Chapter 4 - The Prima Ballerina's Solo

Pas de Deux

Chapter 4 – The Prima Ballerina's Solo

It is much too quiet. It could be my imagination but I am positive that there is an almost perfect silence. Even the neighbours appear to be unusually subdued. There seems to be nothing stirring in the heart of winter but I know better. I took a walk outside after dinner in the garden at the back and I couldn't hear a thing. It was as if time had stopped – but it couldn't have, as the neighbours turned on their lights at that time. It is extremely disconcerting not to hear the nosy neighbour's radio tuner or the telly. I couldn't hear a cough or my footsteps in the snow. The air has been heavy and stagnant since the morning. Nothing seems to be willing to stir; it is as if everyone, muggle and wizard alike – could feel in their hearts that something is amiss, that something is about to happen. The muggles may not know what it is, but I do. I have been nursing this general sense of foreboding ever since I started my seventh year at Hogwarts. Whatever happens today or tonight, time is irrelevant now – whatever happens, it will have far reaching ramifications for all of us; I can feel it. I know how it is, for I am at Number 12 Grimmauld Place awaiting the outcome of what the Order of the Phoenix hopes will truly be the real final battle. There had been a skirmish last year where we lost Tonks and a few others; and though Voldemort's forces had been cut back, he is still strong. I earnestly hope that the strength of Voldemort and his Death Eaters will fail them today and that it will all be over tonight. I am unable to participate this time because my left arm is broken. So here I am three days before Christmas – waiting in the kitchen with my books and broken arm while Crookshanks explores the attic.

Dobby is around, somewhere, cleaning and whatnot. I am proud to say that Professor Dumbledore agreed to pay him an extra galleon a week for cleaning Grimmauld Place. Kreacher, bless his little neglected heart, was found dead in the attic in June last year; in all likelihood, he had starved himself to death, but no one seemed to care.

I looked at the clock and realised that it has been almost twelve hours since they left for Voldemort's latest den and I am worried. My arm hurts less now than it did in the morning. Everyone was very kind about it when it was apparent that they did not have the time to heal me. Professor Snape alone did not seem pleased with my insistent pleas that I was able to join them. If I didn't know better, I would say that he deliberately broke my arm in a roundabout manner. He had told me once before the winter school break that he did not want me exposeing myself to dangers I knew nothing of. He had reasoned that Harry would have tried to protect me as he did Ron last year. And Ron – Ron, had died in the end, despite Madam Pomfrey's care. On hindsight, I can see his point of view, having reflected on it for the last few hours. However, I was so infuriated then that I called him a two-headed snake. I didn't mean it, of course, but he thought I did and retreated to his chambers leaving me to finish my NEWTs potions project for the night alone and unsupervised. The stalemate lasted a week in which we neither spoke nor acknowledged each other's presence. I was embarrassed and I gathered that he was understandably hurt. When I tried to apologise, his eyes momentarily pierced my soul and I found myself speechless with something I still cannot describe. He surprised me by apologising instead. Professor Snape is the kind of man who will not hesitate to say "I am wrong"; it takes great courage to admit to that, doubly so, given his disposition. Lately, he and I seem to be frequently arguing over these inconsequential things and I don't know why.

Professor Snape had not spoken to me in the last two days even though I know he has been watching me intently. I found it odd that he was not at the breakfast table this morning, but I kept it to myself. Mrs Weasley informed us that he had asked for a cheese sandwich and a pot of coffee, but I doubt it then. I dawdled around the table until everyone had finished eating and helped wash up; I feared that it would be the last time I would see them. However, I had to excuse myself from Professor Dumbledore's last minute 'prep talk' to return to my room to get properly dressed. I had almost reached the topmost stair when Professor Snape dashed out from his room in his Death Eater's robes, with dark circles under his eyes, looking much older than I remembered. His sudden entrance caught me by surprise, I was so startled by his abrupt movement that I not only lost my guard, I lost my footing as well and proceeded to fall down the stairs, no, tumble unceremoniously down the stairs in tune to the strains of Bizet's Carmen from his open door. He sought to catch me but he did not appear to be making any effort to do so. By the time the rest flocked to me, they were ready to leave. I cursed myself silently for not following their example of dressing before breakfast. The Havanaise from the opera seemed to be mocking me as I winced in pain at my attempts to use my left arm. It would be useless to send me to Madam Pomfrey as she had left at dawn to heal the stragglers and survivors of the first wave of attacks that began the previous night. Throughout my agonised attempts to use my arm, Carmen kept singing; she must be a very inconsiderate woman to be singing about love at a time of war. And for the first time, I saw Professor Dumbledore trailing his eyes at Professor Snape before resting his gaze on me with a rather sad smile. For the first time, Professor Snape really touched me. He held on to my good arm gently, helping me to sit, scowling and snarling at everyone to give me air. The opera continued and everyone looked bewildered.

"It's Carmen," I muttered and heard the strains of the intrepid heroine singing 'Mais si je t'aime. Si je t'aime, prends garde à toi'. At that point, Professor Snape silenced the opera with a spell. He had been holding on to my wrist as he lifted me up and as he did so, he quietly slipped a piece of paper into my hand, whispering in my ear to only read it when they were all gone; following which, he quickly announced that he would wait outside for them and he strode out the door. Professor McGonagall then transfigured a sling for me while Mr Weasley promised to take up my suggestion of campaigning for a programme teaching wizarding families to regard their house elves with a modicum of dignity if they made it back. He flashed me a kind smile expressing the same fear that had been hanging over us for the past two days – he feared that none of us would survive. It was not a time for long goodbyes and I watched them disappear in a loud 'pop'.

I spent the rest of the day trying to study but found my mind wandering to my friends and professors and Professor Snape's strange note. It had said very simply, "Miss Granger, I did what was necessary. It was beyond my control. In the event that I do not return, you are to have all my books. Consider them a Christmas gift. Yours, Severus Snape." He spoke as if he would indeed perish on the battlefield today. He was to bring the group to Voldemort on the pretence of having captured them and there, they were to attempt to defeat that fiend. Before that, however, they had to roundup all the other remaining Death Eaters, remand them in custody and so on. Only about six would finally face Voldemort – with all my heart, I hoped these six would win and return to Grimmauld Place. If Professor Snape's treachery were to be uncovered, he would be instantly killed and the Order had no contingency plan – they needed Professor Snape to convince Voldemort that they were his prisoners.

Enough! Enough! It won't do me any good to be either envious or be angry with them. I could only wait. While waiting, I went up to Professor Snape's room and reread his note. Sitting on his bed, I examined my surroundings. It was sparsely decorated with a bed, a chair, a wicker basket and a desk. On the desk were scattered papers, a coffee jug, ceramic cup and a magical music box. Upon closer examination, I came to the deduction that the music box was charmed to play one's favourite music. I opened it and strains of Carmen filled the air and his note seemed to make sense. It was a confessional. He did not want me at the battle for fear that I would be an impediment to the task at hand. Not only would Harry have tried to protect me, Professor Snape would have as well. It was indeed beyond his control because I refused to accept his reasoning. And he wishes to compensate me with his books! Is that all – his books? He hadn't so much as looked at me when he helped up or handed me the note. And now this! What does it all mean? He had signed off "Severus Snape", not "Professor Snape". There was no "et cetera" after his "yours" – merely an eloquent, "Yours, Severus Snape". A lump came to my throat as I wished that his "Yours" was truly meant for me and not a casual sign-off. I sat at the desk and noticed several drafts of this simple note - all of them much longer than the one he gave me this morning. It was apparent that he had been writing drafts and listening to Carmen all night. Then, the lyrics came unbidden to me again, "Si je t'aime, prends garde à toi."

Of course! In one of his drafts, he had clearly written and crossed out "Declare, je n'os" after telling me why his books were the only things he could give me. Silly man, I thought before flinging myself to sob into his pillow. Dobby had heard me and tried to comfort me but he was unable to do anything other than leave me a cup of green tea. As I stilled my tears, I realised it all made sense. Good, I understood his intentions at last. I am right; he is an honourable man.

I slowly made my way downstairs and tried to focus on my books as to as steady my mind. I had to study for NEWTs but found that I was unable to concentrate. I reread the same sentence continuously before giving up. Many things have appeared too incongruous of late – SPEW wasn't taking off as most house elves did not want either freedom or remuneration; but at least Mr Weasley would be able to create greater awareness to the issue house elf treatment. No, SPEW and NEWTs do not bother me that much – both have rational solutions to them. Policies can be made to improve the lot of house elves and NEWTs scores can be attained by study. Professor Snape is the incongruity in my ordered world of books and knowledge; I suppose he feels likewise about me. He always addresses me as Miss Granger nowadays and he treats me like a colleague of sorts when I'm working on my NEWTs potions project. While I enjoy the independence of doing a potion project with him, it seems to me that he has become more restrained in my presence, more so within the last six months. There is sometimes a very tense quality to our conversations. I remembered one where he invited me to call him by his name and retracted the offer within an hour. I had thought that it was because he had noticed how I was unable to stand without trembling in his presence. I had even thought that he was aware of my keen study of his every gesture and look. No, I was mistaken. He did not see what I sought to conceal; his note and the drafts prove it.

I remember the name incident well. It was a rainy September day, the day after my birthday in fact and he had instructed me to commence brewing my experimental potion as I wrote it. Then, as he cut up slivers of dragonfly wings, he suddenly said in a quiet manner, "Call me Severus, Miss Granger." His head was bent over the cauldron, inspecting my potion; his hair slid down from behind his ears and curtained his face. It is a fitting name. "Severus," I tried, watching him drop a vial in surprise. He refused to meet my gaze. I pretended to return to work but I couldn't help noticing (as I do now) how lightly his name rolls off my tongue. It is a strong name, a name with character and distinction; a name hiding a man of great feeling under a mask of stern impassivity. "Don't call me that again," he said in a neutral tone as suddenly as his invitation had been issued.

Really! I would have only addressed him as 'Severus' in private! The manner in which he invited me to use it intimated as much! Didn't he trust me enough to know I was aware of the public and private divide? At that time, I believed it was just as well that he rescinded the invitation; it would not have been a good idea for me to be getting frissons in his presence or by saying his name. I had asked myself once whether it was an infatuation, but I thought against it since it had been happening so gradually I did not realise it until the name incident. Succeeding that, I considered whether I had an unhealthy obsession with him, but I put that down as unlikely as I could see his flaws. I know he's not handsome but that is inconsequential; others can say what they like about him – to me, he has an almost regal bearing and the most expressive eyes I have ever seen. His eyes, however, are nothing compared to his magnificent mind – he quotes from Plato with the right stephanus numbers; he can sniff out ingredients in a potion; he has an innate instinct informing him when a cauldron could explode; he knows when someone has made a mistake in class; he can recite the ingredients and methods for most potions from memory – he is an all consummate thinker. I've always liked to watch him but it is only recently that I found out how I admired his meticulous ways in the classroom. He pays attention to every nuanced detail of our work. He is exacting but not unfairly so. He has his reasons for being what he is to non-Slytherins and I accept that. I trust him enough not to question some of his methods. I've seen his mind at work several times – he would sit and allow his long tapered fingers to trace his lips slowly as his eyes glazed over deep in concentration – all that intensity just on the thought process, what if it were an intellectual exchange?

We used to have good intellectual conversations last year when we were working on my advanced potions project. Last year, my sixth at Hogwarts, we discussed art, philosophy, potions, transfiguration and arithmancy till the late hours of the morning every Saturday. We had even exchanged plans for the future: I told him that like him, I wanted to teach and research; in turn, Professor Snape revealed that he wanted to concentrate on research in the dark arts and potions. Then suddenly, the conversations ceased. Perhaps he felt uncomfortable exposing so much of himself to a young girl (he undoubtedly saw me as one), I never asked him. I have learnt that there are some things Professor Snape should not be asked if self-preservation is utmost in one's mind. For his part, he has extended the same courtesy to me. When Ron was killed in last year's battle, Professor Snape bade the staff to leave off their questioning; he had even demanded that I help him brew potions for Madam Pomfrey so as to keep me away from Harry's sullen bursts of temper at the death of another friend. Professor Snape, unlike Professor McGonagall did not question me about Ron, yet he always tried to make me feel better by silently handing me a cup of tea. I like to pretend that he watches me whenever I work; sometimes, just sometimes, I think I catch him examining my gestures and words. He has been stricter with me than with anyone else in the last two years; it is apparent in the way he marks my parchments. My parchments will always invariably return with a sea of red, his neat spidery hand issuing comments and suggestions. Funny how he speaks more on paper than in actual speech. In the last assignment he returned before the winter break, he had written at the bottom of my parchment, "You are Hermione in the Odyssey no longer". I am ashamed to confess that it took me a long while to uncover his meaning. The Hermione in the Odyssey was a source of contention between her two suitors at the height of the Trojan War. Ron was dead and after Harry's offer was rebuffed, he settled for Luna Lovegood. Now, regardless whether I'm right or wrong, I will talk to Professor Snape when he gets back – that is if he returns. I must tell him what I've surmised from Carmen and his notes. Professor Snape deserves to know.

At that moment, exactly fourteen hours after the Order had left, the back door at the kitchen swung open to reveal Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape.

"It is over," he said, looking haggard and bedraggled as Madam Pomfrey healed my arm. Gradually, I could hear most of our number returning. As they seemed to be in various degrees of injury, Madam Pomfrey had to leave the kitchen to attend to them. Sounds of chattering, laughter and moans flooded the air but I ignored them; to me, the kitchen was still silent. Oddly, there was no one else in the kitchen other than the Professor and myself. He sat down, clearly exhausted with blood matted in his hair and tear marks on his once scrupulously clean robes. He looked meaningfully at me before closing his eyes and muttering, "It is over."

"I know, sir," I said after casting a few healing spells on his wounds.

His eyes flickered opened and narrowed. "What do you know, Miss Granger?" he challenged lowly.

"Nothing much," I answered in an equally quiet manner. He smirked at my reply.

I turned around and made a great show of making a cup of coffee before finally saying, "J'attendrai, si vous voulez. Si vous attendrez, j'attendrai." I sensed him starting but his movements were arrested.

"Je ne comprends pas, Mademoiselle Granger," he answered in a slow deliberate silky voice, sending a frisson of shivers down my spine.

"L'havanaise dans l'opera Carmen," I said placing the cup of coffee before him.

He looked despondently at me as I made my way behind his seat. Then, with something akin to a sigh, he snarled, "It would behove you to heed it."

What could I do to tell him? I gingerly and tentatively bent over his chair to embrace him from behind. He did not overtly struggle; instead, after a lapse of a few minutes, he patted my arms and stroked my cheek, which I pressed next to his. At length, I broke the silence by informing him, "I will not beware. I will not take care. I will not take heed. I will, however, disregard your warning."

He laughed bitterly before asking in a dangerously low tone, "Why 'vous' and not 'tu'? This isn't a game."

I made a rude choking noise as I was mildly annoyed with him. "Very well, since you've invited me to – si seulement tu veux, j'attendrai."

"Miss Granger, Hermione," he whispered at last. "Stubborn Girl! You had better return my books if you want to wait."

It was then that I knew it was truly over – we were finally at peace.

Footnotes:

Pas de deux or grand pas de deux is formal five-part ballet sequence for two dancers: (1) the entrée (2) ballerina's partnered adagio (3) male solo (4) female solo (5) coda.

I know the scene may appear discordant but bear in mind that I wrote it as I would direct a ballet piece. For the fourth chapter, the female solo, entitled "The Prima Ballerina's Solo", Hermione muses over her thoughts on Severus while everyone is off at the final battle.

It can end here, unless you want an epilogue. I've written one, but I am hesitant of releasing it as there is a final twist somewhere. I'll stick with the ballet structure then - you will see an epilogue. Those fond of my poetry will get to see one in the last installment. Stay tuned...

Glossary:

"Vous" is formal French for "you", while "tu" is informal for the same.

"Mais, si je t'aime. Si je t'aime, prends garde à toi" can be translated as "But if I love you. If I love you, take care" or "But if I love you. If I love you, beware". It depends how you want to read it.

"Declare, je n'os" can be translated as "Declare, I dare not". The spelling for "je n'os" is deliberate. It's kept informal and semi-poetic. It's how they spelt in the 14th-16th century. Henry VIII of England 'declared' to Anne Boleyn using this motto (as it were) on his shield in a joust. I wanted to bring the signifance of that into this story. And I applied it here because we know how 'antiquated' our dear Severus can be, n'est ce pas?

"J'attendrai, si vous voulez. Si vous attendrez, j'attendrai" can be translated as "I will wait if you want me to. If you'll wait, I will wait".

"Je ne comprends pas, Mademoiselle Granger" is "I don't understand, Miss Granger".

"L'havanaise dans l'opera Carmen" means "The Havanaise in the opera Carmen".