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Snape tracks his robes, trailing on the floor, from the Great Hall towards the dungeons. Hooch follows, ostentatious in her quietness, her excitement belied only by a slight quirky twist of the mouth. Everyone is celebrating Voldemort's death. Dumbledore has equipped enchanted taps of everflowing butterbeer in kegs more than enough to last the night. Muggle music is playing in the Hall. His footsteps are even, measured. If one did not know any better, one would almost miss the slight dragging limp of the left foot, a souvenier from past week's scouting mission. Snape had almost lost his life. Then, as with the night before last. As it is a regular occurence, as he spies for the Headmaster and for ideals he never speaks of, it matters little in his way of seeing the world and those around him. He tracks and scurries in shadows, and then burrows most times quietly, if ferociously vexatious, in the Dungeons, with only his books and his potions for company. The other heroes of the night, the year, the bloody War- revel upstairs, in each other's arms, amidst cheering and whoops and merry, drunken, familiar carousing. Rolanda does not creep behind Professor Severus Snape tonight. She stalks him openly as he would the Dark Lord, who, after all, ended up as lord of nothing. "Severus," she murmurs, as he opens the door to his personal chambers. He inclines his head and holds the door open for her. She looks him in the eye as she passes him; keeps his stare with a satisfaction slowly blooming with desire as she grabs his robes and they tumble into bed. Tonight, as with other nights, since the Yule Ball when she'd poked and prodded and lured and stayed him into some bit of dancing, they will be more than Quidditch Mistress and Potions Master. They will be lovers, and they will love each other and their bodies very much. They will not miss the dancing. They will be doing some dancing of their own.
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