Chapter 3 - The Danseur Noble's Solo

Pas de Deux

Chapter 3 – The Danseur Noble's Solo

I would like to think of myself as a wizard of reflection; a man of the world; a man who thinks before he acts; a wizard of logic and reasoning. Instead, as I sit here in my chambers drinking straight from a bottle of firewhisky in the manner of the unsophisticated oafs I despise, I realise how far off from that ideal I am. Instead of sound logic and cool reason, I seem to have sporadic lapses in which I lose my carefully regulated self-control. In such situations, my impulses and sentiments, as disgusting and abhorrent they are to me, hold sway and dominate. So much for my lauded and much vaulted ability to control myself and my impulses – a self-control that even I am proud of. Ha! These lapses will be the end of me. It pleasures me none too much to say this but I do not like myself at all when I am impulsive. I don't generally like myself much on a regular basis unless I'm researching and writing, and maybe insulting the arrogance from Potter's face. But I hate myself when I'm impulsive. It's not even that calculated cold impulsiveness that dominates the Slytherins. My impulses are borne out of pure emotion – hate, contempt, anger, desire, pleasure, abject misery and dejection. "Pure Emotion" – what a vile turn of phrase!

Why can't I have the calculated impulses of Lucius Malfoy? There's a wizard who never does anything unless he thinks he stands to benefit from it. Why couldn't I have the calculated impulsiveness of Dumbledore? Now, there's a man who will corner McGonagall in the staff room for a kiss knowing full well that the other staff members will likely catch him in the act. He's even done it in my presence! That's calculated impulses for you. My impulses besides getting the better of me, my mind, my logic, my reasoning and everything I hold dear, has the malevolent effect of rendering me a fool. I will often be proven wrong in my judgement, opinions and feelings. Tonight, at the close of yet another school year, I had another such epiphany, all because of the calculated impulses of Miss Hermione 'the know-it-all' Granger. I am uncertain whether it was indeed a calculated impulse but I call it thus because she seems to have a studied way about it. Perhaps it is an unconsciously studied impulse, I have observed that she knows much beyond her years and that her knowledge is not derived from books alone. Intriguing for someone this young. But I – I, Severus Snape have allowed my emotions, base emotions, to get the better of me! I nearly harmed a student! I should do as house elves and punish myself for this if it were not for the fact that I am already punishing myself by serving both the Dark and the Light. All to what end? Redemption! Damned redemption! As if I would actually feel any better about myself! Not bloody likely, especially not after I almost rattled Miss Granger comatose!

My error made itself more blatant and egregious when I re-examined the memory, the scene and the emotions vis-à-vis another that I had in the pensieve. It was not the first time I had attempted to harm her. Doesn't she understand – I am mad, bad and dangerous to know! Why does she seek me out so? I, the epitome of self-control almost harming a student, a brilliant student – the only student I ever had worthy enough to make me feel as if I want to keep her by my side so that I can impart all my knowledge to her! A student, such as Miss Granger coming to me for help, surely deserves my attention. I have sunk to a new low indeed. Severus Snape, Death Eater, Spy for the Order of the Phoenix, Researcher, Potions Master, Artist, Poet and Philosopher drinking firewhisky in his chambers out of uneasiness and guilt – I have sunk low indeed.

Staring at the empty hearth would not do me any good; I would have to wash my face in ice just to keep myself awake and more importantly, sane. Yes, I need to be wide-awake to examine this event. A clear head is what I need for now so that I can put tonight's memory in the pensieve with the others. With any luck, I should be able to resume my regular nightmares of the Dark Lord discovering my perfidy. With even better luck, I might actually die in the nightmare and cease to wake. Any nightmare would be better than thinking on Miss Granger and her penchant for seeking me. It seems that she always picks a time when I had just returned from the Dark Lord's presence and was busy depositing the memories into the pensieve. Tonight was no exception.

I had returned earlier than anticipated and had fortunately indulged in some ablution before deciding to deposit the Dark Lord's latest plans to conquer both the wizarding and muggle worlds in the pensieve. Dressed in my favourite grey nightshirt, I threw my cloak over myself and went to my office. It was the end of the school year, the dunderheads would be celebrating their freedom from books and homework and I could be left in peace to do as I chose. No one would dare impose on the nasty greasy git of the Potions Masters frowning in his quarters! Upon leaving off the memory of the Dark Lord's plans in the pensieve, I had to pinch my nose in disdain – I was more despondent than usual. The Dark Lord's plans were almost complete; he would act soon. What then? What would happen to all of us – my colleagues whom I tolerate and my students whom I wish would be less imbecilic than they already are – what was to become of us? Wrapped in such thoughts, the pensieve's swirling mass propped something up, catching my attention. It was a scene from months ago that was very much like tonight.

Then, as with tonight, I had just returned from the Dark Lord's side. MacNair had found Karkaroff in Kazakhstan and the Dark Lord had apparated all of us there to witness his slow torturous demise. Miss Granger had been waiting for me outside my office, seated cross-legged on the ground waiting. Her eyes were glistening with the cold and concern for that wretched Potter boy. She followed me into my office after I swept in and begged me to take Potter in and to resume his Occlumency lessons. She noticed my Death Eather's robes but she said nothing, making no sign that she understood its implications. She still saw me as Professor Snape, her Potions Master. She knew I was in a dangerous disposition and she quickly laid the issue before me without any of the pleasantries she's so fond of throwing at me. Potter's dreams were becoming more disturbing and insistent. She revealed that she had spoken to him, she had pleaded with him to resume his Occlumency lessons and he had refused to brook her objections. She turned to me with those shimmering chocolate windows to her soul and mind, and I could see that she was so intent and sincere in helping her friend. She practically begged me to help Potter, for his sake, for the good of everyone in the wizarding world. She had actually clung on to my feet and begged me on her knees to help Potter. She even apologised on his behalf for "whatever stupidity he did". "He needs the Occlumency lessons, sir," she pleaded with rivulets of tears down her cheeks. "He doesn't see that his feelings could get the better of him. You must help him! I know you threw him out, but that was merely anger. I'll sit in with him during the lessons; I will act as a check on him. Please, Professor Snape, help Harry."

I shifted uncomfortably at the memory and cursed myself for not bidding her to rise and to cease making a fool of herself with her grovelling. I watched as I shoved her aside and barked at her to leave. She did not. Like a cornered animal, her instincts kicked in and she stood up, looked me squarely in the eyes and fiercely demanded that Potter and I put aside our pride and prejudices to work towards the good that was for the benefit of the whole wizarding community. I merely made a rude comment of having already performed my duty as the Headmaster had requested. I had tried to teach the boy and he had neither the aptitude nor the right attitude to learn. My responsibility was over and with that, I dismissed her. She tried reasoning that Dumbledore would not be pleased with these developments, but I refused to listen, I demanded her departure by telling her that the Headmaster already knew. She then sighed and told me quietly that Potter had been stranger lately; she wanted me to keep an eye on him. "Keep an eye on all of us" she added. "You can always tell me anything, sir. I look on you as a friend, a guardian of sorts; for our sakes, keep an eye on us, please."

Such was the memory the pensieve chose to present to me. That contraption is a wondrous thing – it has an uncanny ability to draw the user's attention to things that have been occupying the user of late. Her ability to see Potter for the arrogant fool that he is and her perceptive observation in noticing that I guarded my privacy jealously have always struck me. Her plea that I should 'keep an eye on all of them' startled me a little, just a little. So, she knew. For all my ability to keep my mind permanently closed, she knew. I was still lost in thought over her insightful perspicacious remarks of that memory when the very same Gryffindor lioness walked into my serpent's lair.

Tonight, Miss Granger must have gotten wind from someone that I had recently returned from my duties at the Dark Lord's side, for she dropped by my office to "enquire after my health". I noticed she did so with several none-too-subtle glances at my hands. Why indeed should she seek me out at night? She was being silly and irrational; enquiring after my health indeed! Does she not know it takes a lot more to kill Severus Snape? I put her behaviour down to nervousness over the OWLs results. I was like that myself at that age. I know what it is like to complete your revision, hoping that the facts stay in your head and fearing that you had omitted something of import in the examination. As is customary for me, I scowled at her and told her off for wasting my time. I made a show of shuffling some parchments at my desk and told her pointed that I had to mark appalling first and second year scripts and as such, was not in any humour to interact with any creature capable of thought and speech. Her eyes lighted on the pensieve briefly before coming to rest on my features. She looked me in the eyes without fear, anger or irritation. My mind devised that she was concerned with the way I looked. Her mind had made it all too apparent. Miss Granger must have learnt the neutral look from McGonagall, it could silence any blabbing boy and make me retreat into my own mind. Fortunately for me, however, Miss Granger lacked the skill to match her neutral look with her thoughts. She stood opposite me, her concern for "my health" oozing from every pore and yet she said nothing. I knew she wanted to sit but she dared not ask because I had not invited her to.

Finally, she broke the mutual scrutiny and told me that I looked gaunter and sallower than usual. She wanted to apologise for contributing to my "altered state". Blast her! Doesn't she know that I'm always like this? Young ladies and their over active imaginations – they think everyone is in need of kindness; they think they see things where only an abyss remains. I have heard enough of such uniquely female sentiments from McGonagall and her quip of "The need for loving and acceptance never dies." It must be a Gryffindor trait; I do not see any of my Slytherins displaying such signs. And to think, I once thought Miss Granger free from it. Ha! I was wrong. Oh, Severus Snape admits he is wrong – Dumbledore and McGonagall would send me to Poppy if they ever found out.

"I'm sorry," she muttered in almost a whisper, apologising once again. Her ego must be bigger than Potter's if she presumes she is one of the causes for my recent loss of appetite. The thought of serving Dumbledore's Order while appearing to be a perfect sycophant capable of individual thought to the Dark Lord is enough to give anyone instant cruciatus aftershock spasms – doing that while instilling a belief in the Dark Lord that you are spying on Dumbledore for him is enough to turn my stomach. That, among other things makes me feel too ill to eat. Did Miss Granger consider this? Has it occurred to her that I am afraid of death? NO! Instead, she prattles on – and I sitting here in my chambers drinking myself stupid, I can still her voice echoing in my head.

"Professor, please, I am sorry – I know we have been very difficult. Keeping us in line is never easy, sir. But we have tried," she explained in an apology with an earnest look in her eyes.

"There are more things than are dreamt off in your philosophy, Miss Granger. There are things beyond disciplining dunderheads occupying my time," I sneered, examining the petite creature who refuses to squirm under my penetrating obsidian gaze.

"We are friends, well...kind of, aren't we, sir?" she asked abruptly.

"What are you hinting at?" I snapped impatiently. "Establishing some degree of mutual respect and trust is not friendship!"

"Friendship is predicated on respect and trust, sir," she answered firmly.

"No friendship is ever fully equal, Miss Granger. I am still your professor," I reminded her quietly, studying her features.

She gave me a look of supreme exasperation. "I know that! But it presupposes trust in the better party's abilities. That's what friends do, Professor Snape, we care for each other, we respect each other and we put up with all their hang-ups because we accept them for what they are."

Tracing my lips for a while, I notice that she is staring at me intently as if entranced by my habitual thinking pose. I think she coloured before firmly shaking her head. Impossible! The Gryffindor lioness is incapable of blushing violently at my words. "Perhaps...it may seem to you that we have nearly reached such a level," I acknowledged in circulatory manner, proud that my features did not reveal that I was pleased with her analytical surmise.

"I have not reached that level alone, sir," she replied, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. By Merlin! She had smiled shyly at me. The heavens rejoice! Miss Granger complimented me! Me, the greasy acerbic git universally hated by the student body and she complimented me!

"Now that we have resolved that issue, Professor Snape," she continued briskly in a business-like tone reminiscent of McGonagall in her Transfiguration class. "Professor Dumbledore trusts you as do I – we were all upset with Umbridge. I know the teachers have to manage the administrative matters in addition to their students and classes. It was particularly trying when Umbridge proclaimed herself queen. All of us, I dare say, all of us, students and teachers alike were grossly insulted. The odium I felt when she doubted the teachers' abilities and the way in which Professor McGonagall was treated was something that I had never experienced before," she frowned, pausing to meet me gaze for gaze. She bit her lower lips in slight nervousness and her eyes seemed to be studying my every movement. I felt the tense tremble of a nerve near my lips as I traced it in thought, considering how best I should respond to this presumptuous student.

"Miss Granger, you are tired and I want to be alone," I enunciated slowly and deliberately in a low voice.

"I will not go till I finish what I want to or have to say to you. Harry and Ron may not see you for what you are, but I do! You did not leave us in the lurch last year when Professor Karkaroff interrupted your class last year. You did not abandon us when you chose to stay here and show Mr Fudge your mark. You did not abandon us when we were at the Ministry a fortnight ago either. You informed Professor Dumbledore that we had likely followed Harry's hero complex and would have gotten ourselves killed at the Ministry had not the Order arrived. You had waited for us to return from the forest," she pointed out quietly, slightly out of breath. I could not help but muse at the irony of it all – it must have difficult thing for Potter and his fan club to realise that they were indebted to Severus Snape.

"I did nothing of the sort, Miss Granger," I insisted with all the contempt I could muster before adding, "My patience has its limits and it is, at present, thinner than the night air you breathe."

"Harry can choose to believe that you didn't help us at all because you weren't at the Ministry helping us. But I know you feel obliged to care for us. If Harry wasn't so blinded by his hero complex..."

"If you can see Mr Potter for what he's worth – an aspiring hero who endangers the people he purportedly cares for, then you would have sense enough to have refrained from participating in his suicidal activities!" I interrupted with a sharp hiss, narrowing my eyes and drumming my fingers.

"The fact that you are capable of showing anger proves that you're a man of great emotion, sir – even if you refuse to see them. I have observed that much in you, Professor," she said, approaching me in small steps, not bothering to break our eye contact.

"If you pride your observations thus, you would have noticed that I despise vile human emotions," I explained in a clipped low tone.

"But your eyes glittered when Professor Dumbledore told you of Sirius's death. You've lost your temper at us in our third year and you were barely civil to Umbridge. You can feel, sir," she challenged, folding her arms in front of her, shivering a little at the dank dark sanctuary that is both my comfort and misery. "You want to be like this dungeon in perpetual winter, but Harry's told me about your father...and how you were treated by his father and Sirius in your youth. He spoke to Sirius about..."

"He what?" I bellowed, as I quickly hid my hands to prevent Miss Granger from noting how much I quake with anger. I will not appear to lose control of myself in front of her. Alas! It was not to be. However much I tried to school my features into indifference, I found my lips curling in repugnance for the boy-who-lived-to-tell-my-memories. He dared to reveal my humiliation to his friends! "That BOY!" I declared firmly in a dangerously moderated tone, "has presupposed too much. He had imposed upon my time with his stupidity at Occlumency," I continued, removing myself from my seat and drawing closer to Miss Granger, forcing her to back away into my private store cupboard. "He couldn't keep his hands to himself and he peered into the pensieve. Damn him and his confounded arse of a father! He will rue the day he abused my memories and privacy! Undoubtedly, he got caught because he wanted to complain about the greasy git to his dear godfather! He must be very pleased with himself now!"

Miss Granger could back away no further by this time because I had effectively pinned her to the store cupboard. I do not mean this physically, of course; rather, I was a fence that prevented her from making an easy and hence fortuitous escape. Although she was cornered, Miss Granger gave no sign of alarm; she stared hard at me with a triumphant glow in her liquid eyes seemingly lighting up her face, "You feel betrayed and used. I don't blame you. Professor Dumbledore may think you are, shall we say, 'immature' for harping on your past miseries, but I think it takes great courage to keep the memory – if you'd only allow it to help you grow, sir!"

"Cease your idle blathering, Miss Granger. I am a Death Eater in the Headmaster's Order, think, how incongruous that is. I serve only myself. Your delusions must remain your own!" I hissed, clenching her shoulders and desperately shaking her in a livid impotent stab at her determination to be the salve to all the mistakes of my life.

"These are not delusions, sir!" she retorted indignantly in a shaky voice, quivering from my unwarranted shaking of her body. Her untameable hair tumbled about her face and tears had begun to form at the corner of her eyes, but she still trained her gaze at my eyes.

Hearing the continuous rattling of her brain against her skull snapped me out of my irrational anger, I realised that I had been physically assaulting a student by shaking her senseless. I cannot allow her to return home to her parents tomorrow in a comatose condition. Releasing my grip on her, I turned away to lean on my desk, resting my weight on my hands before commanding quietly, "Leave me, Miss Granger."

Instead of obeying my injunction, she saw fit to respond in an equally quiet voice, "You have always been there for us, Professor. Just remember that I am always here for you as well. I am truly honoured to call you a friend even if you won't or can't acknowledge it. Goodnight, sir." Then she reached to pat my hand, which I immediately withdrew at the touch of her soft, warm fingers. And she left after another half-strangled murmur of "good night".

That was what happened tonight. I have physically hurt a student. Yet despite that, Miss Granger had considered me a friend! I was incredulous. She wants me as a friend? She respects me and challenges me and yet – It then occurred to me that I had been thinking of her as Miss Granger. I took another swig of firewhisky and stared into the cold hearth again. I had been thinking of her as Miss Granger for almost a year now. Miss Granger – not the silly girl, not the insufferable know-it-all, but Miss Granger. I know she still is the insufferable know-it-all, but now, she's the insufferable Miss Granger; the presumptuous Miss Hermione Granger. Perhaps I've come to regard her in the same way I do Dumbledore and McGonagall. What a revelation! Severus Snape is congenial with a third of the golden trio!

And to think that I had harmed her and she did not reproach me – no scathing remark though her eyes studied me with the intensity of a basilisk; her eyes were throwing daggers at me, yet no reproach passed her lips. Why? She controlled her tears of humiliation and uncertainty. Why? Why wasn't she affrighted by what I was? Why wasn't she repulsed by what I am? Why wasn't she repulsed by my mark, my teeth, my hair, my behaviour or my manners? Why? Why? Why do I now feel guilty? Was it because she was kind – in almost the same manner as Dumbledore? She defends me against Potter and Weasley as Lily Evans did against Black and Potter senior, yet I don't want to call her a filthy mudblood for not leaving me to my own methods and devices. I had called Lily that, why can't I call Miss Granger the same? I tell myself she thinks me a charity case, but when I look into her eyes and subsequently, mind, I can see that she is utterly sincere. And while I am usually disgusted with it, I am not. I am not just a charity case with her – she respects me as a person, as an individual.

If only Potter and Weasley were capable of seeing Miss Granger as a person instead of a bossy female. I want to knock sense into Potter and Weasley for exploiting her talents and her intellect; I want to transform Malfoy and his coterie into worthless insects for insulting my best student. Why? I don't understand this! I don't feel, I don't know how to feel – I'm numb. I'm cold, calculating and aloof – nothing has yet unfazed me, yet, Miss Granger has. When I consider her keen analytical mind and her love for learning, when I can see how well put together she is for a Gryffindor, I have such thoughts that would have ensured my certain expulsion. What a mind that young lady has! Damn Miss Granger! She has befuddled my mind that I so prize without the aid of magic. Either she's more intelligent than I presently give her credit for or I'm in need of more firewhisky. Hmm, firewhisky then. A longing of firewhisky is rational, it will block out this damnable onslaught on emotions. "Very well, Miss Granger, you have won this bout," I announced to my chambers as I lifted the bottle to my lips. "To what we are and what we may be!"

Footnotes:

Pas de deux or grand pas de deux is formal five-part ballet sequence for two dancers: (1) the entrée (2) ballerina's partnered adagio (3) male solo (4) female solo (5) coda.

I know the "scene-within-a-scene" flashbacks may appear convoluted but bear in mind that I wrote chapters as I would direct a ballet piece. The Danseur Noble is the principal male dancer in a ballet troupe. He is the male Prima Ballerina as it were. For this third chapter, I have utilised the concept of the male solo, which I have titled 'The Danseur Noble's Solo' and turned it into a monologue. Severus is in his chambers mulling over the events of the evening. The conversations are either pensieve memories or his recollections. Hermione does not actually appear in this chapter.

The lines "There are more things than are dreamt off in your philosophy..." and "to what we are and what we may be" are borrowed from Shakespeare's Hamlet. The original lines are "There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio" and "Lord! We know what we are but not what we may be" respectively.

The "Mad, bad and dangerous to know" quote was used to refer to Lord Bryon, Snape is a Bryonic anti-hero of sorts here.

This scene occurs near the end of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

Warnings for next chapter: Will contain references to an Opera and there will French here and there (towards the end at least), I will provide a glossary.