Disclaimer: see Introduction

Wings
by Claudia

Book One

Nine
Marzipan

"Severus, relax," Hermione said with firm gentleness as she watched him undo the buttons at his forearm. Was there a slight hint of amusement in her voice, too?

Severus looked at her sternly. Suddenly, he'd rather have Poppy do this. Even the emotional safety of his office didn't help the feeling of anticipation rising within him. She is your colleague, he reminded himself. She's just doing you a favour. One, if he remembered correctly, she was at least as loath to do than he was to be on the receiving end.

Hermione answered his stern gaze with that all too familiar know-it-all sparkle in her eyes that he still remembered from her days as a student. "Why don't you take off your coat, too?" She had already managed to talk him out of his mantle. She didn't want two layers of fabric bunched up in the crook of his arm for this. It could easily get uncomfortable, and in order for the massage and exercises to work he needed to relax.

"Don't push it, Ms Granger," he snapped.

Hermione ignored the use of the formality. "You'll be far more comfortable, Severus."

"Get on with it, will you? I'll be all right." The light in his eyes was at least as venomous as the concoction responsible for this situation. He was sitting in one of the armchairs that occupied the space in front of the hearth-turned-bookcase, and he was very embarrassed of the way he had to present his injured arm to her. Once out of its sling, there was hardly anything he could do with it. The muscles below the elbow wouldn't obey him. Thus he had to employ the muscles of his good arm to put his left arm on the armrest for Hermione.

Severus didn't look up at her. It was hard enough for him to surrender to her in this way. Of course he knew that this was for the best and that he'd be a fool not to take her and Madam Pomfrey's advice seriously. Not only did he want the use of his arm back as soon as possible, but he'd also need it in the war against Voldemort. Besides, there was no good in brooding over a solution to their problem, only to have his muscles degenerated by the time they actually made a breakthrough.

He looked away, his chin propped up on his good arm, his eyes not really interested in the titles of the books piled around the old trunk on the grate.

His well masked embarrassment had lit a spark of mischief in Hermione. From a pocket in her trousers she produced a small, brown bottle labelled massage oil. The glass was warm to the touch, and so would its contents certainly be after several hours so close to her body. As she rolled the bottle thoughtfully in her palms, thoughts of teasing him just a bit more by applying the oil soon made room for other, more serious considerations.

It was clear why he didn't meet her eyes. The bared arm resting on the brocade made her see his vulnerability. The milky skin stood out starkly against the dark pomegranate of the upholstery, and although Snape's pose indicated that of a thinker, Hermione did not fail to notice the limpness of his hand and fingers - the way they dangled over the edge of the armrest was just too casual to be real. She could see the bluish-green of the veins on the yet paler inside of his arm and his wrist, and how they disappeared underneath the Dark Mark. It was as though a part of the man lay covered, dormant perhaps, under the irremovable magic tattoo.

Parts Hermione had come to see in the past few days, if ever so faintly, shimmering under the milky surface. It was this vulnerability and openness that made her forget the flicker of mischief in her eyes. "Professor? I've brought some massage oil to help you relax," she said, holding the small bottle out for him.

Severus slowly looked up at her, but said nothing.

"Trust me, Severus," she said, trying to reach as deeply into the dark pools of his eyes as possible. Which wasn't very far at the moment. The bared forearm alone spoke volumes.

This time, Severus parted his lips to say something, but obviously decided against words. He merely nodded.

Hermione pulled up a stool and set to work.

Severus once again sat as if deeply lost in thought.

Until Hermione touched him. He had been fine with the flower and marzipan scent of the warm oil she had had melt away on his arm. It was still a relief to him that his sense of touch hadn't been impaired by Nagini's venom. On the other hand, the sensation of the slightly runny liquid had almost made him want to jump, the memory of Nagini's venom in his veins still unbearably vivid. The muscles in his upper arm tensed out of their own accord, but otherwise he didn't show any reaction.

Then she touched him to spread the oil on his skin. Gingerly, then gaining confidence, first her fingertips made contact with his skin, then her fingers and then her palm. Something in the pit of his stomach exploded, the rush of adrenaline that hadn't surged through him when she had examined his arm back in the hospital wing. His good hand dropped heavily onto the other armrest, and he turned his head at her.

It was strange to look at. This arm was and wasn't a part of himself. Hermione was employing both of her hands now, and both of them were glistening under a sheen of oil in the natural light of the candles. As was his skin. Fascinated, Severus looked at the patterns the fine hairs on his arm made as they stuck to his skin under the sheen of oil. The marzipan and flower scent got more intensive by the minute.

The strength in her small hands surprised him. She kneaded his muscles as if they were marzipan-in-the-making, firmly, bordering on the painful - possibly painful, he corrected himself, because he didn't feel anything but pressure and warmth, especially at his elbow where shirt and coat-sleeve conspired with Hermione. He'd have to take off his coat the next time after all.

"You're relaxing," Hermione smiled, meeting his eyes briefly. "That's very good." She ran her fingers and palms along his arm as if she'd never done anything else, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. It surprised her, too, that the awkwardness should be gone so soon, and her smile deepened as she felt the goose-flesh rise.

Hermione ignored the Dark Mark, but was careful not to touch Nagini's bite mark. The magic tattoo felt strange to the touch, hot and cold at the same time, as if discrete from Severus' otherwise smooth creamy skin. It was like gold letters embossed on the spine of a leather-bound book, only the other way round. The lines of skull and snake felt bumpy, like badly healed scar tissue, his skin ...

She had to remind herself of the fact that she didn't know the man. When she had examined his arm in the infirmary it had been far from her mind to pay any attention to the texture of the Winter Creature's skin. It was something she had to make up now - Hermione Granger! she scolded herself, shocked about her own thoughts. This is Severus Snape, your former Potions teacher, and this is like ... detention. Only she had to blame herself for it.

"You're humming," Severus said softly, waking her from her reverie.

Hermione stopped in mid-stroke, feeling the tendons and bones of his long thumb, the smoothness of his fingernail. The very sensitive lines of his palm. Shouldn't his hands be calloused from the work with herbs and spices and the less appetizing ingredients he used? She felt heat rise in her cheeks. She only hummed when she wanted to get rid of an awkward thought.

"It's very quiet in here," Hermione replied.

"I like it peaceful and tranquil."

Hermione nodded and continued. Her fingers glided around his easily, thanks to the almond-and-flower-heavy air. She kneaded and squeezed every single one of his digits thoroughly. So long and slender, graceful even. Had they always looked like this? She turned his hand palm-up. The pinkness of his palm was surprising, his life-line long and deep, with the tiniest of moles at the base of his wrist where life-line met vein. A scholar's hand.

"What is this song?"

Had she been doing it again? "I'm sorry, Professor."

She missed the spark in his eye. "Hermione, relax."

~*~

"Oh God."

Again the relapse into childhood mannerisms. Hermione braced herself on the edge of her washbasin, her foaming toothbrush in her right hand. She gazed at the white porcelain of the washbasin, the white foam strangely fascinating as it made its way to the drain. She raised her head and met her own gaze in the mirror. The massage had been an utter disaster. It had been very long since she had last felt that embarrassed.

"Oh dear, dear," the mirror said. "Is it still that bad?"

"Worse," Hermione grumbled darkly. She closed her eyes.

"Seems like you haven't driven away everybody, though," her mirror said.

Hermione turned around to see Tenebrae sitting in the doorway. The cat looked at her expectantly.

Hermione made a gurgling sound, almost choking on the mint foam in her mouth. Why couldn't he just leave her alone?

~*~

Dear Mum,

I don't know where to begin. So much has happened these past few days. I even forgot to read your letter - how could I? I'm sorry for that. Perrine delivered it as faithfully as ever.

Hermione stopped, tickling her nose thoughtfully with the tip of her quill as if to lure inspiration out of its shell. She simply didn't know what - or rather how - to tell her mother. It was true, many things had happened since her early arrival at the school, and there had hardly been any time for her to think these things over carefully. Now, however, that she was sitting alone in her living-room, she found the peace and tranquillity to get back in touch with herself. Hermione leaned back in her chair, and automatically her hand dropped to stroke Tenebrae, who had made herself comfortable in her lap.

Some things fell into place all of a sudden, other answers remained elusive.

Hermione was still certain that the position to teach at Hogwarts was an excuse for having her in what was probably the safest place in the wizarding world. At the same time, she was working together closely with Snape, probably the only teacher she had liked as well as disliked, to discover the counteragent for a strange new venom. She knew that Snape worked as a double-agent; on the one hand he provided as much first-hand information about Voldemort and the Death Eaters as possible, on the other hand he did his best to return wrong or incomplete bits of information about the white wizarding world to the Dark Lord.

What was Dumbledore's role in this? Hermione was well aware of the fact that the Headmaster had more to say in this war than the Minister - unofficially, of course. They had known about Snape's meeting with the Death Eaters, because Sirius had waited up for Snape in the cemetery. Had Dumbledore anticipated a situation like this? It was certainly convenient that her other major subject was Potions.

Her mother had told her that Neville Longbottom had moved into the neighbourhood. Neville, once a clumsy, pyrotechnically accident-prone boy, had taken up the legacy of his parents. He was now an Auror. Just like moving Hermione to Hogwarts, his moving next door to the Grangers was an act of protection. Hermione paused in her mindless caresses. How much did her mother suspect? She knew the basics of what was going on in the wizarding world. In her letter she hadn't let on any more worries about her only child's welfare than usual, but that was in all probability nothing but a façade.

Hermione sighed and met Tenebrae's eyes.

She ought to be furious. It was clear that something was rotten in the state of Denmark - but why didn't they tell her? She felt just like she had as a student - forced to find things out by herself. It wasn't that they didn't trust her, she mused. Knowledge could be protecting as well as dangerous. Hermione wasn't sure if Dumbledore wasn't for once wrong in his estimation of her.

And here she sat with Tenebrae in her lap.

Familiars that spent more time with anybody else than their masters were suspicious.

"Who are you, Tenebrae?" Hermione scratched the cat's chin to make her meet her gaze. Animagi didn't usually beg for attention as much as normal animals. Sirius was always most reluctant about being petted - it was, after all, a very intimate touch. Imagine McGonagall sitting in someone's lap like Tenebrae was now. No, Tenebrae wasn't an Animaga. But what was she then? Well trained to look after Hermione? And by whom? What could a cat possibly do?

Ah, Hermione thought, never underestimate felines. Crookshanks was the best example for this.

I might as well tell you this now: Professor Snape's accident was bound to happen one day. He is doing fine, though, and the two of us are working together quite closely to make a complete recovery possible for him.
As for everybody else ...

~*~

The marzipan and flower scent was gone when Severus stepped out of the bath, but the memory of Hermione's massaging hands was still there, as if imprinted in his skin. He looked at his useless arm. It bore the mark of evil, but Hermione had been unafraid to touch it.

He sat in the only armchair in his bedroom, and stared at the painting that hung above the mantelpiece. Severus knew the painting by heart, every swirl and shade of colour, every stroke of the brush, and yet he could lose himself in its freedom again and again. It was one of the very few paintings he owned that weren't enchanted to move. It was beautiful as it was, full of life and light, more than it could ever have been had it been magic.

The canvas had been turned into an evening sky, the most perfect he had ever seen. Nora had made it after a photograph she had taken on one of her many travels, and she had managed to catch the spirit of the sky from the magic photograph and render it into an even more magical painting.

Severus held his left arm close to his body, and he felt Hermione's touch lingering on his skin.

As he closed his eyes, his lips thinned into a harsh line, and he swallowed.

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