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Love's Labours; Paradise Lost	By : Veresna Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 18700 -:- 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
- 4
- 5
- 6
Chapter 5: Trow you who hath done this?

She was walking along the fog-filled corridor of Knockturn Alley, and the sound of her high-heeled shoes clicking along the stone walkway was eerily loud, echoing noisily through the abandoned street. She shivered as she progressed through the cold, clammy air of the mist that had settled upon the road, her cloak much too thin to keep her warm. In the distance, she could hear the sounds of the pub-chattering, laughter, the clink of glassware, and she began to hurry her pace, dashing towards its warmth and light, desperate to find the shelter and companionship that she knew were within it. And yet, even as she continued to walk towards it, it seemed as though she were not nearing it at all. The pub remained tantalizingly close at hand, and yet hidden from her, concealed in the shadows.

Finally, with a cry of despair, she stopped and looked about her. There was not a ray of light anywhere, not even the barest hint of a lamppost gleaming through the darkness of the night or the deep veil of the fog. And, stranger still, now that the reverberation of her own footsteps no longer resounded, the noise and hubbub of the pub had also died away. She strained her ears, but could hear nothing at all except the hiss of her own ragged, frightened breathing.

Until she suddenly heard another sound.

Step...step...tap. Step...step...tap.

Oh, gods, no. Not him.

She had to run. She had to hide. She had to find a safe harbor somewhere-but where? She pirouetted on her heels, losing her balance for a moment, uncertain of which way she should run.

Step...step...tap.

It sounded even nearer now, and still she could not tell which direction he was coming from. She broke into a run, her hands held out in front of her as she tried, unsuccessfully, to peer through the thickening fog. The cobblestones of the pavement seemed even more uneven that usual, and more than once she had to catch herself from tripping forward onto the ground. And then, suddenly, the heel of her right shoe sank down firmly between one of the deep holes between the stones and stuck there. She pulled frantically at her leg, trying to extricate herself.

Step...step...tap.

Finally, she gave up and wrestled her foot out of the shoe and left it there. She took a few more steps forward and realized that trying to hobble on her way with one foot bare and one shod in a high-heeled slipper was futile. She stopped again and hastily jerked off the other shoe, tossing it forcefully behind her.

In response, she heard a cold, high laugh.

She began to sprint now, her bare feet cold and slipping against the damp pavement. What was that ahead-a staircase? Yes, the stone staircase leading to Diagon alley. She hurled herself up the steps and turned to the right.

She gave a loud cry as her foot fell upon something sharp and pointed. It felt like a large shard of glass, ripping through the skin and spearing through her flesh. She had to stop and balance herself awkwardly on one foot as she tried to grasp the fragment and pull it out.

Step...step...tap.

She finally wrenched the long sliver of glass out of her skin and held it in her hand, prepared to use it a weapon if needed. But now there was nothing but silence and the deepening fog around her. She took a step backwards, still afraid that he was going to suddenly charge out of the mist at her, and she felt her back bumping up against something solid. She gasped and turned and found that somehow she was at her own apartment building now, standing on the landing of the small steps leading up to the doorway. She hastily threw the shard of glass into her pocket and her hands reached out and grasped the doorknob, pulling frantically upon it. But, it refused to budge and she began to pummel the door with her fists, calling out as she did so:

"Mrs. Delaney, Mrs. Delaney, please let me in, please, please!"

There was no response, and behind her she heard the man approaching.

Step...step...tap.

She turned and stared into the fog, trying desperately to glimpse him as he neared her, her fingers working frenziedly through her pockets, unable to locate her weapon. And then, she heard the door behind her suddenly click open, the hinges groaning loudly as the portal swung inward. She ran through the doorway and up the flight of stairs, clawing her way through the near darkness, as she sought to find her own flat. That door, too, swung open for her as she ran towards it, and she turned and slammed her weight against it to close it, her hands scrambling to set the locks in place. Then she stood, leaning against it, her ear pressed down upon the door, listening for her pursuer. Her right hand drifted down to her pocket again, and this time her fingers closed around the fragment of glass immediately. She drew back from the door and stood with her hand shaking, but upraised, waiting to attack him if he came bursting through.

And then two strong arms closed around her from behind, one reaching out to grasp her about the waist, and the other closing a large first over her own small hand, forcing the uneven edge of the glass into her skin.

"Waiting for someone?"

The words were spoken in a deep, silky voice. The voice and the words were strangely familiar, but as she tried to place them, a dull headache began to throb behind her eyes.

I am not allowed to remember this.

"I am waiting, Miss Graham."

Yes, he had said that too. No, no one had said it, it had never happened.

She tried to turn her head, to see who was holding her, but he was gripping her too firmly. Her clothes were suddenly gone, and she felt her legs being thrust widely apart, as he forced her against the hard back of the couch. And then she felt the throb of a hot, hard erection against her buttocks. But the man abruptly stepped backward, and she felt the hard slap of a palm instead.

"The pain will only intensify the more you force me to do this."

But, I told you what you wanted to know, didn't I? I'm sure I did.

The pain of her headache was growing more intense with each passing second. "Please, I can't do this!" she yelled.

He gave a low, quiet laugh. "Oh, yes, you can. You are a slut, a whore, a trollop, a hussy, and a harlot, aren't you?"

"Yes-I mean n-no," she sputtered.

The hand which had been holding her about the waist drifted upward, seeking and finding her nipples, which suddenly swelled against the skin of his fingers.

"You must be very aroused," he said, whispering in her ear.

"Yes," she moaned. She groaned again as she felt him suddenly slide into her, filling her completely. His right hand closed over hers again, forcing her fingers down into her palm and grinding the glass farther into her flesh. He began to stroke into her, and with each of his deep, hard thrusts his fingers gripped more firmly around her fist, shoving the glass deeper and deeper into her, until she swore it was going to cut her hand in half.

But suddenly, the pain in her head and hand disappeared, and she was only aware of the hot, hungry feeling in her groin as she began to thrust back against him, her breath coming in short, ragged pants as her orgasm neared. She was so close, so very close. Just a few more seconds, just a few more strokes...

But the motion of his hips abruptly stopped.

"Oh, please, more," she whimpered, "don't stop, please."

He released her hand and moved away from her, pulling out of her. She cried in frustration and turned to beg him to finish.

And there he was-Mr. Blond-raising that snake-head walking stick high above his head and laughing at her.

"You want more, my dear?" he cackled. The stick came whooshing down through the air, aimed at her head.

Crack.

A sickening sound as the end of the stick smashed against her skull.

"How much more do you want?"

She raised her arm, and this time the blow fell upon her lacerated hand.

Thud.

She screamed in pain and fell down on the floor.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three more thumps, landing against her back this time.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

With a start, she opened her eyes and raised her head. Her heart was beating madly, and her arms were raised up as if to fend off another strike.

Three loud knocks rapped against the front door of the flat. And then came a woman's voice, shouting: "I know you're in there!"

She took in a deep breath and lay back for a moment.

It was Mrs. Delaney's voice.

Celia moved her head slightly and squinted at the clock. Ten o'clock? She glanced at the bright sunlight streaming in through the thin curtains at the window.

A long series of loud raps at the door again.

With a sigh, she threw back the covers and jumped out of the bed. Only to pause in shock and stare down at the unfamiliar nightgown that she was wearing.

"Open this door!" shouted Mrs. Delaney.

"Yes," she yelled back, "I'm coming, I'm coming."

She made her way towards her wardrobe and pulled the door open. She blinked again as she noted how the clothes were all shoved to one side and the shoes at the bottom had been scattered about. She managed to find her robe and struggled to get her arms worked through the sleeves as she headed towards the living room.

And then she stopped dead in her tracks again. On the silver tray on top of the small table, there was a large sum of money. She took a few faltering steps towards it and found her eyes roaming over the stacks of gold, beginning to count them.

...six, seven, eight. Eight stacks of Galleons, and ten coins in each stack. Eighty Galleons. Which customer had left her all that money?

A piercing pain suddenly throbbed through her head and she gasped and raised a hand to her temple. The pain was exacerbated by another loud knock upon the door.

"Graham, this is your last chance!"

Celia took a step towards the door, and then halted and looked back at the tray. With a quick motion, she shrugged off the robe and threw it over the table, covering the stack of money.

No need to let the landlady see her windfall, she reasoned. It would just give her a reason to up the rent.

She undid the bolts and flung the door open, a wide, friendly smile forced onto her face.

"Mrs. Delaney!" she cried, "I'm so sorry, it seems I overslept. You're here for the rent aren't you?" she chirped.

"Obviously," was the sullen reply. The older woman frowned and glanced pointedly over Celia's shoulder, undoubtedly looking to see if she had company.

"I'll get it straight away," she said, closing the door firmly before Mrs. Delaney could set a foot into the room.

She slid the bolt back into place and quickly turned to retrieve the tray. She carefully carried it over to her desk and set it down. Opening up the drawer, she took out the small sack that contained the money she had been saving for the rent. She counted it quickly, just to be sure of the amount, and added twenty Galleons from the tray. The rest of the new found money she poured back into the drawer, as quietly as possible. Pulling the strings of the sack tight, she strode back to the door and opened it again.

"Here you are," she announced, cheerily, thrusting the bag into the woman's outstretched hands.

"Better be all of it," she hissed, in reply.

"Oh, it is," she assured her.

"Well," Mrs. Delaney muttered, "I've also come to tell you that I'm raising the rent starting next month-five Galleons more!"

Celia nodded, her face expressionless.

The landlady turned to go down the hall, and then suddenly stopped and pivoted back to face her. "And if I ever have to come to your door to collect it again, you'll be out of here, my girl!"

"Yes, Mrs. Delaney, I'm very sorry I was late."

With a disgruntled "Humph!" the woman spun around and made her way down the hallway.

Celia closed and locked the door again and stood, leaning against it, for a moment. She took in a deep, calming breath and tried to remember what had happened. The memory of the young redhead resurfaced, the full details of her encounter with him eventually becoming clearer as she concentrated. Yes, she had sent him on his way, gone in to redo her hair and makeup, remembered at the last minute to clean the sheets and then, she had made her way downstairs. She frowned and closed her eyes, focusing her thoughts. She had had a brief conversation with Mrs. Delaney, and then she had stepped outside and walked to Knockturn Alley, finally finding a spot to wait outside the pub. And then, she had heard Mr. Blond approaching and she had hidden, watching him appear and then vanish back into the fog.

There was a flash of pain in her temples again, and after a few moments she sighed and gave up. How fitting-he had stepped into a fog and it appeared that the rest of the evening was neatly enveloped in an impenetrable mist as well. She opened her eyes and glanced around the room, searching for another clue as to what had transpired.

Well, she shrugged, nothing seemed out of place. She was just beginning to make her way back to the bedroom when her eyes fell on something gleaming faintly against the wood of one of the other tables. Frowning, she bent over the table and reached out her hand. Then, she abruptly realized what it was and her hand stopped in midair.

They were tiny bits of broken glass.

Her gaze dropped down to the trash bin located underneath the table. She pulled it towards her, hearing the clink of glass as it moved. She stared down into the basket, and then drew in a quick, irritated breath.

"Shit!" she hissed, as she set the bin back down. It had been one of her brandy snifters. And she had been down to only two as it was. She shook her head in annoyance and began to stride angrily over to the sideboard. Maybe the client had been so generous because he was trying to make up for destroying a lot of her property.

She flung back the doors of the cupboard and then gasped in surprise.

There were four new brandy snifters sitting on the top shelf. Along with a half-dozen new tumblers, two cut-glass decanters and a matching assortment of claret, sherry and liqueur glasses-six of each. She reached out and lifted up one of the decanters, turning it over to see if it carried a label. Indeed it did: Waterford Crystal.

Her attention shifted to the bottom shelf, where her bottles of modestly-priced liquor had disappeared. In their place were two bottles of Ogden's Old Firewhisky, an assortment of very fine Port Wine, Sherry and Madeira, and no less than three bottles of Remy-Martin Cognac.

She allowed a low whistle to escape her lips before closing the cupboard and glancing back about the room. Well, she decided, she had either been visited by a fairy godmother, or she had attracted the attentions of a generous but modest benefactor, who wished to remain anonymous. Shaking her head, she began to slowly walk towards the bedroom.

**************************************************************

Meanwhile, with an unusually jaunty spring in his step, Severus Snape was making his way down the dungeon staircases to his own quarters. When he had left the night before for his monthly meeting in London with Lucius Malfoy and the other Death Eaters, he had never expected that he would be spending a long and exhilarating evening in the company of anyone else, least of all a former student.

As he paused to undo the wards sealing his office, he debated whether or not he should seek out the Headmaster and give him a report. Not, of course, he chuckled, on how he had spent the evening after the meeting. But, there was the slight chance that Dumbledore might have been alarmed at his failure to return to Hogwarts.

Opening up the door, he stepped into his office. He frowned at the stack of papers sitting upon his desk, still needing to be graded before tomorrow morning. He sat down in his chair and massaged his neck tiredly. The lack of sleep from last night was beginning to catch up with him. However, he thought, as he smiled and reached for his quill, it had been worth it. He leaned back in his chair and tapped the feather of the pen against his chin for a moment, as he recalled the events of the prior evening. His smile broadened.

It really had been much too long since he had engaged the services of a prostitute. Madam Rosemerta, of course, kept two or three girls busily employed in the rooms above "The Three Broomsticks," but he had always been far too cautious to be seen calling upon them. It was simply too near Hogwarts and all of its students for Snape's comfort. And, for a long time, there had been a most elegant, chic and expensive brothel tucked away in one of the corners of Diagon Alley. But the proprietor, having made an enormous sum of money, had retired years ago, and the subsequent owners hadn't been as select in their choice of either customers or employees. Snape had reluctantly decided it was no longer sophisticated enough for the price-or his own taste, for that matter.

Snape snorted loudly through his nose. It was certainly out of character for a man as selective as he was to deign to seek the services of a common streetwalker. But, he had to confess, he had been intrigued as he watched how she shied away from Malfoy and glared suspiciously at Crabbe and Goyle. And then, when he had approached her, he had to admit that her accent had been quite convincing at first. He had allowed himself to be gulled into thinking she truly was from America, and that therefore she would pose no threat to him. He would remain a nameless customer, with no hint to his occupation, and she would have no reason to question what nefarious activities were bringing the Potions Master of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to that most infamous part of Wizarding London.

When he had seen the recognition in her eyes, he had been angered and suspicious, fearful that she had caught a glimpse of him with his fellow Death Eaters at some point in time. Upon finding out that she was a former student, his anger and alarm had increased momentarily, until he had comforted himself with the thought that the squib was obviously so scared and vulnerable that she posed no threat to him. And he had been lulled into a false sense of security until she had made the mistake of staring at the blurry, indistinct mark upon his arm. His suspicions had flared again, and once his doubts on the depth of her knowledge were once again quieted, he was left with the strangely comforting thought that he was now free to explore his deepest, darkest fantasies without trepidation. After all, since he intended to "Obliviate" her before he left, he was free to treat her as cruelly as he desired, tormenting her with impunity since she would have no memory of his visit.

His gaze shifted towards the large couch sitting opposite his desk. It had apparently made the journey back to his office without incident, he noted. He smiled again, and through his half-closed eyes he imagined he saw her sitting there, in her little Hogwarts uniform, with her breasts pulled out of her blouse and the skirt held up above her waist. That had been an exquisite picture, he admitted.

He closed his eyes again and tilted his head back, letting his mind drift back to the rest of the evening. He pictured her arms and legs straining at the ropes as he brought his hand down upon the soft skin of her buttocks. He remembered the feel of her body bucking back against his as he took her from behind, the warmth and wetness of her mouth as she sucked him, her moan of pleasure as his tongue flicked between her legs.

"Severus?"

His eyes abruptly snapped open and he moved his head forward with an impatient jerk. "Yes, Headmaster," he replied, turning towards his fireplace, and the logs that had so suddenly erupted into flames.

"I was becoming worried, Severus, you were gone for a long time," Dumbledore stated, quietly.

"Yes, Albus," he replied, standing up and moving towards the hearth. "The meeting, although rather pointless and unproductive, went on interminably, I'm afraid." He shrugged. "I had a few errands to run, and by the time I finished those I stopped to have a drink. And, by then, I decided I might as well spend the night in London." He smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, I should have owled you a message. I didn't mean for you to worry."

"Oh, nonsense, Severus, you are hardly a child." The Headmaster was smiling, and his eyes were kind, but Snape had the uneasy feeling that he suspected he was not being told the whole truth. However, he did not seem inclined to press the matter. "Very well," he continued, "I shall simply look forward to a written report tomorrow?"

"Yes, Headmaster," he replied. He gestured towards his desk, "Actually, I'll write it today, as soon as I finish grading these papers."

"Oh, there's no rush on the matter," he insisted. "Tomorrow will be quite satisfactory. As a matter of fact, you are looking a bit tired. Was the bed not to your liking?" Now there was a definite twinkle to the old man's eyes.

Snape managed to keep his features neutral even as he felt a slight prickling sensation at the back of his neck. There was something to the Headmaster's tone and expression that intimated that he might have an inkling as to what had kept his Potions Master occupied for an entire evening.

"It was quite satisfactory," he answered, finally.

"Ah, yes, but one never sleeps as well as in his own bed," mused Dumbledore, quietly. "Although a bit of variation can be quite...stimulating."

"Indeed," Snape responded, shortly.

"Good day, Severus," said the old man, his image fading away.

"Good day, Headmaster," he replied.

As he returned to his seat, he disgustedly threw down the quill that he had still been holding in his hand. He preferred not to think that Dumbledore knew he had spent the entire night with a prostitute of any kind.

Of course, he grimaced, that was probably preferable to anyone finding out the extent to which he had gone to repay her for the long night he had spent with her. He shook his head again, amazed himself as to the magnitude of his generosity. He had really only meant to leave her with an extra amount of money. And, he told himself, that had been intended to satisfy his own twisted sense of humor-to imagine her waking up in the morning with no memory of the night before, and her total perplexity at the number of Galleons deposited upon her tray.

And then his eyes had fallen upon the remains of the snifter that he had broken, and he had begrudgingly admitted that she was hardly in a position to spend money replacing the vessel. So, he had gone back and studied the contents of her cupboard, struck again by the meagerness of its appearance. His eyes had drifted back towards the bedroom. She was going to be asleep for quite a while, he reasoned, so he might as well go out and get her some replacements. He'd be back and have time to restock everything before she ever awakened.

So he had apparated out of the flat and reappeared before one of the largest emporiums in Diagon Alley. After knocking loudly on the door for several minutes, a store elf had finally appeared. The stupid creature had spent several minutes gesturing towards the sign upon which the store hours were written before Snape had finally taken a large bag of money out of his pocket and swung it back and forth before the ugly little creature's enormous eyes. Understanding the value of keeping an affluent customer happy, he had finally opened up the door and allowed him in. And proceeded to make Snape's life miserable by insisting upon giving him his full, undivided and infuriatingly obsequious attention for the next half hour.

Upon the wizard's request, the elf (named, most revoltingly, 'Hoppy') had led him to the glassware section. He quickly selected the set of four snifters and then, while the elf was packing them up, his eyes had fallen onto the other glasses. Well, he decided, as long as he was here, he might as well provide her with a full set of barware. After all, he persuaded himself, her glasses, though carefully and thoroughly cleansed, had appeared rather worn and chipped. So, he had quickly decided to purchase the other stemware as well.

And, as long as he was buying glasses, he might as well give her a little help in stocking up her liquor cabinet. So, he had proceeded to purchase a variety of alcohol, deciding to not only replenish her supply of whisky, but to also procure a nice assortment of wine as well. For the finishing touch, he chose three bottles of his own preferred brand of Cognac.

As for the last item-well, that had been rather an impulsive purchase. But, he had justified it to himself by saying that it soothed his vanity to assure himself that she would be wearing a scent that was much more subtle and refined. And that would blend in beautifully with her own natural aroma, he added, as his nose twitched involuntarily at the thought.

Of course, once he had purchased the perfume, the elf had become even more fawning and flattering, assuring him that "the young lady must be very lucky indeed" to have such a munificent patron. Snape's dark eyes had shot daggers at him, and still the idiotic little dolt had chattered and giggled as he finished the packaging of the items.

Within a few minutes, the wizard had shrunk them down into manageable size and had apparated back to the apartment. He restored the items to their proper size and distributed them quickly and quietly. Then he had made one last survey of her rooms, wanting to make sure that he had left behind nothing that could be traced to him. When he found the Hogwarts uniform in the dirty clothes hamper, he had been tempted to destroy it on the spot. Instead, he had summoned up the energy to transfigure the clothing back into its original form and had hastily returned the items to the wardrobe and bureau. After all, she didn't have much clothing to begin with. And he could always charm them back again if he needed it during another visit.

He slammed his fist against the desk and the accompanying snort resounded loudly in the empty room. He certainly didn't intend to go back there again...did he? Oh, of course not. It had been years since he had felt compelled to seek out a woman, and it could easily be years before he did it again. He had quite enough to occupy his time without adding a "bint on the side" to his schedule. And, he had only erased the memory of the previous night from her brain. If he visited her again, she would surely recognize him as one of her former professors.

Suddenly, an evil, anticipatory smile appeared upon his lips. Well, that would be fun, wouldn't it? This time, after he had entered his apartment and taken off his cloak, he would know exactly what she was thinking when that terrified expression of recognition flitted across her features. Wouldn't it be even more fun to watch her squirm during the whole evening, scared that he would recognize her?

And, this time, he could take the added precaution of placing a concealing spell on his forearm, just to simplify matters. She surely wouldn't have the magical talent to detect it, much less remove it.

Who knows, perhaps she'd keep up that delightful Southern accent all night long this time. It would be enchanting to hear her moan for "more", (or would it be "mo' " ?) in that soft drawl as he stimulated her to a climax.

He glanced down at his lap, frowning once again.

Dear Merlin, he was getting hard.

He shook his head and retrieved the quill. It shouldn't take more than a few of these insipidly written papers to get all such thoughts out of his head. And he tried, doggedly, for the next five minutes to keep his attention on the reading. But, he was finally forced to throw down the quill once more and storm out of the office, heading for his rooms and a nice, cold shower.

He finally had to admit that even that failed to douse his enthusiasm. With a grunt, he leaned back against the tiled wall and began to stroke himself. If this was how he reacted to a night with a common little strumpet, it was a good thing he had no intention of returning. On the other hand, he thought, as he began to quicken his pace, it would be a shame not to at least go back and sample some of that fine Cognac. Why should her other customers-undoubtedly an ill-mannered and ignorant mob of louts-be the only ones to benefit from his generosity? Especially since he had suffered the irritation of the elf and the inconvenience and expense of buying it.

*****

Celia gazed around the bedroom, searching for any clue she could find that would help her remember what had happened. Besides the slight disarray in her wardrobe, though, everything else seemed to be in its proper place. And then her eyes fell upon the account book sitting on the bedside table. With a frown, she strode over to it and picked it up. She was sure she had left it in the desk drawer in the other room. She flipped open the pages and studied the final entries. Yes, she remembered filling in those figures. And she hadn't had a chance to add the ten Galleons that the redhead had paid to her. With her finger inserted between the pages to keep her place, she slowly walked on into the dressing room.

Her eyes fell upon the two bottles sitting out prominently upon the vanity. They were both Chanel Number 5, but one was a small, purse-sized vial. She shook her head again as she slowly seated herself in front of the mirror.

"So, how much did you see and hear?" she asked.

"Oh, thank goodness, dear!" enthused the mirror. "I was quite afraid when I heard the 'Obliviate' charm that you wouldn't be able to remember anything-not even me."

"No," she replied, "The only thing I can't remember is what happened between the time I went out to Knockturn Alley-after the redhead left-and when I woke up just now."

"Thank Merlin for that!" rejoined the mirror.

"So, who was it and what happened?" she asked, leaning forward and setting down the account book.

"A former professor or yours, from somewhere," the mirror answered. "I didn't quite catch the name, but he was quite unforgettable. Oh, sorry, dear, of course-"

Celia laughed. "In my case, it seems unavoidable." She shrugged. "What did he look like?"

"Oh, let's see: very tall, with black, oily hair, a very large nose and cold, dark eyes."

Celia paled and jerked backward in her chair. "Professor Snape?" she shrieked.

"Well, yes, now that you've said it, I do think you called him that once-when you were in the bedroom."

She stared at her own reflection in the mirror. "How long was he here?" she asked.

"Oh, all night, dear, all night. You sat in the other room for a while-I heard raised voices occasionally, but couldn't make out any of the conversation. And, somehow, a glass or vase broke, because I heard the tinkling sound."

Celia nodded.

"And then you came in here and, well-" the mirror hesitated for a moment. "The next time I saw you, you had lipstick smeared all over your mouth and your face was-"

The girl placed her elbows on the table in front of her and frowned slightly as she propped her chin on her hands.

"-soiled," the mirror finished, delicately.

Celia grimaced and swallowed. "And then?"

"Well, you went back in there and I think he spanked you." The mirror's voice was quavering slightly now.

"It figures," she replied. "Anything else?"

"Then he let you sleep for awhile and the next time I saw you, you had on some sort of uniform."

She laughed quietly. "Let me guess, grey jumper and skirt, white blouse and a striped necktie?"

"No jumper, actually. But everything else-yes. And then he called you into the next room again."

Celia closed her eyes and thought back upon her strange dream. She wondered just how much of it had to do with what went on during the long night spent with Snape. From the force of the pain that still pinched behind her eyes whenever she tried to think of it, she suspected there were a few connections between the two. She opened her eyes as the mirror began to speak once more.

"At the last, you came in to take a shower and he gave you that nightgown to wear. And then I heard you moaning for a long time, and then he called out the 'Obliviate' spell."

"Was he spanking me again?" asked Celia, her mouth twisting into an expression of horror.

"No, dear, not that kind of moaning," the mirror answered, quietly.

She blinked. "Oh," she said, dully. "Did he-" her fingers drummed nervously upon the table for a moment, "curse me with 'Imperio' also?" she said, finally.

"I don't believe so." The mirror's tone was halting and apologetic.

Celia shook her head and looked back down at the book. "Well, he apparently looked through this," she said, tapping on the cover with her fingernail.

"The nerve!" retorted the mirror.

Suddenly, the color drained away from the girl's face. "He didn't find the other one, did he?" she asked, as her hand reached down and pulled out a drawer on the right hand side of the vanity table.

"No, dear, I'm certain that he didn't" the mirror proclaimed, stoutly.

She pushed aside the handkerchiefs that covered up the notebook and quickly brought it up onto the table. She flicked through the pages quickly, and was relieved to see that it appeared intact.

"Well, thank goodness for small favors," she breathed, shaking her head and allowing herself a small, relieved chuckle. "Now then," she said, reaching for her quill and ink. She wrote down the date of the previous night in a clear, steady hand. "Young red-headed employee of the Ministry of Magic. Girlfriend (possibly fiancée?) by the name of Penelope. Pompous, and self-important, just the kind that would detest any hint of scandal."

She paused for a moment and read what she had written. Not much to go on, but you never knew when you might be able to use that information.

Biting her lip, she set her pen to the paper again. "Saw 'Mr. Blond' again, but he made no attempt at contact." She shivered, and fought against the impulse to reread all the details she had written down after his horrific visit. She sincerely doubted that she would ever be in a position to use that information, he seemed to be very wealthy and very influential-whoever he was.

By the time she had finished writing down the details regarding Snape's rendezvous, she had completely filled two more pages of the book. She had come up with several more questions regarding the events of the previous evening, and the mirror had been able to supply her with a few more details. And, of course, she was able to comment on the double fee and additional gifts that he had bestowed upon her.

The book carefully placed back into its hiding place, she arose and made her way into the bathroom. She turned on the water for her shower, carefully removed the nightgown and examined herself in the mirror for any sign of ill treatment. In the end, she didn't know what surprised her more: the fact that he had left no evidence of the spanking, or that he apparently had decided to make her bottom match her top.

Author's Note: Thanks to all who have read and reviewed. And, since the question has been raised by more than one of you, let me reassure you: this story is completely separate from my Helena/Snape series. Which is a very good thing as far as Severus is concerned. If Helena ever found out that he was whiling away his time with a London chippie, he'd better be damned careful about protecting that, uh, magic wand of his.
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Love's Labours; Paradise Lost