A Darker fairytale

And... unlike the tales, where Cinderella flees at midnight, only to be found again after a quest impossible…

Her flight is final, all accidental.

There is no glass slipper left behind.

Merely the Prince, holing the pieces, wondering.

Why

"Not all tales had happy endings"

Notes:

Set during goblet of fire.

Pairings/Summery: Snape/OC from the all girl school Beauxbatons a dark parody of those "Snape meets someone different, forgets Lily and falls madly in love with his seemingly reborn soul mate" this is less a concise story and more a series of snap shots of that potential situation.

Intro, Not love at first sight.

She smiled, sauntering in amongst a flow of butterflies. He'd scoffed at the stupidity of the feminine stereotype. After all, males have the brighter scales; females are dull things in comparison.

Amused by the unintentional irony he sneered, lips twisting into the familiar bitter pattern.

And she, at the fore, all accidental looks up. Eyes roaming the crowd, passing over the benign and wondering smile from on high (ignoring the envious, the hungry from the crush, with so many options all about it is curious that she looks up rather than about)

Wonderment flits across… eyes that were green if only in his hope… but after hope's death are proven to be a dull dead blue.

For him, all colors save green about the eyes are dull. Darkened despite their natural splendor, dulled despite the angle of light and the intent that lights them. It's as if the bitter ash of his love, lost long ago, is smeared over the black of his eyes.

Stealing luster, dimming joy….

And as if she strives to be a living proof to what his heart knows her eyes darkened, as does her expression. Challenge radiates from her and like all the adolescent shows it's a blatant tasteless thing. Her back stiffens; she meets his gaze with unseemly forwardness and refuses to tear her eyes from his.

Try it she mouths.

To that display he raises an eyebrow, wondering, just what she expects him to... try.

Smiling, benign, awaiting those who'd come, Dumbledore stands behind a stool, a tattered felt hat at his side.

"Per Hogwarts custom. I would like all who come to be sorted, into honorary houses. Just for your stay…" He assures the ladies behind him, smile widening just a mite more.

Much to the shame of all, though it widens, his smile does not fall off. Only grows to Chesshire Cat proportions as he considers the ladies before him.

Only the ladies.

Flitwick grumbles something to Minevra, something about owing her a gallon. The prim witch snorted, correcting him, it was three. Glad to have avoided that indulgence in foolery (he'd have lost, much to his own chagrin), and those blue eyes and their damnable twinkle, he can call the day a decent one. Not good, never that, and thus resolved shifts in his seat. Waiting to see if, or rather who, he'd gather as "honorable" Slytherins.

Even as the first name called (Amelia Astroph) in this fake sorting, his mind is whirling. The dorms would have to be shuffled, rooms emptied to accommodate for their sixty some odd guests. Not that he'd get them all, case and point: the skinny wisp of a girl child seems too fragile to be one of his own snakes… The hat confirms this hollering Hufflepuff and letting out a wry chuckle.

"Go to the yellow table." It advises.

"Oh… ummm…"

And, Sprout smiling, gentle and understanding, all but ushers the confused child along with her gaze.

Perhaps he could settle the "newly sorted" in the first year dorms, and merge the second and first together until all this is over. They'd resent the loss of privacy, schemes were harder to make crammed all together, but he was sure his snakes, old and new (but not faux, he had no hopes for the batch of dunderheads he'd be acquiring at this parody's end) would survive.

Perhaps the littlest of his vipers among the den would learn more with the arrangement.

A good thing for all around.

His first fake Slytherin, a Durmstrang boy (Charlie Callins) is hardly a surprise, still his cheer at aiding his own makes him manage a curt nod to the "newest" viper.

That's enough, the boy returns the salutation and finds his place without undue fanfare.

Of course, he notes with a sneer –his expression so bitter it makes the next "Slytherin" whisper to the Sorting Hat in an overly loud voice if he gets a second option- the girl who met his gaze earlier was sorted in Gryffindor. God just wouldn't have it any other way.

The Irony of it all, he'd note looking back, was sickening, familiar, far too familiar, but sickening all the same.