Pas des Deux

A/N: Another 8. Slow, but steady. I don't want to rush these, so I hope they're worth the wait.

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Time seems more fluid, now that Voldemort is dead. Most days, he feels like he’s living somebody else’s life, watching the goings on from outside himself, wondering just how and why he survived. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy living – oddly enough, he finds that he does. It’s the unknown he doesn’t like. Before, he could be reasonably certain what lay before him: pain, stress, guilt, and certain death at the hands of a mad man. Now, the future stretches before him empty except for what he can make of it. He only knows he wants Hermione in it somehow.

* * * * *

“But is that what you want?” he asks her one afternoon at lunch. Having been too busy fighting a war in her seventh year to actually attend school, she has decided to remain an extra year to make up for the courses she missed. Ron and Harry both think her absolutely barmy for doing so, but Snape is secretly pleased.

Hermione nods resolutely. “Oh yes – absolutely. I enjoy being a student, and I don’t really know what I want to do with the rest of my life yet anyhow. Besides, who would you eat lunch with every day if I left?”

* * * * *

Of course, Minerva is delighted by the news. “I’m sure we can work something out, Hermione,” she interrupts their conversation the next day. “It’s unprecedented, having a student return for an eighth year. Perhaps an apprenticeship would work better for you? I’m sure you could choose whatever field interests you most.”

Hermione beams. “How on earth would I ever be able to choose just one? I’m interested in them all, except—” she shudders “—history. Do you know who’s teaching potions next year?”

“I am,” Snape answers quietly. “I never want to be associated with the dark arts again.”

* * * * *

Later that night, he replays the memory of her sympathetic smile and remembers the pat of her hand on his own. “You’re a brilliant potions master. If you permit it, I would love to apprentice under you.” The thought of working closely with the girl makes him happier than it should, considering she’s still his student, but he can’t help himself. Everyone else had seemed relieved at the news that he would be giving up the dark arts professorship, still not trusting him in that position. Only Hermione had understood immediately that it hadn’t been a difficult decision at all.

* * * * *

Potter and the Weasley girl are married in July, and Snape finds himself a guest at the wedding. He had debated not attending, feeling he would be completely out of place and would make the other guests uncomfortable, but he hasn’t seen Hermione since she’d returned home for the summer before her apprenticeship begins. She writes him of course – he receives an owl almost every day, inquiring as to his health, relating little pieces of information she knows he’ll find interesting, asking questions about what she’ll need to have ready for September, but it’s not the same. He misses her.

* * * * *

He wouldn’t have recognized Hermione at all if he hadn’t known she was Ginny’s Maid of Honour. “The dresses are atrocious,” one guest whispers to another, “they all look like candy-coloured meringues!”

“That’s the whole point,” is the muted response. “It’s a Muggle wedding. The dresses are supposed to be ugly.”

Snape supposes they are, but he’s never seen her with her hair in a chignon before. The grace of her neck distracts him from all the lace. When she smiles at him, he realizes he’s fallen in love with someone totally unsuitable for the second time in his life.

* * * * *

He doesn’t get to actually speak with her until much later. So many people want to talk to her, and she’s surrounded by her friends. The Weasley menace spins her around on the dance floor so often, he’s amazed her feet haven’t dropped off. He sits in the corner watching her and wonders at his stupidity. He’s twice her age and mooning after her like some love-struck teenager. He should tell her he’s changed his mind about taking her on in September, but can’t think of a valid reason for doing so that won’t give him away.

“Pathetic,” he mutters.

* * * * *

She’s flushed and radiant when she finally seeks him out. She’s managed to disengage from Weasley for the time being, and plops down in the chair beside his.

“I thought I’d never make it over here to say hello,” she exclaims. “Are you having fun, Sir?”

“Oh yes, loads,” he reply is sarcastic.

She laughs. “Don’t be such a kill joy. It wouldn’t kill you to get up and dance with the rest of us!”

“I think it might,” he retorts. But when she asks him to waltz with her moments later and grabs his hands, he doesn’t say no.

~fin 3~

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Dance Me To The End Of Love

Leonard Cohen

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin

Dance me through the panic 'til I'm gathered safely in

Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the end of love

Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone

Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon

Show me slowly what I only know the limits of

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on

Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long

We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the children who are asking to be born

Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn

Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin

Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in

Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the end of love