November 1991
Hogwarts

Hermione darted her eyes away from where they'd been focused on the head table. He'd seen her staring! How embarrassing. She couldn't help it, though. She'd seen him before. She knew she had! Yet where?

She leaned toward Ron, let their professor think she was staring because they were talking about him. That couldn't be anything new!

"And you're absolutely sure that Professor Snape isn't someone I would have met before coming to Hogwarts?"

This was probably the twentieth time in the past month or so that Hermione had asked Ron the question, or a variation of it, in case he was playing some sort of joke on her. And, okay, twenty was a slight exaggeration, but it had certainly been more than once. She hadn't asked until after Halloween, and the troll. In part, she was busy. Also, she knew her classmates already found her annoying. She hadn't wanted to seem like a pest about something that didn't really matter, on top of being an annoyance. So, it wasn't until recently she'd mentioned that she thought she might recognize him.

"No."

As expected, and what she'd hoped he would do, Ron glanced at the head table, too. That would make it seem less as if she was mooning after him or something. "Do you really think the headmaster would send him to meet potential new students and their parents?"

"Well," she said, sliding her lower lip between her teeth as she thought over that question. "Likely not," she murmured with a frustrated huff.

She wished she knew why she thought he was familiar to her. It wasn't like her potions professor looked like anyone else. He was pretty distinct, in both his appearance and demeanor. Something, though, since she'd first seen him at the opening feast, made her think she'd seen him before.

"Face it, Hermione. For once, you're wrong about something. You never saw Snape before September."

She couldn't argue with him. She had no proof, other than the feeling of recognition that told her she had seen him before. After a couple of months it should have gone away. Shouldn't it have? She huffed again, pouting as she slid her elbows onto the table. She took them right back off, though, her mother's voice in her head telling her elbows did not belong on the table. She wasn't prone to fits of deja vu or anything, which was why she was confident she had seen him before.

If not for Hogwarts' business, though. Well, it was impossible.

Wasn't it?

She'd never heard of magical London before this past summer, so she wouldn't have run into him in Diagon Alley. She certainly didn't get the impression he spent time in muggle places where she would have been to run into him.


July 1995
Cokeworth

Hermione smiled as she looked through the bookshelf of old books in what had been her uncle Jack's childhood bedroom. She hadn't realized Uncle Jack was that much of a reader. She shouldn't be surprised, her mum (Uncle Jack's sister) was, too. She just had an image of him in her mind.

He was in a rock ‘n roll band and on the road most of the time, even today, as a result. Being in a band didn't make her think that he was spending his downtime reading. That was probably incredibly judgmental to think that way, but it was true!

Him being in a band was why she was going through his stuff over the three weeks she'd get with her parents before she headed to the Burrow for the rest of summer break.

He was on tour somewhere, so wasn't here to do it himself.

It was, admittedly, a good distraction to keep her mind off of whether Harry and Ron were safe when she was in a place she couldn't do anything or really find out until she went to the Weasley's.

Her mum was moving her parents into an apartment-like place geared toward people their age because the house she and Uncle Jack had grown up in was just too much for them to care for on their own anymore. They weren't selling the house yet, but Hermione knew it was just a matter of time before it would belong to someone else. Soon, all she'd have would be the memories of time spent here with her grandparents.

And listening to her Uncle Jack play bass guitar and sing when he managed to visit his parents while she was here. His books were a reminder that he and her mum had been kids once. They lived with, were raised by, her grandparents, and had hopes and dreams. And, as she'd do, moved out and on with life. Leaving things here, a glimpse into the past that led to who they'd become as adults. She couldn't remember Uncle Jack ever dreaming of anything but music.

She spotted Jack's old stereo from across the room and walked toward it. She'd always loved flipping through his record collection as a girl. He had some good selections, and he loved to share them with her. Some, her grandma wasn't too pleased with him exposing her to (the Scorpions Lovedrive came to mind because of the cover art). He probably had more of an influence over her taste in music than her parents. She'd had a bit of hero worship on Uncle Jack as a girl. She'd learned quickly, though, that the people who befriended her because of Uncle Jack didn't really like her. They just wanted the chance to see him. She'd rather have no friends than that.

She popped open the storage cabinet's glass door and took a seat cross legged on the floor in front of it. The albums he had in here would have to be boxed up. So it wasn't as if she was really doing nothing.

One thing she remembered about Uncle Jack was his disorganization. Even at four and five years old, it had driven her crazy. Her albums and cassettes were in alphabetical order. His absolutely were not. She always wondered how he found things because they weren't organized in any way she'd ever been able to figure out. She would have understood if they were by genre or something, but that wasn't it either.

So, the first album she pulled out of the cabinet being Led Zeppelin Physical Graffiti and the second album being AC/DC Back In Black did not surprise her in the least.

The third album she pulled out didn't look store bought. She wasn't sure where that thought came from as she regarded the album cover. It just didn't look as if it was finished. Professionally done, yes, just not to the same level as the Led Zeppelin and AC/DC albums she'd pulled out before it. Jack had shown her demo albums over the years, and this looked like that.

"The Tin Knockers," she said, regarding the cover.

She'd never heard of them in her life.

She flipped the album over to the back and almost cried out.

She knew it!

What was more, she'd been right!

There, in a muggle picture with four other men, including her uncle, no older than twenty, was Severus Snape! He was young, as in fresh out of Hogwarts. Or maybe earlier? He held a beat up guitar in his hand, looking none too pleased at the prospect of getting his picture taken. His hair was long, flowing freely over his shoulders with just a hint of wave at the ends. She could see where some might find it greasy-looking, an insult people threw out about him still today. Poor wizard, with his nose and likely the overproduction of sebum, he hadn't stood much of a chance. She never found him distasteful to look at, but she'd heard the things Sirius and Remus said about him the past year or so. He was wearing a rather form fitting plain black T-shirt that definitely showed that while he was lean he definitely did something to fill the shirt nicely, a pair of faded denims, and a pair of trainer like shoes. All of the items looked as if they'd seen better days. He had something covering his left arm so she couldn't see if he had the Dark Mark already.

More than curious, and feeling hugely vindicated, she slid the record out of the protective sleeve it was in and set it on the turntable. She pushed the buttons on the stereo system to turn it on and select the phonograph option versus the radio, cassette player, or 8-track player. There was no CD player on this stereo. It was that old. She was pretty sure it had belonged to her mom and Jack when they were kids.

How had her uncle and Severus Snape met?

She recognized one other guy on the album as Jack's friend. Tom or Tim. She couldn't remember, but knew Jack had known him all of his life. They'd grown up together.

Had they grown up with Severus Snape?

Jack was older than Professor Snape, not by much but probably two or three years older. Did he know Petunia Dursley? She'd been so busy the past couple of years that she hadn't really stopped to realize that her grandparents, mom, and uncle might have known the Evans'. How odd to think.

Why had she never seen him before when she'd been visiting her grandparents over the years? She supposed he was already teaching when she was old enough to spend weeks with her grandparents during the summers like she had when she was little.

She remembered reading that his mum had married a muggle man. So, that explained how he'd ended up here. The father. She didn't get the impression he was a very good man, so she wasn't sure she wanted to ask her mum or Jack if they knew of him.

She stood, dropping the turntable's tonearm on the edge of the record so it would start playing, and set about cleaning while she listened.

It wasn't bad.

It wasn't great, though, either.

They were not The Rolling Stones, but she could hear the influences of bands like them and others like The Kinks, Pink Floyd, and The Who in their music. Music Uncle Jack had exposed her to while she was still in her crib she was pretty sure.

It really wasn't awful, though. She didn't turn it off before the first song ended. When the first side finished, she walked to the stereo to flip the record over and set about playing side two. So, she wanted to hear the next five songs.

And clearly, an album got made. So, someone thought they had enough talent to do that.

She smiled more than once when it was clear her potions professor joined in on backup vocals. Had he hated doing that? Did he still sing? Did he still play guitar?

God, did anyone know that Severus Snape played guitar and had been in a rock 'n roll band? Did Voldemort know? Somehow, she couldn't see that going over very well at all.

Would Uncle Jack remember him? He'd have to. Something told her that making an album together required more than just casual time being spent together.

This record was going home with her, she knew that. She'd ask first, of course, but she had to have it! And if it was still here at her grandparents' house, well, she didn't think Uncle Jack would tell her no.


December 1998

"Good morning, Sir," Miss Granger said when he opened the door to let her come into his house. He expected her, which was the only reason he answered the door.

She had been tasked with stopping by twice a week to check on him as he finished convalescing from his wounds at home despite the fact she was not a healer. She had been the only volunteer for the job that he'd thought he could tolerate.

When the idea he could tolerate her versus loathe her had occurred, he couldn't be sure. Somewhere along the line, though, she had stopped being annoying. Perhaps it started with the fact she had tried to aid him in the Shrieking Shack. Add to that, being unable to, she had obviously sent someone to see to caring for him when she recognized that she was not able to help him at that moment.

Yes, that was likely it. He knew in that moment that she'd grown up during her time away. She was able to recognize that she was not the expert on something and seek help for him from someone who was. It hadn't been Poppy, but that didn't matter.

He was here, alive and well, because this witch, even before Potter had viewed the memories, ensured he was looked after. Saved.

"Miss Granger," he said simply.

"I trust that you slept well."

"Why would you assume that?"

She gave a soft laugh, as if his question amused her. Maybe it did. He truly didn't understand the minds of witches. As it was, he had, in fact, slept pretty well for the first time in probably twenty years. He suspected she had her own things keeping her awake, so likely understood. If he were to ever admit something like that to her.

"Your first night out of St. Mungo's? I presumed you appreciated the privacy. And silence."

He huffed. There was that. Healers in and out, poking and prodding, running diagnostics. The Daily Prophet reporters, hoping he'd agree to give them an exclusive. It drove him absolutely mad because he couldn't leave!

"You aren't wrong, and I slept decently."

"Good," she said. She held up her hands, showing him that they were laden with bags. "I brought a few things with me so that I could see to breakfast first. After that, I can see what all you need and go to the store."

She would discover that he needed everything. He hadn't spent much time here over the years. The past year most especially. His cupboards were likely well and truly bare. (Good thing he didn't have a dog!) He wondered if she'd be surprised he not just knew but remembered that old nursery rhyme.

"Fine," he said shortly.

She gave a bit of a scowl, but said nothing more before heading into the kitchen. He returned to his chair and his attention back to the radio program he'd been listening to. It was evidently a repeat from a couple of months ago, honouring Jerry Garcia on the third anniversary of his death with a show about the best guitarists. As Severus had still been at St. Mungo's when it originally aired, it was new to him.

And a countdown that was of particular interest to him, even today.

"Oh, can you turn that up a bit," his guest called from the kitchen as Stevie Ray Vaughan's The House Is Rockin' came on. The song was not officially part of the countdown, it seemed, but a bonus song. A tease as to who might be in the top ten. They'd played bonus songs by the big ones: Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, Eddie Van Halen, Chuck Berry, Jeff Beck, and Jimmy Page - among a couple of others, including Mr. Vaughan - already as they were nearing the top ten.

He did as requested, looking as she came to the doorway, to hear better he presumed. He watched her tap her foot to the beat and sway her hips a bit. As if she was tempted to dance.

He'd scold her for delaying his promised breakfast, but it was admittedly intriguing watching her. He never in a million years would imagine Hermione Granger knowing who Stevie Ray Vaughan was, let alone liking his music to the point she wanted it louder. Or be tempted to dance to it.

"You like him?" he asked when the song finished and a commercial break came on. The tone of the question echoed his mind's doubt as to her even knowing who the man was. It was a shorter piece, but a memorable one. He could understand why it was included in this grouping.

"I do," she said.

"Really? I didn't think women like you knew who he was."

She stared at him for a moment, and he thought briefly he'd already put his foot in it with her having been here only ten minutes. He meant what he said, though, she seemed more the Madonna type.

"Well, my uncle …" she broke off here, looking caught if he didn't know better. Damn Gryffindors. What was the look for, though? "Took me to see a concert of his shortly before he died."

"Really?"

He knew he - again - sounded doubtful, and that was probably not the best tone to take with the person he'd agreed to let check up on him until he was completely back on his feet. Stevie Ray Vaughan died in 1990, if he recalled correctly. So, this witch would have been at most eleven when her uncle took her to the concert. Did people really take kids to concerts? He'd never been, not to big concerts like Stevie Ray Vaughan, so he had no idea.

"Yes, I was ten, but I don't think I was the youngest one there."

So, that answered his question. Apparently, some people did bring kids to concerts. Who knew? He simply nodded, returning his attention to the program. He had to admit it was an interesting assortment they'd compiled. Chet Atkins was even included. Appropriately so, but he was one that seemed to get overlooked by some when guitar greats were discussed.

She disappeared into the kitchen again, and soon he smelled evidence of breakfast being made. His stomach let out a rumble that let him know it agreed with his nose's appreciation of those smells. Yes, he was rather hungry, and hadn't thought to ask for anything when he'd been brought home last night.

Merlin bless her for having the forethought to come prepared to make him breakfast. He was pretty sure most others wouldn't have, paying no attention to him not having been in his home for months.

She brought his breakfast to him, setting it on the TV tray he had there with a glass of milk. He eyed the plate as she walked away. It was a full English breakfast minus the tomatoes, which he was fine with. It looked, well, good enough to eat. There was only one problem, he had nothing to eat the food with.

She returned a minute later, carrying a second plate and, with it, utensils. She placed a set down for him and then proceeded to sit near him with a plate for herself. He'd scold her for presuming that he wanted company, but as long as she didn't yammer while he was trying to listen to the radio he could admit the company wasn't unpleasant.

"May I?" she asked, pointing at the paper he'd been using to write down the ranked guitarists as the radio program progressed. He'd missed the first five. Evidently, she'd seen what it was. That wasn't surprising, she was an observant witch.

He nodded as he used his fork to adjust things on his plate a bit before tucking in.

"Do you think Randy Rhoads is so low in the rankings because he died rather young?" The question came a few minutes later, and surprised him.

He didn't even know what to say. Well, he knew what his answer was, but that he was going to be saying it to her was surprising.

"I would imagine it has to be. He was certainly demonstrating, up until his death, that he had the potential to be great. Diary of a Madman was certainly a more than suitable album to be his last. Not that he planned it that way."

"Mm. And yet Jimi Hendrix was young, too, and I don't ever see him ranked lower than the top five. And then there's Eddie Cochran. He's not even on this list yet George Harrison thought he was pretty good. And Paul McCartney taught John Lennon one of his songs when they first met. He died here, in Britain, I mean. Bristol, I think. Did you know that?"

He watched her suspiciously. She evidently noticed, because she set her fork down and grabbed for her napkin. He never in all of his crazy dreams (and he'd had some doozies over the years) thought he'd be sitting in his muggle home's living room discussing guitarists with Hermione Granger. That she knew George Harrison had seen Cochran in concert. That she even knew Eddie Cochran was, a man who'd died months after Severus was born, was rather impressive.

"What? Do I have egg bits or crumbs on my face?"

"No. I just can honestly say this is not a conversation I expected to ever have with you."

She was quiet, setting her napkin down and seemed deliberate about picking her fork up once again. Was she upset? He couldn't see how that sentence would upset her where others up until now hadn't.

"I could say the same," she finally said. She didn't sound entirely truthful, which made him curious.

He supposed it was a valid rebuttal. There were a few still alive who knew he had once played guitar, but not many. And no one who did ever mentioned it to him. He wasn't sure if he preferred it that way or not.

"Music was my salvation when I lived here in my youth," he said, gesturing to the house. "I could sit in my bedroom, put a record on, and all was right in the world for that little while."

She regarded him. He wasn't looking at her anymore, but he felt her eyes on him. He'd revealed quite a bit in that sentence. She simply nodded, and did not pepper him with questions or statements about how she was glad he at least had music. (He was very glad he'd at least had music, but he didn't want to hear those words spoken by her. She was already here to care for him. He didn't want her pity, too.)

Silence as they listened and ate. She shook her head during a commercial break. It seemed the closer they were getting to the end there were more commercials.

"What?"

"Oh, just scrutinizing the list a little closer. They have Albert King ranked sixtieth?"

"And you think that's too high or too low?"

"Too low."

"Name an Albert King song, Miss Granger."

"Besides Born Under A Bad Sign, you mean?"

"Obviously," he said, and he saw the smile that crept to her lips.

"I suppose Pride and Joy is too obvious, too, since you already know I'm familiar with Stevie Ray Vaughan."

"Mm," he said. No, he would count it.

"It's like a pop quiz, no pun intended," she said and he shook his head, unable not to at her play on words.

"Well, I admit, I'm not hugely familiar with his original work. I know he covered Kansas City and Oh, Pretty Woman. I believe Crosscut Saw is a well-known one."

"All right, Miss Granger, you've proven your point. Your uncle again?"

"Well, yes. And Mum and Dad, too."

"I see. I commend them for gifting you with musical knowledge that most people your age don't have."

"Yes. Who do you think is too low?" she asked, pointing at the list.

They were to the top ten now, so it was somewhat a given of who they would hear. The order could be up for debate. Obviously, the whole list was very subjective. She was right, stating earlier that Eddie Cochran's exclusion was an oversight.

He took the list from her, reviewing it. There were a few he found the placement of rather odd.

"Prince and Bo Diddley. The idea that nearly fifty guitarists are better than either of the two of them. And Jeff Healey is woefully missing. Incredibly talented, and really has some good music."

"I would imagine Bo Diddley probably suffered for the same reason Albert King did. The music they played. Stevie Ray Vaughan was blues based, but he transcended into rock and even country. It made his name, and his music, more mainstream. I agree with you about Jeff Healey. I liked his See the Light album, it's the only one of his I can think of that I owned. My uncle thinks he's pretty amazing. I suppose you can tell by my being familiar with Albert King and Stevie Ray Vaughan, he likes that blues guitar sound."

There she went, surprising him again. Merlin, he couldn't recall the last time he'd been able to sit and talk muggle music with anyone. He nodded. "Yes! And I've seen lists that don't even include Robby Krieger."

She nodded a bit. He recognized the look in her eye. She was thinking, sorting through the various things that she knew. He'd wondered more than once if she had a photographic memory.

"The Doors, right? That is surprising," she said. "I can't imagine their music without him or their keyboardist, honestly."

He did not challenge her to name a song by The Doors, and he sensed a bit of pride roll off of her at the fact that he had not.

More silence as they ate and listened to the countdown.

Not unexpectedly, Jimi Hendrix was the number one choice. It was interesting that the show was touted as being in honour of Jerry Garcia's death, but he hadn't even broken the top thirty. Severus had never quite gotten The Grateful Dead, so while it was interesting to rank him so low in such a radio program, he couldn't find fault with the ranking.

After playing (unsurprisingly) Purple Haze and (a little surprisingly) Little Wing, the radio station went onto other things that didn't particularly interest Severus. Granger, for her part, looked after their breakfast dishes and then left for the store. He'd given her money. Stocking his cupboards was probably above and beyond what she'd been sent to do. He wasn't going to say no to the offer, though.

She came in through the back door when she returned, which was not unexpected as she'd asked permission to come in that way. She was going to be returning with items that went into the kitchen. It made sense she wouldn't want or need to traipse through the entire first floor to get there.

"So," she said as she made her way from the kitchen to his living room.

She walked to the mantle, putting a small artificial Christmas tree there. She searched for and, evidently found, the outlet she needed to plug it in. Suddenly, in a matter of minutes, he had a lit up holiday decoration in his home for the first time he could remember. He'd say ever, but he was pretty sure his mum had tried to be normal for a while.

She stepped away from the fireplace, regarded the tree with her hands on her hips, and nodded. She took her wand out of a wrist holster and cast a spell. The tree suddenly had a small star on top of it and little red bows and candy canes on its faux branches. There were even a few little presents under the tree. The sizes of each befitted the small stature of the tree.

"There." She turned to look at him then, pleased with her work it seemed. "I'll see if I can't find something a little less A Charlie Brown Christmas for my next visit."

He shook his head. He could tell her no. He could say bah humbug and tell her to take this tree back to whence it came and not try to spru

ce up his home with holiday spirit. Except, he found it wasn't as offputting as he'd found the incessant decorations at Hogwarts over the years. She didn't outfit his whole living room in lights and tinsel. It was a tree. One tree. One tree that he could unplug if he didn't want the lights on at any time.

She seemed to take his silence as the acceptance of this change in his decor he meant it as and sat once more.

Silence, but she clearly was aiming for something. So, he let her put her thoughts together. She'd get to the point eventually.

She always did.

"I don't know if I told you, but about three years ago my mum put my grandparents into an apartment. They'd lived in the house Mum and my uncle grew up in, and it was just getting to be too much."

He was staring at her, he knew it. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what her point was. That would be rude, and the only thing stopping him from being so to this witch was the idea of being shackled with someone else while he recuperated. It would not do to scare her off on her first day into this arrangement.

"And I know you're sitting there wondering what in the world that has to do with anything."

"I am," he said, hoping admitting that he thought that wasn't wrong or too incredibly rude. He was not entirely up on the rules for casual conversation.

"Well, I do have a point. If you'll indulge me, Sir," she said.

She pulled a package of black guitar picks out of her coat pocket, setting them on top of the list he'd compiled while listening to the radio show earlier. He eyed them curiously. Interested, but curious why on earth she would give him guitar picks.

"My grandparents lived in Cokeworth," she said. "Different side of town."

"Obviously," he said. Because that was obvious. Her mum wouldn't have ended up living as she clearly did if she was from his part of town.

"My uncle, as it turns out, was in a band. Well, he still is. He plays bass guitar."

That explained him bringing her to Stevie Ray Vaughan concerts, he supposed.

She reached into a rather busy looking beaded bag, murmuring something.

"Jack has been in a few bands, going back to his school days. I used to love watching him practice. With and without the other band members. Sometimes they'd come to Grandma and Grandpa's house to get away, regroup, and practice in a less stressful environment than a recording studio."

She held out an album to him.

"Did I ever see you?" she asked.

He took the offered album, blinking as if seeing a ghost.

Merlin, he thought he'd never see this again.

In fact, he thought until now that having made it was a figment of his overactive imagination. His father had laughed and ridiculed him about being a talentless hack. He'd broken, shattered really, his copy of this demo album. He'd finished at Hogwarts and went on to - things - that didn't allow him to pursue a career in music as a guitarist in a muggle-based band.

"Doubtful," he said simply. He would have remembered seeing a baby while they were rehearsing, and he was knee deep in death eater business by the time this witch was born. "I left shortly before I started my apprenticeship. That would have been before you were born."

"Oh," she said. "I just wondered, because I don't remember ever seeing that record before, but I guess I must have. I've known since I got to Hogwarts that I knew or recognized you somehow. Ronald thought I was daft."

She'd said her grandparents were moved from their home three years ago. Three years she'd known and no one else knew? She hadn't gossiped about it? How was that possible?

Unless…

"You've known for years and haven't told your friends?"

Of course, he was assuming the moving of her grandparents coincided with her finding the album. It must have been when she found this album. It was the only thing that made sense. Unless Jack died, but she had said that he was still in a band. That implied, to Severus anyway, he was still alive and well. He would have heard if Jack passed anyway. It would have made the news.

"Well, no, of course not. I won't say it wasn't tempting for a second that I could finally tell Ron I was right. I knew that wasn't right, though."

She looked slightly affronted that he thought she'd do that. He supposed it wasn't a kind assumption to make. Few had shown him kindness for him to presume they didn't talk about him behind his back.

"It wasn't my place to tell them something like that," she said. "Obviously, it was in your past. I can't see your arm," she said, gesturing to the album again. "So, I couldn't tell if you had your mark already. It just didn't seem right to tell anyone your personal business."

And that surprised him. Greatly.

"Thank you," he said softly. If someone had found out. If Voldemort had gotten wind of his extracurricular activities, even those from twenty years ago like being in a muggle band, that could have been bad.

She nodded simply and reached into that beaded bag of hers once more.

"Jack, by the way, said to say hello when I visited him after hearing you accepted my offer to help out here while you get acclimated. I mentioned knowing you, and that I'd be seeing you. He wanted me to tell you that he held onto this, hoping that you'd change your mind about quitting."

Severus was certain his heart stopped beating at that moment. The room shrank in on him, he couldn't see anything but her hand and what it was holding.

The it in question was his guitar.

His guitar.

Beat up. Battered. Chipped in one spot, but not to the point it hindered the instrument's sound or his ability to play it.

He hadn't seen it in nearly twenty years, but he'd recognize it anywhere. He'd left it at Jack's house - Miss Granger's grandparents house he now knew - because he knew he wasn't going to be home very often. He had nowhere to store it safely once he was done with Hogwarts. He knew his father would do something to break or ruin it. He couldn't stomach the thought of that, even if he never played it again.

She held the guitar out to him once he set the demo album down. He scoffed slightly at the red bow toward the bottom of the sound board. His hand shook as he reached for it, and it wasn't residuals from wartime injuries either.

His eyes met hers and she nodded her head a bit, encouraging him to wrap his fingers around the instrument's neck.

He did just that, eyes falling closed as he inhaled sharply.

Twenty years.

He'd forgotten how much he loved it. He had no choice but to forget really.

He'd taught himself and wasn't great. He wouldn't be on a list of top five hundred guitarists, but Jack, Tim, Lance, and Wilson had seen, heard, something to be willing to take a chance on him.

She let go only once she knew he had a secure grasp on it, reaching then for the bag of guitar picks he'd set on the table. The gift made much more sense now.

He took a pick she offered him, placing it between his lips as he set about tuning his guitar.

His guitar.

His friend.

His escape.

When things were horrible, he could go into the Room of Requirement and play. No witnesses. No one to laugh, or scoff, at him.

Eventually, in his second year, he'd gotten brave enough to play in front of a few people. (Lily had not been one of them.) The response had been … maybe not positive, but they were clearly surprised at this side of Severus Snape. He hadn't been laughed at at any rate. That had given him … confidence.

He met Jack the summer after his third year he supposed, and the two connected. He wouldn't say they were friends, but Jack must have liked him enough to invite him to audition for their band. At the time, they didn't have a lead guitarist, only Jack on bass guitar. Tim was the drummer, Lance was their keyboardist, and Wilson played saxophone a la Men At Work. (Severus had always been partial to the likes of Junior Walker and Edgar Winter personally, but it seemed most people equated saxophone work with the Aussie band.)

There were many times over the years he'd wondered how different his life would have been if he'd met Jack earlier. By the time he had, their band practices had been more of a distraction than anything else. It was why after they cut the demo he'd quit. He was already too far in with Voldemort by the time the demo was cut, and if there had been a whiff of him having such a hobby. Well, he could have been killed.

"When I started playing this," he whispered. "I remembered that old picture I'd seen as a kid of Pete Townshend." He glanced at the witch and she nodded, seeming to understand his unspoken question. He wanted to be sure she knew who that was. "Smashing his guitar. I couldn't imagine having the … financial means to just do that. I couldn't have replaced this one if I'd needed to."

Of course, he'd had the financial means to buy a new one for nearly twenty years yet hadn't. He wasn't sure what exactly that meant, and wasn't going to think about it today. There was time to do that later. When he didn't have this guitar back in his hands.

Pick between his lips, he strummed the strings once he thought it was close to being tuned.

No, not quite yet. So, he went back to work. He'd forgotten what it felt like. The strings beneath the pads of his fingers. Back then, he'd been worried about calluses because of the guitar. Now he had them because of his potion making.

"It looks good on you," she said.

He didn't know what to say to that, so remained quietly as he continued to work at tuning it.

"The album is yours, too, by the way. Uncle Jack said it was an extra copy. I guess one of them passed away," she said, pointing at the album so he'd know she was talking about one of the band members. "Jack took the album back so that it wouldn't get destroyed."

"Wilson."

He recalled reading about Wilson's passing about two or three years ago. He hadn't shown up for the funeral because it had been nearly sixteen years since he'd seen any of the men he'd cut a demo album with. He'd done some hideous things since the last time he'd seen them, and he'd been afraid even though they were muggle and not magical, they'd know. He'd also been rather knee deep in Voldemort's return at that point.

She grew quiet as the strumming of the strings became more musical the more in tune he got the guitar. She was watching him, clearly interested as his hands turned the machine heads this way and that.

Finally, he took the pick from between his lips, closing his eyes as his hair fell in front of his face. This witch had been the one to come up with alternatives for the healers other than cutting off his hair. Muggle things that women used. He was glad he was unconscious when he had barrettes and hair clips in his hair. Except, one of the healers told him that Granger had charmed them so they wouldn't obviously look as if they were that. Only the healers knew what they actually looked like because they had to remove them to wash his hair. She hadn't wanted someone from the Prophet to get an embarrassing picture of him while he was unconscious but the length of his hair had posed a problem.

Kindness.

This witch was one of very few who had ever shown him that. Had ever taken his feelings into consideration. She'd known he would not want others to see him with muggle barrettes in his hair while unconscious. She also seemed to know that he would not want his head shaved. She'd seen to it that no one but those caring for him would know, so that his hair could be left alone.

He played little more than chords and a few well-known riffs for going on thirty minutes he realized when he finally opened his eyes again and glanced at the clock on his fireplace. It was not like riding a bike, but the knowledge was still there for him to be able to practice.

The witch looked very pleased with herself. As she should be. He never in a million years would have expected to ever see that album or this guitar again in his life.

"You like it, Professor," she asked softly.

He nodded simply, his thumb strumming the second and third strings of the guitar randomly. This witch had known a personal and potentially humiliating as well as damaging bit of information about him and said nothing to no one. She'd never, that he knew of, said "Hey, guess what, Professor Snape was in a muggle band, maybe he's not a death eater after all" or "Harry, in addition to thinking he stood a chance with your mum, our potions professor fancied himself to be the next Brian May".

Attempting to or not, she'd earned his respect.

"Severus," he said simply.

She stood then, looking more than pleased with herself now. She set a hand at his shoulder, squeezing lightly. She dropped a kiss at the top of his head. Nothing earth shattering, but it was certainly more than he'd ever received.

"Happy Christmas, Severus, I'll put the other things away now," she whispered before she stood. She was going to leave the room. Leave him alone with his guitar. She knew he was vulnerable and was giving him privacy. "I look forward to hearing you play something recognizable the next time I'm here. Maybe I'll become a groupie after all."

He snorted softly at that. No doubt she was referring to her inability to become a quidditch groupie for Weasley or Krum. Neither deserved her as far as he was concerned.

And yet, he mused, lifting his head to watch as she left the room. He heard her putting things away in the kitchen.

She was implying she might become his groupie. Was she not? He rolled that idea around in his mind, expecting to find it offensive or distasteful.

Interestingly, neither thought sprang to mind at the idea of the witch announcing she might be interested in him.

Happy Christmas indeed.


December 1999

Severus looked out, seeing little because of the stage lights. He was pretty sure his heart and soul were fuller than they've ever been. He had never played guitar intent on getting rich and famous. He'd joined The Tin Knockers on a whim, really. He enjoyed playing, Jack and the others were decent enough to him. He just enjoyed music. Tonight, though. Well, he got a little taste of what it might have been like if he'd chosen differently. He was good. No, he wasn't ever going to make the list of a radio show similar to the one they'd listened to last year, but he could play.

And sing.

His witch, personal groupie, and cheerleader had chosen well. He did not want to risk performing somewhere he could be recognized. Not yet. One day? Perhaps. He was much closer today than a year ago.

She'd found this little out of the way bar, just outside of Stockholm and invited him to join her in Sweden for Christmas holidays. Her request to bring his guitar hadn't seemed unusual. She liked hearing him play, so he'd thought nothing of it. Sneaky witch, he should have known she was up to something.

He really hadn't a clue she was, until she informed him they were going to a bar she knew of that had open mic night. Viktor Krum, of all people, had told her about it. (He would ensure the wizard knew that the witch was spoken for.) He'd argued that he wasn't ready to sing in front of anyone. Play, probably, sing no.

"It's Christmastime, Severus, surely you know a carol or two."

She'd also made a rather enticing promise for later tonight if he went through with this. And so he sang The Lady In Red and Winter Wonderland. Neither of which were Christmas carols, but made him think of the holidays for some reason (the second wasn't so odd, the first he knew was). He received applause. He stood from the stage before the clapping stopped, making his way toward the bar where his lady in red sat. Her dress choice for the evening was the inspiration for his first song.

"I've never seen you looking so lovely as you did tonight I've never seen you shine so bright"

He was pretty sure he'd never forget what she looked like tonight, complete with red dress and every minute she'd spent taming her hair. For him. Well, okay, to look nice for him. He never once asked her to do anything different with her hair. He knew more than one man looked at her, but she only had eyes for him. That knowledge was more heady than any applause.

"Satisfied?"

"Mm," she said. "That was nice."

"Yes, well. It felt good." He probably shouldn't have been so forthcoming in that, but likely she already knew he thought that.

"Good."

"Thank you for encouraging me outside of my comfort zone."

She snorted, finishing off the glass of wine she drank. "You didn't do it because I encouraged you outside of your comfort zone."

"Well, you did make promises."

"I did."

"Shall we go see to the keeping of those then?"

"Have you been good for Santa, Severus?"

"I think I've been quite good, yes."

She stood as he set some money on the bar to pay for what she had to drink.

"Well, let's go see if Santa agrees with you."

"As long as there are no jolly men in our room with us, Santa is more than welcome to determine how nice I've been."

"Mm," she said, leaning in to kiss his jaw. "I'm not sure nice is on the agenda for tonight, Severus. I think Santa will forgive a little naughtiness. This once." She nipped at his ear and then whispered. "Happy Christmas."

Merlin, he sure hoped so.

Two years in a row she'd managed to make his Christmas not miserable. It was very much a pattern he hoped would continue.

Happy Christmas indeed!

~The End~

Story ©Susan Falk/APCKRFAN/PhantomRoses.com