A Duet Well-Played

CHAPTER FOUR

The next night found him, again, in his chambers, silently pondering the stone wall, this time with anticipation. His violin sat like an amber bird, spindly yet solid, awaiting his touch. The day had gone surprisingly quickly, evaporating in a steam of unimportant details as he thought of her playing the night before, as he reveled in the first, good night\'s sleep he had gotten in a long, long while. Ironically enough, he had taken his sleep in the crevice of his wall and floor. He shook his head, running his fingertips along the horsehair of his bow, testing the flexibility of a familiar tool. As the first note sounded from beyond the wall, he looked up, smiled. Picking up his violin, he listened for a moment, poised as he was with the instrument beneath his chin, and readied his bow. Ah, Mozart tonight. Steadying his posture, he breathed in deeply through his nose, and on his exhale, brought his bow to meet the strings, releasing a steady hum of harmony to her own note behind the stone wall. Playing along with her, they got through most of a movement before she noticed his presence. He felt her stop, her bow wavering, and turn towards his wall. He could almost see the expression of curious wonder on her face as she questioned, \"Did I just hear.?\" In a moment, the music continued, this time Bach again, a concerto. He picked up beside her, the song of the violin ringing out in melodious tune with her fine playing. He heard the music waver as she realized he had started again, but she was quick to recover her surprise, and through the tone, he could hear her excitement. They continued this way, well on into the night, as the duet rang on through the muffled halls of Hogwarts, separated by a stone wall, yet in all things, completing one another so perfectly.

In the small hours of the morning, as they finished a tune, both panting and exhilarated, she paused, before sounding one long, low note of obvious thanks to him, before closing up her cello. He smiled from the other side of the wall, replacing his violin into his worn case, letting his hand pass along the wall in a signal of unseen affection. Whether she could tell it was he or not, he was glad they had played together. Perhaps, someday, they would play in the same room as one another. Smiling and shaking his head, he retired to sleep soundly once again with visions of her breathless from exhilaration dancing in his head.

She took a moment outside the practice room to steady herself. The hallway was cold and dark compared to the intimate setting in which they had shared their music. She stopped herself from smiling too broadly, sneaking sideways glances at the door that led to his chambers. \'Of course it was him,\' the thought seemed desperate, \'there\'s no one else who lives down here. And only he could play the violin with such obvious feeling.\' She imagined him, broodingly bent over his instrument, his posture straight and bowing arm flying, his long, thin fingers working over the neck of the violin, playing in rhythm, in harmony with her, and she suddenly felt the unmistakable flush of arousal. They had shared something intimate, something deeply personal and exclusive to he and she. Smiling at his door, she turned to walk back to her own rooms with a light heart.

The next morning, she stood outside on the Hogwarts grounds, feeling the rush of cold air through her small front lawn enclosure, where she stood drinking coffee and watching the sun sparkle on the snow. Her thoughts were on the previous night, and her surprise at finding a musical soulmate in the teacher she had considered her soulmate in all else for a long while. Hugging herself, she pondered whether to ask him to join her this evening, to actually play together, as opposed to through a stone wall. With a resolved sigh, she turned, and went into her rooms to prepare for the day of study.

At night, full of new knowledge and the anticipation of hearing him play again, she hurried to her chambers to change into more comfortable clothes. She hummed idly as she dressed, and walked down the stone hallway to the doorway that led into her practice room. She paused there, her hand frozen on the doorknob, willing herself to face him. In truth, it would be a simple request, from one musician to another, to join her, to duet face to face, able to hear without the muffling wall, the true interweaving of their combined notes. But then, the very visceral crux of the question itself (would you care to join me?) would be posed to a man fond of his solitude, who\'s biting criticism and vicious perfectionism made him a strange companion to spend the evening with. Shaking off her fear of rejection, she gathered her cello and bownninnning her fingertips over the burnished golden wood and taking strength from the familiar curves of the neck of the instrument, and stood resolutely outside the door to his chambers, her hand raised to knock.

The knock came as a surprise to him, to say the least. He sat again in his comfortable chair, musing on the wall, the fire forgotten, awaiting the first tremulous sound of a note from behind the wall. He had looked foreward to it all day, in fact, imagining, upon seeing her pale face at the breakfast table, that she radiated the sweet tones from her very skin. Their encounter the night previous had left him exhilarated, and more than a little pleased at their remarkable compatibility as musicians. In all honesty, he was out of breath for more than the mere exhilaration of finding a partner to play with, but the thought of her beauty and elegance, as the vision of her pale arm as she extended it to bow, excited him to a level beyond arousal. A woman, many years his junior, still,, a woman with the same personal intensity as his own, a vital beauty that often left him speechless, and the shining talent and imagination that could only be expressed through the miraculous playing that ate away at him throughout the day, working it\'s way into his chest and squeezing. Hard.

He longed to watch her while they played, to see her expression as he matched her, ttch tch the graceful curve of her neck as she wrought the clean, clear notes from the depths of what could only be her very soul. Perhaps, he thought, he would knock on her door, invite her to join him, implore her, cajole her. He was unable to contain a smile at the desperate wish he had to see her. As her teacher, he had been a cold and bitter man, but their slight friendship had begun to take place towards the end of her time as a student. He recalled those days well, working feverishly to develop the thesis, gathering data from their groundbreaking work, and the pleasantness of their brief interactions. Perhaps, perhaps, they could regain that closeness through their music. Perhaps, he dared to hope, they could cultivate a more personal relationship if they were to play together... At that moment, the knock sounded, startling him out of his reverie

CHAPTER FIVE.

When the large, heavy oak door swung open, it took her a moment to compose herself. He stood before her in a room well lit with lanterns, smelling of a faintly old fashioned chemical smell, as well as the faint whiff of herbs from a shelf of potted plants next to the large, French door, wrought iron windows that opened onto a magicked terrace. Soft, familiar music sounded throughout the room, and she noted a muggle stereo system in the corner on a cluttered table of cds. He was dressed in casual slacks, black, with a dark brown sweater over a white collared shirt. She had seen him in casual dress only a few times before, during her apprenticeship to him, when they worked late hours. It was always a thrill, especially when, like now, he donned the silver framed glasses, that shined softly illuminating his black eyes and softening his features somewhat. She smiled at him slightly, and was relieved to see him smile back, if somewhat tentatively. It was then that she recognized the music that played as one of Dante\'s operas.

\"Miss Granger, do come in.\" Ever formal, he ushered her in. She recalled the days when he had been a cruel, harsh man, accepting only the best from his pupils. Then, there had been a war coming. Since then, the defeat of the dark lord had softened his disposition a great deal. With the death of the evil wizard, he was released from the perpetual pain and gloom that had pervaded his life. He was no longer compelled to prepare his students to be ready to survive a long and gruesome fight. She thought that kindness suited him, but she was glad that it made it\'s appearance rarely still. He was still the sly, bitter man he had been before, only now his humor made it\'s presence known occasionally, and his harsh cruelty was no longer present in the halls or classrooms. He was, in fact, a solitary, stern man. And now, he was offering her a seat. She leaned her cello against the wall, trailing her fingers over a standing globe as she went to the chair he indicated. \"Professor, I was wondering,\" He looked at her with slightly disguised interest, \"Sir, I was hoping that, perhaps, tonight we might play face to face?\" He seemed amused, \"I will admit that the stone walls do little to amplify the music in between rooms, Miss Granger. I\'m glad you asked, I would have done so myself tonight. Please, I would be honored if you would join me in a duet this evening.\" She smiled at him, and caught the slight startle at her smile.

When she smiled, he felt his heart jump. She was gorgeous in the light from the fire and lanterns, flickering gold off of her skin, and the red of her sweater set off the blush of her cheek, the fire of her hair. She was glancing down now, at her hands, pleased at his acceptance to her proposal. He felt a gravity-like pull to her, and, resisting it, he cleared his throat, and rose to gather his instrument. Few words had been exchanged, and few arrangements were necessary. He stood, and sat at a cushioned stool he had provided for her. They shared a nervous energy. It was partially the enormity of playing with a matched musician, finally in the same room, and partially something else. A growing attraction was present in the room, slowly becoming too large for either of them to ignore, but too young to be cultivated as of yet. Together, they worked out a playlist on a roll of parchment he had gathered from his desk, and he placed it on a music stand before them. He rummaged around in his shelves before emerging with some of the sheet music that they might need, and spread it around the room to refer to. Then the paused, bows ready, looking at one another. \"I\'m glad for this, professor.\" \"Call me Severus.\" And they played.

The result of two musicians who have studied intently, practiced diligently, and have become matched in their playing, is a beautiful combination. When those two musicians share a passion that belies their solitude, when they are two individuals who shine among their peers, as scholars, old souls, and searchers of truth and light and beauty, when they have weathered strife together, share a deep, mutual respect, if secret, and if they possess a magnetic attraction to one another, their music will be something else entirely. Their music that night resounded in his chambers, echoing the notes that had been written and imagined by scores of composers, as their pure form, their most passionate, and infused with grace, elegance, and passion. Their playing, excellent in order to match one another, was symbiotic in nature, giving and receiving. It was sad, it was joyful, it spoke of avenues in Paris, ripe with golds and rich gowns, where the sun beat down on the Victorian lords and ladies. It spoke of deep, green plains of damn grass, stretching endlessly into a blue sky, and the subtle curve of a woman, touched by a hand on that feminine hip. In one night, their instruments created a world of human and wizard love, history, existence, that seemed to almost be beyond the creation of any written music, transcending the sphere of human abilities, to become something that could only occur between these two individuals.

At the end of the evening, when the morning hours were small and dark, they paused in their bowing. Stretching of arms and fingers signaled their fatigue, and a comfortable silence stretched through the warm room. Severus sat, replacing his violin on the table, and turned to look at her, for the hundredth time thinking of how beautiful she was, stilling his thoughts on how much he would have loved to lay her down across the soft rug beneath them and explore the contoured plains of her body. Her mind and her playing excited him most. He dared to dwell on the concept of intimacy with someone he admired, coveted for her intelligence and talent, her amazing passion that was slowly revealing itself to him the more he heard her play. He thought of the noises she might make when he touched her, on her throat, on her hip, on the tender expanse below her breast.

\"Thank you for playing with me. You were wonderful.\" Her soft voice filtered his revery. \"It was my pleasure, and I must extend my own gratitude. I don\'t often have the opportunity to play with anyone, let alone a musician so matched to my own skill.\" She blushed at his words, smiling again. \"I recall a night when I was dining with the headmaster during your seventh year, when he told me of your playing. In truth, I had been shocked. I know of no other wizard who plays. It is the curse of our race that we reject even the most marvelous truths that have been born from our species.\" Hermione thought of the tumultous existance of the human race, reflecting on the music they had just created, together. \"I feel the same about the discovery of your talent, Severus,\" she responded, revelling in her ity ity to refer to him in his first name. \"Yes, well, I believe we share that privateness that accompanies our music.\" He smiled and she felt her stomach flip over. It was a wry, half smile, and one she had seen often enough when he would grace the class with his high humor. It never failed to make her chest siese up, and her throat constrict.

They continued talking that night, late enough to glimpse the lightness of morning through the french doors. Beyond their fatigue, they held curiosity about one another, and a desire for knowledge, and to share. As the night wore on, the conversation turned from more philisophic topics to the more personal. They shared misconceptions revealed to one another, and pondered on their mutual love for things so similar. As they continued, the subject of Shakespeare arose, only to discover their equal adoration for the plays, mostly the darker ones, with a few comedic exceptions. Severus jokingly adorned her with the name \"hermia,\" a name so ill placed upon her frame, that the concieted namesake seemed almost to sneer beyond the confines of her fictitiousness. Hermione could never be confined to the melodramatic comedy angenouges of shakespear; niether Helena nor Hermia fit her disposition. But Hermia, he had said, with sudden seriousness, was said to have a gift of beauty so rare, that even the Queen of the Fairies showed an inkling of jealousy. She had blushed, and he had called her by that name ever since, as ill fitting as it was in all else but her beauty. Still, it was melodic, harmonious, it rolled off his tongue easily both in adressing her, only in private, and when he spoke her name aloud while alone, feeling it resonate within him. Also, it rebirthed her in his eyes. She was no longer the irritating child pupil, Miss Granger, officially separate and beyond walls of stature and age; In her place was Hermia, or Hermione at times, the scholar, the musician, the poet and philosopher, the comrade and contemporary, as well as the achingly beautiful, sweetly sensual, maddeningly charming woman. And each night after she left, smiling softly at him and closing the door with a click, it was her womanliness that still remained with him.