Severus sits at the bar of his favorite club, still nursing his first glass of red Elven wine while analyzing the relative skill of the few unattached males showcasing their moves on the dance floor. It's still early enough that only the most eager specimens have taken to the stage. Many regulars have yet to arrive, and most of the 'newbies' will need a few more drinks under their belts before they feel brave enough to attempt a formal dance.
The Twirl and Swish is Severus's entertainment and hooking-up venue of choice. It's a classy, understated establishment offering reasonably quality beverages at affordable prices and the type of music that doesn't make your gut shake. It also lacks the ridiculous strobe lights that invariably give him a migraine every single time he allows Draco to drag him inside one of the places the younger crowd prefers.
Severus doesn't care for those places. He doesn't see the point of spending his evenings jumping up and down in place like a deranged jarvey, hoping for someone to come rub against him without so much as a by your leave and having to endure the type of inelegant attempt at charming a bloke out of his pants that involves more shouting in one's ear than any sane man should find attractive. Severus prefers a more refined approach to flirting, thank you very much. If flirting is even the right word to describe the lighthearted effort he can expect another fellow customer of this particular club to put into securing Severus's company for about twenty minutes in the loo later -much later- in the evening. Severus comes here mainly to waltz, after all.
Severus's interest has finally been piqued by the wizard in the light blue robes with silver pipping who is swaying gently in place with his eyes closed in evident enjoyment of the melody that just started playing when Harry Potter, of all people, makes his rather flustered entrance into the club.
Severus has seen Potter here before. Not often enough to have given the Savior's patronage of the place much thought, but regularly enough to trust that his presence isn't the harbinger of some form of unpleasant, auror-related business. Severus wouldn't put his neck on the line for any of them, of course, but he can hardly imagine any of the mature gentlemen around him risking their peace of mind and good social standing for some borderline illegal activity. This is hardly the dodgy end of Knocturn Alley.
It's strange, though, coming across Potter at a club on a weeknight. Tuesday evening outings are not precisely friendly to young professionals tied to early morning work shifts. Potter has barely cleared the first of the cozy round tables that circle the dance floor when he starts craning his neck left and right as if searching for someone. Severus's self-preservation instincts quick in. He straightens up, scanning the crowd once more in search of the most likely arsehole to have brought the auror department's attention to Severus's favorite club. An arsehole who is, therefore, about to screw up Severus's perfectly pleasant evening plans. And on his birthday, no less. Severus has half a mind to hex the idiot's bollocks bald if he catches him before Potter does.
Severus is so focused on his own outraged search for the miscreant that he misses Potter's approach entirely. It's only due to his twenty-long years of experience as a spy that he manages to suppress an instinctive flinch of shock when Potter suddenly addresses him.
"Long time no see, Snape."
Severus frowns, "Potter," he says, managing to greet the ex-Gryffindor at least, even though he's coming up blank on what to say next. Potter and he don't run in the same circles, and it's not as if they'd been bosom buddies even when they had.
"I'm shocked you're still sitting at the bar," Potter offers cryptically, and Severus's left eyebrow all but crawls toward his hairline in puzzled demand for clarification.
"I come here all the time. You like to dance," Potter says, shrugging a bit awkwardly, and something about the faint blush turning his handsome young face into a strawberry field lights a flame of startled understanding at the back of Severus's reeling mind.
"I do," Severus agrees noncommittally, unable to decide yet whether Potter is coming on to him or not. It can't be, can it? Potter is young, rich, and heroic. He's rather handsome as well. There's no way he'd just implied he's been watching Severus pull, is there?
"I'm learning. To dance, that is. But it's going slowly. My teacher claims I've got two extremely clumsy left feet."
"Oh!" It's all Severus can think to say, floundering as he is to make sense of this strange encounter.
"You dance like a dream, though. All graceful limbs and confident posture, blatantly showcasing the most elegant sashaying I've ever seen."
Severus blinks at Potter, wide-eyed. He's not used to the type of boldness Potter is so casually displaying and therefore doesn't quite know how to react to it, "I do not sashay," he offers in the end, and then takes a rather large sip of his wine, giving himself the most plausible excuse to avoid speaking further that he can come up with in the present circumstances.
Potter smiles at him with startling fondness, and the rigid lines of his shoulders relax a little, making him suddenly look a lot more like a young man on the prowl instead of like an auror on his guard, ready to spring a trap upon an unsuspecting criminal. Severus's shoulders relax, too; just a tad, though. He's still hopelessly bemused.
"Of course you sashay. And you do it with flair. There's not an eye on this club that's not fixed firmly on you whenever you're out on the dance floor, Snape."
Severus feels himself color unbecomingly, "I— thank you, I suppose."
"You suppose?" Potter laughs, a little wild about the eyes, "I've spent the last week giving myself pep talks every hour on the hour just to gather enough courage to finally approach you, and that's the best you can do?"
Severus blinks, "Er-"
"You understand I'm coming on to you, right?"
"Potter!" Severus splutters, looking left and right to ensure nobody is paying them undue attention. Merlin knows an accurate account of this conversation could make the career of every aspiring journalist and gossip-monger in Diagon Alley.
"What? It's true," Potter pouts, crossing those mouthwateringly muscled arms of his across his chest in a petulant gesture that Severus doesn't find the slightest bit attractive.
"Are you drunk? Or cursed? Have you imbibed or consumed anything that wasn't prepared by either yourself or a trusted ally in the last twenty-four hours?"
"Ally?" Potter frowns, "Who the hell even categorizes people that way nowadays? The war ended seven years ago, Snape, for Godric's sake!"
"Don't be rude. Swearing at a Slytherin using Godric Gryffindor's name is just not done, Potter. Besides, people like you and I would be wise to view others through a battle-wary lens. You're an auror now. Surely, you're more aware than many of the darker nature of the world we inhabit. Not everything that gleams like sunshine is pure and bright and harmless."
"I should have seen this coming," Potter sighs before squaring his shoulders and looking Severus straight in the eye, "I'm not drunk. Or drugged. Or cursed. I haven't made a bet with anyone or have plans to humiliate you. I just— I like you, Snape. A lot. And I'm here to— to- er- I don't know. Wish you a happy birthday, I guess."
Severus boggles, "You're aware of my birthday?"
Potter's determined look softens into something else. Something new and heartbeat-accelerating. Something lovely that Severus hasn't found in the gaze of any of the men who have had reason to stare into his eyes in a very long time.
"Of course I'm aware of your birthday, you dolt," Potter confirms softly.
"I- er- I don't know what to say."
"You can say you'll let me buy you a drink. And maybe even agree to let me stomp on your poor toes as I try my best to twirl you around the dance floor. You can also say you'll let me walk you back to your place at the end of the evening and restrain from hexing me into next Sunday if I manage to gather the courage to kiss you goodnight on your doorstep. You can say you won't laugh in my face if I invite you out for tea tomorrow. Or the day after. Or whenever it suits you."
"Potter-
"No. Please. I mean it, Snape. I'm not playing any games. I swear. You can take my words, my intentions, at face value."
Severus shakes his head. It's a struggle to analyze what else he feels besides overwhelmed befuddlement. His evening has taken a turn for the unexpected, and he wouldn't be himself if he didn't find the proceedings a tad suspicious, but this is Harry Potter, a goody-two-shoes of the first order. Severus can't imagine the ex-Gryffindor wasting his time in some sort of ludicrous revenge plot involving faking sexual attraction toward him. That leaves him with nothing but the gut instinct that here is Lady Opportunity finally knocking on his door with an offer he'd be a fool indeed to pass on without further exploration.
"Let me get this straight: you want to wine and dance me tonight. Maybe even kiss me goodnight if I let you. And you want to do it all over again tomorrow and the day after. In short, what you really want is— er-
"A chance. I want a chance to drag you into my orbit and tempt you to stay there with me."
"Right. I- well. That's— I'm flattered. Truly. It's just that I've never thought about you that way before, Potter. This feels terribly unbalanced, and I don't want to take advantage of-
"Giving me a chance to prove I've got what it takes to hold your interest isn't taking advantage, Snape. You're allowed not to like me like I like you. And you're allowed to change your mind about that too, but you won't ever do that if you convince yourself that going out with me is too selfish. I can't charm you if you're not present. Or if you're too distracted looking in someone else's direction."
Severus thinks about it for a very long time. He stares unblinkingly at Potter, and Potter stares unblinkingly back. The Gryffindor even finds enough gumption to flash him a rather wobbly smile of encouragement. Severus takes in the shaky grin, the slightly terrified green gaze, the nervous twitch of the Savior's fingertips against the heavy cloth of his neatly pressed robes, and the single drop of sweat falling ever-so-slowly across Potter's scarred brow and can't help but feel slightly charmed. Potter has guts. And Severus has always been drawn to brave, persistent bastards. He's got nothing to lose, does he?
"I'm looking right at you, Potter," He takes the risk without further hesitation, and something that feels a little bit like fondness twitches the corners of Severus's mouth upwards when the breath Potter must have been holding comes out of his mouth in a relieved whoosh a mere second before the bloody brat has the balls to demand:
"Harry. Please. Call me Harry, Severus."
Severus is about to protest the instant familiarity when Potter's fingers relieve his of the glass of wine they'd been holding.
"This is empty. Let me get you a fresh drink. Same thing?"
"I— yes. Thank you."
"No. Thank you, Severus," Potter says earnestly, and his formerly wobbly grin firms and brightens as he makes the bold move of grabbing Severus's hand to press his fingertips reassuringly, "Now relax and enjoy the ride, professor, because I'm about to rock your world. I plan to woo you like nobody has ever dared to woo you before."
Severus's breath hitches. He's got no intention of confessing that Potter's already achieved that. This is the first time anyone has ever bothered to woo Severus, so Potter's got no competition. Severus is not a Slytherin for nothing, though. He will play his cards close to his chest and enjoy the ride indeed. Potter is brave. Potter is gorgeous. Potter is filthy rich, powerful, and loyal to boot. Potter is the quintessential man of everybody's dreams, and if he happens to be deranged enough to think Severus a prize, then Severus will let him. Severus might even be tempted to allow himself the foolishness of dreaming about happily ever afters because Potter—
Potter is lucky, and maybe that sort of thing rubs up on you with prolonged contact with a verified source. Merlin knows Severus is due for some luck in his life after the shitty storm of woe he's been dealt so far.
Potter signals the bartender and places his drink order in a calm, reverent tone that conveys to Severus precisely how invested the younger man is in ensuring their evening ends successfully. Severus likes the idea of celebrating his birthday with a drink, a twirl around the dance floor, and a goodnight kiss on his front door. On the surface, Potter's plan might look similar to Severus's own idea for the evening. Only Severus's desire for a drink, a dance, and a quick hook-up in the loo somewhat lacks the sort of hopeful note for the future inherent in Potter's version. Severus likes the thought that Potter's plan carries the promise of tomorrow.
And tomorrow— well. Tomorrow is the only unexpected thing left in life, isn't it?
Severus accepts the drink Potter hands him and smiles through the clinking of crystal that results from Potter's determination to push their respective stemware into enthusiastic collision.
"Happy birthday, Severus," Potter says earnestly, and then ruins the pristine start to his efforts by winking at him cheekily and adding a shameless: "May the year ahead bring you the eternal adoration of a heroic and charming young man with two extremely clumsy left feet."
Severus bursts out laughing. And he accepts the bold toast with uncharacteristic wishfulness. Eternal adoration— That is a fine birthday wish indeed. If Potter's hinted at emotions are headed in that direction even a little, then Severus will try his best to enjoy the ride ahead. He's starting to suspect that Potter has at least an inkling of the things his scarred heart still longs for. Therefore, Harry Potter might, just might, have precisely what it takes to woo the likes of Severus Snape. Clumsy left feet notwithstanding.
The End.