¡§¦o°Ûªº¬OGold Dust Woman¡]¨ä¹ê¬OGold Rust Women¡^¶Ü¡H¡¨Hermione«¨µÛ¼L°ÝWaytt¡C
¡§§Úı±o¦n¹³¬O¦o¨º¤Ñ±ß¤W°Ûªº¨ºº¡K¶â¡ABlinded by Your Height¡C¡¨Wyatt²q´ú¡C
·í¥Lªí¥Ü¦Û¤v¬Ý¹L¥B«Ü³ßÅw¦o¥¿¦bŪªº¨º¥»Thomas Hardyªº§@«~¡mTess of the d`Ubervilles¡n®É¡A¦o¬Ý°_¨Ó¤Q¤À¾_Åå¡C¦Ó´£¥XºÃ°Ý®É¡A¦o¦^µª»¡¡G¡§§A´¿»¡¹L¦Û¤v¤£¬O¤°»ò¤å¾Ç·R¦nªÌ¡C¡¨
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Here is the translations for the random Italian I've peppered into the Morazzanos' speech:
nonna - grandmother
nonno - grandfather
bisnonna - great-grandmother
signora - madam; missus
signorina - miss
zia - aunt
cara - an endearment; "darling"
Non si preoccupi. Il piacere e' mio - Don't worry. It was my pleasure.
Chi ha avuto ha avuto e chi ha dato ha dato - the Italian equivalent of "what's done is done."
Hermione³Q°Ý±o¦³¨Ç°g½k¡A±N«¤ß¦b¨â¸}¤§¶¡´«¨Ó´«¥h¡]shift weight from foot to foot³o¸Ì¬Oª½Ä¶¡AÀ³¸Ó¬O·Qªí¹F¦³¨Ç¤â¨¬µL±¹ªº·N«ä¡^¡G¡§¾Ç²ß¡CÁÙ¦³±ßÀ\¡A·íµM¡C¡¨
Suddenly, no one else in the room mattered to Hermione; Dumbledore, Pomfrey, Craig and even Harry faded away as her whole attention focused on Snape, on the fact that he was mere meters away from her, that he was breathing, that he lived despite all evidence to the contrary. In that first second, she'd been paralyzed, but then she was moving, hurtling herself toward at the precise moment he stepped toward her and they met somewhere in the middle of the room, Hermione flinging her arms around his neck and holding on as tightly as she could, unconcerned that there were tears running silently down her face, only aware of the fact that Snape was returning her desperate embrace, that his arms were wrapped around her waist, his face buried against neck, murmuring soft words she couldn't hear over the fast-paced beating of her own heart.
What she felt in that moment eclipsed any of the relief she had felt at knowing that Harry was alive or that Voldemort had been defeated. There was such a sense of haven -- of heaven -- of the organic rightness of his arms around her, of him being alive that Hermione wanted to laugh as well as cry, to hold on until she could absorb something of him into herself so that she could never miss him again.
Snape pulled back a little from the embrace, just enough so that he could look into her eyes as he spoke, "Hermione...I thought you were -- in -- I thought you were safe."
"I was," she told him, voice strangled with overemotion. "But I came, when I heard, oh..." She blinked, tears still sliding down her cheeks. Snape touched one hand to her wet face, gently wiping at the tears on her cheeks, his intensely dark eyes looking at her questionably. Hermione shook her head, fighting to explain. "I thought you were dead," she whispered and her bottom lip trembled, every ounce of anguish she'd felt since his last ominous letter pouring out in that one, feared word.
It was Snape, this time, that reached for her, crushing her desperately to him for a brief moment. "No," he said softly, against her skin, his breath hot against her neck. "Not dead."
Hermione raised a trembling hand to touch an ugly-looking cut flecked with dried blood which slashed its way across the sallow skin of his forehead. "No," she agreed. "You're right here."
"It's you."
The words were faint and hardly more than breath, but they rang clear like a bell in the stillness between them and the night, in Snape's stunned silence. The moment stilled and lengthened, leaden with expectation and shock.
In the utter vacuum following her confession, Hermione could swear she heard the sound of her heart breaking.
"Well..." Moving unsteadily to her feet, she didn't dare look at Snape, unable to face whatever unsavory emotion his features might shown. Her hands were shaking as she abandoned her wine glass and tugged her blue robes tightly around her as if the cloth could magically protect her from her own heart-sickness. She stumbled away from the bench, her blood roaring in her ears and her eyes too wet to make much sense of the shadows that surrounded her.
"Hermione..."
Suddenly there was a large, warm hand on her arm and she was being stopped, turned around on her shaken knees so that she faced Snape. His face was as pale as she knew she had to be, his eyes so dark and fevered that it was painful to look into them. But Hermione remained focused on them as Snape pulled her close, one hand still clasped around her arm as he lifted surprisingly gentle fingers to ghost across her cheek. His face, like that night on Midsummer, was serious and intent but soft in ways she could never explain, and his thin, firm lips were tantalizingly close to hers and Hermione had no idea how one moment she'd been moving away from him and another found herself wrapped in his arms and so certain that he would kiss her this time that she'd have bartered her soul on it.
In that breathless moment, when reality began to bleed into fantasy, there were no twinges and pangs for Hermione. Instead, there was only a hum in her veins and an unexpected surety of movement as she gathered all her courage and hope into a burst of action and closed the infinitesimal space between their mouths.
If there had been anything tentative left in Snape's reaction to her, it was lost in that moment; Hermione felt his arms tighten around her and his lips move against hers in ways she had only dreamed of; and there was fire in her blood and sparks of light in her brain and there was nothing but a singing triumph in her heart replacing the cold, wild fear of moments ago. The vino she had always loved tasted sweeter on his tongue than it ever had on hers, the subtle almond she had always missed in the flavor now exploding in her mouth. She could feel the slickness of his hair against her hands, the heavy roughness of his robes against her knees and she couldn't breathe because she was drowning but she was happy to die.
Their lips parted and Hermione dazedly looked up to see Snape's dark, unreadable eyes on hers. A slightly calloused hand rose again to touch her flushed cheek and Snape's head dropped near her shoulder, so that his warm breath blew against her ear.
"And ishq is love that entwines two people together - inseparable yet still distinct. Independent and yet utterly entangled."
Before Hermione could properly remember realize the importance of the whispered words, she was drowning again, her lips and hands too busy touching and tasting to let her mind think. But there was a harmony spreading through her- like light or warmth or wine - that words could never do justice and so she let go of them and reveled in the brightness of it.
¹ï¦¹Snape¨S¦³¦^µª¡A¬Æ¦Ü³sÂI¦^õXªºªí¥Ü³£¨S¦³¡F¥Lªº¸£³U¤w¸g¦b¦£µÛ«ä¦Ò¤µ¤Ñªºp¹º¡A¤@³s¦ê»Ýn§¹¦¨ªº¥ô°È¡Kall of which were underscored by quiet, tumbling thoughts about life-changing moments.¡i§Ú¹ê¦b¤£ª¾¹D¨ºÓlife-changing¨s³º«ü¤°»ò - -¡j
¡§Hermione Granger,¡¨ he began, ¡§you are my closest friend and confident, the one person I trust at my back or with my research notes. You¡¦re the only person on this planet, other than a senile old wizard with a lemon sherbet addiction, who never takes my raving seriously. You can curse like a sailor¡¦s monkey, but still believe in manners. You¡¦re smarter, braver, and slap harder than any woman I¡¦ve ever met.¡¨