A Change Of Pace

After she pays the doorman some Muggle money, we step inside. It seems to be a more upscale place than the one the bare-midriff girl went into. Almost all the men are wearing suits, or at least collared shirts; and trousers must not be allowed on women for I see no woman wearing any. They do all look distinguished, though, in their skirts and cocktail dresses.

It must be expensive. I wonder where she got the money. But I won´t say anything. She´d probably just come right back with how money is no object for tonight. Even worse, she might say it was all for my own good.

Even though somewhere in the back of my mind I know that´s precisely right, I do not need to hear it.

So, I keep silent and just walk with her, our arms linked. The music is fairly loud, but not enough to be uncomfortable. We sit down at a table for two in a fairly well-lit place, and she crosses her legs. The sight would not have looked out of place in a picture in some sophisticated department store´s catalogue. She really has quite lovely legs. She probably comes here quite often, shaping them so...

"So, how often do you come here?"

"Occasionally. I usually go to a couple of cheaper ones closer to Charing Cross. But they aren´t as nice."

"It´s just hard for me to picture you coming to any place like this."

"Well, even a bookworm´s got to have some pointless fun that´s more active than watching the telly, right?" She grins again.

"Can you be active in those shoes? They look terribly uncomfortable. Why you women willingly wear those things, I will never know."

She laughs. "Well, they´re just my regular shoes Transfigured. They´re actually very comfortable. I could dance, walk, even run for hours."

I brush aside the protest forming in my mind about staying here for hours, because I--much to my surprise--actually find this ingenious.

"You know, you´d make yourself very rich if you introduced these to the Muggle world."

"But then they´d want to know my secret, wouldn´t they? And I couldn´t tell them I used magic."

A waiter comes by, asking if we want to order drinks. She says she just wants water with lemon, and looks to me for assent. I nod, and a few minutes later we are sipping our lemon waters in silence.

The tune changes and she suddenly jumps up. "I really like this one. Come on, Severus."

"No, thank you."

"Please?" She takes my hand.

"I told you, I don´t dance."

"Severus."

"I don´t know how."

"You don´t have to know how, Severus, you just have to relax. And let the music guide you." Relax, what a novel notion, says the unwelcome voice in my head. I look at her for the equally admonishing look--but there is none, and no trace of cheekiness, either. Only eagerness, with a trace of--sadness? Definitely pleading. I can almost feel it in her hand, which still clasps mine.

It has a way of throwing me off balance, unnerving me. "I... I´m too clumsy for you. You come here all the time..."

"You may be at first, but you´ll ease into it. You just have to try." Now she looks to be outright pleading. Her hand tightens, and to my consternation my stomach tightens too.

"No. I... No. Just dance this one without me."

She takes on a look halfway between bewilderment and annoyance, and puts her hands on her hips. "All right, if that´s the way you feel--but remember, I did this for you. I paid good money to get us in here, and I could be catching up on some long-overdue chores this evening, but no, I chose to spend tonight with you. Because I wanted to be with you." And she turns and skips up to the dance floor, leaving me to stare after her.

Why do I suddenly feel nervous, like a damn schoolboy?

She´s there on the floor, her hips and arms swaying to the beat, a far cry from the prim, constrained student she was, and professor she is now. It´s as if she´s releasing days of pent-up energy.

And watching her makes me feel guilty. She´s free, out there. Free to just let herself go, and forget about the demands of her usual world and lifestyle. She doesn´t often get that kind of freedom. It´s been too long for me to even remember the last time I got it...

And it´s only now, as I watch her being swallowed up by the crowd on the dance floor, that I realize she was inviting me to share this freedom with her. Share this moment that will not last long...

So that´s why everybody liked Potter and Black. Envied them, even. They had the world at their disposal, got a sense of power and independence from flouting the rules. That feeling is infectious. More than that, it´s quite Slytherin, to just twist the world to suit your fancy, as long as nobody is harmed...

I failed miserably whenever I tried to emulate those two. I seemed rankly unable to reap any benefit from their ideas for myself. I was just no good at this creative rule-breaking; I always got caught. I knew, intellectually, that I did not have only one alternative, which was to become completely rule-bound; that there were other courses of action to take. But I just could never make events play out that did anything but confirm this notion.

Not that most Slytherins ever truly put into practice this attitude of self-liberation. The pressure to live up to Salazar´s ideal, to do wizard blood proud... There used to be a law expressly forbidding Slytherins to marry Muggles or Muggle-borns... some even went so far as to shun the half-bloods. That rule has officially been defunct for at least two hundred years, but most still adhere to it... the most powerful rule of all is the unwritten rule. We Slytherins let go of our habits through our cold, dead fingers.

And I could not join her on that dance floor for another reason. I was following another unwritten rule: People like me do not indulge in pleasures like this. Pleasures like this are only for the Blacks and the Potters of the world--the socially adept, the ones everything flows for, the ones who already know how to attract others without going out of their way. People such as I who try to do the same only look even more pathetic, awkward, and foolish. Better not to spoil the beauty, disrupt the smoothness of the activity. Better not to call attention to myself...

This is what nobody tells anyone who is trying to break out of their shell. How truly difficult it is. I´ve been trying for years and I´m still trapped; not even this lovely, engaging, stimulating woman who has shown me such patience--patience which I can feel is running out--could thus far extricate me.

Thoroughly chagrined, I have nine-tenths of a mind to just slip out of there, get her money back. Our next conversation would definitely be strained, but at least I will have saved face--

I get up from the table and start to walk away. I am touched on the arm by someone, and I flinch. She´s wearing a black dress, but it´s not Hermione´s--it has short sleeves and silver sparkles. She´s smiling at me. She wants me to dance.

I swallow my pride and follow the strange girl inward. She starts shaking her arms and kicking her legs in time with the music, aerobic moves, not a dance meant for only two people. I start to move, mimicking her movements. I´m starting to get hot, and I must look ridiculous. But the strange girl is still smiling at me.

I still see no sign of Hermione. What would she think?--but the girl I´m dancing with is not touching me anymore. We´re just sharing a dance space, nothing more intimate than that. A spontaneous sharing of time between two strangers.

Someone slides a pair of hands around the girl´s waist just as the song ends. She gives me one last smile before turning to the gentleman, who looks like Dean Thomas, and in a wild moment I open my mouth to ask if it´s him, when I remember that Dean Thomas is dead. You fool. Killed six years ago, how have you forgotten?

The Thomas-doppelganger Muggle folds his arms around his girlfriend´s waist and looks deep into her eyes. They both beam, and walk off together. After spending a moment with me, she is back with the one special to her.

I´m not being fair to her. I sift my way through the crowd, looking for the one who is supposed to be special to me. Several other women glance at me and smile as I pass them by. Silly girls, it´s just a suit. Maybe a fine, well-made suit, but still just a suit. Don´t distract me from my mission.

A mission that proves to be futile, and I throw my hands up in frustration. There are just too many black dresses and no long-stemmed roses. This was a mistake all along. I push my way out of the crowd, my feet finally getting their old determination back.

"Severus!" I turn around, and there she is, resplendent in the purple and red stage lights. "You changed your mind." Not a question, a statement--and even here, I can see her relief. I swallow before uttering a yes.

"Thank you." She reaches out and takes my hand, and I can´t ignore the rush of warmth coursing through me.

Time to be free...