Even she felt that there was something missing in that house and after that first dreadful day when she had sat in Mrs Callaghan's kitchen together with Severus, as well as Draco and Aideen, when nobody had spoken a word at all, they had all, somehow, silently, decided to go to Severus's house. The hole there, the thing missing had been too big, too large, too overwhelming — even to her and she did feel like an outsider in their grief.
The moment Snape had announced that she was to go to the funeral with him (and yes, it had been an announcement), she had been rather surprised and wondered — did he need her contact, did he want her there or...what other reason?
Truth was, and she realised that as soon as they were surrounded by black-clad people, all trying to talk to Severus as well (and all of whom she had never seen in her life), that he had taken her as someone to hold on to and she wasn't sure whether to be flattered or not. She felt like her hand was completely bruised by the time her casket had been lowered into the ground but he had, afterwards looked at her and at home, he had held her and kissed her and she had known, then, that this was his way of saying thank you.
.
Somehow, she was a steady presence through all this. She was always there and she always smiled the appropriate kind of smile and she always held his hand when his even made the slightest twitch towards hers.
Eleanor was gone but in the days following her death, there were a few things he realised. She had died only hours after he had told her he was happy, only hours after Draco had asked for Aideen's hand in marriage. Eleanor had been — able to let go. Had he, her granddaughter and his godson been her reason to continue living?
He had remembered that Christmas when he had first met Eleanor's children — almost two years ago now — and how Stephen had said how depressed she had been from time to time, how she had never let one in on her sorrows and her worries. How they worried about her because she had been all alone. And then he had been there and Draco and Aideen, all filling her house.
And — the smile on her face. Eleanor had died with a smile on her face. He had seen it, he had felt the peacefulness of her parting. There had been no struggle, no surprise, not like all the other times he had seen death. No. She had left on her own accord in her own time. Happy. Content.
Still — it did not make anything easier. It did not make it easier for him. He had no idea how to handle Granger — Hermione — now that he had basically clung to her all those long days. That he had made her sleep on his couch when he had only wanted to pull her into his bed and cling to her some more (not sexually, mind — just...clinging). Now that he couldn't even explain to himself why he had done that. Why it had seemed to be the right thing to do.
Eleanor would have given him an answer and a very clear one but — this time, there was nobody to argue with when he said that her answer (love. It had all been about love as well with her, in the end) was the wrong one. He would have said, possibly, if they would have discussed this (which they wouldn't have because they wouldn't be in this situation if Eleanor were still alive), that it was merely someone whom he knew didn't mind touching him. That he was only craving some kind of contact and that she wasn't repulsed. She would have said that this was all rubbish and that plenty of people didn't mind touching him and then she would have wrapped him in her arms and he would have smelt her smell — bread and bergamot and tea and something Eleanor — and he wouldn't have been able to finish his argument with her. Eleanor who had taught him how to accept a hug, how to accept ... love, would have just ended it. She would have just hugged him. Ended it on her terms.
He...missed it. He missed her dreadfully. There was a big hole in the house next door and he couldn't understand how Draco and Aideen managed to sleep there, to stay there even. He even felt that she wasn't sleeping in the house next door anymore. Or he thought he did.
Granger...Hermione — she never went far from his side. She was there, even slept on the couch and he was...no, he found himself grateful. She had stuck to him during the entire funeral, before, through it, afterwards. When all of Eleanor's family had come and had wanted to talk to him and she hadn't moved on inch from his side. Had held his hand tightly. And he had her there and it had been...good. Right. She had stuck to him even when he hadn't wanted to talk at all, hadn't wanted to listen. When he hadn't wanted to see anything, she had stayed. She hadn't talked, she hadn't made him talk. She had just been there, a living, breathing anchor in the sea of...grief. How awfully poetic that sounded. But she had been. So un-Granger-like. Just there, watching him in silence and judging what she could say and whether she should stay and she always slept on the couch and even when Potter brought her fresh clothes, she hadn't said much. When Potter had been at the funeral, she had tried to shoo him away from him. And for that, as well, he was grateful. Not that he had greatly minded the way the boy had shaken his hand...
Still. He felt the loss and he couldn't remember ever having felt the loss of a person quite as much as before.
Dumbledore would have possibly come close — if he hadn't been the one to...no, when Dumbledore had died, he had spent the days and nights following alternately retching over a toilet bowl and showing the thoughts away behind Occlumency-shields. Now, the grief had hit him hard. Very hard. And he hadn't found it in his heart to push her away.
.
The funeral had been two days ago and Hermione still stayed, most of the time, at Spinner's End. She didn't honestly think that Severus would do something stupid — he had never ,not during one moment of this difficult time, seen him as suicidal but she was worried nevertheless. Not that he would do something stupid but that he, quite simply put, would push her away if she went away one single moment. He would forget, she feared, that she was there with him the entire time and she didn't want that. She wanted him to remember that he had held her hand and had her stay with him. And that she slept on his lumpy couch. She wanted him to know that she stayed with him, even when the first flush of grief was gone and everyone had seemingly gone back to their lives.
She knew that this was when it was toughest, hardest and so she stayed on his couch, and slept there, waited for him, every morning, to get up and walk past the living room into the kitchen to make coffee and tea (he always made both). He never talked much during breakfast but there were moments when he looked at her like she was...almost as if she were a present, a Christmas present. Only briefly, really, but those were the moments when her stomach flipped and when her insides melted.
That morning, however, the third after the funeral (and she should really go home soon, not stay on his couch longer), he didn't just walk past the living room into the kitchen. That morning, and she had honestly no idea how their relationship (if she could call it that) had progressed, he stood in the doorway and watched her, covered with blankets, laying on his couch.
She had heard him coming and she had pushed herself on her elbow.
"Good morning," she said gently.
He said nothing. He only stood there for a moment and looked at her and she could see that he had his wand in his fingers and before she knew what was happening, he had made the couch a little broader and a little wider and suddenly, he stood there, looking down at her.
He remained silent and that was odd, just stood there and looked.
.
She had been there. Throughout that bad time, she had stayed with him. She hadn't flinched away from him and she hadn't cared that he had been moody. He didn't know what else there was to get through with another person.
And the way she lay there — on his couch (his! couch) — she looked utterly...adorable. He usually only walked past her, away from her, to make her breakfast (that much he owed her for staying) but that morning, when she had stayed again, he couldn't. She just lay there and he had to...he wanted to...
He flicked his wand and stepped closer and magic was a little rusty coming but it came and the couch broadened and widened and there was room next to her. She didn't shift but...he only looked at her and slowly, very slowly, sat down, then swung his legs onto the couch.
She only looked at him when he lay down next to her and the next moment, he wasn't sure why, he had pulled her into his arms and she put her head on the juncture of head and shoulder and had her eyes shut tightly.
"That's nice," she whispered.
He said nothing, only smelled her hair and dug his fingers a little deeper into her back.
94. Concept of Proxemics
Although there is no general theory to relate posture and position cues to the communications of like-dislike and potency or status, a few concepts of broad relevance are available. A case in point is Hall's (1963) concept of proxemics, or the study of man's use of space as an aspect of his culture. Some proxemic variables are: distance between a speaker and his listener, the speaker's orientation (that is, the degree to which his body is turned toward, versus away from, his listener), touching, and eye contact between the speaker and the listener. Thus, the concept of proxemics subsumes variations in posture and distance and relates to the immediacy of interaction, which is the extend of mutual sensory stimulation between two persons. In addition to eye contact and directness of body orientation, Machotka (1965) noted that the accessibility of a speaker's body to the listener (such as the openness in the arrangement of his arms) also communicates varying degrees of liking. Such accessibility can be also construed as a proxemic variable.
(Mehrabian, 1972)
Very slowly, he stroked her curls. They were soft and bouncy and wild and just within reach. He almost flowed through his fingers and he couldn't stop himself. She just lay in his arm and her curls were there to be stroked. Soft hair, nice hair, even a if it was a bit...unruly. Her fingers were almost still on his chest, fingernails neatly cut. She just lay, she just lay and let herself be held by him.
This had...this was something. It had grown. She hadn't bolted and she hadn't let him down. She had done so much more than he had expected — hoped for. What, he wondered as he twisted a curl around his finger, could possibly drive her away now? He was certain. She had stayed for him. No other reason. Just for him. She had skipped Uni to be by his side and his own feelings...he couldn't describe it. He was grateful and whenever he even remotely thought about her staying there with him, being there for him, the tiny heart in his chest swelled.
"Severus?" she asked slowly, looking up with her incredibly brown eyes. He...hadn't kissed her since the day Eleanor had died. There had always been more important things, holding her hand, and stroking her cheek and it had never been that kind of passionate before. It had been quiet, almost calm if there hadn't been any of the outside...things.
If this had gone this way without Eleanor dying...no, it couldn't have gone that way. He would have never realised how reliable she was and he would have never been convinced that she was there, for him. Only for him.
He still hadn't kissed her for too many days and he, yes, he missed it. Now he was close to her again. Very close. Her thigh pressed against his, almost thrown over his legs, really. Almost. She could. If she wanted to. She should.
He didn't know what to say. There were no words left to say except, possibly, thank you. He had to thank her, he wanted to thank her, he should thank her but the words...they stuck in his throat and he couldn't. He just couldn't speak and even his breath had been taken away the moment she had begun looking in his eyes.
When had this started, he wondered briefly. He couldn't pinpoint it. He respected her and that had begun a little sooner than everything else. Possibly the moment she had walked, erect, into Malfoy Manor for the very first time after the war. Because of...Aideen. Her apparent eagerness in helping that girl and supporting him in his quest for her. But the rest? He wasn't sure. His determination to find out whether he could truly have someone in his life whom he wanted to spent the rest of it with and then the realisation that this could, if anyone, be only her. The logical part of his brain seemed to have left him though the moment he had knelt beside Eleanor's bed and had held her...cold hand.
When he had seen her then, he had only wanted to hold her. Hermione as someone who had hugged as well. Who had felt good against him, though completely differently good, when hugging. And he hadn't seemed to be able to let go off her.
Now this. It made no sense to ponder the question at which precise moment she had become his anchor. In Diagon Alley or before — it didn't make any difference. She had stayed with him when he had experienced more darkness and more grief in his life than ever before in his sorry little existence. Even after...well.
He sneaked his hand, the free one, the one not stroking her curls, up to her face and touched her chin very gently. He wanted to kiss her now. He hoped, somehow, that she was smart enough, emotionally smart enough, smarter than him who would be at a total loss, to understand that he was grateful if he only looked at her and kissed her. He had to kiss her. It had been too long without a kiss. Too long. Much too long.
"Everything alright?" she asked, looking into his eyes, his fingers still on her chin and hers on his chest and...neck.
He didn't reply in any way. He didn't nod, he didn't speak but he tipped her chin up a little and bent his head just a little and touched his lips to hers, brushed them over hers really, just a gentle touch. Just the beginning of a kiss, a promise of more, a promise of anticipation and anticipation itself.
She said nothing then, but the next moment, their lips barely separated, she pressed hers on his firmly.
.
"You suppose she's alright up there?" Ron asked, munching on a bit of bacon butty.
"She seemed alright enough when I brought her clothes," he shrugged. "Didn't seem alright during the funeral but nobody is, are they?"
"Funeral are...stupid affairs. I mean..." Ron blushed slightly and fidgeted.
"I know," Harry replied, shutting himself up. He knew. He remembered. There had been too many funerals they both had to attend and Harry had only gone to Mrs Callaghan's because, well, frankly speaking because he had been worried about Hermione and Snape but that...he hadn't told Ron yet and now seemed as good a time as any but Ron was quicker.
