Chapters 51-60

Gravitation

‘Who knows, you might even enjoy it.’ Just remembering Minerva’s words made him scowl at the young witches and wizards walking ahead of him towards the Royal Albert Hall.

George Weasley had kept a place in the queue for their friends. Unfortunately this awkward Muggle procedure couldn’t be eased with magic. They needed to get inside the ordinary way.

‘Hey, ickle Ronnie,’ George teased his brother. ‘Who’d dress you up? You look like a Mu– like a monster.’

Lois grinned smugly. ‘At least your brother knows when to listen to a woman.’

‘When did he learn that?’ Hermione asked incredulously.

Draco greeted him politely, ‘Good evening, sir.’

‘Hello, Professor Snape.’ George Weasley gave a respectful nod.

‘Sir.’ Lee Jordan attempted a polite smile.

Snape frowned. Were they trying to taunt him? But no—their eyes showed only a kind of distant politeness mixed with slight apprehension.

When had they grown up?

oooOooo

Once inside, Snape narrowed his eyes at the scrap of paper in his hand. Cautiously he moved along the rows of seats, intent on finding the appropriate row. A noise like a dying lawn-mower, which was probably supposed to be a well-mannered cough stopped him.

He turned and glared at Potter. ‘What’s the matter?’

Potter gulped quite gratifyingly. ‘Uh…just that we’re not going to sit down…sir.’

Snape scowled. ‘Why not, Potter? If I am not mistaken, these silly slips of paper indicate we paid good money for those seats.’

He did a few mental calculations, and his frown deepened. Merlin. He had paid 24 Galleons, 10 Sickles and 5 Knuts in order to accompany his apprentice to a Muggle rock concert?!

‘Well,’ Harry said. The young man’s smirk definitely needed practice. ‘That’s what ‘Don’t Notice Me’ Charms are there for, aren’t they? And besides, after the first three songs no one in the arena will stay seated anyway. Don’t worry, Professor. No one will realise that we’re there.’

Lois smiled at him reassuringly. ‘It will be a lot of fun, trust me. Just don’t try to shout. A bit of judicious singing or humming, however, might do your voice a world of good. Remember that silly exercise?’

Why were they treating him as if…

He shook his head. He did not belong with them. He was only here because Minerva had forced him to. She really wasn’t any better than Albus.

Except, he thought, he rather preferred her honest, piercing gaze.

oooOooo

Potter had been right. After the first two songs, people jumped from their seats, churned into the aisles, pressed towards the stage.

The music was good. Even better than the reviews had promised. The voice of the singer was mellow, slightly hoarse, unrefined and intense all at once. The Muggle version of an amplification spell enhanced the volume of the music to the point that it was almost too loud. But it caused the beat to pulse in his blood.

The next song started. The rhythm throbbed in the people around him. A wave of movement pushed him forwards, until he was suddenly drowning in a cloud of curls.

A flowery scent drifted up to him, ensnaring his sense. Hibiscus and honey?

Then he was pressed against Hermione. She swayed against him. The curves of her body bewitched his mind. His breath caught in his throat, and he grew uncomfortably aware of the thudding of his own heart, out of sync with the rhythm that had gripped the revellers around him.

He tried to keep his attention on the stage, on the blond man gyrating with his guitar and smiling as he sang.

As from afar, the words reached his ears and crept into his heart like a spell of longing. A deep ache built up inside his chest, an almost unbearable thirst that matched the desert mentioned in the current song. The feeling intensified whenever the young witch in front of him moved against him.

He couldn’t get her smile out of his head. She had smiled at him when he’d woken in St. Mungo’s and when he’d accepted her as his apprentice. And the other night, when they had talked in the library; but that was a sad smile. She didn’t smile very often anymore, he realised. He wished he could forget the agony in her eyes as she’d looked at him only a week ago.

Again she was pressed against. Again he was pushed forwards. It wouldn’t do to stumble, he tried to step back, raised his hands—But again the masses around him surged forwards, pulled at him, a sea of bodies, the melodies of Muggle music their tide.

He lost his footing. Clumsily his hands reached out, searching for something to hold on to.

Oh Gods, she felt good in his arms.

For a moment she stiffened. Then Hermione relaxed against him, leant against him even, as if she were pulled back to his body by an inexorable force. Instinctively, his hands slipped around her waist.

Lost to the gravitational forces of rhythm and melody, they moved together.

oooOooo

oooOooo

The music washed over her like waves on the shore. She didn’t hear the words. She barely noticed the singer on the stage.

What she did notice was the man behind her.

Even in the crowd of concert-goers, she could still taste his scent. And when the masses surged towards the stage, she could sense him as well. He was pushed against her: the warmth of his body, the tense muscles, the unexpected strength of his lean figure.

Another wave of bodies flowed against them. She felt him falter, his breath against her neck.

Suddenly, his hands on her body.

Curling around her sides, sliding around her waist, drawing her against him, closer, closer, until she could feel him pressed against her. Her heart pounding, her breath ragged, she closed her eyes and leant back against him.

The music and his embrace enfolded her, his personal fragrance (vetyver, cypress, bergamot, rosemary, nutmeg…ahhh…) went straight to her head.