FÜR ELISE

The small crowd of mourners moved slowly out of the cemetery. They looked like a small herd of drug-addled geese, when they crossed the village green and filtered, one by one, into the pub.

It had been an awkward ceremony: Hermione was the only child, and she hadn't seen her parents very often. After her father had died five years ago, she had taken to visiting her mother more frequently, but old Ms Granger's Alzheimer had been a severe case. If she was honest to herself, Hermione couldn't really claim to have known her parents very well, and her mother's death had come as a great relief to them all.

She was glad that Harry and Ron had found it in themselves to attend the funeral, and she was especially grateful to Minerva McGonagall, who had insisted on coming, because of fond memories of her two or three visits to the Grangers' home. The group was completed by the old lady who occupied the room next to Hermione's mother at the nursing home, and by the nurse who'd been appointed to accompany her.

The old lady wasn't a problem, insofar as contact with magical folk was concerned, because – as the nurse informed the others – she'd been regularly spotting UFOs in the park. A slip of the tongue wasn't likely to evoke her interest, and if it did, nobody was going to believe her anyway.

And as for the nurse, the magical participants had agreed that a small Obliviate wouldn't do any harm.

As so often happens after funerals, the atmosphere soon became quite animated – although now in their fifties, Harry, Ron and Hermione still shared fond memories of their schooldays together, and the presence of two former teachers, even though one of them was now married to Hermione, somehow reduced them all to giggling students.

After draining her pint and refusing lunch, the nurse prepared to wheel her charge back to the vehicle that had brought them there. She didn't even flinch when Severus directed a discreet memory charm at her turned back.

And then, the five were alone and finally able to talk freely.

They had lunch, and a few drinks, and when the pub closed, Hermione invited Harry, Ron and McGonagall back to the Snapes' flat in Diagon Alley. With a few bottles of wine waiting on the sideboard and nibbles on the coffee table, the five reclined comfortably on their chairs and kept on talking.

Content to sit next to her husband, sipping at her glass of red wine, Hermione allowed herself to withdraw from the general conversation, the better to contemplate the people she loved most. Thirty years had been enough to, if not eliminate, at least assuage the animosity between her husband and her two best friends. They had married late, only ten years ago – in fact, their tenth anniversary was due in three weeks – when the ocean of time had already polished the sharp rocks of resentment to flat, round pebbles. Her two boys weren't Snapes friends and never would be, but the three of them got on well enough. Life was good.

And now that her parents were no more… Oh, it was a hideous thought, the thought of a vulture waiting to claim a dead body… But she'd coveted it for so long, and now it was hers, finally hers!

'I wonder,' Hermione said into a brief lull in the general conversation, 'where we're going to put the Steinway Grand…'

Her husband took her shoulders in a fond grasp. 'I'm sure we'll find the perfect place.'

It didn't quite qualify for Famous Last Words, but it was close enough.


Chop-chop-chop-chop went the silver knife, exactly twice every second. Tok-tok-tok-tok went the exactly identical slices of arrowroot, as they fell though the hole in the chopping board and into the copper bowl underneath, two pieces every second.

Tee-di-tee-di-tee-di-daa-di-daaaa went the Steinway Grand, the last daaaa landed, lopsided, on C sharp instead of C. A short pause, then a violent discord, caused by a fist coming down on the keys, and a string of impressive, if unladylike, swearwords.

Severus gritted his teeth and grabbed the next arrowroot.

Chop/tee-chop-chop/di-tee-chop/di-chop/tee-di-daa-chop/di-chop-chop-chop/daaaaa. C sharp again.

Severus carefully wiped the knife, set it down on the chopping block and counted to fifty. Then he left his laboratory and, steps quickening, tried to reach the living room before his wife's next attempt.

Tee-di-tee-di-tee

He flung the door open. Hermione, hair sticking in all directions and a half-hunted, half-guilty look on her face, raised her head from the keyboard.

'Why?' was all he said.

'Because I've always wanted to play this piano!'

'But why butcher "Für Elise" for six weeks running? It must be mincemeat by now, and Beethoven must be spinning in his grave so fast that he's developed a gravitational field as strong as the sun's!'

'All beginners play "Für Elise",' she replied, trying for dignity.

'If it had been meant for beginners,' Severus retorted, sounding calmer than he felt, 'dearest Ludwig would have titled it "Für Anfänger". But he named it "Für Elise", and-'

'Suggest something then,' Hermione snapped, 'if you're such an expert!'

'Bach's first two-part invention,' Severus shot back and returned to his lab in a whirl of black robes.


It was still early in the morning, the sun had just cast a first glance over the roofs of Diagon Alley and was highlighting the upper half of the bedroom window curtains. They were a rich, creamy golden beige, and the light that fell into the room was soft and mellow.

Hermione stretched and yawned. A smile spread over her face when she felt her husband's hand caressing her flank. 'That was very good early-morning sex, my darling.'

'If you say so…' Eyes hooded, he grinned at her. 'I was still half asleep, I really didn't notice.'

'Filthy liar,' she said. 'You just want to do it again!'

'In five minutes, provided you'll still be interested.' He snuggled close to her, rubbing against her arse. 'You know,' he said after a while, 'it's strange that hands can be so talented when it comes to sex, and so cruel when it comes to Bach.'

The repeat performance was cancelled due to indisposition of the male protagonist.


'It's an outrage!'

'What exactly is an outrage, my darling?' Severus inquired, looking up from the formula he was writing.

'They're re-allowing a certain quota of elephants to be shot in Kenya! I can't believe it! Those greedy, disgusting bastards! Nothing is important to them, nothing but money, and they don't care about those beautiful, majestic animals! I'm going to… I'm going to try Voodoo dolls, really I am.'

'Darling,' Severus said, 'you know, don't you, that the keys of your beloved Steinway Grand are made of ivory?'

It had been worth the attempt, he told himself, while he was carefully mending the pages of his notebook.


'The baby's due at Christmas,' Harry said glumly. 'You know what that means, don't you? I'll have to spend Christmas at the Burrow, with three overexcited boys who want to see their new sister, and a mother-in-law who won't stop fussing…'

'Why don't you come over to our place?' In her enthusiasm Hermione stirred her coffee so violently that half of it was slopped on the saucer. 'It would be lovely! You and Severus could take the boys to Hogsmeade for a game of Quidditch and afternoon tea, so I'd have enough time to prepare dinner. Oh, and we could sing carols! It's still five weeks till Christmas, so I can practise – I'll go up to the attic straight away and look for my mother's old songbook!'

Molly Weasley was most gratified to have Harry and his brood over for Christmas.

Still, Severus refused to sing along to his wife's not overly recognizable version of "Silent Night, Holy Night". His muttered 'If only it were silent!' went unheard, which was lucky, because being hit over the head with 10 pounds of frozen turkey doesn't make for a pleasant Christmas atmosphere.


Master Pavel looked even older than Severus had anticipated. His exterior was that of a benign mummy; only the eyes, blacker even than Severus's, were piercing and lively amidst their maze of wrinkled skin.

'Vas difficult to find my house, eh?' he rasped when a slightly exhausted Severus rapped on his door. 'Is verry tricky city, Praha, verry tricky. Come in, come in! My vife has the coffee ready.'

Severus followed him into a… room wasn't quite the right word for it, den would probably have expressed it better. Every surface was cluttered, even the ceiling, from which hung paintings, musical instruments of every form and shape, cured hams and, as a centrepiece, an enormous wreath of garlic.

'Verry important, the garrlick,' said Master Pavel, following Severus's astonished stare at this pièce de résistance. 'Verry important, Praha full of vampires.

His wife, a tiny woman, her spine so bent with age that she barely came up to Severus's elbow, served the coffee on a silver tray and withdrew instantly.

'So,' said Master Pavel. 'You haff come for your spell, eh? Vas impossible to craft it yourself, eh? Verry difficult, musical spells, verry difficult. And' – his lips parted in a wide smile that showed his toothless gums – 'verry expensive. Mozart's son vanted to buy one, poor boy, he vanted to be composer so much, poor Franz Xaver, vanted to be as great as his father…'

'I suppose it didn't work quite as expected,' Severus said politely.

'Not vorrk? My spell not vorrk?'

'I beg your pardon. That was a very unfortunate remark, Master Pavel. So what happened to Franz Xaver Mozart?'

'Unfortunate,' the old wizard grumbled, 'verry unfortunate indeed. He couldn't afford it, poor boy, vith all his father's money, couldn't afford it!'

'I, erm, was under the impression that the price was five hundred British Galleons,' Severus ventured.

'Forr little spell to make vife pianist, yes, fife hundred galleons, yes.' Master Pavel leaned over and patted Severus's knee with a claw-like hand. 'But forr making music genius from boy with little talent, ah, vould have cost fortune! Forrtune, I say.'

'Oh, that's all right then,' Severus said and took a sip of coffee. He couldn't afford to offend his host and business partner again after his unfortunate lapse with Franz Xaver's spell, and so he swallowed the tar-like brew with as much equanimity as he could muster.

The rest went into a potted plant, though, when Master Pavel turned his back to rummage for the spell Severus had ordered.

'Vill play like Rubinstein, the lady, vill play like Beethoven himself! I heard him, I must know. Verry nasty guy, verry nasty, but grreat musician.'


The spell worked as promised.

Hermione was very happy, and so was Severus. They both wrote a letter of thanks to Master Pavel.

Unfortunately the old Master had forgotten to mention that the spell didn't last forever. And so, the public that had crowded into Carnegie Hall to hear Hermione Snape, late prodigy and diva assoluta, play Beethoven's piano concerto no.5, was very astonished indeed when, after the tempestuous start of the third movement, the music suddenly petered out.

Tee-di-tee-di-tee-di-daa-di-daaaaa. Daaaa on C sharp.

The critics didn't quite know what to write.