Chapter Six

Chapter Six

At their usual café one afternoon, Hermione found an envelope at her place and Severus sitting across from her, studiously ignoring said envelope. She sat down and looked at him inquiringly. He didn't trust his voice, so he just nodded towards it in a dismissive manner, as if to suggest that someone had just dropped it by, like a telegram. She opened it to find two tickets to Carnegie Hall to hear Beethoven's Ninth symphony that Friday evening. She glanced at Severus – he appeared rather diffident and nervous.

"I thought, as a way to celebrate the end of the semester, and as a Christmas present, well, you always suggest these cultural excursions, so I thought you might enjoy something cultural in the musical vein . . ." Gads, I'm babbling! Pull yourself together, Severus! What's the worst that could happen? Either she'll appreciate it and you'll have a good time, or she'll see you for the lecherous old fraud you really are . . .

He fought the urge to grab the envelope out of her hand and run from the café. Why did I buy those wretched tickets, anyway? He was only aware of a vague sense that it was "The Right Thing to Do" at this point in their relationship and that she would appreciate it. Wait a tic, we're in a relationship? His subconscious crossed its arms and nodded at him as though he were a particularly dense First Year. Only now did he become aware of how utterly inadequate that seemed as an internal justification. Severus wondered if it were possible for one's subconscious to have an agenda of its own, entirely unknown to its host.

"Oh, Severus – thank you! That's so thoughtful of you, I do like to take advantage of New York's cultural features. I'd love to go – I adore Beethoven, and I've never heard this piece live, and I'm sure it's very impressive." Okay, calm down, you're gabbling at the poor man. But it's a date! At night! Alone with him, how adult . . . Oh gods, what am I going to wear?

--ooOO0OOoo--

Hermione spent some time on Friday afternoon carefully transfiguring a black slip she had into Audrey Hepburn's iconic dress from "Breakfast at Tiffany's". She used copious amounts of Sleekeazy's on her hair and put it up in a complicated do. She used a handful of minor charms, mostly to get her long gloves to stay up and the hair confection to remain firmly in place, but nothing, she concluded with a touch of womanly guile, that a wizard couldn't defend himself against.

Severus stood outside her door, contemplating his options. If I make a run for it, I'm the world's biggest prat. She'll hate me forever, and rightfully so. However, if I go through with this, she may think this is the prelude to a liaison and that I have romantic intentions towards her. Here he paused, musing on the possibility that he did have romantic intentions, as otherwise he wouldn't be so bloody nervous. He had transfigured his frock coat no fewer than three times before ending up with something that looked almost exactly like a posher version of his teaching attire. He knew he wasn't handsome, but he figured he could pull off distinguished, if she wasn't looking very closely and the lighting was favourably dim.

Without being aware of it, he had somehow crossed the Rubicon from friendship into . . . something else. Uncharted Territory. He squared his shoulders and reminded himself that, if the worst happened, it was only one night out of his life and he could always Obliviate her. He tapped on the door with the handle of his wand.

Hermione stepped out and did a little pirouette; the clips in her hair sparkled from the light in the hall. Her feminine wiles were completely satisfied with his gobsmacked expression and inability to comment.

Who is this sophisticated creature and what has she done with my Hermione? Snape found her dress beguiling, confoundingly so. It was plain black and very simple. It fit her close to the body, and yet it wasn't vulgar or even remotely revealing. In fact, all he could see of her skin was the top of her arms and her legs from below her knee. This made him intensely aware of the creaminess of her skin, the silken mystery of her legs, the ethereal delicacy of her ankles and the arches of her feet. He had never considered feet to be appealing before, but the very fineness of her bones made him want to take her in his arms and crush her against himself in a wave of voluptuous panic.

He took her hand and bowed silently over it. He wasn't sure how to convey his delight to be seen with her, how very beautiful she looked to him.

Hermione thought he looked very smart – the silk jacket with its high mandarin collar, and a suggestion of a grey shirt at the neck. In fact, it looked like his usual formal Wizarding wear, only appropriate for the venue. How different he is from those silly boys . . . He probably owns cuff-links, and knows what to do with all of the eating implements at a formal meal. She pictured his attenuated, pale fingers doing unspeakably elegant things with an oyster knife. He's an actual man – he has done brave and manly things. She found his competence appealing and felt that his oft demonstrated patience and determination spoke to his character. She had no doubt that he would ring true, if tapped firmly enough.

She had transfigured her plain black travelling robes into something more festive – deep Bordeaux velvet, with a couple of warming charms. It looked a tad operatic for a Muggle event, but when else would she get the chance to wear it, if not out to hear Beethoven?

"Shall we depart?" He smiled down at her rather roguishly and offered his arm. She grinned up at him and wrapped her fingers gingerly around the crook of his elbow. At the curb, Snape surprised her by pulling out a silver whistle. He blew it sharply and a taxi pulled up immediately. He was inordinately pleased with himself – he been given it as a goodwill gesture from a friendly professor who insisted that it worked "like magic". At first, this had worried Snape, and he investigated it for possible charms or hidden spells, concerned that magical artefacts were leaking out into the Muggle community. Eventually, upon finding nothing untoward, he had concluded that the man had meant it as a figure of speech.

At the music hall, they sat and chatted nervously while flipping through the generally useless programme guide. As the music began, Hermione settled back in her seat and closed her eyes to enjoy the overall gestalt of sound. Severus settled for watching her and doing some intense pondering. Most of his trains of thought led in circles, and he was aware that he wasn't being logical and that something was eluding him. The pieces didn't fit together into any picture with which he was familiar, no matter how much he tried to force them. Look at how she's dressed. She dressed up for me. She agreed to come out with me at night for a formal event, and she dressed in something that, even I can recognise, is very posh.

He stopped for a moment and, left unchecked, his thoughts headed off in an entirely different direction. I wonder if she's wearing actual stockings under that . . . with suspenders. . . He closed his eyes and took several deep, cleansing breaths before he was able to return to his earlier train of thought. She's dressed like that, wearing (possibly) suspender-stockings (where there are suspenders, there are often . . . fancy knickers) [more deep, cleansing breaths] on a date with me. She must fancy me. But she knows me, by now. I've been a wretched git to her for years, hence she couldn't possibly be attracted to me . . . But she looks delicious; like a succulent siren, a modern young goddess. She's a strong witch who knows her mind, and she certainly has it in her to hex someone who would disrespect her. What does she want from me? Stark terror filled him as he realised, ultimately, that he had no idea what she meant by any of it, and short of using Legilimency, he had no way of finding out other than asking her. Years of experience had left him with nothing but guile, subterfuge, intimidation and concealment – and yet he felt a sinking certainty that none of that would work on Hermione.

Listening intently to the performance, towards the end of the 'Ode to Joy', Hermione was sitting on the edge of her seat, clutching the arm-rests of the chair. Her body was straining upwards, her eyes shut, and tears streamed down her face. She felt lifted out of her body, as though her soul was soaring in glory. With the change in key in the choir in the final phrase, she felt her consciousness slam back into her body with an intensity that made her gasp, intensely aware of her pounding blood and fingers and toes curled up in anticipation of the climax. The tightening sinews of her body wrenched her head to the sky like some visionary saint.

Severus watched her, caught up in the drama playing out on her face – so unguarded, so abandoned to sensation. As he doubted that he'd ever see her like this again, he engraved the image in his heart like an erotic cameo. I imagine this is what she looks like in bed when she's having a spectacularly good time. He suddenly had a moment of fierce clarity. Whatever she was playing at, he knew without any internal equivocation that he wanted to be the one to give her that – to see her face take on the look of otherworldly feral joy.

Under the cover of applause, he passed her his graphite-coloured silk handkerchief, which she gratefully used to mop the tears off her face. "I trust you enjoyed the performance? You seemed quite . . . affected."

She felt shaky, as though she had not quite returned to earth yet. Her emotions were still too volatile, too close to the surface for the easy banter they had shared over the last couple of months. If I say anything to him, anything at all – he'll know. For all I know, he simply enjoys my company on a platonic level and he wanted to share a cultural experience with me. Is he mocking me, or does he actually care if I had a good time? Gods, why does this all have to be so difficult? She felt astoundingly exposed and vulnerable. All she could muster in response was a muttered, "Thank you" to her hands, which were clasped tightly in her lap.

A confused Snape took her home and bowed, again, over her hand. Hermione was subdued and deep in her own thoughts. She seemed a world away to Severus, her eyes not catching the puzzled look on his face as she said goodnight to him at the door.