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MetroVampire & Rhosymedre

Part 15 - I Won't Dance, Don't Ask Me ...

"Oooh, yes," said Ermengarde Sprout enthusiastically, "I think that's a wonderful idea, Albus. The children need something to lift their spirits at this time of year."

Dumbledore beamed, and gazed around the rest of the top table.

"So, that's agreed then. Anyone else want to say anything? Severus?"

Hermione struggled for words, but her brain was only suggesting reactions along the lines of despairing wails and she didn't think that that was wholly in character.

"I'm surprised you need to ask, Albus," muttered Minerva McGonagall off to one side. "We all know how enthusiastically Severus supports anything that might be classed as fun."

Seemingly oblivious to the undercurrents, Dumbledore stood up with a satisfied look on his face. "I may as well announce it now. No time like the present and all that."

Hermione sat there transfixed, helpless before the inexorable steam roller that was the Headmaster In Possession Of A Good Idea, as Albus Dumbledore explained to the school - or those who were still present in the Great Hall - that this year's Halloween Feast would also be a Ball.

There were cheers from all quarters, except hers. And, she was wiling to bet, Snape's. She looked over at the Gryffindor table but he seemed to have already left. Never mind, she was sure he would find a reason to escape the Common Room and head for the dungeons later in the day and then they could work out how they were going to deal with this latest blind curve on the road trip of their lives. Her expression obviously accurately reflected her feelings because as he left Professor Flitwick paused briefly to murmur in her ear.

"Cheer up, Snape. It won't be that bad. Think about the chance you'll have to dance with our lovely Head Girl."

There was a soft chuckle and he was gone before she could respond.

Now, Hermione liked Professor Flitwick. He was a gifted teacher, insightful and entertaining. She was talented at Charms, she knew that, and his lessons were challenging and stimulating. All in all she would have said that Filius Flitwick was her favourite member of staff, maybe tying with Minerva McGonagall. But right at that moment the glare that she directed at his retreating back was as genuinely baleful as anything that Snape could have produced.

Back in the dungeons she paced irritably, waiting for Snape to get there. He must have heard about the Ball by now, she thought. Why in the name of whatever wasn't he here? Apart from anything else there were experiments that needed his attention.

She ran a hand through her hair and winced, wondering, not for the first time, if he would notice if she just took an executive decision to use shampoo and have done with it. Perhaps his perpetual bad moods were simply due to the world's longest bad hair day. She sighed. She was panicking at Dumbledore's announcement and she knew it.

A Ball. Whatever had possessed the Headmaster?

Hermione was not one of nature's dancers. In fact she hated dancing; a legacy of two terms of fighting her mother at the age of six, trying to persuade her that she was just not cut out to be a ballerina. She still bitterly recalled the slender, elegant children in their wispy scraps of pink and white lace, gliding round the draughty church hall. And herself, completely unable to get herself into the mindset of a snowflake, no matter how many cold, glittery, floaty, twinkly thoughts she summoned up. She shuddered, pulling the black robes around her.

Dances at Hogwarts had been tolerable so far. Just. Largely due to the fact that the only people who really showed any interest in partnering her on the dance floor were Harry and Ron. And Viktor, of course. She scowled again at that memory. The advantage of dancing with people - well, men, in the loosest possible sense - who were physically gifted was that they had some natural idea of how to move. Which meant that all you had to do, as the woman, was to follow and hope you didn't actually trip over anything. For the rest of it - on the rare occasions that Parvati, or Lavender, or Ginny had decided that she needed to join in - it had just been making random jerking movements in time to the music, more or less. This, however, was going to be different. She was a man. Which meant she would have to lead. Which meant....

She swept round and paced the length of the room again, mentally cursing, trying to recall if she had ever actually seen Snape dance. Most of her previous Balls had been spent on, or avoiding, the dance floor. Avoiding the dance floor had not included paying close attention to the movements of Snape, other than to ensure that she was in a place that he wasn't. She leafed through her memories; dancing with Viktor, Ron being a prat, the astonished looks of the girls, Ron being a prat again... no, there was nothing that had Snape in it at all. Maybe she could sneak away... patrol the grounds or something. Weren't people always complaining that he seemed to be lurking just when they wanted a bit of "privacy"?

Damn it, she thought crossly, where the hell was he?

And then it struck her; it was the last Saturday of the month which meant tea with Hagrid. She dismissed the thought summarily. It shouldn't be beyond his wit to get out of that. After all, this was more important that some social engagement.

The words had barely formed themselves in her mind when she came to an abrupt halt and almost choked. She was beginning to think like him. Or more to the point, she was beginning to get used to not having to consult anyone else's preferences other than her own; to not having to act on other people's expectations of her. The realisation of freedom was slightly intoxicating. Her mouth twitched. Snape would, no doubt, be currently experiencing the full effect of two teenage boys and an over-enthusiastic half-giant, liberally laced with questionable tea and home baking of geological proportions.

Oh dear.

The thought cheered her up a bit and she began to idly look around the room, wondering if there was anything that could help her. A Dancing Charm, perhaps. A Terpsichorea Potion. Or even a book on the subject. Failing that an Anti-Ulcer Potion might be a good thing, she reflected, given the stress levels of her current predicament.

Neither charm nor potion came to her rescue. Between her teaching duties, her own homework, coaching Snape in Transfiguration, The Cure and preparations for the newly instituted Halloween Ball, she had no time to do anything about even looking for a book much less doing any practice. Moodily, she sat at the top table, picking at her food, glaring at anyone who tried to make eye contact - which admittedly was few enough - and waiting for a decent chance to make an escape. Finally, the last of the food was cleared away, the students rose, and the tables moved back to clear an area for dancing. In the hubbub the musicians began to set up their instruments, and Hermione cast one more glance at the Gryffindor zone of the milling students, wishing that she only had to deal with the evening from her usual perspective rather than from an alien one. She wondered idly how Snape would manage, and whether or not she should stay around, just in case.

In retrospect, she would realise that that was her fatal mistake. Had she simply slipped out of the Hall under cover of the reorganisation she would have been free, and no one would have been any the wiser. She should have left Snape to his fate; it wasn't as if he would have given her a second's thought if the situations had been reversed. As it was, her inner Hermione caused her to hesitate, and in that hesitation she was lost.

A strong hand seized the top of her arm.

"Not rushing off this time, Snape? Excellent. Then you can dance with me. You must owe me about thirty by now." Hermione's heart hit the floor as she turned to see Madam Hooch grinning at her, with only a very faint hint of malice in her yellow eyes.

"I have no intention...," she began, desperately aiming for her most repressive tone, trying to back off, hoping she didn't sound as terrified as she felt.

"You never do, Snape, that's the problem," was the hearty rejoinder. "Now come along. The band are ready to play."

And with that she was propelled out onto the dance floor and into a situation which, whilst it wasn't her worst nightmare, certainly made a creditable showing.

The band began the first dance. Or, at least, she assumed it was the first dance from the fact that other people had moved onto the floor. She couldn't immediately tell the difference between the band playing a dance tune and the band tuning up. By the skin of her teeth she managed to remember the basic dance hold and began to move her feet, dredging up anything she had ever known about ballroom dancing, and then trying to reverse it. It was little enough. Madam Hooch was solid and muscular under her hands, as might be expected from a Quidditch teacher and player. Their occasional collisions were quite painful.

Hooch didn't seem to object, though.

"So, Snape," she said, at one point, disturbing Hermione's intense concentration and almost causing her to trip, "when are we next going to have the pleasure of you refereeing a match for us?"

Hermione tried not to look horrified, and to come up with an answer that wasn't Never in this lifetime.

"I have neither the time nor the inclination," she got out through gritted teeth.

All she got in response was a laugh. She had never disliked Madam Hooch, but her lack of skill with a broomstick meant that she had never developed a real rapport with her. Hermione doubted that it would ever happen after this particular experience. A turn, largely initiated by Hooch, brought the Gryffindor contingent within her sight. Harry was looking mischievous, Ron was gesturing enthusiastically in her general direction and Snape was looking mutinous about something, although she couldn't tell whether it was to do with what was being said, or the fact that she was currently dancing with the flying teacher.

After eternity and then some had passed, the noise from the musicians finished and a smatter of polite applause broke out.

This time I'm getting out, and never mind anyone's feelings, she thought viciously. Disengaging herself from Hooch, with a bare pass at courtesy, she headed for the exit.

And straight into Albus Dumbledore.

"Severus, how splendid to see you dancing." His eyes twinkled.

Oh Professor, just let me out of here.

"I have business elsewhere, Headmaster." Please take the hint.

"Of course you do." He beamed benignly over his spectacles and Hermione felt the first beginings of relief sweep over her. And then felt them evaporate at his next words. "But before you go, I really do think that you should dance with the Head Girl."

No!

Helplessly trailing in the wake of the Headmaster, she found herself face to face with Snape, who looked equally unenthusiastic at Dumbledore's idea.

The first minutes of their dance were spent in frosty silence. Hermione for her own part was too busy working out where she should put her feet to be capable of polished banter. The expression on Snape's face, together with his rigid posture, suggested that he was hating it as much as her. His first words did nothing to dispel that impression.

"Do you have the first idea how to dance, Professor?"

"No," she spat back, too preoccupied to lie. "I hate it. And I can't do it."

"That is obvious." He breathed out heavily. "Tell me, have you ever seen me at one of these functions? Why didn't you just leave as soon as the tables were cleared?"

"I tried, but I wasn't fast enough."

"Yes, well, Hyacinth Hooch can be very quick off the mark."

She almost blinked. Was he excusing her? Then something else distracted her.

"Hyacinth?" she said incredulously. "Madam Hooch's name is Hyacinth?"

"Yes. Why do you comment?"

"I've always thought of hyacinths as well... delicate things." At least eighty per cent of her attention was on the mechanics of dancing, so the words were out before she had a chance to realise what she'd said.

"I would remind you that you still owe respect to your teachers, regardless of the current situation." The words rebuked her, but she could swear that there was a tremor of amusement in his voice.

"Sorry, Prof - Miss Granger," she muttered with no real contrition.

They continued dancing in silence. By now, she had become used to the sensation of seeing herself through someone else's eyes. But their close proximity made her conscious of the oddly pleasant feel of her own - real - body. How much smaller than Snape's it was. She hadn't realised the skin of her hands was so soft, or that her waist would feel so small by comparison to his bigger grip. Her hair was sleeker than she normally managed to get it, and it seemed to have a subtly different smell; or maybe she just wasn't used to smelling herself from another person's point of view. In fact, her skin seemed to be clearer than she remembered it as well. Obviously, he was taking her orders to look after her body seriously.

Wonderful. Snape is making a better job of your life than you are. What a depressing thought.

"I believe you will be able to take your leave after this dance," Snape's voice broke into her despondency. "I usually spend my time outside in the gardens, checking on any students out there."

And then the music came to an end and she could step back from him again. It didn't seem to be a moment for lengthy farewells. With a curt nod of her head she turned on her heel and headed for the door. As she made her way past the clumps of students she noticed Snape being - was it congratulated - by the other Gryffindors. She definitely thought she heard Neville say something like "you survived..." which curiously irked her.

For heaven's sake, she thought rather crossly, he's not that bad.

Her mood was not improved by encountering Minerva McGonagall just at the door.

"Leaving so soon, Severus?" she asked with a knowing smile. "I hope you didn't upset my Head Girl."

"Your Head Girl is perfectly capable of taking care of herself," she snapped, not really examining whether she was referring to herself or Snape. "I'm sure she'll make a full recovery with suitable post-traumatic stress counselling."

Suddenly furious with Harry, Ron, Neville, Dumbledore, McGonagall and anyone else who was unlucky enough to cross her line of sight, she swept outside and into the gardens. As she stalked down a gravel path, bordered with rose bushes a tell tale squeal alerted her to the presence of an illicit couple. Growling, she routed them out and deducted ten points from each of their houses. As they fled, she tapped her wand restlessly on her other hand, needing to do something more to relieve the ill-humour engendered by the casual flurry of anti-Snape sentiments.

She glared at a defenceless rose bush.

Pointing her wand at one of the blooms, she muttered a spell. The flower exploded, sending petals cascading to the ground in a waft of scent. She did it again.

Yes, this was definitely very satisfying.