A/N: I don't even have to say this, I own nothing besides Angela Haze. Lots and lots of references to Lolita, directly and indirectly. Words: 1148 excluding A/N. English is not my first language. The most difficult word turned out to be the title itself. Throughout the story Snape is referred to as "he" only. And finally: enjoy if you can.
His hand rested on her shoulder as they walked down the dark, empty corridors. In the distance music was playing, or moralizing him, making him feel guilty. It was as if he was asked: is this where you are supposed to be at the moment? He knew full well it was not. It was in the Great Hall where he was really supposed to be. Was supposed to, but was not, and did not want to be.
They took a turn to left and came into a short corridor which dead-ended at what he knew was a broom cupboard. He unlocked the door with a simple Alohomora and let her in. The cupboard was not too big and they were but inches apart. A narrow window let some pale light in, revealing the look in her eyes. No doubt, he had never seen a look like that in any student's eyes; ever. Those green eyes were filled with lust, desire and sick wanting. Sick. That was sick, was it not? It was sick for her to want him that way, just as it was sick for him to want her. But he could not help himself. She, little Angela Haze, a fourteen-year-old Hufflepuff, had literally fetched him to do this. She had left the Yule Ball, her partner who-ever and come outside to find him. She had done that, jeopardized her reputation, taken the risk of rejection... All because she wanted him that much. And now she was there, before him in a ball gown which made her resemble the ice sculptures in the Great Hall, eyes glimmering like the snow in her golden hair.
"Please." She whispered the word so quietly that it was almost as if she had only formed it with her lips.
"Is this really what you want?" He had made up his mind, but he felt like it was his obligation to give her one last chance to retreat. He hoped, or more accurately knew she would not do so. She did not let him down as she nodded. It was a permission for him to pull her close, to kiss the girl who had sat in his potions classes, taken notes, practised the usage of ingredients, learned, failed and succeeded... He had seen it all, as a teacher; and there he was now, teaching her things that were not his to teach. But he did not feel enough guilt to stop.
His hand went beneath her hem as he laid her down on the cool stone floor. She was tense, he sensed, as she was trying to protect her perfect hairdo. It was almost amusing how she minded it so. Not to mention just a tad too frustrating, as he desired to grab her hair and turn it into a mess. But that would have raised suspisions, now wouldn't it, had she walked out of a broom cupboard with her perfect hair ruined. Still, he felt undeniable urge to see the golden waves flow free. Because for some reason, and this realization suddenly frightened him, it reminded him of Lily.
Lily's hair had been in sweet waves when they had first met. And those eyes, not just the green of them but the shape too... It was too similar, too alike not to cross the line of coincidence. She had wanted him first, yes, but had he said yes to Angela Haze or Lily Evans? Had she had black, stick-straight hair and brown eyes, not to mention entirely different facial structure, would he have wanted her? Would he be where he was now?
He removed his clothing just enough to be able to push into her. As carefully as he tried to do it, her face still reflected pain. He hushed her gently and stroked her rosy cheek until she seemed comfortable enough for him to proceed.
Lily.
The thought bothered him – he started to move. Was it Angela beneath him – she let out a whimper – or was it Lily? Did it matter? Or was the question – in and out – the key to the sick settlement? If it was not his little Lily Angela, would it be anyone? Would it be no one? If he had been wanted by anybody else, would he have agreed to any of this?
Angela.
Was he really that disturbed – her soft moans filled the air – that he still wanted Lily so much that he was willing to corrupt a young girl over such thing as resemblance? She was not Lily. She was Angela. She was – he could not hold back his own sounds of pleasure – a fourteen-year-old girl, a student and practically still a child. But oh all higher powers in the world – she guided his hand on her breast – it felt good nonetheless.
Lily.
No, he could not stop – in and out – for it was much too addicting. Her soft body, perfection written all over it – he sought that very special spot of hers and began to rub it – her eyes burning with passion and determination and her wavy, golden hair that sparkled here and there due to the drops of water from the melted snowflakes.
Angela.
Lily.
Angela.
Lily.
He decided to accuse resemblance. It could not have possibly been anybody else. Damn Lily, for being so tempting and desirable. He blamed her. Not to mention Angela; how did she dare to look so much like the only woman he had ever truly wanted? It was her fault. And hers as well. It made perfect sense in his mind; it had nothing to do with his views on it, it was her fault, it was her sickness. All because she was sick. All because she had to be her.
She let out an out-of-breath cry and it did not take long for him to reach the goal as well. No words were spoken as they both stood up and took their time to rearrange themselves. Just as she was about to leave, he grasped her by the arm. He felt obligated to say something but the entirely new look in her eyes killed any words that might have departed his lips. The fire in them had died out, the spark was gone and the windows to her soul revealed an endless, lightless night.
Would she tell, was his first thought. Had it not been what she had wanted? Of course it had been but things were off anyhow. He let her go, feeling sick. The last remaining drops of water dripped from her still perfect hair as she silently turned and left.
When he later on returned to the Great Hall to witness the last dances of the evening, he saw Angela Haze with her partner on the dance floor. She had snow in her golden hair.