Hands, Palms, Fingers

Sparkling lights infused the darkened skies, and snow blanketed the ground in a gleaming white. It was picturesque, the epitome of calm. But the view meant little to the stolid figure of Severus Snape, who much preferred to surround himself with the darker black, which the Astronomy Tower provided in abundance. Icy winds whipped around the Potions Master, yet he was loath to notice, except for perhaps that small bit of subconscious that for whatever reason approved of the unpleasant sensations that assailed any small bits of exposed skin. It was a trivial bother, and could not compare to the more urgent matters that pressed so heavily upon his already overly burdened shoulders.

Another year lay ahead of them, surely laden with more than its share of struggle and loss. Voldemort was not yet overcome, and in all likelihood was currently planning his next strike against the innocents of this world. The ministry was of decidedly no help, and it seemed that the outcome of the war had become the responsibility of a mere child. Widely known were these facts, and yet to Severus' dismay colleagues and students alike continued the celebration of this New Year, not knowing if it might be their last. He supposed he could not fault them for this. But his nature had never been so inclined, and it would take more than Dumbledore's lurid decorations and merry music to distract him from his current thoughts. Especially when danger was so near-- just a few short hours away.

He was called to the Dark Lord's side more frequently now; a sure sign that the present peace of this night was not long to endure. The surrounding dark had become his only friend, his only source of comfort before journeying to that congregation of personified corruption. Anxiety had once taken hold of him, and although his exterior remained unchanged, he had needed to take a calming breath before the dreaded apparation. Those days had long since passed-- too many bouts of Cruciatus and the close proximity to evil had caused a disturbing sense of acceptance to develop in anxiety's stead. Despair accompanied that loss of hope, and ever since he had taken to climbing the many steps of the tower, where he could look down upon the world that never accepted him-- the one which he was now desperately trying to save.

This night was perhaps the worst of all. His last encounter with the Unforgivables had been a mere two days prior, the occasional tremor an indication that his nerves had not yet sufficient time to stabilize. The pain, much like the bite of the wind, was sufferable, if at the end of his torture he had something worthy in return. But he had arrived within the safety of Hogwarts' walls with bruises, hurts, and details which although Dumbledore had graciously thanked him for, offered little assistance in the current crisis. Severus had returned to the dankness of his dungeons that night shadowed by feelings of failure and disappointment. They clung to him still, and promised to follow him into the horde this night as well. It was with these thoughts that he sat, futilely attempting to ground himself by clutching the unyielding stones of Hogwarts' Astronomy Tower floor.

And it was then that she came upon him, safeguarding her sanctuary very like the gargoyles that usually occupy such spots. Shoulders bowed and head hunched in thought, he had missed the echo of soft footsteps that had made their way from wall to wall. Quite surprising for a man's whose life depended on the acuity of his senses and the rapidity of his wits. Instead, it was with a slowly imperceptibility that he began to recognize his solitude had been encroached upon. But now aware of her presence, he found no need to turn and look at her. He knew who it was. He knew that voice. It was one he heard more than most; its tones and melodies filtering through his ears for at least an hour of every day. And he now recognized that voice even in the faintest whisper of her breath, which he was sure had now been made visible by the frigid air.

He became rigid then, feeling compelled to shout, to throw insults at her with his finest weapon, the one he used with even greater dexterity than his wand. But he had been caught off guard, his miseries having dulled his senses for these few crucial moments. And it was during this lapse of time where the perfect affront refused to come that allowed him to notice her silence. It was so completely out of character that Severus found himself influenced to go against convention as well. So he remained calm, her lack of words drawing his interest, silencing the poison that had been about to erupt from his lips.

She studied the form his silhouette made against the moonlight, and he felt his skin tingling under the intense scrutiny. Acknowledging her would give the appearance that he wanted her there, approved of her presence; it was an admission he had no intention of giving. So he sat very still, not looking at her, hoping she would leave and wishing her to stay in equal amounts. He felt her hesitation, but it was only for a moment, and then to his great surprise a small body slid next to him in unspoken companionship. They sat that way for long minutes, Severus' long fingers still clutching the cold stone floor. While they were here, silence unbroken, he almost felt as if she understood him. How could she cast such a spell without even the slightest incantation? Suddenly, a gust of air blew the dark strands of hair from his worried face, and Severus in turn felt curiously exposed.

She let out a soft sigh then, and looked down, presumably at the rocks with which he too seemed particularly taken with. But no, that wasn't it. With bare traces of tension, warm fingers began to trail a path down his too cool skin; from fingertips to wrist, and then back again. His lungs failed him for a moment. It had been long since he had been touched in a manner that had any basis in caring. And although he willed himself not to, he felt his fingers uncoil from their tight grip, relax, and ache for more of this sweet contact. He felt the loss of her hand for a moment, but it was soon replaced by the other. The sudden lurch he felt when he thought she would leave surprised him. But not as much as the hand that had begun to run up and down his back, radiating warmth through the heavy thickness of his cloak. He felt another tremor then; he didn't know if it was a result of Cruciatus or something more. His mind had gone deliciously blank, just focusing on the rhythm of the gentle hand that was giving him more comfort than he knew he had any right to experience.

Slowly, his inertia was overcome by the soft, fluttering motions of her fingers, and he in turn gave a slight squeeze to her slender hand, which had comfortably settled into his palm. He felt a bit out of his element in the midst of all this physical contact-- especially the innocent, comforting variety, with which he had little experience. But he imagined that she must feel equally out of her element; doling out facts is quite different from doling out consolation. The thought gave him some comfort, and the strength to continue splaying his thumb across her velvety skin.

He didn't know how long they had been sitting there, sharing in this mutual comfort, but during that time her breath had evened out, her heart beating steadily as she drifted into sleep with the slightest hint of a smile upon her flushed lips. The sound of her breath reminding him of his own life, and how entirely unknown was its duration. He stifled a sigh, easing the slight body slowly off of his shoulder, which had been surprisingly accepting of her warm weight. Settling her gently on the ground, he watched the wind reeking havoc upon her already unruly arrangement of curls. He hesitated for a moment, before letting his fingers graze the glinting, riotous strands. This is what he was fighting for, after all. Of course, long sought after redemption was a motivation. But he also fought so that the Hermione Grangers of the world could sleep in peace.

With these thoughts he straightened up, feeling markedly better than he had at the beginning of his sojourn at the tower. He looked at his savior with something akin to affection; she had no idea how he'd needed this. But he allowed himself such sentimentality for only a passing moment. It was time to go. There was a meeting to attend. With great regret Severus readied himself to leave, donning the harsh mask of Snape once more, scowl and frown firmly etched in place. But taking one last look, he removed the cloak from about his shoulders, swiftly drawing its folds around Hermione's small, sleeping frame. Then with long, determined strides his shape melded into the shadows.