Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Obviously.
Snape marched resolutely forward, a grim expression on his face as the massive oak doors swung shut. The watery stench now had no place to escape from the vast dungeon. The very stones seemed to reek with cold as the torches' flickering balls of light struggled not to extinguish under the thick, cloak-like darkness. As his strides reached the end of the freezing room, he turned sharply on his heel. With a flick of his wand, a bulb of light squeezed itself from the wooden stick to hang near the drooping, black ceiling, casting its faint light on the students' faces.
Most were pressed into the wall by their Head of House's sheer presence. The look of disgust on his face didn't help matters, nor did the beady black eyes' sweep over the room, momentarily meeting every young Slytherin's nervous glances. The room was as silent as it could be, given that it was filled with teenagers. A nervous shoe shuffle or a panicky, stifled cough were all that broke the silence. The air itself hung in curtains of both dread and anticipation. Guilt settled into the stomach of most; worry and anxiety into the heart of others. One by one, every mutter silenced and each gaze was turned to the bat-like Potions professor.
"Now," He said, agonizingly slowly. His very tone spoke volumes about his opinion of his subject. "The Yule Ball. Unless you are so agonizingly dim-witted that the Sorting Hat attempted to strangle you with red and gold, you have been able to deduce that such an occasion requires…" The silence hung as a comma in the air, every breath held as the young wizards waited for the drop indicating the end of a sentence – "…dancing."
No one dared gasp for fear of scrubbing cauldrons for a month.
"Unlike other Houses that must be… taught the meticulous art by their Heads of House," drawled Snape in a foreboding baritone, "I have confidence that you have been raised in a respectable manner and will not disappoint me, or else suffer my… displeasure."
The nervous gulp of several students could then be heard. Thin female fingers wrung the silky sleeves of their robes. A blond-haired boy attempted to press himself into nonexistent shadow.
"However, the Headmaster has demanded that I give a little… demonstration." A water droplet hit the floor near a girl's feet, splashing the tips of her toes, bared by elegant sandals, with icy spit. With a squeal, she flinched, grabbing her friend's wrist in surprise. Yet, for Snape, this was enough.
"Miss Eaton!" boomed Snape's voice across the dungeon. The crowd seemed to part, leaving the now terrified fifth-year brunette rooted to the floor. Her knees pressed together as her robes wrapped her willowy form. Olivia Eaton's thin, brown hair hid her green eyes as she stared at the intricately carved stone floor. A stone centaur waved its fist under her foot.
"Miss Eaton, come up here at once." Slowly, the foot removed itself from the centaur and stepped forward. Her weight shifted and the back foot moved forward, as well. Two more steps were all the girl managed before she saw thick, black shoes before her. With a squeak, her eyes roamed upwards, passing black robes, buttons, a collar, greasy black hair and finally, the face of Severus Snape.
There was a wave of a wand and coughing, ancient music came from an old gramophone standing in the corner of the dungeon room, making several students jumped. Suddenly, Olivia found that her thin, tanned hand was now within the cold, metallic grasp of her Potions professor and that she now had an overwhelmingly powerful urge to bolt.
"Watch and learn," He said simply. "I do not desire to do this twice." It was bad enough that he was to accept this suggestion of Dumbledore's. "It'll make the Heads less threatening," the old man had rambled, and Snape, through the fog of the staff room, had noticed McGonagall nodding. He hoped she was having her toes crushed by the Longbottom boy.
Slowly, Miss Eaton placed her hands on Snape's shoulders. Every portion of her mind was now focused on the task at hand – making it through the next few minutes without stepping on Snape's robes or, Heaven forbid, falling out of step.
Although Snape was not one to admit such things, he was truly an excellent dancer. His expression turned from hatred to boredom after a while – the girl did nothing to displease him, and he placed his feet lazily. A thousand times had he done this to the same, raspy old tune. Step, two, turn, glare, step, two, turn again. Severus looked at the dainty, mouse-haired Slytherin girl before him, who was staring intently at his chest, trying not to make eye contact. Once she felt his stare, however, she did. Her green eyes looked more terrified closer up – not that he could see much in this light.
And suddenly, as she shifted her hand, the green eyes turned brighter. Snape blinked and the black eyes softened. His gaze travelled from the almond-shaped eyes to the dark red hair. A smile suddenly made him falter his feet. The girl turned, her high cheekbones shimmering in the moonlight.
"You're quite good, Sev," She laughed, the corners of those green eyes crinkling. "Oh, I love this. James'll have a fit."
The music was loud, and terrible, and beautiful. The Great Hall sparkled with all its colours, the soft stars shining down upon the two teenagers alone in the dead of night. Snape smiled as the redhead's hand held his in a sweaty, nervous hold; and Lily danced, and danced, and danced.
Severus knew he would always remember this night. Never before had he felt such an odd thing; he was in the presence of another, and he never wanted to leave. Her Gryffindor tie reflected in the window-pane as her hand flicked a black strand from his eyes. Her skirt billowed with every turn and her feet followed his with an unearthly conviction, crossing the marble at just the right places. The night held them in a gentle embrace, shifting around them, rippling through their fingers and her hair. 'This is the world,' Snape found himself thinking. 'This is the world, and what a beautiful place it is with her in it.'
She stepped on his robes, but he didn't care. His hand fit her spine like a perfectly crafted glove and her pale fingers' hold on his shoulders pulled him along into a whirlwind of sound. Her red locks spun around her face, delicate hairs stroking her thin rosy lips. The green eyes looked into his and suddenly, all was forgotten – the pain, the torment, the sadness. There was only him, and there was only her. It was a gentle, soft-spoken Christmas morning; the castle would awaken to blanket-like, white, powdery softness; it was 1975, and they had nothing to fear.
"P-Professor?"
The students were staring. The music had stopped, only static echoing through the freezing dungeon room. A few girls were now pulling cloaks tightly over their frames. Olivia Eaton stood before him, a confused expression on her face, nervously tucking her brown strands behind her over-large ears.
A look of hatred passed Snape's face. A hatred for all. For this dungeon, for his life, for Olivia; for she was not Lily. Most of all, Severus Snape hated dancing.
"Dismissed," The Potions Master hissed through his teeth before sweeping out of the room, his robes billowing behind him like a dark cape. The moonlit, raging hurricane hurried along in his wake as the dungeon doors rattled. Soon he was running, desperate to get to his rooms. The hinges whined and clanged as his door slammed into the stone and Severus sat himself on his bed, resisting the urge to throw his shoes at the door.
And, in the moonlight, Lily danced.
AN: Thank you, Alan Rickman, for the kind person and amazingly talented artist you were. May you rest in peace while your characters live forever.