Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Love's Labours; Paradise Lost	By : Veresna Category: Harry Potter > General > General Views: 18696 -:- 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
Disclaimer: The following applies to this and all of the following chapters of this story: I do not own the characters, situations, locations or any other aspects of these stories and do not make any money from them.

DISCLAIMER: Although Celia Graham is own creation, Severus Snape and most of the other characters, locations and magical paraphernalia featured in this story were created and belong to JK Rowlings, et. al. JK Rowling gave permission for fan fiction with her approval of fan fiction as stated in a Barnes & Noble chat:

In an interview found on Barnes & Nobles's web site dated September 8, 1999, J.K. Rowlings is quoted as saying the following about fan fiction based on the Harry Potter books: "Yes, I do. And I have been staggered by the response. I only recently found the web pages devoted to Harry, and it was like Christmas -- Christmas in August."

I am greatly indebted to my editor, "lablanche", for all her help in correcting my multitude of mistakes, suggesting and researching the source of the literary allusions used throughout this story and for her own invaluable contributions to the finished work. Any and all errors remaining are my own.

LOVE'S LABOURS, PARADISE LOST

Chapter 1: I SHOW MORE MIRTH THAN I AM MISTRESS OF

Celia grimaced in exasperation as she struggled to secure the last hairpin in place. Although most women might have envied her crop of long, thick and curly hair, it did take a bit of taming to arrange it on the top of her head in the elaborate hairstyle she had decided upon tonight. She tilted her head to the side critically and then her hand reached out for the comb again. With surgical precision, she coaxed a few strands of the light blonde hair on either side of her face into delicate, spiraled tendrils and then sat back to study the effect.

"What do you think?" she asked.

"Let me see the back, dear," was the low, whispered response.

With a shrug she complied and slowly circled around on the low stool so that she was facing in the opposite direction.

"Yes, very nice," was the verdict, after a moment.

"Thank you," she replied, turning back. She reached down and removed the cap of the lipstick she was going to wear and bent nearer the mirror again, pursing her lips.

"But, dear—"

"Yes?" she asked, dropping her hands and regarding the mirror with a touch of amusement.

"There is a little smudge," murmured the voice, apologetically. "Just above your left eye."

Celia frowned and inspected the area in question. "Drat," she whispered, impatiently recapping the lipstick again and throwing it to the side. "You’re right," she conceded, her hands hastily unscrewing the lid of one of the myriad bottles and jars arrayed across the top of her vanity.

She was already busily applying the cream to the spot, wiping off the offending blot of mascara and unavoidably cleansing the area of eye shadow as well when the voice spoke again.

"I’m sorry, dear. It really was only a very small one."

Celia balled the soiled tissue into her fist and smiled again. "But, we must always look our best, mustn’t we?" she replied, good-naturedly as she tossed the wad into the trash.

Then she leaned forward and gave the frame of the mirror an affectionate pat before turning her attention to redoing her makeup. For most of her life, she had not been at all fond of talking mirrors, but she had to admit that this one had some superior traits. For one, it never commented negatively to her about the events that it most assuredly glimpsed every now and again when the door between the small dressing room and the bedroom had been left open. On the contrary, it complimented her frequently, and its few negative comments were couched in the most tactful of phrases and in such an apologetic manner that she could never be truly miffed at its presumption. And finally, she had to admit, it was nice to have another "woman" to talk to, even if its presumed femininity was a mere enchantment.

A few minutes later, having applied a fresh layer of eye shadow, mascara and lipstick to her face, she stood up and regarded her reflection quietly.

"How do I look?" she asked.

"Lovely!" was the instantaneous reply.

Well, that was one word for it, she thought grimly to herself, as her hands reached out to smooth the wrinkles out of the tight, silk dress she was wearing. Her eyes traveled slowly down her reflected image and she critically assessed the features of the woman staring back at her.

There was something about the shade of her light blonde hair that marked it unmistakably as bleached, even though she conscientiously treated the roots and was assured that not a trace of its natural dowdy brown could be seen. The makeup was theatrically loud: the dark rouge that highlighted her cheekbones stood out in sharp contrast with her pale, powdered skin. The eye shadow adorning her light brown eyes was a bright, garish blue, the lids were outlined in dark brown pencil and black mascara was thickly coated upon the lashes. Her round, full lips were painted a deep, bloody red.

Well, why not, she thought. A painted lady should look painted, shouldn’t she?

Her eyes traveled downward. The dress robe she was wearing was made of fine silk. But its brilliant scarlet color, the low cut of the bodice, the strain of the fabric against her bosom and hips, and the slit that rose up to the top of her right leg negated any hint of elegance.

Below that could be glimpsed her black fishnet stockings and the red shoes with high, spiked heels. And the long, sharp nails on her hands were painted a fiery crimson.

Lovely? Hardly. Sexy? Possibly, in the eyes of certain males for whom the display of a young, willing female body was the ultimate aphrodisiac. For sale? Definitely.

She sighed and turned to walk out to the bedroom.

"Are you sure you’re up to going out again, dear?"

She pivoted and regarded the mirror with a smile. "I’m completely recovered," she protested, picking up her cloak and thrusting her arms into it. "Besides, I shouldn’t be long," she promised.

She paused for a moment and pulled back the curtain from the window. She frowned as she looked out at the street below her. Though the rain had apparently stopped, the fog had increased since she had last been outside. And it looked as though it was getting heavier each minute. She groaned, considering the effect the moist air was going to have on her naturally curly hair. After all her work, she hated to see it turn into a frizzy mess.

She sighed and allowed the curtain to fall back as she turned to gaze at the bed. She clucked to herself in exasperation and searched in the pockets of her cloak for her wand. She had almost forgotten to do the cleansing spell, hadn’t she?

She threw back the quilt, blankets and sheet and stood for a moment, frowning in concentration. Then slowly, reluctantly, a small stream of silver light emerged from the end of her wand and began to dance across the surface of the sheet. As the light fell upon the stains left by the previous occupant the brightness intensified for a moment. And when it had dimmed, the spots had disappeared, leaving the entire sheet with the appearance of being as pristinely unsullied as if they had been scrubbed by a contingent of house elves.

She smiled in satisfaction and carefully remade the bed, assiduously pulling all the coverings into place, not content with her work until each and every wrinkle had been smoothed away.

She stood back and nodded to herself again. The cleaning spell was one of the few charms that she could do well with any consistency. And she absolutely refused to use dirty sheets.

She shrugged and folded her arms across her chest. Although, she had to admit, the last client had left more snot than semen on them. She smiled at the memory.

The man-well, boy really-had been tall and thin, with a shock of unruly red hair that had been carefully tamed and oiled into sedate waves. He had been slightly inebriated, which added to his fumbling and awkwardness once she had managed to entice him into the bedroom. It was also, she had gathered quickly, his first time. For while he had seemed relatively confident during the kissing and foreplay stage, once the time had come to "insert tab A into slot B" as it were, he had suddenly seemed equal parts eagerness and apprehension. His shock at the actual feel of intercourse had been palpable, and the joining had been brief and frenzied.

Afterward, he had shyly admitted that he "had never done this before." And she was tactful enough to look surprised and to forcefully assure him that she hadn’t been able to tell. For a moment, his youthful chest had swelled with pride and a singularly smug and proud expression had appeared on that young face. But he must have been suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of guilt, for the next thing she knew she was holding him and patting him on the back as his whole body was racked with sobs.

In between his gasps of breath, he muttered that he had never dreamed of doing such a thing in all his life, and that he was sure his mother would be absolutely mortified if she knew what he was doing.

She shook her head sympathetically and bit back a retort along the lines of the fact that her mother wouldn’t exactly be thrilled to see how she was supporting herself either.

And then, he had babbled on about the fact that he was sure he would be dismissed from his job if any of his superiors in the Ministry of Magic knew how he had succumbed to such a filthy temptation.

She continued patting his back as her eyes rolled heavenward and she debated whether or not she should tell him that, in the six months that she had been in London, she had entertained more than a few of the gentlemen from his office. In the end, she decided to leave him blissful in his ignorance.

Finally, having progressed to the hiccuping stage, he blurted out that he it was "all his fault, really." He was under so much stress these days. But, of course, that wasn’t an excuse for having a huge, screaming row with Penelope. After which, he had stormed out to the pub, intending to have just a drink or two. Never intending to seek out a woman of her kind, after all.

She clucked in commiseration. "Of course not."

"Penelope will never forgive me, I just know she won't," he stammered, wiping his nose with his arm.

"Of course she will, luv," she had assured him. "By tomorrow or the next day she’ll be happy to patch things up."

"Do you really think so?"

"Yes," she replied, fighting down an impulse to ask him to please stop wiping his tear and mucus-streaked face all over the bed linen.

"Do you think." He hesitated for a long moment. "I should tell her about-"

"No, luv," she replied, emphatically, turning onto her stomach and taking his face in both hands. "I think you should never tell her about this evening. Trust me on that one," she added, giving him a light kiss.

Within fifteen minutes, she had managed to get him dressed and out the door. It would have been sooner, but he had somehow mislaid his glasses, and they had both ended up on their hands and knees searching on the floor for them. The pair of horn rimmed glasses had finally been located, retrieved and placed on his nose, and she had bid him a fond farewell.

Afterwards, she had leaned against the door and shook her head in disgust. She really should have charged him for the extra time. But, she admitted to herself, it had taken him an eternity to search through his pockets and come up with the ten Galleon fee to begin with. She doubted he would have been able to pay her much more even if she had asked.

With a sigh, she brought her thoughts back to the present and inspected the room carefully. Dousing all except two of the candles, she picked up her purse from the bedside table and clicked it open. She reached deep inside for her bottle of perfume and applied a dab of the scent behind both ears. Throwing the bottle back into the bag, she snapped it shut and strode out into the small living room and out of the door of the flat.

She had long ago given up any hope of disguising the sound of her heels going up or down the staircase, so she was not at all surprised to see Mrs. Delaney’s face peering up at her as she came down the last flight of stairs.

"Going out again, are we?" she asked, her thin lips pressed tightly against each other as she regarded the young woman contemptuously.

"Yes, we are," she replied, breezily, as she attempted to ease her way around the woman in the narrow corridor.

"Rent’s due tomorrow."

"Yes, I know," she answered, pulling open the door.

"By noon."

"Yes, Mrs. Delaney," she said, smiling back at the scowling woman. "I’ll have the money for you first thing tomorrow morning."

The other woman snorted and turned on her heel. A moment later, Celia heard the door slam behind her as she stormed back into her own flat.

"I hope," she added, to herself. With a grimace, she stepped out into the street.

Great, she thought to herself, as she shivered in her thin cloak and started to make her way down the sidewalk. She was sure that Mrs. Delaney knew she had been sick for the past several weeks. Sick enough to spend the entire time in bed, alone. Meaning, of course, that she was desperately short on cash at the moment. She needed to make at least two more tricks tonight if she was going to have the money to pay her rent tomorrow. And that would leave her with absolutely nothing to live on in the meantime except for a handful of Sickles and Knuts. Her steps quickened as she reached the corner and turned to her left, in the direction of Knockturn Alley.

With each step, the fog seemed to thicken and the temperature seemed to drop markedly. By the time she reached her usual section of sidewalk, across from Borgin and Burkes she could barely see three feet in front of her. She hesitated for a moment, and then turned and moved towards the direction of "The Lucky Dragon," a pub located near the stairs that led up to Diagon Alley. It seemed crowded and boisterous as usual, and she considered going in and seating herself. With any luck, she would soon find someone to buy her a drink and make a proposition. However…

She peered in through the grimy, smeared glass of the window and groaned in disgust. The Ministry of Magic, having been unnerved by the talk of attacks on innocent citizens by unnamed mobs of hoodlums, had been talking of greater surveillance of the area. And the last time she had been in the pub she had attracted the attention of an undercover officer. It had taken some quick thinking and a lot of charm to escape out of there without being arrested. And, she could see, he was on the job again tonight, ostentatiously peering over the crowd as if his very presence would ensure decency and law-abiding behavior.

So, she was left having to skulk around the door, waiting for the customers to come to her. This night was just getting better and better, she groused to herself. She shivered again, feeling the slight burn of a fever beginning to blaze on her forehead again as she moved back to the opposite side of a street. Leaning against the lamppost that was valiantly trying to illuminate the gloomy night by means of a single, flickering gas jet, she prepared to wait.

Within a few minutes, numerous men had made their way into and out of the establishment. But, although a few had returned her friendly smile of greeting, none had approached her. And the fog was getting thicker by the minute. If it got any worse, no one was going to be able to see her no matter where she stood.

She considered her choices. Perhaps, she thought, if she waited for a large group of people to move into the pub, she could tag along after them and sneak in unobserved. After which, if she was careful and discreet, she just might be able to find a randy bloke and make a quick deal. If she was really lucky, she snorted, maybe he’d have a friend and she could get her required double fee in no time at all.

With this plan in mind, she continued to wait. But she was disappointed to see only couples entering the pub, none of whom looked like they were eager to make it a trio. And then, she turned her head to the left as she heard the low, muffled sound of several male voices coming from that direction. And, as the sound of the voices subsided, echoing through the fog came a strange, vaguely familiar rhythm.

Step…step…tap. Step…step…tap.

She recognized that sound only all too well. She drew in a sudden, apprehensive breath and backed away from the street lamp, desperate to lose herself in the fog and the darkness, hoping that her own footsteps weren’t nearly as loud as they seemed to be. She gasped again as she found herself backing into a wall, and began to pray desperately to whatever gods would deign to listen that she would remain unobserved.

After a moment, a tall figure, dressed in a dark robe passed by, just near enough to the light to allow the flames of the gaslight to illuminate the silver snake’s head that adorned the top of his walking stick. He appeared to be looking straight ahead, and gave no indication that he was aware of her presence. He moved on into the fog.

Step…step…tap. Step…step…tap.

She allowed herself to breathe again. However desperate she was tonight, she was certainly not that desperate. That blond, supercilious bastard had humiliated her more in the one night she had spent with him than the rest of her career put together. And that was saying something. She had barely closed the door to her apartment before he had pulled his wand out of that stick and murmured a spell. She had gotten a glimpse of his cold, hungry eyes laughing at her as she dropped helplessly to the floor. The next thing she knew, she had been bound, gagged and blindfolded and had spent the entire night in fear of being killed as he slowly and methodically fucked and beat her. By the time she had finally fallen into blissful unconsciousness, she had become very well acquainted with that damned walking stick of his, as he had found seemingly unendless ways of using it to torture her. The pile of Galleons left beside her naked, bruised and bleeding body when she had awakened in the morning hardly seemed an adequate reward for her tribulations and she had been very grateful that he had never reappeared at her door.

She had had barely a moment to breathe her thanks when two other men moved next to the lamp and stopped a moment. They were both large, in a hulking, ominous way and were apparently engaged in a conversation regarding which way led out of the alley. For the briefest of moments she considered approaching them, wondering if they were as dull and stupid as their voices sounded. With any luck, she might be able to make a pile of money off of them.

On the other hand, she debated, if they had been talking to Mr. Blond, it was probably best not to approach them. In the end, she stayed where she was, carefully not making a sound until they had finally moved on. Afterwards, she remained in the shadows for several minutes, making sure that their footsteps had echoed away completely before she dared step closer to the light.

She raised her wrist and squinted down at her watch, the fog having become so thick that it was nearly impossible for her to see the hands. With a groan, she dropped her arm and looked across the lane to the lights of the pub, now only dimly visible to her. She’d been here an hour already, with nothing to show for it.

"Waiting for someone?"

She jumped, unable to contain her surprise as the low, quiet silky voice came unexpectedly from only a short distance from where she was. She narrowed her eyes, trying to make out his figure in the fog. After a moment, he stepped closer, his movements weirdly silent and ghostly in the enveloping mist. Another tall, thin figure, dressed in a black cloak.

Well, she decided, whoever he was, he wasn’t Mr. Blond. And she was pretty desperate. She swallowed and forced a large smile unto her face.

"Well, now, that depends," she said, lifting her right arm and using it to lean against the lamppost.

The figure in front of her moved his head slightly to the side, waiting for her to continue.

"Well, darlin’," she cooed, "I just might be waiting for you." She hadn’t planned on using that accent. But, in an instant, the years that she had spent in the American South came flooding back, and she found herself drawling with ease. "What are you lookin’ for, sugar?"

The head tilted towards the other side.

"American." Not said as a question. Said assuredly as a statement. With just the slightest hint of interest in the tone.

"I can’t put nothin’ past you now, can I?"

The head tilted back to center. And then he raised his left arm and beckoned with one long, slim finger for her to come forward.

She moved without hesitation, her body instantly obeying the absolute authority implied in his tacit gesture. But she had barely taken two steps towards him before he suddenly signaled again. This time, it was his open palm, commanding her to halt.

She understood. She turned her head so that her face could be seen more clearly. A moment later she moved her hands to undo the buttons of her cloak and pulled it aside, allowing him a glimpse of her clothing, and the body underneath it. She turned the other way, standing so that he could get a good view of her leg as the slit gapped open.

"You’re a wise man, honey," she chuckled. "Like to make sure of the merchandise before you buy?"

He perused her silently for several minutes. She continued to smile at him, her own eyes striving but failing to make out his features in the gloom and haze.

"How much?"

This was definitely a man of few words. But he spoke them in a clear, enunciated tone. Rather like Mr. Blond. No, perhaps not quite as cultured and aloof as that, and yet, distinct and slightly mocking. And somehow, vaguely familiar.

"Well, let’s see," she began, venturing to take another step towards him, "that kind of depends on how much time you want to spend. If you’re just looking for a quick, little bit of fun, that’ll be ten Galleons." She paused and waited for a reply. The figure in front of her folded his arms across his chest, but made no other response.

At least he hadn’t walked away, she thought. So, there was still a chance she could reel him in. And he wasn’t working undercover-or else she’d have been arrested already.

She licked her lips and smiled broadly again. "But for forty Galleons," she continued, placing her hands on her hips and pulling the cloak open even further, "I can give you the whole night," she offered. "And it’ll be one that you’ll never forget."

It was always interesting to see which bait they would go for. Would they take the whole night as an extraordinary bargain? Or would the mention of forty Galleons make the smaller fee seem absolutely trifling by comparison?

His head tilted back slightly and she felt rather than saw his eyes run up and down her body again. "Are you worth it?" he challenged.

"Yes, darlin’ I am," she assured him.

Oh, come on you git, I’m freezing. Make up your mind-are you interested in a poke or not?

"Money back guarantee if you’re not satisfied," she added, trying to prompt some kind of response out of him.

Oh, shit, girl, that’s the dumbest thing you ever said. This bloke will probably take you up on that.

She wasn’t quite sure whether it was in response to the cold, moist air or her exasperation at her own stupidity, but a slight shiver ran through her body as she stood there, waiting for him to decide.

Suddenly, she heard a low chuckle emanate from the figure as he dropped his arms to his side and took a step backward. Now he held his hands outward, and she noted again how pale and slim his hands were, the fingers long and slender.

"Lead on," he said. "I assume you do have a habitation in which to complete our transaction?" he murmured, his voice soft and mocking, a hint of amusement in it.

"Of course," she smiled, hastily buttoning up her cloak. Although, she mused, if the weather had been warmer, she might have said no and enticed him into a quick one up against the wall and gotten the hell out of there. She was beginning to have her doubts about the man. Something about him was still troubling her, though she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.

They had just stepped out of the hazy light afforded by the street lamp when she suddenly felt his hands circle around her from behind, lazily trailing up from her bosom to the area of her neck.

"What-" she began, and then she realized his quick, nimble fingers were fastening the top two buttons of the cloak, wrapping the fabric more warmly about her exposed skin.

"It’s a damp night," he murmured. His hands slid down to her shoulders, squeezing them gently for a moment. "You should take care," he whispered into her ear, his warm breath tickling against the nape of her neck as his fingers relinquished their hold.

They traveled in silence the rest of the way. He seemed to glide beside her, the gait of his noiseless footsteps matching the click of her heels as they traveled onward. Other than the occasional, accidental brush of his arm against hers as she led the way, there was no further contact between them. The fog around them continued to thicken, and it was with difficulty that she managed to find the gate leading to the steps of her building.

Not a single light illuminated the exterior of the building, and only two tiny candles were flickering in the vestibule. That could only mean that Mrs. Delaney had retired for the night. She was a parsimonious soul, and saw no reason for the hallways and staircases to be brightly lit if she was not awake to see the comings and goings of her tenants.

As they approached the door, Celia began to fumble in her purse for her keys. She found herself stumbling over an unseen piece of rubbish lying in the path, and was rather surprised to feel the man’s hand immediately reach out to grasp her elbow and steady her.

She had barely had time to murmur her thanks when she heard him whisper, "Lumos." Instantly, a small glimmer of light shone from the tip of his wand as he held it near the lock, enabling her to fit the key into it.

Dear Merlin, did the man ever make a sound? She hadn’t even suspected that he had retrieved his wand until he had spoken the charm.

She looked up and smiled again, trying to take advantage of the moment to finally get a clear look at him. But, to her disappointment his hood was pulled so far forward over his face that the light shining from his wand merely deepened the shadows and further obscured his features. All she could detect was the barest hint of a rather large nose.

She pushed the door open and stepped inside, the man following closely behind her. She turned back to reset the locks and heard him sniff suspiciously at the stale, cigarette-scented air that filled the small foyer. He seemed distinctly unhappy with the atmosphere.

"My room is on the top floor-on the opposite site of the building," she assured him, as she moved past him to lead the way again. "No nasty old smoke there," she added.

He followed behind her, holding his wand up to light the way as she started up the steps. She marveled again at the lightness of his tread. Although the old and flimsy staircase creaked occasionally under the weight of his body, the steady click of her heels were the only footsteps that could be discerned as they ascended the stairs.

When they reached the landing to her floor, she turned to the right and led him down the dark and narrow corridor. Her door was the next-to-last on the left, and he once again held the wand close to the latch as she unlocked it.

A moment later they had stepped into the room. As she paused to lock the door behind him, she once again heard him sniff the air. She took in a deep breath herself and realized that the air still held the barest trace of the Magnolia incense that she had burnt two days ago.

"I’m sorry," she began, hurriedly striding towards the sideboard and lighting the lamp that stood upon it. "Do you want me to open a window?" she offered.

"No," he replied. "Nox," he whispered, and the light still gleaming from the end of his wand was suddenly extinguished. "Do you have other scents?" he inquired.

"Yes," she said. "Um, let’s see-Orange, Sandalwood, Pine, Vanilla-"

"Sandalwood," he replied.

As she nodded and went to open the drawer where the incense sticks were, she heard him mutter, "Lumos," again, and instantly the other lamps in the room blazed forth with renewed light.

Just make yourself at home, why don’t you?

She shrugged off her cloak and tossed it, along with her purse unto a nearby chair. Then she hurriedly arranged the incense sticks in their holders and lit them. "Would you like a drink?" she asked, turning back towards him.

He was facing away from her, staring down at the small table near the door upon which was laid a silver tray. Her last client-the boy-had gazed down at it rather stupidly when she had pointed it out to him. She had had to prompt him that payment was expected in advance and that it was customary to put it on the tray rather than handing it directly to her. But this man seemed to be fully acquainted with the practice. His movements suggested that he was already retrieving the money from his pockets.

"I’m afraid I only have brandy or whiskey," she added, feeling slightly abashed at how scantily furnished her cupboard was at the moment. She usually had a good Port and a passable Cognac to offer her clients as well. But her recent illness had resulted in certain unavoidable economies.

"I suppose the brandy will have to suffice," he responded, his tone leaving no doubt that he was being remarkably magnanimous.

Suppressing a grin, she reached for the decanter. She carefully inspected the snifter before pouring, making sure it was scrupulously clean, and then poured out a generous quantity of the golden liquid.

She turned back and stole a glance towards the tray.

Oh, thank the gods. He was paying for the whole night. Forty Galleons. Enough for the rent and a bit left over to squirrel away. And no need to go out in that fog and cold again. Well, not tonight, at least.

Her attention was now drawn towards the man. He had removed his cloak and hung it on the stand that stood near the door. And she could see his profile clearly now, for he was closely examining the Picasso reproduction that was displayed on the wall. Really not a bad one, she had to say. Shouldn’t be, for the amount of money she had paid for it.

Oh, dear Merlin!

She stood dumbly for a moment, with one hand gripped tightly around the glass and the other holding the decanter. And her mouth hung upon in surprise for a moment before she unconsciously began to nibble nervously at her lip.

His hair was just as black and oily and messy as it had ever been, but perhaps it was cut just a tad shorter than she remembered. The clothing was just as dark, gothic and carefully tailored as it had been a dozen years previously. And that large, beak like nose was absolutely unmistakable. She could not help but observe that the intervening years had not been especially kind to him. For, although he would never have been called handsome, there were deep lines around his eyes and mouth that she could not remember seeing before.

He suddenly turned to look at her. As his dark brows drew together, she noted that the distinctive frown line on his forehead seemed to be more deeply etched than ever. And, in the blink of an eye, she suddenly found herself back in that dank, freezing dungeon classroom, shivering beside her cauldron as she waited for him to test her potion. And to hear that sneering, contemptuous voice reprimanding her.

That voice. That cold, mocking voice. Why hadn’t she recognized it immediately?

"Your potion is absolutely useless. Per usual, Miss Graham." The same words he had used time and again. And that all-too-familiar look of disgust upon his face as he tossed the ladle back into her worthless elixir and moved on to the next student.

Snape. I’m about to fuck Snape.

"What?" he barked.

With a sudden jerk of her head she abruptly snapped her mind back to the here and now. Those cold black eyes were looking at her with a great deal of suspicion and a more than a hint of anger.

Oh, hell. Bloody, fucking, buggering hell.

Usually she had to worry about recognizing clients afterwards. When they were walking down the street with their sweetheart. Or out doing a bit shopping with their wife and the three kids. The glazed, trapped look in their eyes when they recognized her. That wild, frantic look of terror as they silently pleaded with her not to say a word to them. And then the pointed attempt to ignore her as she walked past them.

"Oh, sorry, sugar," she laughed. "Was I staring?" She turned to set the bottle down on the sideboard and took in a deep breath, collecting herself. By the time she turned back to face him, she had plastered a smile onto her face. She swayed her hips seductively as she approached him, holding the glass in her outstretched hand. "Well, you are a fine-lookin’ man," she purred. "Have to forgive a girl for enjoying the view a little bit."

He took the snifter and continued to stare down at her.

"I assure you, I am hardly naïve enough to be appeased with such heavy handed and patently deceitful flattery," he replied. He set the glass down on the table without glancing at it.

"Oh, now, honey, don’t get all riled up," she pouted, raising up her right hand to brush away an oily lock that had fallen across his forehead. "Just relax." She leaned against him, rubbing her body seductively against his. "We’ve got a long night ahead of us," she breathed, raising up on her toes and opening her mouth.

Just before her lips touched his, however, the fingers of his left hand suddenly wrapped around her neck. Before she could react, he had swung her around and was pushing her forcefully against the wall. The corner of the picture frame was digging into the soft skin of her back as he held her firmly trapped, pressing the weight of his body down upon her. His right hand was holding his wand with the tip aimed squarely between her eyes.

"You appear to recognize me from somewhere," he said, the low and languid cadence of his voice at odds against the violence of his actions. "Where?" he questioned, pressing slightly down upon her windpipe for a moment. Then, he eased his hold and awaited her reply.

"No," she protested, weakly, both of her hands trying desperately and futilely to move his fingers away from her neck.

His right eyebrow arched up and the pressure on her larynx increased again. He moved his head closer so that their noses were nearly touching, his black hair cascading around her face and blotting out the light.

"Where have you seen me before?" he asked.

"Please," she rasped, barely able to make out the words and having trouble swallowing as she struggled against the pressure he was applying to her throat. "Please," she repeated.

"Tell me where you have seen me," he hissed.

His fingers began to tighten even more and there was a dull roaring in her ears as she tried desperately to turn her head.

"Professor—Hogwarts" she croaked.

She blinked as he suddenly drew back and the harsh light from the lamps flared into her eyes.

"Bollocks," he muttered, his fingers abruptly relinquishing their hold.

Her legs were trembling and she found herself slowly sinking down unto the floor. She coughed and winced at the painful sensation engendered by that simple action. When she opened her eyes, she found herself staring at a glass full of water being held before her face.

"Drink it," he ordered.

She glanced up and forced her eyes to focus on his face. He was bending down over her.

"I assure you, it is just water," he sneered. "Not poison," he added, with a malicious grin.

She accepted the glass and took a small sip. It burned slightly on the way down, but afterwards her throat did feel better. She ventured a few more swallows and then handed the glass back to him.

He arose and placed the water glass next to the snifter.

"Now, then," he said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Since we’ve established who I am, I think it’s about time that you introduce yourself properly to me."
- 1
- 2
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Love's Labours; Paradise Lost