Severus stared at the ceiling, arms behind his head as he reclined on his sofa. His flat was completely silent as he'd shut the television off about ten minutes ago when he heard her come home. He didn't consider his hearing any more sensitive than anyone else's, but she seemed to have a rather rigid schedule that he could pretty much count on.

Tonight, though, she'd been later than usual for a weeknight.

Her.

He had no idea who she was, but found himself intrigued.

A slipped piece of mail under his door had started their association.

This was put in my mailbox in error. It looks important. Sorry for any delay. #416

That had been about six months ago. Give or take. It wasn't as if he marked the date on a calendar, but he began paying attention then. The letter had been a payment from a muggle customer. It wasn't enough to retire on, but she'd repeated the gesture of giving him his misdirected mail quite a few times since that first time.

Some people wouldn't have brought it here to his flat. They would have left it on the ledge by the mailboxes or something, assuming he'd see it. So, honest and wanted to ensure he got the item in a timely manner.

Traits he was admittedly fond of.

As to her schedule. She didn't seem to diverge much from it. He could tell, for instance, when she was running late mornings. Most mornings, he barely heard her moving around. Those mornings when he got the impression she was late, though, he heard her plain as day from the moment she stomped out of bed. And she did stomp on those days, as if even opening her eyes was an irritant.

This was a mood he could identify with, which caused him to chuckle more than once at her expense. And wonder what had happened to cause her morning to start in such a way. He'd been lucky to live in the dungeons as long as he did, or likely someone would have heard him irritatingly stomp around, too.

Occasionally, he heard the murmurings of whatever television show she was watching in the evenings. She seemed to be conscientious like that and didn't raise the volume too loud.

It wasn't the only item of his she'd received, but it was the only one delivered with a note from her. He'd complain about the dunderheaded mailman being unable to read, but at this point he was somewhat hopeful that one time it would be one of his packages. Something that she couldn't just slip under the door to give to him.

She'd have to knock on his door. And then he could find out if she was as intriguing in person as he found her by listening.

He was pretty sure it was the first time he heard the familiar chords of Billy Idol's Rebel Yell emitting from the unit above his quite clearly that he thought he might … like the as of yet unidentified woman.

Ridiculous as he knew nothing tangible about her.

In truth, she didn't know anything about him either. His mail came under his nom de plume: Fame's Oubliette.

So, tonight, in addition to being later than usual it was not television, but instead … Oh, Elvis Presley.

Music. She really seemed to like music.

Elvis was evidently indicative of some sort of mood. He knew this only because Elvis Presley usually segued to other older artists that for some reason made him think she was feeling … melancholy. (It wasn't Hound Dog Elvis either, it was Are You Lonesome Tonight Elvis.) This happened every two months or so from his recollection.

He'd debated the last time going up and knocking on her door, seeing if there was anything he could do.

He resisted. It was entirely out of character for him to be so bold, but more importantly he didn't want to appear as if he was stalking her. After all, what could he actually do for her?

And yet…

What if she was wanting him to say something after more than one letter got delivered to her instead of him?

He sighed.

The choice in music had to mean something.

He stood then, decision made.

He stopped in the bathroom to ensure that he looked presentable. Other than the five o'clock shadow he would do. He couldn't remove it. That would look exactly like he'd done it just before going up to knock on her door. That would be too obvious.

He glanced at his choice in clothes: black denims and a button-up flannel over a dark green t-shirt. The fabric of the flannels felt … better against his neck.

He slid into a pair of shoes suitable for walking upstairs in his building before making his way to the fourth floor. There it was a quick walk down her hall to #416, right above his #316.

He paused there, hand in a fist, hovering at her door. Did he really want to do this? Downstairs, in his flat, he'd been confident that he did. Now, though, he was doubting himself. Hesitating. He wasn't exactly Casanova. He wasn't even sure he could pull off being Cyrano de Bergerac, nose similarities aside.

One of her neighbours made the decision for him, choosing that moment to come into the hallway. He either had to knock or look like a lunatic.

He knocked lightly, heard the music's volume get turned down in response.

Merlin. Was this a mistake?

It couldn't possibly be any more humiliating than Harry Potter viewing memories he hadn't meant for him to see. Twice.

As if the thought of Harry Potter had conjured something from his past, there on the other side of the threshold in front of the now open door, stood Hermione Granger. A very fetching looking Hermione Granger at that, despite her eyes looking red from, he would guess, crying.

Her eyes widened coupled with a scowl before understanding replaced her surprise.

"Of course, Fame's Oubliette."

She was quick. He was actually impressed to see how quickly her mind worked that out. When she was his student, he hadn't really been able to pay attention to how she came to the conclusions she did. He just knew her excessive essays drove him batty because he didn't have the time!

"Guilty," he said, bowing his head a bit. She had knowledge about him now. Would she send him away and use it against him?

"Is my music too loud?" she asked. She rested her head against the edge of her door here. He didn't think she thought her music was too loud. It was the same volume it had been every other night and he'd yet to complain.

"No," he said quickly.

Silence. She was clearly waiting for him, and he was royally screwing this up.

"I have noticed," he paused, shaking his head a bit.

This was ridiculous. He could still save face and not humiliate himself. He didn't have to continue this conversation down the path he'd intended it to go when he came up here. Yet, he had come up here for a reason. He was a human being after all, and would it be so wrong to show this woman. This witch. That he could think of others?

"I have noticed that you have moments where you play more emotional music. I thought that you might like to talk about whatever mood you're in that causes you to need that music."

Her eyes widened again. He'd clearly surprised her. Well, that was good. She didn't look mad, so it was a good surprise then. He hoped so at any rate.

"You came up here to check on me?"

Had he? He mulled that over. Even if he had, did he want to admit that? The blush on her cheeks made his decision for him. He liked that look there. He liked being the cause of it.

"Yes, I suppose that I did," he said.

"Not sure, huh?" In addition to the cheek of her tone, she gave him a bit of a saucy smirk, too.

"I guess until you put it that way, I hadn't quite seen that's what I was doing."

"I'm okay, thank you. Just missing my parents."

Ah. Yes. He was aware of what happened to her parents.

She had been unable to return their memories to them, and from the sounds of it trying to befriend them had not had the desired effect. For her. They were none the wiser it seemed. That was according to the rumour mill.

"The ear is still offered. I have incredibly strong shoulders," he murmured. "Hermione."

She nibbled on that lower lip of hers before nodding a bit. She stepped back then, opening the door wider, allowing him room to pass. The choice was his.

He crossed over the threshold. No wards. Maybe she took them down to answer her door. Or only put them up when she left or slept. He kept his up pretty much all of the time, but then he never got visitors. Anyone coming to his door would be foe not friend.

Except for this witch, slipping his misdirected mail under his door. Had she felt his wards? Had she realized someone magical lived the floor beneath her?

She closed the door once he was inside.

Now what?

"Are you an Elvis fan then, Severus?"

"I don't mind him." Now that he was inside her flat he wasn't sure what to do or say. So, he was grateful she took the initiative to say something . "Are you all right?"

He closed his eyes, shaking his head a bit at the straight and to the point question. Way to be subtle.

"You know, I think I will be," she said.

She took his hand, squeezing it. And didn't let go. She glanced at him, seeming shy, as if she expected him to tug it away. He wasn't a fool. He was pretty sure he'd fallen in love with the witch just listening to her daily routine. "Harry feels so guilty when I talk about them, so I don't."

"Which is unhealthy."

"Quite."

He was quite the expert on holding things in. He could attest to the unhealthiness of such behaviour.

"Well, as I said, I have incredibly strong shoulders."

She tugged on his hand then, leading him into her living room and a sofa there. He sat and she did the same, right next to him. She set her head against his shoulder. He glanced at her, hair better tamed these days but still a mane of glorious curls.

"You're right," she whispered, settling against him more.

"About?" he whispered.

"Your shoulders being strong."

"I've never used them to this end before, but am willing to put them to the test."

"Tell me about Fame's Oubliette," she whispered.

He was surprised, but told her about his business.

"Magical, of course, I use the magical postal system, but I have some muggle clients. As to why the postman can't differentiate between 416 and 316 I cannot speak to that. Other than, of course, him being a dunderhead. I really prefer not to be found or sought out."

"I won't tell."

"I trust that you would not, and thank you."

"Severus," she whispered a while later. It hadn't been an uncomfortable silence. She clearly hadn't really wanted to talk tonight. He understood that. Sometimes, there'd been times after her first year, after the arrival of Harry Potter, he'd longed to just have someone who knew. Who understood. Who'd let him think without having to do so completely alone.

"Yes?" He couldn't help but think that he liked the way she said his name.

"Have you ever kissed a former student?"

He scoffed. "No, I can't say that I have."

She lifted her head from its spot against his shoulder then, sliding a hand to his cheek. She leaned in then, making it so he wouldn't be able to answer that question negatively again. He couldn't say he was disappointed in that status change.

She drew away after a couple of minutes. It wasn't anything more than a kiss. Certainly not merely friendly in nature, but there were no tongues or parted lips involved. It was … not something he engaged in previously but definitely thought he'd like to again.

She kissed the corner of his mouth and then his lower lip and chin before drawing away. "Are you going to come up the next time I'm playing Elvis?" she whispered, eyes lingering on his lips for a second or two before moving to meet his gaze. He liked her looking at him like that.

A lot.

"Do I need that as an excuse?"

"No," she said.

"Then I think I should enjoy being a visitor more often than just the times I hear Elvis."

She smiled then, moving so she could lean against his shoulder again. This time, he set his arm around her so she was really nestled in the crook of his arm. She sighed softly, summoning a blanket from a nearby chair. And then a moment later music started again, but it wasn't Elvis.

***

Six Months Later

It was an Elvis night again tonight.

Only tonight's selection he came home to was Can't Help Falling In Love and Love Me Tender .

His witch was a romantic at heart.

Who knew?

"Oh, there you are," she said when she turned to find him watching her from the doorway to the kitchen. She was making dinner. Ronald Weasley liked to poke fun at her cooking skills, but Severus found them more than acceptable. And she was willing to take tips. He wasn't a recipe follower. He was an "add a pinch of this and another until it tastes right" type of cook. Slowly, things he made were getting written down to where she could make them, too.

Tonight, it was shepherd's pie with some green beans and glazed carrots on the side. A meal she knew he loved. It looked a bit different than what he'd gotten at Hogwarts over the years, but she made it, so he was fairly certain it was going to be the best one he'd had yet.

"Happy Anniversary," she said with a blush.

Six months ago today, he'd taken the initiative to come up here and see her. To attempt to comfort. He didn't claim to be any better at it today than he was that night, but it worked for them. She evidently got what she needed, and he got to feel not just needed but wanted.

It was an incredibly heady - and addicting - feeling.

He closed the distance between them, cupping her face in the palm of his hands so he could kiss her as thoroughly as he wanted to do and she deserved.

"Happy six months to you. Perhaps we should thank that errant postal carrier after all," he murmured.

She gave a soft laugh against his mouth.

"I already have."

Figures his witch would do that.

His witch.

Yeah, that had a nice ring to it. He was pretty sure Elvis would be tops of his favourites list for the rest of his life now.

~The End~

Story ©Susan Falk/APCKRFAN/PhantomRoses.com