Unlikely Connections

Chapter Two - The Dance Begins ...

Hermione wheeled around so quickly she could have gotten a crick in her neck. He was standing no more than a foot behind her, his hand extending under her arm to grasp the doorknob. He towered over her slight frame, no doubt to achieve the affect of staring down his disproportionately large nose at her.

"I'm sorry, Professor, I--" she began, still huffing and puffing.

"Miss Granger, I have tolerated your rudeness, your presumption and now your tardiness, I will certainly not tolerate any lame excuses of how some feverish snogging with Potter in a darkened hallway has caused you to be late. Get in."

"I take it back," she mumbled, "I'm not sorry."

"That will do," he growled. A satisfied smile plastered itself across his thin and sallow face. He watched her jump slightly, as she had clearly not considered herself loud enough to be heard.

The door clicked unpromisingly behind her, causing her to jump yet again. She had no desire to be behind a closed door with Snape when he was in such a smug mood. Even less did she care to be in a closed room with a self-satisfied Snape who had yet to dole out punishment.

As if reading her thoughts, he strolled casually around the dimly lit office, obviously fishing for a suitable occupation for her. "You will begin," he started, smoothly, "by re-alphabetizing my collection of Potion recipe books, refilling every container in my private store cabinet, and chronologically filing my crates of backdated student work."

The driving rain made a suitable background cadence to his sinister sneer and self-congratulatory tone of voice. She removed a sweater she had thrown over her shoulders in anticipation of the draft of the dungeons and draped it over the end of the couch, ready to grudgingly get to work, when he slickly continued. "You will then grade the essays of all the first years, read the next chapter in 1000 Magical Herbs and Fungi and comprise a class study list for the N.E.W.T. reviews."

Her shoulders sagged at the sheer amount of work she had just been given. A glance at her watch told her that she would be there until, at the very earliest, dinner, and perhaps at least two hours after she returned from eating. And that was if she worked speedily.

Snape glanced once more around the office, searching, Hermione imagined, for any other inane tasks that he had been putting off for just such an occasion. Apparently finding nothing, he crossed the room in silence and seated himself behind his desk; pulling out a pair of thin, silver-framed reading glasses, he set himself to the task of reading what she recognized as her N.E.W.T level Potions class's latest essay assignment on the Polyjuice Potion.

Hermione took this momentary reprieve from his hawk-like stare to gaze around the room. Contrary to what she had picture for Snape, the office was not swathed in the silver and green colors that she would have expected for a Head of Slytherin House who was so obviously and ruthlessly patriotic (and biased). Instead, it was decorated with an intricate set of black tapestries, a heavy, deeply carved mahogany desk in an alcove in front of the window, smooth cherry bookshelves lining nearly the entire room, and a matching leather couch and chair that looked so plush it would more than likely swallow someone of her stature. The couch and chair stood in front of a roaring fire which, in strict contrast to the drafty dungeons with their high-ceilings, cast a warming glow in the room.

Ironically, the only items that told of his house status were a small inkwell on his desk, around which was curled a glittering silver serpent, and a tarnished silver and green prefect badge, laid on his desk just behind a pyramid plaque that said, Professor Severus R. Snape, Potions Master.

Allowing her gaze to wander, she glanced around the walls; much to her surprise, in between the tapestries were some very striking oil paintings. He must have developed a fondness for the particular person's work, as they were obviously all done by the same artist. The paintings all had a similar sort of color scheme: deep blues, unrelieved blacks and moody grays, not breaking the inherent brooding mystery that surrounded Snape, the man and his office.

Her face softened in ill-concealed interest as she dropped her school bag on the couch next to her sweater and allowed her fingers to wander against the spines of the books on the nearest shelf to her left. His tastes in books were certainly eclectic. He had an expected, rather expansive collection of potion books; but the set of shelves immediately behind his desk was stuffed with books of varying sizes, shapes and topics. Crammed into the clutter of books, a clutter that Hermione found very friendly and familiar, were collections of English classic literature, a medical dictionary (Muggle of course), and even a book of plays. At this last she sniggered audibly, picturing in her head Snape reading dramatically from Oscar Wilde or Noel Coward.

"Miss Granger," Snape growled, not raising his eyes from the unlucky parchment he was marking with a large red 30%, "I did not assign this detention merely for you to take a constitutional around my office, wasting my time and trespassing on my goodwill."

Snorting at the mention of 'good will,' she mumbled "Yes, sir," and dropped her potions kit on the floor beside the couch, now ready to begin her tasks.

She started with what she mentally referred to as "desk work": correcting the first years' exams and reading and compiling a study list. Following this, after a curt, ten word conversation with Snape as to the location of certain items, she refilled his private store cabinet. This last duty was decidedly more difficult than she anticipated, as his store cupboard was directly behind his desk, and, as he made no move to leave his desk to allow her room, she had to squeeze herself into an area between his chair and the cupboard that she was sure would have made even someone the size of Dobby claustrophobic.

When she had finally shut the doors to his private store, she was dully aware of her stomach grumbling. She checked her watch and debated whether she should inform Snape that she had only a half hour left or she would miss dinner completely. As she stood contemplating her dilemma, he rose from his desk, pushing his chair into her stomach as he stepped away. Dropping his glasses into his top drawer, he picked up his wand, twirled it gently, causing a plate of ham and chicken sandwiches, a pitcher of pumpkin juice, a flagon of dark wine and two goblets to appear on his desk.

"You must be hungry," he stated unceremoniously, "eat."

Hermione surmised that he must have thought he was being quite noble and considered picking up her belongings and stalking out. However, just as she had made to do so, her stomach grumbled loudly. Snape smirked at her as she set her bag back down and settled tentatively into the chair in front of his desk. She picked up a sandwich, not at all keen at the idea of sharing a meal with Snape, but he simply poured himself a goblet of wine and moved to sit in front of the fireplace.

She couldn't really decide whether she was relieved that she wasn't expected to make conversation or affronted that he had rebuffed her so thoroughly and efficiently. With a firm resolve to regain her position as Hermione Granger, Teacher's Pet, she picked up her plate of sandwiches and goblet of pumpkin juice, and moved to the couch opposite his silent reverie in his arm chair. He acknowledged her presence only by the barest of glances and a thinly raised eyebrow. She watched mutely as he raised a hand slowly to push away an ebony strand of hair from his eyes, never pulling his distant stare away from the fire.

She cleared her throat uncomfortably, wondering if he would endeavor to grant her some company. Deciding that he would not, she ventured a conversation. "The paintings you have hanging are stunning."

He gave her a spare nod, not lifting his glance.

"The artist is quite talented."

Another nod.

"Do you know who painted them?"

At this, he inclined his head towards her, his face covered with an unreadable expression. "Yes, I know who painted them."

"They're all landscapes ... Is it a Muggle artist, or a wizard?"

He looked as though he were trying to repress a snarl. "I painted them."

Hermione sat in shock, suddenly compelled to engage in a rapt examination of the hem of her T-shirt. Though she would be the first to admit that professors must have other pursuits, other hobbies than those relating to his or her particular subject, she would never have guessed that Snape of all people could be so ... creative. The paintings were, after all, quite stunning, even though distinctly like Snape himself: dark, ominous and enigmatic.

"When do you have time to ..." Her voice died away as his face seemed to become stonier, more stoic. She guessed that this was not a subject he cared to discuss, especially not with a student so well-placed to embarrass him and undermine his intimidating reputation.

As she turned her head away, she noticed a portrait on his desk that she had not seen before, as Snape's arm had then blocked it from her view. Seated in the portrait was a thin woman with a sallow complexion, pointed nose and long, shining raven hair that flowed over her shoulders. Had her face been marked with a smile, Hermione may have even gone so far as to think her beautiful, but as her face remained ever-wary, she could only see fit to mentally describe her as "watchful." There was a certain arrogance and nobility of station in the way she held herself, making her an arresting presence, and causing anyone who glanced at her to wonder at her mystery. Her portrait was moving, but only the slight shift in her eyes, the occasional glance over her shoulder would belie that it was a wizarding painting.

"Who is the lady?" she asked, dropping her shirt and motioning to the portrait.

He grumbled, a guttural growl low in his throat, and snapped, "Miss Granger, had I known that I would be subject to a personal assault by these ridiculous questions, I would have released you to the Great Hall for dinner. For once girl, learn your place, still your tongue, and desist in this inquisitory onslaught."

She couldn't help but let a hurt squeak escape her throat. She had merely been trying to be pleasant. For some reason she found herself fighting back tears. She rose from the chair and returned to the desk where she ate in silence, the black-haired woman watching her silently.

"Her name was Solange; she died in France fourteen years ago." After a deafening silence where Hermione didn't dare breathe, he added, "She was my mother."

Hoping that this brittle conversation indicated a thaw in his taciturn exterior, she continued. "When did you paint this?"

There was a long pause before he answered her. "Yesterday."

Knowing that this signaled the end of any pleasantries (if one could call their discourse "pleasant") Hermione set down her food and rose to begin re-alphabetizing his potion books. The books came down with relative ease, though she had to stand on the lowest shelf in order to reach those at the top. For long past an hour she worked, completely unaware that he was moving about the room, the silence complete with the exception of the rhythmic drumming of the rain on his windows. Without thought of his current employment within the chamber, she continued reorganizing the books, cross-legged on the floor, before preparing to place them back on the shelves. When she was finally ready to reshelf the books she came across the rather large problem that without the weight of the volumes on the bottom row the lowest shelf would not hold her weight in order to allow her to put the books back at the top.

She strained upwards, the large volumes crushing down on her hands as she fought to place them on the top level. Gauging that the shelf was several feet out of her reach, she realized the fight was fruitless, but she pressed on despite this.

After ten minutes of struggle and stunted jumping, she had only managed to reshelf one book. Hermione was tottering precariously on one foot, holding a several-inches-thick volume of Most Potente Potions when she lost her balance and began to topple over. Flailing her free arm, she struggled to remain upright, when suddenly a long arm grasped her upheld wrist, guiding it towards the shelf.

She fell backwards against his chest as he reshelved the book, instinctively wrapping his free arm smoothly around her left arm and ribcage to keep her upright and off the floor.

As she righted herself completely, she tugged down her shirt, which had ridden up under his arm, and turned to face him. Hermione marveled at the fact that she had not heard him move over to her, despite the rustling his billowing robes must have caused. Given the fact that he had not moved away, when she turned to face him Hermione was eye-level with the broad expanse of shoulder that she had not realized he possessed in such abundance. After all, this was the closest she had ever been to him.

He must have been watching me, she thought blushingly as she slowly turned her attention up to his face, looming nearly a foot over hers. His expression was, once again, dark and unreadable.

In the wee hours of the night that would come later she would berate herself as to what had possessed her to do what she was about to do. But whatever the reason, Hermione Granger laced her arms around Severus Snape's neck and stood on her toes to place her lips gently against his.

She closed her eyes for a few seconds, losing herself in the exciting mystery of the forbidden moment, but when she opened them she was shocked at what she saw. Snape had not physically responded to her actions in the slightest; instead he was watching her face with a cold, calculating glare. She could see in his eyes that he was waiting to see her motives. He expected this to be a hook she was baiting, monitoring his reaction. He thought she was up to something. Hermione was shaken to the core, and heartily ashamed of herself.

She broke away from him quickly, flushing to the roots of her hair, her hand flying instinctively to her lips. What had she just done?

"Miss Granger, you are dismissed for the evening. Leave now," Snape spoke without moving an inch. She certainly didn't need to be told twice. In a rush of flying brown curls, she fled the room, red-faced. When she had gone, he remained staring at the door for quite some time.