Chapter Four

Severus paced the length of the conference room. It had pale cream walls and the odd, echoing quality of a room that had been extended by magical means. There was a dusty looking spider plant in the corner and a low table by the window with an instruction manual for the magical office furniture pre-sets. Otherwise, the room was empty.

He'd arrived early. It was somewhat ingrained to wish to survey the landscape and find the higher ground, even when dealing with a Muggle-born witch.

Especially when dealing with a Muggle-born witch.

Severus toyed with the scrap of paper still in his pocket. Was he doing the right thing? It wasn't as if there was anything inherently dangerous in flying, other than the obvious chance of falling, but it came with certain complications. Under normal circumstances, he would never have considered teaching it to anyone, least of all a witch he barely knew. Then again, when had circumstances ever been normal? His life was perhaps the most uneventful that it had been in many years, but that in itself was abnormal, and adjusting was hard. It was almost a relief when someone had finally requested he bestir himself on their behalf.

Hermione Granger. He'd spent the previous evening trying to recall what he could about the girl, but the brief time that she had been his student had been so overshadowed by the Dark Lord's imagined, imminent, then actual return, that she was reduced to little more than a handful of recollections of an earnest face, permanently placed beside that of Harry Potter. A hand raised to answer questions directed at other students, essays far longer than requested and the occasional storm of teenaged tears.

Oh, he knew that she had been instrumental in destroying the Dark Lord's Horcrux. Knew that she had been there as he had haemorrhaged on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, but, with a self-awareness born of long years of introspection, he chose not to examine either. Instead, another memory tickled the back of his mind: brewing cures to remove the fur from her face following a botched potion when she had been a little girl.

Severus could only hope that she had outgrown her tendency to try and run before she could walk. He certainly had no wish to be held accountable if she tried to fly before she knew how to land.

Realising that he had raised his hand to rub absently at the scar on his neck, Severus folded his arms tightly over his chest. This might be the first time he had acted as a teacher since Albus had died – certainly the first time he had ever attempted to teach anyone over the age of eighteen – but now was not the time to indulge in nervous tics. He'd need to be on top form if there was any hope that she might be persuaded to trust him.

Hermione had been uncertain about what to wear to a flying lesson, but she had a feeling that her usual robes and heels would be inappropriate. Jeans would have been her preference, but Muggle clothing always made her feel uncomfortable in the Ministry. In the end she settled for tailored black trousers and a blouse, together with a long Marks and Spencer cardigan that looked rather like an open fronted robe, if you squinted.

The hotel she had chosen was profoundly Muggle, but large and anonymous enough for her to Apparate from her room. She landed in the Atrium and made her way over to the guard to have her wand weighed. "I'm looking for the Tintagel suite?"

"Third door down, love," he smiled, handing back her wand. "Coffee and tea available on request. Jiffy is the house-elf on duty this morning; just call if you need anything."

"Thanks." Hermione smiled back, glad that she'd brought a bottle of water in her handbag. There was a good chance that Jiffy was a paid elf, left without a family after the war, but Hermione would never get over her qualms regarding Ministry-sanctioned slave labour.

She found the room easily. She half expected Snape to sweep in late as he had for their first Potions lesson, but he was already there, waiting with his arms crossed, his forehead creased in impatience. Hermione managed to resist the urge to check her watch and simply dropped her bag on the floor by the door.

"Flying as a magical discipline is a very rare and little studied branch of magic. As such there are many misconceptions about both it and those who practise it, the main being that it is one of the darker magics. Flying itself is a misnomer. The practise is more properly known as Volantis, one who flies, a Volanci. Flying and Volantis are as different as Legilimency is from the Muggle concept of mind reading."

Hermione listened in silence. She'd never thought to hear him lecture her again, and there was an almost visceral pleasure in hearing the once familiar rise and fall of his voice. The details of his survival had been sketchy when she had left to find her parents, and even Harry hadn't known the whole story. Even now, with his deepest secrets spilled along with his dying memories, Severus Snape still managed to be something of a mystery. Either the damage to his throat had not been as extensive as she'd believed, or the Healers had done a wonderful job when treating him.

"The associations with Dark magic have arisen because of the use of strong emotions in driving oneself through the air. Simply staying afloat can be incredibly draining to one's magical reserves. Hate or fear are easy ways of supplementing and reinforcing magic and were once relied upon in training. It's possible to use other emotive force – happiness, say – but they can be harder to maintain.

"I shall not be using emotions to teach you. We are not close and, although you may have some residual ill-feeling towards me from your time at Hogwarts, I doubt you would have asked me to teach you if you truly loathed or feared me. Instead I shall simply teach you the basics of the process; if you decide to use emotions to fuel your flight, that is up to you. Until then, expect to find Volantis a difficult and draining endeavour."

He pushed himself away from the wall and clasped his hands behind his back, every inch the former professor.

"Before we begin, there are some simple exercises I wish to take you through. If you would stand?"

He Vanished the leather office chair that she'd chosen from the catalogue and walked around her.

"Close your eyes," he instructed tersely. Hermione, expecting a rant about the ability to clear her mind, did as asked. "Now fall backwards."

"What?" she demanded, looking round.

"Close your eyes and allow yourself to fall backwards." Severus frowned at her. "I'm certain that this is a very basic Muggle technique."

Turning back, Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Fall, she told herself. Just fall. The very, very worst case scenario would be that he wouldn't catch her and she would land painfully on the flagstones. A cracked skull or bruised coccyx was easily mended, but she would have been made to look a fool.

"Miss Granger."

Hermione realised that she had balled her hands into fists. Forcing her fingers to relax and her arms to lie loosely at her sides, she let the breath slide from her lungs and fell backwards.

There was an awful moment of naked vulnerability as gravity took hold. Her stomach clenched and something just beneath her ribcage jolted, flooding her system with adrenalin.

How long did it take a person to fall? A second? Half a second? Less? It was long enough for Snape to decide whether he was going to catch her or not. It was long enough to determine whether she had made the right choice. It was long enough for her to worry that some magical survival instinct ought to have kicked in, shrugging off the demands of gravity on her behalf, halting her progress.

Was that what flying was? Refusing to fall by magical means? Was that what Snape was showing her?

Had she failed already?

Then a surprisingly strong pair of hands caught her and she was lowered gently to the floor.

Hermione could feel her cheeks burning, but she couldn't bring herself to open her eyes just yet. The floor was cold and hard beneath her, and she could feel the looming presence of her former professor at her head.

He helped her to her feet and waited patiently as she brushed herself down and tried to find some level of equilibrium. He moved across the room and turned to face her. Hermione had the strangest feeling that he was only moments away from bowing and assuming the stance of a dueller. Instead, he simply held his wand lightly at his side.

"Now, close your eyes and allow yourself to fall."

"But..." There was no way that he would be able to catch her where he stood. No way at all.

Feeling that she was missing something vitally important, Hermione closed her eyes and fell.

The horrible swooping feeling was there once more, as was the fear.

No hands were there to catch her this time. Instead, Hermione felt his magic reach out to firmly halt her progress. It wasn't the indignity of a Levicorpus, but neither was it the waftiness of a Wingardium Leviosa. It was as if she were being held in a steady, trusted embrace.

"We will be flying far above the ground, Miss Granger, testing what speeds and altitudes you can cope with. You need to be able to trust both myself and my magic to keep you safe."

Floating in the secure grip of his spellwork, Hermione reached out with magic of her own to test the stands of magic that held her. It was a delicate spell, as beautiful and intricate as spun glass, but with a steely strength that was unmistakable.

She opened her eyes to find him watching her closely as she examined the spell.

"I'll trust you," she agreed.

They practised falling until her heart was no longer pounding wildly in her chest. The constant adrenalin left Hermione flushed and sweaty, her clothes streaked with dust, but she felt more alive than she had done in weeks. By the time they stopped for lunch her hands were shaking and she was unable to manage more than a few bites of canteen salad. Come five o'clock, she was exhausted and elated in equal measure. She was so giddy that she misjudged the Apparition back to her hotel room and landed in the tiny bathtub, her fingers tingling with the pins and needles effect of a near-Splinch.

Being exceptionally Muggle, there was no Floo connection in the hotel, and Harry – like all people who aren't quite happy with modern technology – had his phone turned off. Hermione considered risking the jump to the Burrow, but arriving uninvited and unannounced at dinnertime would probably test even Molly's hospitality, especially if Hermione were to arrive minus a limb. Instead, she made her way across the car park to the chain pub opposite the hotel and chose her dinner from the specials board.

She wasn't certain why she was so unreasonably excited. She hadn't learnt how to fly. In fact, she hadn't performed a single spell, unless one counted the numerous Freshening Charms she'd flicked at her robes and face throughout the day. Snape hadn't shouted at her, which had been a pleasant surprise, but neither had he offered her any encouragement; each time she forgot her fears and fell, he simply had her repeat the exercise again. Yet Hermione couldn't help but feel she had accomplished something and that she was on the cusp of achieving far more.

Her dinner was rather good, and she was tempted to linger over pudding, but never having been comfortable dining alone, she decided to settle for a bar of chocolate in her room instead.

Hermione delayed calling her parents until just before she went to bed, but she could tell by the sleepy voice that answered the phone that it was still horribly early in Canberra.

"How did the interview go, poppet?" her dad enquired after a jaw cracking yawn. "Hang on, let me put you on speaker phone."

"Really well," Hermione replied. "I was shown my office there and then. I just have to undergo an assessment for them before I can begin."

Her mother's voice was muffled from across the room. "Did you tell them about the potion with the copra, darling?"

"They already knew. Apparently I'm a person of interest."

Hermione imagined the look her parents were exchanging – half proud, half concerned. She didn't like to tell them that she had catalogued some three hundred and eighty seven potions that made use of copra and had no idea which one they were thinking of.

"Any idea what the assessment will entail?"

Hermione took a deep breath. "They want me to learn how to fly."

Her parents were silent, and Hermione could imagine that look only too well. "But darling, I thought you hated flying. Worse than skiing – and that was after you crashed into that nice couple from Denmark."

"I know, Mum, but I've found a way that might just work. Professor Snape has agreed to teach me how to fly without a broom, just using magic alone."

"I always thought brooms were horribly clichéd, you know," Imogen Granger mused. "A little bit too Wicked Witch of the West."

"You know," her husband sighed, "if anyone is listening in on this conversation, they're going to think this is all some sort of bizarre code."

"Hang on a second," her mother interrupted. "Isn't Professor Snape the one everyone thought was dead? You had a bit of a thing for him, didn't you?"

"Only when I thought he was dead." Hermione laughed. "I wouldn't have had the nerve to fancy him to his face. Which, now I think about it, makes no sense whatsoever. He's a bit..." She paused as she considered how to describe her former teacher's rather dubious charms. "Intense," she finished lamely.

"You just be careful," her dad instructed. "And not just with the flying. I'm sure brooding heroes are all well and good when there's a war to be fought, but I'm certain they'd make lousy sons-in-law!"

"Daa-ad!" Hermione whined. "Mum, make him shut up!"

"You've not seen Hermione's stash of press cuttings, Malcolm. I'd be more than happy to have him round for Christmas."

"Mum! That's it, I'm going to bed. I'll call you soon, okay? Good night!"

Hermione settled back on her pillows, a silly grin on her face. Sharing the news that she was going to learn how to fly had made it seem more... real. More achievable.

She wriggled, trying to get more comfortable. She'd barely noticed at the time – being so caught up in the queasy, gut-churning sensation of letting herself become helpless, even if only for a second. Afterwards she had been too taken with the sensation of Snape's magic cradling her in the air to really dwell on it – but now, when she thought back to the morning spent together, she could still feel the warmth of his palms through her robes as he lowered her to the floor.

Her skin tingled in a way that had nothing to do with Splinching.