction of knowing he'd taken his advice. It was his own private physical therapy, the only one ever knowing of it being the matron of the hospital wing.
He politely ignored all her questions about it, and she got the hint quickly that he did not want it discussed. It was only due to his invalid status at the time that he had to force himself to ask Minerva, the only blasted person in the castle with a modicum of discretion, for more supplies when his resources ran out.
Instead of being bored in the long hours of the night when his insomnia would prevent him from the rest his body wanted, or cross when nightmares would shake him from his slumber, rasping and sweating, Severus drew. He had started from memory but found it was much easier to draw an object if it, or a picture of it, was in front of him. Severus requested several books to use as references, his coordination getting better by the night.
Over the last few months of his recovery, he'd developed the skill as best he could without tutelage, and what he drew began to look more like what he was attempting to put on the page.
When he'd moved out on to his own, Severus continued the hobby, even though his hands were once again still and sure. He'd gotten books to help him understand more of the fundamentals, and had even taken a handful of classes at a small local studio, 'Graffiti'. It was run by a half-blood graduate of Grey's School of Art, so it had magical and muggle clientele, which made Severus uncomfortable at first. Dread from how he would be treated bubbled in his guts, but he went despite that. It was to his fortune that he was treated just as every other student who attended. His reputation was not so tarnished here as it was in London, where everyone swore on the Prophet like it was a holy text. In the port city, everyone seemed more interested in what he was doing now, instead of what he'd done before this. Severus felt comfortable enough that he'd frequented the art studio and its club, and it had proved valuable in helping him make some business contacts he would not otherwise have, as he worked on getting his shoppe open for business.
After The Cork and Cauldron had opened two years ago, he'd been invited to a social event hosted by the art club that he would have normally declined, except it was being held at the locale museum. He would have never known St. Walters existed if he'd not been invited to the party. It simply was not somewhere he would have ever presumed to have checked. The stately building sat tucked between residential buildings along a street away from the main drag.
Severus considered it a major part of its charm. It was never crowded, or loud, unless there was a gala or new exhibit, and he would tolerate the noise on those rare occasions. The art club usually hosted them, and that meant he would not be bothered or frowned upon if he simply sat sketching in the corner for most of the event.
Stepping into the building, the smell of ageing varnish and clean stone greeted his senses. He let out a soft breath, a sense of serenity befalling him as he crossed the threshold. He pulled his sketchbook out of the breast pocket of his jacket, along with his pencil case. Today, he would sketch the statues in the internal exhibit and then make his way out to the garden when the light was just right.
Just as he was about to turn the corner between the exhibits, Severus froze in place. A familiar crown of brown curls stalled him.
Impossible.
What on earth was Hermione Granger doing here?
Had she somehow known he was going to be here?
Was she going to attempt to force some entreaty upon him to do some task to save the Wizarding World again? He hoped she had a backup plan as he would not be doing anything of the sort.
The gentle peace within him was ground out under his irritation.
How dare she invade his solitude, his peace, his museum!
Well, maybe not his, but he came here first, and that accounted for much in his mind.
Severus tucked himself along the wall, observing her whilst keeping an ear out for the other two parts of the group he knew had to be with her. They never moved alone. He had known early on that Granger, Weasley, and Potter were like pack hunters, and he had no intention of being caught unawares by either of the wizards.
Granger stood in place, unmoving from her position. She was dressed smartly, which he supposed was better than he'd expected, with a leather satchel over her shoulder and a covered cup in her hand. Her chin was tilted up, and from this angle, he could barely discern one of her eyes fixated on the piece of art in front of her. Severus followed her gaze, noticing that the new marble relief fascinated her on the wall. He couldn't recall the artist's name, but he knew the subject was Ophelia's death scene from Hamlet. The sculpture's face was peaceful, and she was adorned with flowers like a crown around her head.
His eyebrow rose as he realized it had captivated the brightest witch of her age. It was a beautiful work of art, Ophelia appeared realistic in her repose as if she were flash-frozen into the marble at the concluding moment of her life. Severus wondered what the appeal of it was to Granger.
Black eyes traced over the woman again. Out of habit, he started to break down her form into shapes, lines, colours, and contrast. Granger was a myriad of contrasts, wild hair and proper business attire. Severus wanted to draw, and since he was waiting her out to make her move, she would be his subject matter. Otherwise, he would get immersed in his work and potentially miss her approach. He flipped open to a new page, no longer perceiving the bane of his existence for a moment, but another work of art, another subject to try his hand at.
Some of his irritation faded with the soft sound of the lead against the paper, the satisfaction of the curve of her chin coming out just right. Before he knew it, he had a completed sketch of her starting at the relief, and she'd not moved an inch. Glancing at his watch, he realized he wasted a great deal of time, and growled under his breath. He considered his options. He could approach her, shake her intent out of her, and then continue his plans for the afternoon, or he could simply go home and come back tomorrow. Rolling his eyes, he knew that any conversation with her would not be short and would likely foul his mood more. With a great huff, he closed his sketchbook, tucking it and his pencil case away as he made the sounder of the two options and decided to retreat to his home.
There would always be tomorrow, he told himself as he passed through the double doors and out onto the lane. And tomorrow, Hermione Blasted Granger wouldn't be there.
Severus stopped for curry on his way home, using that as a means to cheer him from his interrupted routine. Once home, he cast away the whole near encounter, checking on brews before climbing the stairs to his apartment to relax with a glass of wine and a good book.
Unfortunately, Severus had been wrong.
When he walked into St. Walters the next day, he was met with the same scene again. Hermione Granger, with a cup of what he assumed was tea, stood in different clothing as she stared up at the Ophelia relief.
Supposing she was there for the new exhibit as some part of a Ministry something or other, he turned heel and when home again, frustrated that his plans were foiled again.
And then she was there the third day in a row, the same place, the same pose.
Part of him wanted to be angry, part of him wanted to ball up his fist, clench his jaw, and march over to her demanding answers for her repeated invasion. The other side of him was less aggressive in its desires. Granger had grown up considerably in the last few years, her form no longer that of an awkward teenager, but of a young lady—one whose hair he'd not been able to get right the first time he'd attempted to sketch her invasive presence in his museum.
The drive for perfection won out over his ire, and he leaned against the wall again, opening his sketchbook to put her down on paper again. There was something entrancing about her hair; it almost seemed alive of its own accord, and he wanted to translate that into lines and shape. Soft lines made up her face, the roundness of youth not completely gone from her cheeks, but her chin was sharper.
Before he knew it, he had completed the first sketch. He was unsatisfied with it, and he turned a second sheet, sketching out the details of her hair over her shoulder, the barest hit of a profile behind it.
Granger adjusted on her feet, the first movement he'd noticed from her, and he quickly snapped his sketchbook close as he noticed she was going to turn around. It was shoved hastily away as her brown eyes met his, an expression of surprise on her features. She moved as if she were going to cross the room to greet him.
He had two obvious choices, speak with her, or leave with haste, and act as if he'd not seen her. Exhaling with annoyance, he turned heel and marched away, distinctly ignoring the quiet call of his former title as he made haste. He had little issue drawing the woman, but talking to her was a Grindylow of a different lake.
Severus took a completely different route home, doubling back a few times to make sure she'd not followed him before he entered his home above The Cork and Cauldron.
He collapsed into his armchair with a defeated sigh.
Maybe tomorrow, Granger will not be there. Severus sighed, knowing he would not be so lucky now that he'd been spotted.