Lessons learned

Lessons Learned

A week into her stay at Spinner's End, and Herm-(OLIVIA!) had finally become proficient with the bewildering business of her own transformation. Severus had washed her hair three more times in exactly the same manner and oversaw her once before deeming her fit to do it on her own. Although, he'd made it a point to drink a deflating draught before setting foot near that shower with her every time.

The straightening iron made another appearance on the sixth day, along with a hot-oil treatment laced with a stasis potion to keep that particular necessity to a minimum. She painted her face no less than a dozen times a day to get into the practice of doing it perfectly every time. On top of these grueling tasks, she also had to go through what Severus called "posture training."

She was strapped into the highest heels she'd ever worn (four inches, to start with), put through foot-cramping obstacle courses throughout the house, and if she so much as wobbled, had to start all over again. If that wasn't enough, once she'd completed the course all the way through to his satisfaction, she had to do it again. With books balanced on her head. Then, with higher heels... and even more books.

Often in moments of despair, she suspected that all of it wasn't really necessary, that Severus was simply being a sadistic bastard to punish her for all of her (imagined or not) slights to his person. That in the absence of assigning detentions and docking house points, he had contrived this special form of torment to take out all of his hateful energies on the only victim readily available: Herm- (OLIVIA), no--(screw it)--Hermione!

And even though he had explained very rationally and specifically the necessity of this process, she was still succeptable to bouts of despair. It wasn't until she found that the perpetual stoop of her left shoulder--the shoulder upon which her half-ton of books normally swung--was gone that she actually felt better about the painful and often humiliating tasks he set her to.

Walking with bad posture would also turn out to be only one of the myriad things that purebloods "Did-Not-Do." She used to believe that she had good table-manners because she ate with her elbows off the table. The things that she did not know about proper pureblood etiquette, as it was turning out, could fill a book bound thicker than Hogwarts: A History.

It was unfair unto ridiculousness that her dreams continued to plague her with regurgitation of her days, heavily fortified with symbolism and a heavy dose of sexual flavor. She managed to keep her blushes at bay only by hating him with everything she could muster. Yes, resentment was a good emotion with which to cool her ardor. She was not prepared for any of her female physical responses to the male in him. She had always believed real feminine arousal to be a myth, a fabrication of fictional novels bent on brainwashing lonely women into desiring the cultivation of a relationship with a man--any man--in order to feel the things that the women in the novels did. Chagrin did not even begin to describe her reaction to discovering that her assumption was, in fact, the fiction.

Her first French lesson was on the fifth day. Severus found a Muggle tutor who was willing to stay in the house. He was Obliviated on a daily basis. Her lessons progressed in such an odd fashion that it was a wonder that she retained any knowledge of the language at all. Meeting one's tutor for the first time every day surely put a damper on developing any kind of rapport. It was purely by the virtue of Severus's insistence on speaking French all the time that she gained any sort of aptitude for the language.

On the twelfth day, it became Italian, with a new tutor. And (exactly) the same process. Her Latin tutor was the exception, only because the ancient Muggle was suffering from Alzheimer's and could barely remember his own name. But teaching Latin had been his entire career and was on permanent retention, perhaps only by rote. She'd sung "R, ris, tur, mur, mini, n'tur" so many times, it was no wonder to her that he'd been unable to forget that particular ditty even though he'd forget meeting her several times a session. Being short on time, Italian and Latin shared the same week. Severus deemed them close enough in accent and word-meanings to shove them together so closely.

He'd yet to let her leave the property, and time was growing ever shorter. Instead of taking her to a tanning salon, as she'd anticipated, he'd opted to have her sun in the back garden (on good days) and use a u.v. lamp in the tiny, neglected solarium when the weather was unseasonably bad. Being in Britain, this happened a lot. She enjoyed the tanning process out of all she had to do the most, especially since he'd brewed her a special skin oil in his basement lab--which she still hadn't seen!--that smelled of flax-seed and lemon verbena. Before long, her skin had darkened a shade or two. The other ingredients in the magical potion of his kept the sun from prematurely aging her skin, though Severus had briefly considered adding that particular change to their roster of disguise, discarding it as something no self-respecting pureblood would ever allow to happen to herself.

It was on the twentieth day that she finally let her impatience with being cooped up in the house free reign.

"Sir, I was wondering--"

"Ah, ah, ah," he waggled a finger at her. "En français."

"Je besoin aller obtiens les vêtement nouveau, sil vous plait, Severus." Please don't sneer, she thought. I really DO need new clothes, at least I suspect that's why you haven't let me out of the house beyond the overgrown backyard in weeks!

His eyes blazed at her for only an instant before he relaxed purposefully and placed his book aside. "Posso non vedere motivo non andare oggi:" a bland 'Why not?' delivered by a devastating baritone in the sexiest language known to mankind had her knees pressing together under her school robes as a wash of lust swamped her. His effortless switch to Italian was her cue to continue in that language. She cursed him silently. He knew Italian was her weakness!

She wracked her brain for a response and watched as his smirk grew with every passing heartbeat. "Non ho abbigliamento adatto, she finally blurted in relief. It translated roughly into, 'But I have nothing to wear.' Not poetry, but acceptable in a pinch.

"I will find something suitable for you," he replied as he rose from his chair.

She moved to the side, not wishing to tempt changing his mind by making him any angrier with her. She really wanted to see something besides the inside of that house and its tiny back yard. She'd made her way through most of the books of which she'd dared to crack the covers. His moods had grown blacker with each passing day they'd spent in such close quarters. She fully suspected the fresh air would be good for both of them.

He returned from the second floor after more time had passed than she would have thought necessary. Surely, he was just going to transfigure one of his own robes. However, he returned with a neatly folded bundle that did not resemble anything she'd thought to be in his wardrobe. What he held in his hands, he carried with the kind of care and reverence he rarely displayed to any of his own possessions. When he allowed the bundle to open and fall toward the floor, she saw it was indeed a woman's garment, tailored to nip in at the waist and fall gracefully from there. The cut would probably be considered out-of-style to a trained modiste, but the simple style was elegant enough to be timeless. The color was black with silk embroidery. It was the equivalent of 'the little black dress' that no woman should find herself without, according to Muggle fashion laws.

"It's beautiful," she murmured, running the silky cloth through her fingers as he held it a full foot off the floor.

"It was my mother's." Knowing him as she could not avoid doing after spending so long in his company, his bland tone was nearly choked with emotion.

"I'll take good care of it."

He simply nodded as she gathered it into her arms, taking care not to let it touch the floor or rumple the fabric as best she could.

She found herself in front of the mirror in her room again. She barely even looked at herself anymore, beyond what was necessary for 'faking' her features. She shot a glance over to the simple, elegant set of robes that were currently resting on the mattress, waiting for her to slip them on. The fabric had felt smooth, like silk, and just as lightweight. Randomly, she thought it felt like a separate being, possessing an inner warmth and a texture not unlike human skin. She only hoped she'd do the robes justice.

Without further preamble, impatient to go OUT amongst other human beings who would remember seeing her and for the possibility of conversing with some of them, she shucked off her tatty school robes, shimmied out of her jeans, and was in her trunk in a flash. Her shirt was soon sailing through the air after the rest. She rummaged about in the spacious confines of the trunk that held almost all of her worldly possessions. The rest were in her vault at Gringotts, along with what she couldn't bear to part with of her parents' things. They still didn't feel like they were hers...

She sat back on her haunches with her prize, refusing to give into the tears that wished to escape after thinking about her parents; crying wouldn't bring them back. What it would do was ruin her makeup and delay her until she could fix it. Then Snape might change his mind about the outing. Had he already? With that thought, she had removed the rest of her underthings and slid into the satin slip she'd rescued from her trunk. The borrowed robes went on after that, soft as a sigh and lighter than air. She almost called for Snape to do up the closure at the back, but then remembered what she was.

A witch.

And witches used magic to do these things.

Except that she didn't know the spell to fasten buttons when she couldn't see them, and she feared to damage the robes with an unacceptable spell for such a task. She cleared her throat nervously, cast her eyes around her room, and magicked everything on the floor back into the trunk before she realized she was running out of excuses to procrastinate. And time was wasting.

"Umm, sir?" She practically whispered. "Oh, how silly," she chided herself. "Severus?" There. That was better.

She could hear him thundering into the room with his 'this better be important' stride. Then he halted--quite suddenly--at the door. She had her back to him. She had put her hair up in a bun to make dressing easier. She was wearing his mother's robes.

His heart must have kicked him in the chest. She realized. I probably look just like her at this moment.

She spun to face him, hoping to end his torment by breaking the tableau as quickly as possible. His expression... she couldn't fathom it. "I need help with the buttons," she blurted, suddenly aware of a heavy tension in the room.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, nodded, and circled his finger in the air for her to turn around so he could get at the back of the dress.

Merlin! Will I ever cease to feel wrong-footed around him? She turned, hating that she could not see him. There was a detached sort of comfort in being able to track a person's movements with one's eyes. Instead, all of her other senses screamed awareness of him. She felt a blush creeping up her cheeks as the corner of the bed became suddenly visible at the periphery of her vision, holding her rapt attention. The things she'd done in that bed whilst thinking of the man who was approaching her... gods, this was a mistake! She could smell the herbal scent of his shampoo, the musky undertone of his aftershave, and that masculine sweetness that was all him, only him. She heard the rustle of his robes and the creaking of the floor beneath the tread of his boot where the joist had swelled from moisture in the summer daytime air. She fancied she could feel his body heat as he took up position behind her. When he finally reached out to begin fastening the row of buttons that began at her mid-back, her eyes slid closed to better savor the quick, gentle movements. Her awareness strained to feel every action. Madly, she hoped he'd slip up and touch her skin.

I must be going insane! He's touched me before, she told herself. Although she had to admit, it had been more than a week since they'd shared so much as a handshake, now that he'd taken to leaving her alone to deal with her hair and makeup. Showers seemed lonely without him, which was ridiculous because before him, she'd always showered alone. She stood there for an immeasurable amount of time before she realized that he'd finished with the buttons. Their breathing was deep, even, and together.

She couldn't possibly know, but she thought his hands were still mere inches from her back, hanging in the air exactly where he'd released the last of the buttons. How long had they stood there, silent? Why wasn't he saying anything? Should she? She mastered the urge to fidget, convinced that it would not be the 'thing to do right now.' But it was difficult as the seconds strained by to be completely still and wait for cues from him.

She was rewarded for her efforts when she felt his hands settle finally at her waist. He exerted a gentle pressure, guiding her to turn around to face him fully. He eyed her up and down, holding her at arms' length for a brief, respectful interval. "The robes suit you," he said simply. What he did next had her turning a spectacular shade of crimson under the mask of paint. She felt the heated blush keenly, hoping that it didn't show.

With the pad of his thumb, he pulled her lower lip from between her teeth. She'd been chewing on it in a characteristic show of the tension winding up inside her. The smooth texture felt perfect there, but he removed his thumb at once. "You'll have to stop doing that," he murmured thoughtfully. "It's a dead giveaway." Then, as if he couldn't stop himself from altering her appearance, as a sculptor can't quit working on a piece until it's finished, he pulled the band out of the bun and arranged her hair to cascade gracefully around her shoulders. His hands returned once again to their resting place at her waist. The inner relief that he'd not yet broken all contact had her taking a step forward, bringing their personal spheres together into almost the same space. She looked up at him, a question in her gaze.

The air grew thicker. Severus Snape swallowed visibly.

With all the grace and aplomb of a courtier, he plucked her hand from her side, holding it up at shoulder level. He quirked an eyebrow at the badly disguised look of surprise on her face and placed her other hand on his shoulder before leading her in a graceful box-step.

"Ballroom dancing?" she giggled after a few steps, the tension dispelled and the humor of the situation dawning. She was dancing with her dour Potions master, the same steps she'd learned for the Yule Ball. If only her friends could see her now!

His single eyebrow melted back into a state of equilibrium with the other, and a faint smile played about his features.

"One never knows when you'll need the polish," he quipped, spinning her out and flaring the robes about her ankles. He brought her back in and met her smile of wide-eyed disbelief with a smirk of masculine accomplishment.

"I never knew you could dance, Severus," she remarked as he led her out, back into the library.

"My dear, there is a lot about me you do not know," he said with a final bow over her hand.

"Courtly manners suit you. But I admit, this side of you tends to make me nervous."

"Hmph!" Was that a laugh? "With good reason, I suspect. But I hope it will soften the blow when I tell you that our day out will not be a lark. I have many errands to run, so you will be on your own when the harpies descend to take your measure."

"Sir, I was wondering if we could spare an hour or two in the book shop?"

"Have you run through my collection already?" He mock-glowered, his mood remaining conscientiously light.

"Ah, most of it. All but the dark texts," she admitted.

"I suppose I have not been keeping you busy enough, then. We will stop in at Borgin and Burkes, but I doubt they will thank you for using their store as a public library. We will purchase what you need for school and perhaps one or two items, but that will be all," he declared with finality. Sensing the slight hurt he'd caused with his curt high-handedness, he softened his tone. "I suspect I need not tell you that you've garnered a bit of a reputation as a bibliovore. I am afraid you'll have to restrain yourself from indulging that particular addiction until you've been established as Olivia Prince in the minds of society."

"Understood, sir," she sighed with resignation.

"Good. Go put your shoes on. We must be off."

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a/n: I'm slowly working my way through the cliches. (Makeover, check. Ballroom dancing or equivalent, check! New, more adult clothing, CHECK! Internet translations into languages I don't speak, CHECK! Heehee it's so much fun!)

Fear not. The next chapter will include his reaction to seeing her in the robes for the first time from his side of things.

What do you think? Did he really get brought up short by the bittersweet nectar of memory? Or was his mother the furthest thing from his mind?

Love it? Hate it? Tell me about it! (Or I'll stop)