Celandine's Chronicle (celandineb) wrote in cels_fic_haven, @ 2007-08-08 20:27:00 |
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Entry tags: | hp fic hermione/severus |
HP fic: Moondance [Hermione/Snape, general]
Title: Moondance
Author: celandineb
Fandom: HP
Pairing: Hermione/Snape
Rating: general
Summary: Very few people ever imagined that Severus Snape might enjoy dancing. Hermione is one of those few.
Note: Teenyfic (341 words) written for florahart, at the request of inell, who suggested Snape/Hermione, prompt "moonlight dance," and requested romance with nothing angsty or unhappy. The title is borrowed from the Van Morrison song of the same name.
Very few people ever imagined that Severus Snape might enjoy dancing. Perhaps it was the near-permanent sneer affixed to his face, which only deepened at the mention of such time-wasting activities. Perhaps it was the way he walked, not ungracefully but with a certain restraint on his movements that suggested that Snape yielding to the rhythm was about as improbable as Hagrid dating Rita Skeeter.
Hermione liked to dance. She hadn't had all that many opportunities, granted. At the ball celebrating the fifth anniversary of Voldemort's defeat, she moved easily from one partner to another, a smile on her face as she whirled in time to the music. There was no one she danced with more than twice; after a couple of years of living with Ron, they'd parted (with reasonable amicability) and she had found she quite liked being alone and only seeing someone when it suited her.
When she saw her former professor standing alone near the refreshments table, sipping punch with a scowl that suggested it had the flavor of undiluted Bubotuber pus, a spurt of curiosity made her go over to him when the song had ended.
"Professor Snape."
"Mister," he corrected her.
She inclined her head. "Mister Snape."
"Miss Granger."
"Would you care to dance with me?"
He looked astonished.
"It is a ball," she pointed out. "It is usual to dance, under these circumstances."
"I don't believe anyone has ever asked me to dance in my life."
She gave him an impish smile. "There's a first time for everything."
Looking at the crowded room, he shook his head. "Too many people for my taste."
There were French doors behind her, leading outside to a terrace and thence to a large garden. "Come with me, then." She took his hand without asking; it was cold, bony, rough with old scars and burns, but he did not pull away.
The moonlight softened the harsh angles of his face as he looked down at her, made her pale-blue robes shimmer as they spun together across the bleached grass.