Here Comes The Sun

Chapter 11: Here Comes the Sun

Brisk autumn air barrelled through the city streets, whistling a tuneless melody as it roiled the fallen leaves. Severus pulled his cloak tighter. He donned his reading glasses and peered at the note in his hand, remembering the rather impatient owl that had delivered it precisely one week earlier.

Dear Severus,

Hermione

He smirked and memorised the address before tucking the sheet back inside his pocket. He scanned the buildings for the appropriate number, mentally preparing himself to find the woman inside every bit as perturbed as the tone of the note.

In truth, he had considered contacting her several times since their flying lesson. His thoughts had drifted to her with ever-increasing frequency, but always at the most inappropriate of moments. She was becoming a distraction, and that simply could not be allowed.

Countless times since their last meeting, the image of her face would suddenly appear to him, and the sound of her laughter seemed to float on the breeze. There were days when everything seemed to remind him of her scent. He was continually turning his head in the middle of a crowd, certain he had seen her. Heard her. Smelled her. Of course, he had always been mistaken. The resulting sense of disappointment had ceased to surprise him. It still rankled, though.

To prove he was immune to such weakness, he had pushed away all desire to seek an audience with her. The letters he had penned had been torn to pieces, their residence in the kindling basket a far more appropriate employment. And although he had begun to meet with Kingsley at the Ministry, he had resisted the temptation of a diversion to Hermione’s office. If Kingsley had found his sudden, constant presence at the Ministry a bid odd, he had wisely refrained from commenting.

Locating the address from the note, Severus rang the bell and was immediately buzzed through to the foyer. He climbed several staircases and rapped on the door, only to find it slightly ajar.

“Come in, Severus,” she called from inside. “I’m almost ready.”

“I was ordered to be here promptly at seven,” he called back and closed the door behind him.

“Yes, yes, you’re very good,” she said from another room. “I’ll only be a minute. Make yourself at home.”

He removed his cloak and surveyed the small space with a critical gaze. It wasn’t much more than one large room, and ‘large’ was probably too generous. There were books and bookcases everywhere, severely outnumbering any other furnishings. A small sofa and chair had been arranged near the door, a sitting room in miniature. In the opposite corner was a small kitchen, and across from that, a section had been cordoned off with decorative, Oriental screens to function as a bedroom. She had filled the walls with art prints and seemed to favour one artist per room: Van Gogh in the kitchen, Monet over the bed, Gauguin above her desk. Turning back to the sitting area, he noted a bizarre mixture of Klimt and Vermeer.

Heels clicked on the wooden floor behind him, announcing her approach. “Your decorating scheme is rather eclectic in this room,” he said before he turned to face her. He was immensely glad he’d finished speaking, as her appearance forced the blood in his body to rush lower while his brain ceased all functions.

Her unruly curls were tamed into sleek waves that framed her face and caressed her shoulders. She had found a dress that exceeded his imagination, even with the astounding description she had previously promised. The clingy black material perfectly showcased her figure, hugging her waist before draping over her hips. A deep V-neckline drew his eyes and revealed a tantalising glimpse of creamy skin. Tiny, gem-encrusted straps trailed over her collarbone, rising up and over to tie behind her neck.

Her smile lit her face as she gazed at the pictures he had just referenced. “I was contemplating a change last night,” she explained while she grabbed her wand from an end table. She waved it at the wall. Inside the frames, the canvases shimmered and changed, until several more Klimt prints had joined the first. His gaze narrowed on the largest, a passionate depiction of a dark-haired man kissing a brown-haired woman. The obvious symbolism only tightened the pressure in his groin.

“Would you care for a drink before we leave?” she asked.

He nodded and managed to croak out, “Please.”

She crossed the room and stopped at a crystal decanter near the bookcase. A generous pour of whisky went into a glass, and after a brief pause, she snagged a second glass and filled it, as well.

He stared at the back of the dress, or rather, the lack thereof: it was even more mind-boggling than the front. The tiny straps were tied into a careless bow behind her neck. The ends of the long strings sported glittery beads that dangled and swung along her bare back with every movement. Other than the minuscule threads, there appeared to be nothing holding the dress up. He frowned in concentration, trying to fathom how the sides and bottom of the dress clung to her curves rather than gaping ridiculously.

She turned, and his breath caught again. He barely registered her nervous smile as she walked to him. It took all his concentration to not ogle the flash of leg beneath the long slit running up one side of her dress.

He took the drink she pressed into his hand and clutched it like a lifeline.

“Do you like my dress?” she asked. Her eyes watched him over the rim of crystal glass, sparkling with untold secrets, the ancient mysteries of woman worshipped by man.

“Very much,” he replied, alarmed by how rough his voice sounded. “How… how does it stay up?”

“Magic,” she answered with a grin. She clinked her glass against his and said, “Cheers.”

“Indeed,” he replied, taking a welcome gulp of the fiery whisky.

She sipped her drink, then appraised him from head to toe. “You look quite dashing in formal wear,” she said.

“Naturally,” he replied. He smirked when she rolled her eyes. “And you look beautiful tonight.”

“Naturally,” she said with a laugh. She walked to the sofa and sat, legs crossed before her. He couldn’t help it now: his gaze was glued to the slit in her dress and the stocking-clad wonders revealed within. She beckoned him to join her, patting the sofa cushion in invitation when he hesitated.

He felt a compulsion to glance behind him, in case her gesture was meant for another. Everything seemed surreal, like he had stepped into someone else’s life and was watching a scene play out before him. Or perhaps he was just dreaming. One thing was certain: if this was nothing more than an elaborate dream, he would cause serious harm to whomever tried to awaken him.

Karelia provided beta services for this story. She rocks.