It seemed you could touch the silence of the room with your fingertips. The embers were glowing warmly in the fireplace, the hands of the clock were dancing slowly to the almost inaudible tune of a blizzard, the snowflakes were covering the barren ground. It was their time of the year. The waltz of snow dust was swirling through the grey silence of this quiet district, and the whole world with its sins and insecurities was following the music of winter.
Severus pressed his forehead to the cold glass and smirked: he was almost glad to see the coming snowstorm. That meant - she would be coming tonight. The mantelpiece clock chimed in comfortable silence and he looked around. It was his safe haven, his winter-solace, his inner sanctuary where he always waited for her. There was a desk with his endless research papers, a delicate china cup with cold jasmine tea inside and a usual book of world's classic. He could have been almost happy if not for her absence.
They met by accident during the usual memorial to those who died in that thrice-damned war, and he was suddenly struck by her absent appearance and lifeless eyes. He knew, of course, he knew about Ron's unfortunate demise during one of Auroros' raid for chasing remnant Death Eaters but there surely was more to that than just losing her school friend and former lover. She looked past him and muttered something incoherent, and left the memorial.
He found her several hours later, silently crying into the bunch of jasmine flowers and kneeling on the ground. He did not offer her words of sympathy, he offered her a universal remedy for everything: a cup of tea. She desperately agreed. And the fire was burning quietly, they talked for the first time in years and the tea in the delicate china was getting colder.
A thin blend from the most sophisticated masters, a twisted black tea-leaf, with each sip revealing all the new facets of an ancient, like the world itself, and always new taste - the drink not for everyone. For true connoisseurs. Severus brought the cup to his eyes, peering into the finest porcelain lace through which a soft amber color was visible. Just like her eyes once ... When his fingers drowned in the chestnut waterfall of her hair. When the eyes spoke many more than words. When the cold and unemotional cynic, which, presumably, he always had been, dropped his Occlumency and opened up for her.
"Do not go away!" she whispered, pleadingly. "Just stay with me for one more second"
Bright stars of London December shamelessly shone through the frosted window of his living room, her emberlike eyes pleaded him silently.
"I'm not leaving. Just going to make you some more tea. Do not be afraid"
Was he ... comforting her?
The stars outside the window became silent. And then there was tea, real oriental tea, which you will not find anywhere in the whole world, the tea with mint and spices. There were stars. There was December waltz. There were desperate whispers, gentle touches, burning kisses, piercing eyes, and winter. And minutes of eternity flowing into the impenetrable, dark night.
Severus could compare her with a cup of tea: burning, gloomy, with a slightly tangible bitterness. You won't understand the taste from the first sip, but the more you drink, the more you can not get enough. Cautiously, trying not to get burned. Taste not for everyone. Their very life was "not for everyone." Dance on the edge of the abyss. Running on the blade of a dagger. Brief meetings. Fleeting touches. Crossed sights. Sighs. Gestures. Her trembling hands.
"Stay with me, Severus."
"I'm not leaving, Hermione."
Tea and winter.
He could compare her with a cup of tea if he was prone to sentiment. They were rushing through life, trying to compensate for the endless empty years. Through emptiness and cold. Through other names. Through alien faces. Unfamiliar cities, so that once a year at Christmas ... She was a drop of blood on white snow. A spoonful of honey in scorching hot tea. A sophisticated addition to such a boring life. One zero in favor of life. A violin in his hands which brought out a melody, crying, tearing the silence of the night. Unspeakable words flowing quietly, music rushing overflowing, images flickering in consciousness and slowly settling into the silence of a frozen city.
She was his music. That woman. His woman. And in the room, there was a barely perceptible aroma of jasmine and mint tea. The snow had covered the noisy streets, hid the nudity of the pavements, quietly sank down to gray London, making it a little brighter. Everything was familiar and correct: a clock on the wall, a nascent snowstorm outside the window, and cooled tea. Severus' heart broke there, in that passionate bitterness of deserted nights and unspeakable words. The winter had come.
She turned the keys in his lock and entered softly. There would be a time when they would tell each other... For now... Well, he stepped outside the room to meet her halfway.
And they savored each other like their favorite blend of spiced tea.
The End.