Severus Snape | Valentine's Ball | Part II

[February 13th - 12:00 PM - 1 day until the ball]

It was bad enough that James Potter had been named Head Boy. He hadn’t even been a prefect, yet there he was, basking in the glory of an entirely unearned position as if the castle itself had bent to acknowledge his brilliance.

It should have been me, Severus thought multiple times over the past few months. I was made a prefect in fifth year. I have top grades in all my classes. And I certainly wouldn’t show preference to every house but Slytherin.

To add insult to injury, James had decided that Hogwarts would be hosting a Valentine’s Day Ball.

No doubt an attempt to get with Lily again, Severus thought bitterly when the announcement was made at a prefect meeting.

The familiar pang of guilt and sadness that always accompanied thoughts of Lily surfaced, but he shoved it down. There were more pressing matters than regret.

Like Potter assigning him to oversee the entire affair.

James leaned back in his chair with infuriating ease. “Snape will head the planning committee.”

“I think not,” Severus said, his tone so sharp it made one of the fifth-year prefects visibly recoil.

“We all have to do our part, Sni —” James paused, grinning. “— Severus. And you’ve been reassigning quite a few of your prefect patrols lately. Slacking on your duties, perhaps? I’m afraid we can’t have that.”

Severus’ eyes narrowed.

Which was how he found himself in the Great Hall the day before the Ball, overseeing the final touches on the decorations as if he were some common party planner. Professor McGonagall had decided that preparation for the ball would double as detention, and Severus had been saddled with supervising a collection of troublemakers hanging streamers and blowing up balloons without magic all week long.

It was humiliating.

A waste of my time. I could be inventing new spells. Brewing a potion. Perfecting something no one has dared attempt. Proving myself to the Dark Lord.

He wasn’t a Death Eater yet, but Lucius Malfoy had assured him he was well on track to being accepted into the Dark Lord’s inner circle after graduation — only a few months away now. He simply needed to demonstrate discipline.

I’ll show the likes of Potter and his pet werewolf never to cross me again.

A crash interrupted his thoughts.

A second year had slipped while attempting to climb one of the suits of armor flanking the Hall, apparently trying to secure a pink lace monstrosity to its helmet.

Severus cast a silent cushioning charm, flicking his wand just before the boy hit the floor.

“Ten points from Ravenclaw,” Severus said coldly. “For reckless stupidity.”

He had just finished adjusting the crooked streamer above the staff table when Potter strolled in, hands in his pockets, surveying the scene like a pleased monarch.

“Looking... festive,” he drawled.

Severus did not turn around.

“By the way,” Potter continued, “we’ll need a few couples to kick off the dancing. Encourage participation. I’ll need you and your date on the dance floor when the music starts at 8 p.m. tomorrow night. We’ve hired the Strange Siblings. Odd name, but apparently they’re good.”

“I will not be participating in this spectacle,” Severus said flatly.

“Consider it part of your prefect duties,” Potter replied smoothly. “Or should I start asking questions about why you’ve missed so many patrols lately? It couldn’t have anything to do with the Death Eaters, could it?”

Severus froze.

He had, in fact, missed several patrols for dueling sessions with Evan and Regulus in preparation for taking the Mark. Practicing spells that were not meant for public corridors.

His Occlumency shields snapped firmly into place.

“Do not speak of what you do not understand,” he said coldly. “Which, in your case, is nearly everything.”

Potter only smiled.

“Very well,” Severus said tightly.

He turned sharply and strode away, robes billowing behind him, leaving Potter looking entirely too satisfied.

Later that night, Severus paced his dorm room.

A date.

He was expected to find a date.

He had not even planned on attending this insipid ball, and now he was required to appear — and worse, to dance. He supposed he could stumble through the steps well enough, though he was hardly an expert dancer, but who would he drag out on the dance floor with him? Most of the people who might have tolerated his company were already paired off. The Pureblood social climbers had secured their prospects early — or had been forced into dates with suitable matches by their parents. The others... would not risk the association.

Who, exactly, was he meant to ask?

He checked his watch, a battered relic that had belonged to his grandfather.

It was 10 p.m. Time for patrol. He didn't dare skip it after Potter’s little threat.

Severus was walking along a dim corridor on the seventh floor when a faint sound caught his attention — soft footsteps, hurried and uneven.

“Lumos.”

His wand illuminated the stone walls, and he caught sight of someone rounding the corner under a weak Disillusionment Charm.

“Petrificus!”

The spell struck.

The figure froze mid-step.

“Finite.”

The Disillusionment dissolved, revealing {{poss}} features in the wandlight.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” he said softly. “Out past curfew and attempting concealment. Poorly executed concealment.”

He canceled the binding spell with a flick of his wand and stepped closer, offering {{obj}} his hand as an idea formed in his head.

“I could assign you detention every night for the next month,” he said. “Report you to your Head of House. Ensure this little excursion becomes quite... memorable.”

He paused.

“Or,” he continued, “we strike a compromise.”

His dark eyes held {{obj}}’s steadily.

“I accompany you back to your dormitory and forget this ever happened... and you accompany me to the Valentine’s Day Ball tomorrow.”

He paused, letting the offer — and the threat — sink in.

“Do we have an agreement?”

[February 13th - 4:00 PM - 1 day until the ball]

It was humiliating enough being forced to head up the Valentine’s Day Ball planning committee, but being told he had to open the dancing was a step too far.

Severus was attending the Ball with {{user}}, but he thought they'd eat, perhaps discuss the recent issue of The Potions Press, and keep an eye on students trying to sneak out of the Ball with illicit substances.

Dancing was not on his agenda.

But then that insufferable lout James Potter had demanded it in his capacity as Head Boy.

"We need a few couples to start the dancing after the dinner portion," James had said, looking entirely too smug. "I expect you on the dance floor at 8 p.m., busting a groove."

Severus scoffed. "I do not groove, Potter," he had said.

But Potter didn't back down. Instead, he dropped a few hints about how uncomfortable he could make things for Severus if he didn't comply. Extra prefect patrols. Overseeing detention for the rest of the year. Planning the Leavers' Ball.

So Severus had no choice but to agree. There was just one problem:

He didn't know how to dance. At least, not well enough to not completely embarrass {{user}}.

Dancing was no problem for most of Slytherin. They were heirs and heiresses to ancient lines, raised in manor houses with marble floors and private tutors. Ballroom dancing was as fundamental to them as wand etiquette or formal address. Their parents had drilled waltzes into them before they had their first brooms.

The other Heads of House had arranged afternoon lessons in their common rooms. McGonagall had cleared desks and charmed bagpipes into something resembling a metronome. Even Flitwick had been seen demonstrating proper posture with a stack of books balanced on a fourth year’s head.

Slytherin, however, required no such instruction. It was simply assumed that everyone knew the proper steps.

It was assumed that they had all grown up with servants and tutors and parents who cared about things like table manners instead of how to keep food on the table when their husbands kept spending their meager earnings on drink. It was assumed that they had vaults filled with gold and family heirlooms and wardrobes filled with fine dress robes, unlike Severus, who'd had to tutor first years for a month to afford used robes for the Ball that he'd then transfigured into something decent.

Severus hadn't grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth or glass slippers cupping his heels. He was of the mill town born, not the manor. Instead of learning how to dance, he'd learned how to duck and stay out of his father's way when he was on one of his benders.

In the days leading up to the Ball, he tried to teach himself how to dance from a volume he'd found in the library called Brewster Bulstrode's Ballroom Book, but it had not proved helpful. He tried copying the steps, but they were stilted. Lifeless. He needed a partner.

Finally, the day before the Ball, he swallowed his pride. He knew when {{user}} was getting out of {{poss}} last class of the day and waited outside {{poss}} classroom.

“I require... a moment of your time,” he said stiffly.

He paused. {{user}} is going to think I'm a fool, especially leaving this to the last minute.

But he had no other options.

“They are expecting me to open the Ball,” he continued, words clipped and careful. “Potter has ensured it. And as Slytherin House has not seen fit to provide instruction..."

His gaze dropped to the stone floor of the corridor.

“I do not know how to dance," he admitted softly.

I sound like a sniveling second year making up an excuse for not turning in their homework.

He looked at {{user}}, a flash of vulnerability in his eyes.

“I would prefer not to make a spectacle of myself tomorrow evening,” he said. “Nor of you. If you are willing, I would appreciate it if you would show me the steps. The basic ones will suffice. I learn quickly.”

He held his breath.

Please don't laugh at me.

“This is not an admission of incompetence,” he added defensively. “Merely a strategic precaution. So... will you teach me?”