Thank Merlin. Thank Polly.
When Orli placed her hand in Snape's, that was the only coherent thought in her mind. She felt as though her heart might explode from sheer joy.
Thank Merlin for bringing her into this world, for letting her meet Snape.
Thank Polly—even during those lean years when they could barely afford food, she'd never abandoned Orli's etiquette lessons, ensuring her dancing skills were flawless.
She felt Snape's fingers close around hers, felt his other hand settle at her waist, felt herself spinning as he guided her through the steps. If Voldemort burst through the door right now and hit her with Avada Kedavra, she'd die with a smile on her lips.
She'd never realized how achingly brief a single waltz could be. It felt as though everything had only just begun when the music was already drawing to its close. When their steps finally stilled, she found herself backed against the wall, face tilted upward. From the corner of her eye, she noticed that mistletoe had somehow bloomed across the entire ceiling. Snape was gazing down at her, his hand still clasping hers, his other arm still encircling her waist.
"...Professor?" Orli's voice trembled, because Snape's face was drawing closer and closer. For one wild, impossible moment, she actually thought he might kiss her. But just as she began to close her eyes, Snape released her hand.
"You have a strand of hair on your cheek." He said it matter-of-factly, then turned away and switched off the gramophone.
The music died abruptly.
――――――
Notes:① Western Christmas tradition: A woman standing beneath mistletoe cannot refuse a man's kiss.② The "hair on your face" reference comes from Alan Rickman himself. He actually did this—one Christmas, he visited Emma Thompson (Professor Trelawney's actress). Alan was still young and devastatingly handsome; Emma was standing under mistletoe, thinking he might kiss her. Instead, he simply said: "You have a hair on your face."
――――――
Snape had never realized how catastrophically poor his self-control could be.
Perhaps that room possessed some peculiar enchantment, or perhaps everything tonight had been nothing more than a fevered hallucination. Only when he returned to his cold, shadowy dungeon did he finally feel his rationality and soul return to him.
In that moment when the waltz ended, he'd been reluctant to release the precious thing he held. That soft, warm hand, that delicate waist beneath his palm, those luminous eyes, the gentle flush on her cheeks, and those glistening lips...
If she hadn't called him "Professor" in that precise instant, he might actually have— For a heartbeat, he'd genuinely wavered. But the moment clarity returned, he was profoundly grateful for his own restraint.
He couldn't fathom how he would face Orli Waters if he'd actually kissed her—how he could ever face himself again. He was acutely aware of how utterly unlike himself he'd behaved tonight. No matter how he tried to rationalize or console himself, he couldn't deny that he'd crossed an unforgivable line.
He collapsed into his office chair, but his hand moved of its own accord, reaching into the drawer to withdraw a small two-way mirror. He stared at the man reflected in its surface—pallid features no longer young, hollow eyes, a past that could never be cleansed, and a future stretching bleakly ahead.
How dare he indulge himself like this? How dare he harbor such reckless fantasies about her?
Furious with himself, Snape hurled the mirror back into the drawer, then immediately retrieved it to examine it for damage. Only after confirming it bore no cracks or scratches did he carefully return it to its place.
He would return soon, and Snape's destiny had been sealed fourteen years ago. He could not allow her to become entangled with him—could not drag her into this bottomless quagmire...
He began employing Occlumency to modify his own memories, burying that fleeting moment of bliss in the deepest recesses of his mind.
He could not let that person discover any of this.
Never.
~~~~❃❃~~~~~~~~❃❃~~~~
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