Hot and Cold

A/N:

Thanks to RedSkyAtNight, the official Queen of the Universe. The dare was her idea.

Snape’s behavior the next day did nothing to lessen Rawa’s confusion. He sat in his accustomed place next to her at meals, making polite conversation as if there had never been any awkward moment between them at all.

He was, of course, in his usual irascible humor, but it did not seem to have anything in particular to do with her. Today’s complaint du jour seemed to be focused on the St Valentine’s Day dance, and why staff—who all, according to him, had much better things to occupy their time with—were being required to attend.

“Bad enough we have to spend our days with the spotty little scrotes,” he said at dinner. “Now we’ve got to waste an entire revolting evening watching them grope one another to music.”

“Precisely why our presence is necessary, Severus,” said McGonagall. “We are there to make sure the groping doesn’t get out of hand.”

“And at least they’re groping for a good cause,” said Sirius. “St Mungo’s needs the money.”

Rawa ate her roast chicken and potatoes in silence. She had been quite looking forward to this dance, and had in fact gone into Hogsmeade a week before and spent a not inconsiderable amount of money on a dress for it. The dress was scarlet, close-fitting (her mother, with a disapproving little purse of the lips, would have called it ajustado and refused to let her leave the house in it) and cut low in the back, just shy of what she had heard one of the older boys refer to as “arse cleavage.”

She had hesitated a little over this last feature, because since the duel she had not worn anything that fully exposed her scar. In the end she decided that people might as well start getting used to seeing it—and besides, it wasn’t as if she had any of the usual kind of cleavage to show off anymore.

She had, of course, been thinking about dancing with Snape when she bought the dress. But after yesterday’s humiliating incident, she had volunteered hastily to work at the charity table, where refreshments and gifts were being sold to raise money. It would give her something to do.

After dinner the tables were cleared out from the Great Hall, and Flitwick and a group of seventh-years set about decorating it. The centerpiece was a huge pink cauldron out of which rose an endless cascade of balloon bubbles, which were chased about the room by tiny golden cherubs. Each time a balloon was struck by one of the miniature arrows, it burst with a soft musical plink, and a little shower of glittering confetti floated to the floor.

Rawa would have found it all very charming and romantic if she had not been in such a grumpy mood. As it was, she sat next to Dumbledore at the table as the hours dragged on, collecting money for chocolate frogs and talking sugar hearts and the assortment of magical novelties donated by the Weasley twins, and trying not to look at Snape, who was standing nearby, glowering and leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest, presumably on the lookout for excessive groping.

You didn’t think it was so revolting when you groped my culo on the way back to the castle, she thought crossly.

“Twenty-five Galleons for a dance with you,” said Sirius’s voice behind her, and she looked up to see him drop a handful of coins into the donation jar. He had a way of doing this—of backing her into a corner so that she could not turn him down without seeming churlish—and it annoyed her. She did not feel like dancing tonight, least of all with him, but it was a significant amount of money, and, after all, it was already in the jar. Making him fish it out now would draw attention, and she would be the one who would end up looking bad.

She managed a polite smile, and got up from the table. She heard Blaise Zabini say, “Hsst! AC at six o’clock!” and turned around and shot him a sharp look.

The music played softly, and the balloons went plink, plink, plink, and Sirius steered her around the room, holding her a little closer than she would have liked, but nothing inappropriate to a school dance with students present.

“Come to dinner with me on Saturday after the Quidditch match,” he said into her ear.

“Thank you, Sirius, but I have some things I need to do.” Plink.

“Such as?”

She hated it when he did this. She hated it when any man did it—asked for reasons, tried to argue you into liking him. Did he think it was a debate, that if she couldn’t come up with a plausible excuse, she’d be forced to go out with him? She had been turning Sirius down for a good six months now, and it didn’t seem to have made a dent in his determination.

“Things. Things I have to do.” Plink, plink.

Mercifully, the song finally ended and she made her way back to the table, where Dumbledore was eyeing her speculatively.

“He doesn’t give up easily, does he?”

“No. I think he thinks it is romantic, but the truth is I find it very tiresome.”

She looked up to see Harry and Ron approaching the table. Ron was prodding Harry, who was looking at once mischievous and apprehensive.

“Go on,” Ron was saying. “I dare you! It’s the last dance, it’s now or never!”

He is going to ask me to dance, she thought in amusement.

Snape apparently was thinking the same thing, because he followed the two boys, standing silently behind them as Harry dug in his pocket for money.

“I’ll donate fifty Galleons,” Harry said, laying the coins on the table, “if you’ll dance with Snape.”

Ay, mi hijo, thought Rawa. That’s going to cost you more than galleons.

“That’s ‘Professor Snape’ to you, Potter,” said Snape, and Harry whirled round.

Seeing the look of controlled rage on Snape’s face, it occurred to her that this might not be the first time that he had been the object of such an unflattering dare. She scooped up Harry’s coins and dropped them noisily into the jar. “Trato hecho,” she said briskly, getting up from the table. “Severus, will you dance with me?”

Harry had backed away from the table, and Ron was suddenly nowhere to be seen.

Snape hesitated, looking furious, and she held out her hand and said, “Fifty Galleons is fifty Galleons. You can deal with him later.”

The top of her head did not even reach his chin, and she stepped into his arms, thinking, I love the way you smell. He was a surprisingly adequate dancer, in an understated way. It felt so good to have him hold her, even if he was keeping a slight distance. Come on, Severus, she thought. This is supposed to be a contact sport. But he was very careful to leave a little space between them, even though they had danced—and he was leading her, so she thought this must have been deliberate—away from the center of the room and into one of the corners, where there was less light. He was holding her lightly and formally, one hand on her hip, moving gently with the music but making minimal contact.

She had begun to conclude that he must find her truly repellent when she felt the hand that was on her hip begin to move, sliding around behind, his fingers insinuating themselves in between her skin and the low backline of the dress. And still he did not hold her close—just took advantage of the darkness to explore, with the tips of his fingers, the part of her that was concealed from view.

The song ended, and the lights came up, and he moved away from her. His eyes met hers briefly, and he inclined his head and gave a little half smile.

“Thank you,” he said, and turned to leave.

She walked back to her rooms alone, more confused than ever.

She thought she might have a bath.