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Love's Labours; Paradise Lost	By : Veresna Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 18697 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
See Chapter 1 for the disclaimer.

Chapter 2: You Have Seen Cruel Proof of this Man's Strength

Celia dropped her eyes and silently perused the scratched, worn surface of the floorboards in front of her. Her heart was thumping madly, the sound reverberating weirdly in her ears as she struggled to compose an answer. She raised her right hand to her throat and rubbed absentmindedly at the tender flesh still throbbing painfully from the rough pressure he had so effortlessly exerted with his fingertips.

He stepped forward and she swallowed again, wincing in pain and apprehension as she studied the well-polished leather of his expensive boots. She half-expected him to raise his leg up and apply a vicious kick to her face or stomach. She stiffened, bracing herself for the blow. But he remained motionless and contented himself with addressing her again. This time, the words were low, and measured.

"I am waiting," he said.

She shivered as that quiet, adamant voice evoked a flood of memories, long-forgotten details of her disastrous time at Hogwarts suddenly resurfacing into her consciousness. Her mouth opened and closed several times, her tongue flicking out to lick at her lips. But no words came to her.

"And I am not a patient man," he warned, as he took another step towards her. "If you were unfortunate enough to have been a student of mine, you should know that," he added.

She closed her eyes and swallowed again. She certainly did know that. In fact, she was quite aware that he was an exceedingly short-tempered and unforgiving individual. And that underneath that carefully honed veneer of icy self-control and mannered superiority lurked a wild-eyed, frenzied madman. She had had the misfortune of glimpsing that side of him on more than one occasion, although thankfully his anger had never been aimed directly at her. She had no desire to expose herself to it now.

On the other hand, she thought, his final words confirmed the fact that he had not, as yet, recognized her. And although he seemed distinctly unhappy with the fact that she knew who he was, she had also detected the barest hint of relief in his voice after she had identified him as a professor at Hogwarts. Which begged the question of just why he had been so upset in the first place. If he was not concerned that she knew his name or what he did for a living, why had he been so intent upon wringing the truth out of her? Was he involved with other, nefarious activities that required absolute anonymity? Since he was in Knockturn Alley, that hardly seemed a capricious supposition.

He sighed. An extended, exasperated, long-suffering sigh.

She opened her eyes and looked up at him. And, on the other hand, she needed those coins that he had so blithely deposited upon the tray. And there remained the slightest chance that, if she managed to fool him into thinking she was not one of his former pupils, he would still be interested in purchasing her favors.

"All right, honey," she began, shaking her head and smiling up at him. "I admit it. I have a friend who went to Hogwarts and I visited her there once. She pointed you out to me." Her smile turned apologetic. "I’m afraid you weren’t one of her favorite teachers."

He stared down at her, a slight narrowing of his eyes the only response.

"And you are rather unforgettable," she added. She drew her legs underneath her so that she was kneeling and leaned slightly forward, allowing him a generous glimpse of her firm bosom. She brought both hands in front of her and balanced upon her fingertips, shifting her weight and feeling the snug fabric of the dress stretch across and accentuate her tight, round bum. And a quick flick of his eyes confirmed to her that he had noticed it.

He grimaced and slowly raised his right eyebrow. "Please dispense with that ridiculous accent," he ordered.

She blinked.

"I assure you," he continued, smiling ever so slightly. "When my fingers were around your neck and you were hysterically pleading for your life, your inflection was unmistakably British."

She bit her lip, rendered speechless once more and vaguely aware that the blood was draining away from her cheeks as he continued to glare down at her.

"And if you are a witch-" There was a slight but unmistakable disdain in his intonation, "and British, then you attended Hogwarts and I was, at one time, your instructor." He paused, and the smile disappeared. "Who are you?"

She stared up at him, feeling the intensity of his brilliant black eyes as they bore into her.

A moment later, she gasped in surprise and pain. His right foot was on top of her left hand now, pushing down firmly. She reached out with her other hand and wrapped her fingers around his ankle, trying to shove him away. In response, she felt him bear down even harder, and tears stung her eyes as she cried out again. After a few seconds, he drew back slightly.

"Please," he murmured, "let’s avoid any more unpleasantness, shall we?"

She looked up at him again. His head was tilted to the side and his expression was somber and inflexible.

She tried, unsuccessfully, to extricate her fingers as the tears began to spill down her cheeks.

"I assure you that I am quite capable of eliciting the information from you, by whatever means necessary," he said. "Why not stop being stubborn and foolish? The sooner you begin cooperating with me, the sooner we can return to more congenial business."

With an abrupt motion, he removed his foot.

Raising her hand to her mouth, Celia scrambled to stand up.

"You try anything and I’ll scream," she whispered.

He laughed. A heartless, callous laugh that chilled her to the bone.

"Oh, I should doubt that very much," he mocked, turning slightly away from her and picking up the tumbler of brandy with his left hand. He took a hearty swallow and then stepped closer to her. "A woman in your precarious profession can’t afford to draw attention to yourself, can you?" he chided. He smiled and shook his head. "It’s best to keep things quiet and to avoid trouble, n'est ce pas?

She dropped her eyes and glared down at the floor.

"And should you be so inclined-" He paused and took another sip. "I’m quite skeptical that-considering the illustrious neighborhood you live in-a white knight would come charging to your rescue."

She leaned back against the wall and angrily folded her arms across her chest.

"On the slight chance that someone was foolish enough to interfere," he continued, staring down at her, "I could always disapparate."

He reached out and placed one long, slim finger underneath her chin, forcing her to look up at him again.

"I, unlike yourself, am quite capable of doing that."

"What do you mean?" she hissed, raising her eyes defiantly.

"Oh, come now, mademoiselle," he taunted, "Do you really think I haven’t noticed that you have not performed a single charm or spell during the time we’ve been together?"

She shrugged her shoulders.

He cocked his eyebrow and snorted. "Manually locking and unlocking the doors, using a match to light the lamp, and not even attempting to perform a spell to defend yourself against me?" He leaned closer to her and smirked. "If you’re not actually a squib, your powers are remarkably insubstantial." He drew back and raised the glass to his lips, draining the remaining liquid. "Do you even have a wand?" he mocked.

She found herself struggling to breathe, aware that her whole body was trembling and that tears were again threatening to spill across her cheeks. He leaned against the wall with his right hand, once more trapping her with his body. She shuddered as his brandy-tinged breath wafted across her face.

"But, back to the matter at hand," he said, quietly, "What is your name?"

"It doesn’t matter," she hissed.

"It matters because I wish to know," he answered implacably.

Celia closed her eyes, and heard him sigh again.

She felt him raise his left hand and shivered as she heard the sound of glass shattering as he smashed the snifter against the edge of the table. When she opened her eyes, he was holding a jagged shard of glass inches away from her face.

"Now please," he said, his voice soft and insistent, "You seem quite accomplished in the womanly art of applying cosmetics. And I know that makeup can hide a myriad of flaws. However, deep scars would be a considerable hindrance to a woman in your-" he paused and curled his lip in derision "estimable profession."

She gasped as he brought the ragged edge even closer to her skin. "Last chance," he warned.

Her eyes flitted between the fragment of glass and the fierce, glittering eyes that were locked upon her own features.

"Celia," she whispered, feeling her body begin to shake with fear, "Celia Graham."

He drew back slightly and stared down into her face. His own expression was one of slight perplexity. It was as if he recognized the name from somewhere, but all the pieces of the puzzle were not yet fitting together.

She glanced again at the shard of glass, which he was now turning over and over in his nimble fingers as he continued to study her. She found herself fascinated by the motion and by the shimmer of light glinting off of the irregular edges as he rotated it nervously.

"And you were a student at Hogwarts?" he asked, finally.

For a moment she glanced back at his face, stifling an inane urge to either laugh or cry at the fact that, despite having finally wrung her name out of her, he still seemed to have no recollection of her. "Yes," she contented herself with replying, finding her eyes being drawn back towards the glass, mesmerized by its continued gyration in his fidgety fingertips.

His face clouded with doubt again. "Which house?" he snarled.

"I-I was in H-Hufflepuff," she stuttered nervously.

That response immediately prompted him to snort in disgust. Well, she thought, that was hardly a surprise. Her house had always seemed to be held in little respect by anyone, let alone someone as proud and arrogant as Snape.

"I should have guessed," he chided.

She glanced back at his face. There was still a trace of suspicion in his features, but his eyes were much calmer now.

"Yes," he continued, bending down over her again. "Not remotely devious enough for Slytherin, not cerebral enough for Ravenclaw and thankfully, for yourself," he paused and tossed the shard unto the table, "not gallantly, recklessly, and stupidly brave as a Gryffindor."

The sigh of relief she allowed herself at the relaxation in his manner had barely escaped her lips before she found his fingertips curled around her chin again, jerking her face towards his. "But you still don't seem familiar to me. Why not?" He paused and his brows drew together in a frown. "You haven't been out of school that long," he challenged.

"Twelve years," she protested.

His scowl deepened. "No," he snarled, "You're not nearly thirty," he stated. He drew back and contemplated her again. "And," he continued, allowing a malicious smile to creep across his face, "we both know that you are hardly capable of performing a decent youth or appearance-enhancing charm now, are you?"

He moved back over her and she heard him sniff disdainfully at her hair. "Dear Merlin, you can't even manage to lighten your hair without resorting to Muggle chemicals, can you?"

"I wasn't at Hogwarts very long," she whispered. "I was only there for a term and a half."

"I see," he murmured. He abruptly stepped back and crossed his arms again. A strange expression flew across his face for a moment before he smiled and prompted: "And thereby hangs a tale."

She looked at him, perplexed by the words and his manner.

He snorted again. "Oh, well," he sighed, "I'm not exactly astounded that the quote seems to be beyond the limited scope of your ken," he taunted. He waited for a moment and then, discouraged by her lack of response, prompted: "And why did you leave after such a short time?"

He noted that a deep, livid flush was spreading out upon her cheeks. He was surprised and secretly delighted by her uneasy reaction. He had supposed it to be an innocuous question and had rather suspected that the answer would be of little or no interest to him. But, now he was wondering what secrets she was anxious to keep. And also knew that it would not be long until he had ferreted out the information she apparently did not want him to know.

Many people over the years had voiced the opinion that Severus Snape had at times displayed an uncanny knack and unnerving ability to deduce what people were thinking about. This had led to widespread speculation that he had the ability to read minds. He, of course, found no reason to deny the rumors regarding his telepathic abilities. But they were, alas, wildly exaggerated.

Which was not to say that he was not exceptionally gifted with a certain talent discerning individuals’ desires, doubts, dreams and designs. Although his numerous and lengthy nightly prowls about the grounds of Hogwarts would have afforded him with a multitude of opportunities to catch guilty parties red-handed as they broke a substantial number of school rules, it must also be said that he had a seemingly unerring instinct for being at the right place at the right time, meaning that he caught more than his fair share of culpable perpetrators. And while an intellect of the highest order was undoubtedly a valuable asset to him, as was his inherently suspicious nature, there was another factor to be considered when evaluating his remarkable success. An additional, rather unpalatable character flaw was also responsible for the fact that he had honed his detecting skills to their sharpest edge.

To put it bluntly, Severus Snape was a sadist. Oh, not the kind given to chaining his victims to the walls of his dungeon classroom and applying the cat-o-nine-tails to their quivering, helpless flesh (not that his dreams were not frequently filled with variations of such images). His skills were much more subtle and infinitely more brutal. His greatest delight was to slowly and methodically flay the soul and psyche of his chosen victims, peeling away the layers of defense, denial and determination that protected their fragile egos. As such, over the years he had developed a hunter’s instinct for sniffing out the slightest of psychological wounds and was never content to stop picking at them until he had succeeded in ripping them open, never sated until he had managed to draw a copious measure of fresh blood.

The other side of the coin, as regards his inherently despicable nature, was the undeniable fact that he was also a bully. Although it could not honestly be stated that he was without a great deal of implacable resolve and personal courage, he was also never deliberately foolish enough to ply his skills upon anyone who was capable of repaying him in kind. No, he sought his victims out from among the weak and disenfranchised of his acquaintance. Students of the rival houses of his own Slytherin were all too familiar with the depth and breadth of his insatiable need to crush their ids beneath the weight of his supremacy; his sarcasm and malevolent, honesty-tinged wit carefully unleashed in order to tear their egos to shreds. Even fellow teachers of lesser intellect or shorter tenure (most of his colleagues fell into one or both of those categories) were fair game to him. But he had to admit that he had, of late, grown bored and tired of such easy sport, feeling his abilities wasted upon such dull and predictable targets.

As he gazed into Celia’s face, it was with difficulty that he suppressed an eager, anticipatory grin. She was hardly the most challenging prey he had been privileged to hunt. And he had initially secured her services with not other thought than to alleviate his aching, denied flesh from the agony of his long and enforced celibacy. But he was beginning to think that tonight was going to bring him much more than mere physical thrills.

In fact, he was looking forward to the ecstasy he would feel after grinding the soul of this hapless, hopeless, helpless witch into the dust.

She was staring down at the floor again, avoiding his eyes. He frowned slightly and considered just how to get her talking again.

His gaze flickered over to the pile of broken glass on the tabletop. She undoubtedly realized it, for she drew in a quick breath and her body stiffened visibly. He smiled as he watched her close her eyes and take a deep swallow again. Perhaps it was time for another tack. After all, he thought to himself:

"Your gentleness shall force
More than your force move us to gentleness."

"Oh, don’t worry," he murmured.

In response, her eyes flew open and she looked even more distressed than before. She shuddered as he slowly raised his hand to her face, caressing it gently for a moment. And then he stepped back and studied her.

"Let your hair down," he said, the words couched in a tone of suggestion rather than command.

She looked at up him suspiciously, but she raised her arms and began to slowly remove the hairpins. After a minute or two, she shook her head, and the thick, wavy hair tumbled down around her shoulders. With difficulty, she managed not to shy away from him as he reached out and stroked at the shiny mane.

"Naturally curly?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, still absolutely bewildered by the sudden change in his manner.

"Lovely." He nodded and smiled as he stepped away from her. "I’ll have another drink, please," he said.

"Of course," she answered, moving past him and making her way towards the sideboard. Nervously, she glanced over her shoulder and saw that he was removing his long frock coat. He folded it carefully and draped it over the back of the low couch. She turned back towards the table and placed the handful of pins onto the top before reaching for the bottle and a fresh glass.

"And please have one for yourself," he added. "I detest drinking alone."

She looked back at him and saw that he was now wearing only a long-sleeved white shirt and black, well-tailored trousers as he seated himself on the sofa. She took in a deep breath and managed to pour out another measure of liquor into a fresh glass without spilling a drop even though her hands were shaking slightly. She vacillated for a moment, but ended up pouring a small drink for herself. She much preferred to keep her wits about her this evening, but she doubted that it was wise to ignore his request.

He watched her movements closely from the couch, his sharp eyes noting that her cupboard did indeed look rather bare. And that the furnishings of the room were spare and frayed.

"True is it that we have seen better days," he thought to himself.

But, he did have to admit it was spotlessly clean. He chuckled softly as she approached him with the drinks in her hands, observing that her confidence was starting to return and her hips were swaying every so slightly as she walked.

"Thank you," he said, smiling up at her and patting the cushion beside him. She handed him his drink and then paused to kick off her shoes before sliding down unto the couch next to him. She tucked her legs underneath her and lounged seductively against the back of the sofa as she took a small sip of her drink. As he raised his own glass to his lips, she bent over him and placed her drink on the small side table to his right, stretching her body out against his. She lay still for a moment, feeling his left hand stroke lightly up and down the tight fabric of her dress, the fingers rubbing gently against her before he paused and moved to set his glass down beside hers.

Emboldened by his touch, she arose slightly and, propping herself up on her left hand, leaned towards him, brushing her lips against his. To her surprise, he drew back and regarded her in stony silence, his mouth curling into its habitual, contemptuous scowl. Unnerved by his response, or lack of one, she ducked her head in confusion. But a quick glance at his trousers assured her that, despite his cool reaction, he was not unmoved by her proximity.

Oh, well, she mused, he would hardly be the first customer she had entertained who regarded kissing as a mundane and unnecessary diversion to the task at hand. Maybe she should try another maneuver. She raised her right hand and brushed back his long, black hair, and began to tease his ear lobe with the tip of her lacquered fingernail. At this, he crossed his arms over his chest and the frown intensified, his right eyebrow angling upward in derision.

Well, that did not seem to be an erogenous zone for him either, she thought. Might as well dispense with the apparently extraneous preliminaries and concentrate on the fundamentals. She smiled slightly and dropped her hand down to his thigh, caressing it a moment before moving it slowly but inexorably towards his crotch. But just as she neared the large bulge tenting out the front of the dark fabric, he suddenly drew his hand back and brought it down firmly, applying a sharp slap to her wrist.

She cried out, more in surprise than in pain, and stared at him in bewilderment as she jerked her arm backwards.

He shook his head in disdain. "Not yet, you hopeless Hufflepuff," he muttered, reaching for his drink. After taking another sip, he glared at her again. "I shall inform you directly when your ministrations are requested," he informed her, loftily. "At the moment, I am still waiting for you to enlighten me regarding your life history."

She shrugged. "It’s really not that interesting," she said. She leaned forward and dabbed at the faint smudge of her lipstick that clung to his lower lip.

"Probably not," he rejoined, pushing her hand away. "So why don’t you cease this infernal stalling and tell me why you left Hogwarts?" As he spoke the question his voice had once again dipped lower, infused with a trace of menace.

"I moved to America," she replied.

"Because?" he prompted.

"Because my mother had moved there," she answered, reaching for her own glass. She took another sip and smiled at him. "End of mystery," she teased.

"Not really," he said, frowning slightly and shaking his head. He replaced the snifter on the tabletop. "You said you left at midterm. That’s rather unusual, isn’t it?"

She stared down into her drink, anxiously swishing the liquid back and forth for a moment.

"Why didn’t you at least finish out the term?" he asked. "Since Hogwarts is a boarding school, it would appear to me immaterial that your mother was across the ocean."

She shrugged helplessly again and set the glass back down. Then she raised her hands to her hair and nervously tucked the tresses back behind her ears. And the simple, unconscious gesture suddenly triggered his memory.

"Of course," he said softly, looking down at her. He remembered her now-a tiny, skinny little thing, quiet and mousy. Back then, her hair had been a nondescript shade of brown, usually worn in braids. But some of it had always managed, as she bent down over her cauldron, to come undone, and she was constantly brushing it back behind her ears.

He placed his left hand behind her neck and forced her body against his, bringing his lips next to her ears. "Celia," he whispered. And then, tightening his grip even further he began to sing in a rich, low baritone "Silly Celia, Silly Celia-"

She gasped.

*****

She remembered the day clearly, of course. The potions class that she and her fellow Hufflepuffs were forced to endure with the Slytherins had been especially horrid that day. Her own potion had failed, as usual. The stick, gooey mess had coated the cauldron and it had taken her forever to scour it clean. She had labored at the wash sink forever, while Snape had sat and scowled and scribbled away at the grade book. But when she stepped out into the hall, she had found a group of the nastiest Slytherin boys still lounging there. She tried to move past them, but two of the biggest moved in front of her and blocked her way.

One of them, a fat slob with a piggy little nose and crooked teeth spoke up first: "Zero on the potion again is it, Graham?"

"Why don’t you just give it up and leave, you little squib!" shouted another voice behind her.

"Are you as useless in all your other classes?" teased a third.

"Couldn’t be," answered the first boy.

"Just let me by," she pleaded.

In response, they laughed louder.

"Grumpy Graham, Grumpy Graham, she’s not worth a single damn!" sang out one.

She turned on him, feeling her cheeks blaze and the tears begin to sting her eyes. "Shut up, just shut up!" she had screamed.

"I’ve got a better one," said Mr. Piggy. "Silly Celia, Silly Celia, Come right here and let me feel ya!"

She screamed in rage as the others took up the refrain in an instant, and the whole hallway rang with their singing. She stood there, feeling nauseated and weak, her hands held tightly over her ears, trying to shut them out.

"What is going on?"

Snape’s voice, raised and irritated, drowning out the others.

Instantly, there was quiet. And then only the vague, shuffling sounds of guilty feet moving back and forth.

"Miss Graham?"

It had taken her several seconds before she had managed to raise her tear-streaked face and look at him.

"I wasn’t aware that you were so fond of the dungeon?" he inquired coldly.

She stared up at him, her mouth agape.

"Please stop loitering about here and return to your own dormitory. Now."

The bastard. The fucking bastard. As if she had caused the problem. Not a word to his own precious little darlings.

"Miss Graham, if you do not leave immediately, I shall be forced to deduct points."

The Slytherins began to snicker.

"Silence!" he hissed.

They quieted immediately.

And Celia had forced herself to turn around and walk down the hallway.

*****

"In retrospect, my Slytherins were remarkably astute, weren’t they?" he taunted, his sonorous voice reverberating in her ear. "Tell me my dear, just out of idle curiosity, how many men have you allowed to 'feel you' over the years? Just an estimate, of course."

She began to struggle more vigorously against him. In response, he suddenly released his hold and she tumbled gracelessly to the floor.

"Ah, yes," she heard him say as she struggled to get to her feet. "I remember you clearly now. Celia Graham, Hufflepuff. Spectacularly inept at potions, despite the fact that you would spend hours agonizing over your ingredients. Cutting your dandelion stems into segments of exactly equal size. Counting your lace wings over and over again before adding them. Re-reading the instructions until you had practically memorized them. But to no avail." He crossed his legs and casually leaned over to retrieve his glass again. "As I recall, you bungled your midterm potions practical so spectacularly that you decamped from the school the same day."

He took another swallow. "Though, it really wasn’t necessary. I assure you, you were hardly the first or last student who managed to boil down their cauldron while attempting that potion."

He set the drink down again and looked at her curiously. "By the way, I've forgotten: did you manage to make any potions correctly?"

"Yes!" she hissed through her clenched teeth. "Three my first year and two during that half-year."

"Now there’s a breath-taking record," he mocked, his body shaking with laughter.

"But I always did very well on the written tests and papers," she protested proudly.

He shrugged. "Oh, dear woman, any Muggle with half a brain could do that. It doesn’t mean you have any capability of performing magic-which is what the actual preparation of potions entails."

"I left because I wanted to," she shouted. "I didn’t flunk out, you know."

He laughed again. "Of course not. Even after that notable failure, I would have been forced to give you a passing grade." He shook his head regretfully. "Unfortunately, Headmaster Dumbledore is rather adamant about that. As long as a student evinces a willingness to learn and makes an effort to perform, the professors are not allowed to fail them." He smiled grimly. "As long as they do not cause harm to themselves or others, of course. I suppose you weren’t quite that inept."

He paused and tilted his head up toward her. "Why did your mother move to America?"

"I don’t have to answer your questions you know," she said quietly, "I’m not your student any more."

"Indeed not," he replied, his smile cold and malicious. "You are my tart, bought and paid for in advance."

She drew in an angry breath, but made no reply.

He raised the snifter and drained the remainder of the liquid in one deep gulp. He replaced the glass on the table and stood up, his fingers reaching into the pocket of his trousers. With his other hand, he reached for his coat.

He threw a handful of Knuts and Sickles unto the floor. "I assume that will cover the cost of the brandy?" he asked.

She stared at him as he swiftly walked across the room and stopped beside the silver tray stacked with Galleons. He picked up the tray and regarded it with interest.

"You did say you offered a money-back guarantee?" he asked, raising his eyebrows as he looked back at her.

Celia stood with her hands balled into fists at her side. She opened her mouth to say something, but only managed a low, inchoate cry.

"Something wrong?" he inquired.

"Please," she whispered.

"What?" he said, tilting his head to the side.

"Please stay," she said. She didn't know who she hated more at the moment. Him, or herself. But she did know that she needed that money.

"I beg your pardon?" he murmured, idly rocking the tray back and forth, causing the coins upon it to jangle softly as they jostled against one another. When he raised his face to look at her, there was an ugly, triumphant smirk upon his mouth.

"Please stay," she repeated. She swallowed and forced herself to move towards him. "I don’t want you to go," she pleaded.

He stared down into her eyes, his sneer widening as he savored the depth of her humiliation. "You must be very desperate for the money," he clucked, a singularly false note of concern in his voice as he gazed around the room.

"Yes," she whimpered, feeling the blush return to her cheeks, her abasement nakedly obvious. "I need it for my rent. If I don't have it by tomorrow," she paused and gestured futilely with her outstretched hands. "I'll be tossed out," she admitted, finally.

"I see," he said, pursing his lips and setting the tray back on the table. "The street wench is in need of a 'toss', lest she be tossed out into the street," he mocked. He snorted and stalked towards her, bending down to whisper in her ear, "When Nature hath made a fair creature, may she not by Fortune fall into the fire?"

She choked back a cry and nodded.

"You wish me to stay?" he asked, his voice gently puzzled.

"Yes," she hissed.

He took a step back and stared down at her in scorn. "Then ask me, very nicely, to remain here."

She shook her head in confusion. Hadn't she already done that? "I've asked you to stay," she said, her voice quavering with panic. "Please?" she added.

He sighed and closed his eyes in irritation. "Please stay, sir," he prompted.

"Please stay, sir," she repeated. She held her breath as he opened those sharp, shrewd black eyes and stared down at her, scrutinizing her features.

"Well," he began, moving to hang his frock coat on the rack beside his cloak. He clasped his hands behind him and stared up at the ceiling for a moment. "I like this place and willingly could waste my time in it," he said pensively.

She frowned and made no reply, still oblivious to the source of his references.

"But," he said, crossing his arms and returning his attention to her figure, "From this point on, I expect your complete obedience, do you understand?"

She nodded in acquiescence.

"The rules are actually quite simple," he said, advancing towards her again. "You will do as I say and you will answer my questions to the best of your ability. Now that should be clear and concise enough even for someone of your limited mentality, is it not?"

"Perfectly clear," she replied, her voice still shaky with emotion.

"I hope so," he replied, "because I will not brook any further disobedience." He paused and pointed towards the tray. "If you prove recalcitrant, I will not hesitate to vacate the premises immediately-taking my money with me."

"I understand," she said, quietly.

"Good," he murmured. "Then we shall have no more of your foolish objections or your unfounded arrogance."

She swallowed and nodded her head once more.

"Now then, I believe I asked you why your mother had moved to America."

She took in a deep breath and steadied herself. "She had remarried that fall. And her new husband was an American."

"New?" he inquired, striding back towards the couch. "What happened to your father?"

"He died shortly after I was born. I never really knew him."

"What was the cause of death?" he asked, leaning back against the cushions and regarding her with curiosity.

She looked perplexed. "Old age, I suppose," she said uncertainly.

Snape looked dubious.

"Well," she sputtered, "he was quite elderly when they married."

"I see," he said, smiling. "And not a poor man?" he guessed.

"No," she admitted, grudgingly.

"And then she found husband number two," he speculated. "Also wealthy and elderly?"

"No, Philip was actually quite young and good looking," she retorted.

In response to his upraised eyebrow, she added, "And rich."

He laughed. "It appears that the mother is a better whore than the daughter," he commented, dryly, glancing around at the sparsely furnished room. "So you went to America then?"

She nodded. "Yes, Philip arranged for me to go to a very exclusive and expensive school of witchcraft in Louisiana," she said.

"Hence your familiarity with the accent," he surmised. He frowned and motioned for her to sit down beside him. "Though I don't recall hearing of such a school," he observed.

She shrugged. "I'm not surprised. It was for witches only, and not very prestigious academically. Just expensive."

"Well," he continued, as she sat down beside him, "it seems that they had no more success that we had in training you in the magical arts."

She rolled her eyes. "They were primarily concerned that we learn proper deportment and manners," she replied. "I believe the primary aim of the curriculum was to teach us how to snare a well-to-do spouse."

He snorted. "And it would appear that you were no more successful at that goal than in learning how to properly brew a Wart-Removing Potion."

"Apparently," she retorted, angrily.

"So what brings you back to England?" he asked.

"Mother got divorced from Philip about six years ago," she replied. "And promptly married an Argentinean who's slightly younger than she is. And she preferred not to admit that she was old enough to have a daughter my age. She sent me off on a tour of Europe. And after drifting about the continent and spending all my money, I ended up coming to England."

"Ah," he muttered. "So poor Celia was exiled into the wilderness. With neither Rosalind nor Ganymede as a companion to share her banishment."

She sighed in exasperation. "It's obvious I don't have the slightest idea what you are talking about," she grumbled.

"Yes," he replied, reaching out and brushing her hair back from her face. "Which makes it all the more amusing to me." He smirked broadly for a moment. "Have you made contact with any of your father's family?"

She laughed shortly. "They wouldn’t have anything to do with me," she admitted bitterly. "They all considered my mother a gold digger, apparently."

"Were they wrong?" he challenged.

She shook her head. "No," she said quietly.

"But you decided to take up residence here?"

She smiled faintly. "I didn't have much of a choice. I was out of money by then."

"So you raised money by selling yourself?"

She bit her lip in anger. "No, I was waitressing to begin with. But, everyone else was making additional money by offering the customers 'a little bit extra' on the side." She shrugged and sat back on the couch, hugging her arms around her. "So, I figured I might as well do it too."

"Are you still waitressing?" he asked.

She shook her head. "No. The owner kept demanding a larger cut of our profits to keep his mouth shut. So, I decided I might as well quit that job and start working for myself." She laughed bitterly. "I thought it would be easier."

"O how full of briers is this working day world." He studied her for a moment. "Why not pursue another occupation?"

She stifled a cry of despair. "I have. I've had jobs up and down the shops in both Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley. But I've always managed to muck it up, making a mess out of a simple charm or spell. I always end up getting sacked after a week or two. Even the pub won't have me back."

"But why stay here? Are you hoping to find a paramour infatuated enough to provide you with a permanent arrangement?"

"Of course not," she replied. "I'm simply trying to save up enough money to fly back to America."

"You require a new broomstick?" he inquired, much too innocently.

"No," she answered, irritably, "I require an airplane ticket."

"Oh, yes, I should have known," he laughed. "You must have been as hopeless at flying as you were in every other magical discipline. Though it seems," he said, standing up and stretching lazily, "you believe you are rather proficient at clutching other things between your legs." He glanced back at the tray. "Are you sure you are worth forty Galleons to me?"

"Yes," she replied without hesitation.

He reached out and stroked gently at her cheek, whispering:

"For thou has been a libertine,
As sensual as the brutish sting itself
And all the embossed sores and headed evils
That thou with licence of free foot hast caught-"

She stared up at him, refusing to be cowed by his words or manner. "I think, Sir, that by the morning's light you will be very happy that you stayed," she said, quietly.

He shrugged. "Ah, but will you be?" He reached out his hand and helped her to her feet.

Her smile was bitter and mirthless. "I never am. But, it's kind of you to wonder."

He shook his head. "Kindness, nobler ever than revenge."

He looked over her shoulder at the closed door behind her. "The bedroom?"

She put her hands on her hips. "You are requesting my ministrations now?" she asked. "I should hate to misunderstand you," she added.

"Oh, yes, Mademoiselle," he assured her. "I am now quite anxious to observe how skilled you are at plying your craft." He bent down and bowed before her in an exaggerated, mocking manner. "Lead the way."

Author's Note: Again, thanks to my editor for suggesting the theme. And yes, the Shakespeare play being quoted does feature a Celia.
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Love's Labours; Paradise Lost