Chapter 4

A/N: I apologize sincerely for the exceedingly long hiatus from the fanfictional world. I have a "real" manuscript in sore need of editing. Time is at a premium, so Snape and his g-string got pushed to the backburner for a while. The whole picket fence simile comes from my hilarious former Latin professor, Dr. Clack. I couldn't take credit for it; he actually described a person this way...

* * *

Toby Snape, peering anxiously from his window with his large nose over the sill and large teeth gnawing at his lower lip, put Severus in mind of a horse trying to eat an apple through a picket fence. The elder Snape approached his former home at Spinner's End with dread, not at all in the mood for a conversation with his bushy-haired Xantippe. Nonetheless, he rapped sharply upon the door with his burn-scarred knuckles and waited.

When the door flew open, he was appalled to see a shock of red hair atop the slightly stocky build of none other than his wife's Ministry co-worker, Charlie Weasley. The upstart gave him an easy smile and leaned back against the doorframe...my doorframe, thought Snape furiously...when Hermione appeared behind him.

"Late again," she snapped and turned to bellow up the stairs, "Toby! Your father! Don't forget your jacket!"

"I don't pretend to be an exemplary parent, Hermione," the ex-Potions master began coldly, "but at least I can refrain from carrying on my sordid affairs right before the boy's eyes."

"Sordid affairs?" cried Hermione in outrage. "How bloody dare you? Charlie and I are going over some numbers for the Goblin Liaison budget."

Snape's sloe eyes narrowed. "That's not a euphemism you hear every day."

"It's all right, Professor," said the redheaded dolt. "Your wife's in good hands."

Irritated that a grown man had just called him 'Professor,' a title that he had not held for a decade, Snape said icily, "Good hands, indeed. Not from a Gryffindor, Godric's own five-minute militia."

"Tobeee!" Hermione shrieked desperately until the boy finally skulked down the stairs.

"I'm here, I'm here," he grumbled, shuffling over to his father with a resigned expression.

He and Snape quickly exited Hermione's foyer and stepped outside to find the empty liquor bottle that served as the Portkey back to Hogsmeade. "We've got to meet the lads for the choreography," he explained.

"Oh, Dad," sighed Toby, "you're not still on about this Runespoors business, are you?"

With a resigned groan, Snape crouched down to his son's level. "The only reason I've agreed to demean myself in this egregious fashion is so that I can keep joint custody of you." When Toby glowered, his father continued, "I'm your father, Tobias. Not that dull-witted Weasley boy or any of your mother's other afternoon specials. And I love you," he mumbled uncomfortably.

"All right, Dad," returned the boy, just as gruffly, but he slipped his small hand into Snape's and gave him a quick, horse-toothed grin. "So do I get to meet Dumbledore, then?"

* * *

"So there you are, Severus," Lucius greeted them when the father and son had finally reached the outskirts of Hogsmeade. "Remus has taken the liberty of divulging the whereabouts of a more direct route to the former Headmaster's office."

Snape grunted, but beyond skeptical as he was that Dumbledore's portrait could be of any help with exotic dancing, he allowed Toby to drag him by the sleeve up the stairs and into a narrow corridor. Within moments, they arrived at the gargoyle, cracked with age and minus an extremity or two, but still the faithful guardian of the former headmaster's office.

"Altoids!" said Lucius authoritatively, and the sculpture spun slowly away to reveal the dimly lit, crumbling staircase. "Right. The others are already waiting for the late Mudblood-lover to return from his Ministry portrait."

Snape, Lucius, and Toby ambled into the dark, dusty room just as Dumbledore returned to his frame, beyond surprised to find that an audience had gathered in his office.

"And to what do I owe this leaping delight?" he said cheerfully, blue eyes twinkling with the glitter the painter had used to decorate them. "Help yourselves to a Sherbet Lemon, and do please sit down. What dire problem do you need my assistance with today?"

"I expect Dumbledore'd have summat ter say about that," Hagrid began timidly.

"Exactly," interjected Remus. "You see, Albus, we've had a bit of trouble, all of us, getting a scrap of gold together ever since the war ended. So, Lucius here..."

"Decided our time would be better spent tearing our clothes off in front of scores of shrieking witches," Snape interrupted, "and, sadly, it was discovered only yesterday that not a one of us possesses any sort of talent for it whatsoever. Since you served as not only the omniscient deus ex machina, but also the wise elder for the whole of the Harry Potter series, we assumed you might be able to shed some light upon the subject."

"Of course, of course," assented Dumbledore, eyes still a-twinkle. "Few know the disturbing tale of just how I defeated Grindelwald. It was a balmy summer's eve at the bandshell. Sounds of light jazz echoed in the fading twilight. Suddenly, he appeared, bringing with him the savory smoke of the barbecue and the rugged self-assurance of a powerful Dark wizard. I could sense that Grindelwald wanted a fight, so I drew myself up and crossed the floor. No wands were drawn that night, for he and I settled our differences through the art of dance. To this day, I look back upon that night and think, thank Merlin I was wearing my Tuscan leather boat shoes."

Lucius snorted derisively. "What, you're writing for the bloody Peterman catalog? You expect us to believe that malarkey?"

"Yeah, I can't think that a Dark wizard like that would solve his differences with a dance contest," scoffed Moody. "Besides, that was ages ago, Dumbledore. This sort of dancing's a bit different than that flittering about in the bandshell."

Dumbledore raised a pacifying hand. "Now, now. Naturally, there are some differences that must be accounted for. But I will say this to you: the basic principles are the same. Choreography, grace, and coordination. You will need another dancer."

"Another dancer?" gasped Lucius in disbelief. "It was hard enough to get these four interested, what the bloody hell do you..."

"I am sure," Dumbledore interrupted, "that you will be able to find someone willing to make a few extra Galleons in these troubled times. Now, go on. Find yourselves someone and return here at this time next week."

* * *

"Next!" called Snape irritably from behind the staff table in the Great Hall. Moody had ambushed the Hogwarts security guard and put a strong Petrificus Charm on him, thus freeing the whole of the castle for their use.

Toby raised the needle on Lupin's old Wizarding record player and found the trite Serge Gainsbourg song that the next auditioner had requested.

Je t'aime...oui, je t'aime...

Peter Pettigrew strode out, rat face curled into a suggestive leer, but when he came before the staff table, his eyes widened in stage-fright. Nose twitching, he began to slowly peel off his robe, digging his clawlike fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

Je t'aime...moi non plus...

Snape gestured to his son, who immediately stopped the record. "All right, then. We'll, er, Floo you. Lucius, who's next?"

"Filius Flitwick!" called Malfoy. "You're on!"

The former Professor Flitwick ambled out excitedly and thrust his arms before him and pushed his buttocks back just as Toby put a medley of Motown hits on the phonograph. Flitwick started with 'Ain't Nothin' But the Real Thing,' throwing off his velvet cape and battered old hat, and quickly progressed to a disco-like routine to Jackson Five's 'ABC'. Filius slowed it down with 'Let's Get it On,' sensually stripping down to his jocks, speeding it up again at the end with 'Love Machine.'

I'm just a love machine... blared the record player as Flitwick did pelvic thrust after pelvic thrust ...and I don't work for nobody but you!

At last, he was finished, and the entire row of would-be strippers at the staff table stared at him, aghast.

Moody's eye whirled more wildly than ever, and he finally said, "I think 'Tiny Little Professor Flitwick' is a misnomer. We'll definitely be in touch, mate."

Remus glowered a bit jealously and barked, "Next!"

At that, Barty Crouch, Jr. ambled onto the scene, confidently kicking aside the clothes that Not So Tiny Little Professor Flitwick had yet to magic back onto his body, and said, "My record, please, boy."

"Barty Crouch!" cried Snape. "What the bloody hell are you doing here? You were Kissed after Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire!"

"I expect Dumbledore'd have summat ter say about that," interjected Hagrid, equally confused.

With a causal, unconcerned shrug, Barty said, "It's Alternate Universe; anything goes. Let's just say I was saved by a mysterious American Muggle in return for low-grade sexual favors."

With that, Toby put the music on, and Barty was able to begin his dance.

I need some hot stuff, baby, this evening, gotta have some hot stuff, baby, tonight...

Unfortunately for Barty, the mysterious American Muggle had not been able to instill him with any ability for dance, and, as Moody whispered after a turn with his magical eye, those sexual favors must have been very low grade indeed.

"I've seen enough," groaned Lucius. "Clearly you possess no talent for the gentler arts. How fitting for a family of uptight blood traitors."

"MORSMORDRE!" cried Barty, attempting to summon the Dark Mark. "I'm no blood traitor! What the hell?" His wand had produced nothing but green sparks. "Well, that's funny. That could be a very fascinating little side story if you-know-who (and I don't mean the Dark Lord) wasn't too bloody lazy to write about it."

"We won't bother saying we'll Floo," said Snape in a bored tone. "You're no doubt busy with your mysterious American Muggle anyhow. Next!"

Blushing frightfully, Arthur Weasley crept out to the middle of the Great Hall. "Hello, gents, I'm very impressed with your scheme. As the token 'poor person' in the Harry Potter series, I could always use a way to make a quick Galleon."

Right foot, left stomp, left foot left stomp. Turn it out. Cha cha now y'all. Two hops this time.

Each man at the table and Toby winced in turn. Arthur had chosen the 'Cha Cha Slide,' a song-with-dance created by former Death Eater, Mr. C. The song, or so they said, was bewitched so that it would never end, and the dancer was forced to repeat the same movements over and over.

Now it's time to get funky. Right foot, right stomp. Take it back now, ya'll.

Minutes passed, then hours, until finally, the record player gave out and burst in a purple cloud of mist and sparks. Arthur wiped his brow and shouted, 'Aguamenti' at his wand and began to suck directly from the tip as fast as the magic could work.

One by one, the other men stood, and the sound of their applause filled the vast chamber.

"Arthur Weasley has conquered the 'Cha Cha Slide'!" cried Remus in admiration as Moody's eye whirled in equal awe.

"No wonder he had the stamina to produce seven children! You're in."

"I expect Dumbledore'd have summat ter say about that," wept Hagrid joyfully, wiping a tear from his eye with his large, spotted handkerchief.

"That he will, Hagrid," replied Snape gravely. "That he will."