Solstice

"The summer night is like a perfection of thought..."

So much had changed. But the wind was still the same.

She had been intrigued with time. She was intrigued with much, then, but time had proved especially fascinating. She had watched it pass and tried to hurry it, slow it, play with it. Manipulate it. She had, in her third year. She didn't think she ever would again.

Some things are too good to live more than once.

But she knew she would still come back here the next year, and the year after that. She would come back for as long as she remembered. And she could never forget...

The cool wind caressed her face, rustling through the tall, lush grasses, faintly stirring the trees above her. The summer air was sultry and heavy, but it did not bother her. The wind had changed slightly from the days before. And it was this subtle difference that she had come to feel. It was the climax of summer, the longest day, the start of the shift towards fall.

It was here in this delicate interface of summer and autumn that they had been, years ago--in a year that was horrible and plagued by death, despair, worry; it was the summer they all grew up, her childhood innocence completely ravaged by the loss and destruction. Yet then there was beauty too, as there always is, and she had found it, with him... and tonight was the night that they had truly discovered it...

She was then a student, and he a teacher; but all titles melted away in the awfulness of the war, the battles, the agony, the loss. She wanted more than anything else to know... and he could teach her. She was desperate for knowledge; he was too apathetic to decline her. He didn't care any more. He knew too much. Once he had been brilliant and inspired, but something in him had grown savage, dark, numb. He was trapped and just living out his time. He'd taken life and given it and somewhere along forgot that it had meaning and purpose and beauty and feeling. He thought emotions were irrelevant to life-- he had decided they made one weak--

But she could not fathom a life without emotion, and told him so, and wasn't afraid to abandon her facts and ideas and numbers in her books for a world she'd only imagined and still couldn't completely believe in. She gave him back his capacity for pleasure and feeling and he showed her what real pain, real ecstasy, is.... and in giving it had felt real pain again. They proved each other completely wrong but still ended up finding the truth...

They weren't in love. Under normal circumstances they never would have became close. But strange times produce strange situations and them, together, was exactly what both of them needed. Maybe there is a God, and fate, and destiny, and maybe not. Hermione and Severus would never have been thought as two to have been destined for each other. But it was so precisely perfect that the thought of that night was sometimes later the only tangible hint of an essence of a greater force that Hermione could find. And if it was luck, chance, an accidental occurrence... it was no less. It doesn't really matter whether the beauty of that night was supposed to happen or if it just did. Either way the sheer glory and perfection is no less.

They had been secretly meeting for weeks, weeks that had seemed years to her. Time had lost all meaning to him. He taught her things and she learned well; he told her secrets and she remembered. He was indiscreet with information he should not have known, but did; she was careful and told no one. Eventually she realized she did not know which side he was even on... but could not then bear to ask him. She wasn't sure he knew either--and the confrontation would be betraying the pretense of indifference, unimportance they had each assumed.

She had always felt strangely towards him; strange in a way she never mentioned, didn't understand, couldn't explain. She didn't hate him, detest him, as Ron and Harry tended to; the decay and iniquity he exuded was repulsive and revolting... yet still perversely appealing. She had thought about him, sometimes; back when life was easier and there was time for creativity and imagination she used to think about people, what they were really like, what had made them that way... she told herself he was nothing more than a character study, of course, and truly the thoughts of him were scattered sparsely in between infatuations, dreams, ambitions...

But even here in this world of no dreams, no art, of minds numbed by constant terror and horror, still her thoughts lingered on him occasionally. Of how his eyes became dark and intense as he explained intricate details of an advanced concept, how sometimes when she finally understood and he didn't smile but something in his face relaxed and he almost looked... young again...

She was pretty, and he had known this. He had made a great deal of detached observations in his life and had acted on very few of them. The fact that his best student was almost beautiful did not matter. He couldn't think of anything at all that did matter, but that wasn't relevant either. He had long since been able to perfectly control his thoughts, as he flawlessly controlled his emotions; there was little room for her in his purely objective, grayscale mind. Whether he felt for her was not remotely pertinent; he deliberately did not feel at all.

The time passed slowly; gradually she came to realize all she had learned. In their years at Hogwarts the trio had regarded Severus as simply a bitter, old man; Hermione quickly came to see there was a brilliant mind behind his façade of resent and acrimony. He treated her as not a student, but an equal; he did this instinctively and she accepted it automatically. They were polite, but not quite friendly; she was gracious and grateful, while he remained impassive.

At first, she had wanted to study; eventually, she came to him to get away from the bloody, rotting world of terror, gloom, corpses, shadows... he remained unaffected, unchanged. He was still careless; she was still discreet. Often she wondered what lives she could save with the words he muttered... but something stopped her from telling. Occasionally she wondered if she would grow up like him, on no side, no loyalty... but something stopped her from caring, or changing...

The summer went on, and this new world of death and destruction slowly replaced her previous reality of school, boys, homework, Quidditch, until that all seemed a faint dream she'd had once long ago. She had been thinking of him more lately... while the war seemed to numb everyone else's minds, her mind was her only escape. She told herself her thoughts lingered on him because there was no one else... her friends, left haunted, gaunt, emaciated, were painful to think about; everyone her age was fighting, dying, mourning, or running away; her teachers were killed, in combat, or gone; her family could never understand. Only he remained constant and unchanging as the rest of her world fell to dust, blood, and ashes.

x

They were sitting across from each other on makeshift seats of tree stumps; around them, the setting sun cast lonely shadows across the mostly destroyed forest, scarred by battles, stray spells, fire.

It was a difficult concept, an intricacy of Arithmancy patterns; they had spent days on it, but with epiphanic suddenness, she understood it completely.

"Impressive, Miss Granger," murmured Severus. "I'd expected you to take at least another day... but this is all for today, it is nearly dark, we haven't time to begin the next part of it. Tomorrow, same time, or have you other obligations?"

"Yes--that's fine."

"Very well, I will see you then," he replied, standing up and smoothing over with his foot the lines they had made in the dirt.

"No--Professor, wait--"

"What, Miss Granger?"

"Don't--go--yet," she whispered desperately, her fingers playing with a rip in her cloak. "It's too awful, I can't go back yet--"

"Much of life is awful, Miss Granger," he said quietly, his unreadable eyes fixed on hers. "As abnormally bright as you are... I think you have realized this, by now."

"But the war, I mean... it's getting worse, isn't it."

"It is already quite bad," he replied slowly as he carefully sat back down, his gaze settling on the burnt trees around them as she lifted her eyes to his face.

"I know. But-- it is getting worse."

"Yes, Miss Granger, it is getting worse; but this means it is possible it will end soon."

"Professor--" her voice caught, and she looked down quickly, her hands idly tracing lines in the barren, ashy soil.

"Miss Granger."

"Which-- what-- are you fighting for?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

"I have not been in combat, Miss Granger, you know this," he spoke, his lips hardly moving.

"But you've been spying."

"Somewhat."

"For... who?"

"Myself... my own curiosity. I have... a few... allegiances, Miss Granger, but they happen to, conflict, with each other... you were already aware of this, of course." He shifted slightly and the shadows obscured his face.

"I could tell on you--I could get you executed," she murmured thoughtfully.

"Yes... just as I could kill you at this very moment, and never get caught," Severus said quietly.

"But you won't," Hermione said softly.

"And neither will you," returned Severus simply.

"You--" Hermione began, then stopped. No... but... it had to...

"Yes, Miss Granger?"

Was it only then that she finally realized it? It seemed like she was comprehending a truth that had always been there, as she had finally, suddenly understood the pattern of the Arithmancy code. He could not keep doing this; as unchangeable as he seemed, they wouldn't accept it--when the war was over--

"The war, the end; you're going to die..." she trailed off, lost in thought and innumerable possibilities.

"Yes, Miss Granger. I will die in this war. If I am not killed... you understand it. They will kill me."

"Are you-- afraid-- to die?" she asked gently.

"No." He moved slightly, and the shadows threw his face into sharp contrast; in an instant it came crashing down on her, the past, his future, his death. How the war would be over, and nothing would be the same, and her one retreat would be killed, but even more awful, how he deserved to be; how he had wasted it all, gradually forgotten until he got to this-- the terrible tragedy struck her and tore through her--and her voice was subdued but trembling...

"Then why... have you been afraid to live?"

"...Miss Granger," his voice was dangerously low, "What are you speaking of?"

"You have lived-- or had; you have not lived--! a life of plans unfulfilled and elaborate dreams never brought to reality-- what is it you want? What is it you are going for, you could have anything, but you're getting nothing, you're the most brilliant person I know and the world is falling apart but you're doing nothing but lying to both sides, you've given yourself up to futility when you could have everything, you could be saving us all, you could have any woman or man you really wanted, you have read all the classics, you know all the love stories, the tragedies, you've heard Corelli, studied Handel, seen Monet's work, read Whitman and Shakespeare-- yet you hesitate, you numb yourself, are you afraid to love, afraid to feel? You know pain, you have known hell and yet... you won't raise yourself to fly again--"

"That's enough," he interrupted, his voice low. "Leave. We will not meet again."

"Can't you understand?! Of course you can--you are the only person I've ever met who's more brilliant than me and you are wasting yourself and I HATE YOU FOR IT! I'm sure you know how TRAGIC this is, you probably make yourself forget, but know this subconsciously, you know Freud, Rand, Epicurus-- all the theories, you taught them to me! How could you--

"SHUT UP!" he exploded, slamming a stray stick to the ground and shattering it to fragments.

"NO! I'm right and you KNOW IT! There's art, and beauty, and knowledge, and reason, and you've ignored ALL of it! You've fucked up everything and now you won't have a chance anymore because they'll kill you, and YOU DON'T CARE!"

"I haven't fucked up everything," he said grimly, standing up. "Even if you're right, which you're not, I've taught you. You can do everything I can, or could. But this conversation is over--"

"No--what--why did you give up?" Hermione uttered, her voice breaking. "Don't you get how--scary--this is, to me--what truth did you find, to make you live... like this? When will I learn, when will I understand, whatever it is, that will make me make myself--become like--you?"

"No-- Hermione, you won't live like me," he said roughly. "Circumstances--backgrounds-- chances-- calculations-- sacrifices--"

"But why won't you at least let yourself feel...?"

"Emotions do nothing but make one weak," Severus replied, his voice calm again. "I have lived with reason and done it well--"

"Then what's your point?!" she shouted, standing up. "Life without emotions--you'll never get hurt, but you'll never feel--it's no life at all, what is living without pleasure, chances, love? What is happiness without despair to compare it to? You have been through absolute hell but you won't even take a chance on happiness, you won't take a chance on success, you've let yourself get completely numb and indifferent to the world and life until you don't even CARE that you're going to be killed--"

"So maybe I miscalculated," Severus muttered, his eyes glinting in the near-darkness. "I am old. I will die soon--it is too late now, you learn from it--"

Hermione roughly grabbed his shoulders, looking up into his face-- the shadows obscured his expression, but she knew he could feel her trembling violently--

"For as completely brilliant as you are," she whispered, her voice shaking, "you're still completely wrong..."

And as she leaned up and his eyes, black in the faint light of dusk, closed slowly, she thought for a moment he was going to kill her--but then her lips were on his, and he was kissing her back, roughly, desperately, her arms wrapped around his neck, his arms initially shoving her back but then pulling her violently to him--

Then they were pulling apart, gasping for air, him cursing colorfully, her sobbing brokenly--

"Promise me you were wrong," she choked out, burying her head into her chest, reveling in his dark mysterious scent, searching for a reason--

"Hermione... oh god, Hermione, I was wrong," he whispered in her ear. "I was wrong... I promise. Let me show you... that there is a reason, and a validation, an end that is worth it..."

He took her shoulders and gently held her away from him, looking deep into her shining eyes-- with one hand, he lightly brushed away the tears from her cheeks, and traced the edge of her lips with one finger... then his hands were on her face as he leaned in and kissed her softly, deeply, with a passion he had not felt for years...

Her arms reached out to bring him closer, but he broke the embrace and took her hands in his; he pushed her down to sit on a low tree stump, and then he knelt before her, bringing her hands to his mouth and then reaching up to the clasp of her cloak...

"Trust me, Hermione, trust me," he breathed, as the last rays of sunlight slipped beyond the horizon and the warm night settled around them...

x

It had been her first time--and his last. The war ended a few days after; she had been right, he was killed. He had been fighting against the Dark side when AK'ed in the final major battle... and somehow the long summer was over. It had been a time of horror, when those not killed became killers, when the parameters of their worlds had been shattered; limits she had not discovered, constraints that had gradually built up over him without his knowledge...

She'd had others since, and he'd had many before her, but still their lives had inseparably intertwined that hot summer night, the break of summer, the start of the descent towards fall... an unforgettable memory for each, when she had discovered it and he had remembered it, her never knowing, him having long forgotten... the aura still residing in the cool air and bright stars there.

It was not just pure exquisite beauty and rough passion and overwhelming ecstasy, but warm solace and hot awakening. It was the loss of innocence and the discovery of an entirely new colour to the world, and not only a new colour but a new way to look at it, and a new way to feel, and an entirely new way of life; the brilliance and intensity and pain and ecstasy of that night, knowing it was the last, had to be more than the rest of his life put together...

And maybe perfection had embellished itself, surfaced, other times in his life-- and maybe it would in hers. Perfection, a sheer silvery gloss of glory and beauty and fulfillment, floating silently below, above, within, every world, every time, every person, can manifest itself, reveal itself as much as we let it...

But there are still some times that can never be forgotten, a rebirth, a renaissance- and they both knew it didn't matter what had happened before, what would happen in the future. Time is delicate and intricately complex, but intrinsic laws of nature and reality dictate enough that they both knew now was now... and tomorrow it would become yesterday... but although the days and seasons and years would pass, and some things would fade, some memories are such a part of you they can never be forgotten...

He had died, but now she could truly live. And she would come back and hear the wind blowing- not a threnody of a lost love, or a bittersweet requiem of a dream broken... but a soft, gentle melody floating in the fertile air, caressing the trees and flowers and lush grass, harmonies singing achingly of the perfection and beauty of that night...