Chapter Four - The Wrong Place at the Wrong Time

A/N: Well, we didn't want to be too cruel by making you wait too long before finding out what he wants with her...

Disclaimer: JKR owns it all – apart from A Slytherin Seduction, which is an affectionate nod to a dear mutual friend of ours.

Chapter Four – The Wrong Place at the Wrong Time

As the final cluster of students filtered from the classroom, the last remaining colour drained from Isolde's face. Her complexion resembled the pale, tranquil depths of her cauldron's contents, into which she now stared nervously as the closing 'click' of the door invaded the room. The surface of the liquid trembled.

"Most impressive, Miss Hamilton," came Snape's fluid baritone as he descended the dais and advanced towards her. Isolde felt her heart rate immediately decrease to a more regular pace as he began to make his intentions clearer. "Most impressive," he repeated as his long strides came to a halt, the desk forming a barrier between them.

Isolde felt her jaw break into a smile, but his change of tone stopped it in its tracks.

"However, if you think I have requested your continued presence so that I can fawn over your over-rehearsed potion, you are sadly mistaken." With a dramatic and yet graceful swish of his arm, Snape gestured towards the brimming cauldron before bringing his palm down to the desk's surface.

Over-rehearsed. Isolde repeated the slight to herself. Just minutes ago, he had praised her for her careful planning and preparation...and now she was being accused of doing it in excess? Clearly, in even the most faultless of potions, Snape could find a snag.

Isolde had been so immersed in her internal self-justifications that she did not notice Snape lean in towards her over the desk top, and her pupils widened at the realisation. His proximity was startling in itself, but nothing could have prepared her for the words which followed.

"There is a bookshop, Miss Hamilton, on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, tucked away from the bustle of the main street."

Even before Snape had finished his sentence, Isolde's mouth stood aghast; the mere mention of 'bookshop' sent her heartbeat soaring once more. She should have known he had seen more than a recognisable school robe on that pivotal, wind-berated day.

The two of them stood in overwrought silence. Was she meant to reply? His utterance had certainly been declarative, and yet he made no indication that he had any intention to continue. Was this his plan...to heat her slowly until she was reduced to a throbbing crucible of guilt, spattering confessions of carnality across the room?

Isolde refused to relent; she would not throb, would not spatter. There was no point in denying her knowledge of their shared retreat, though...he had seen her there, called her by name before re-entering the frost-bitten street.

She nodded silently, ambiguously...admitting nothing.

For a moment, she could have sworn that Snape's expression shifted – to what, she wasn't sure. He was playing an exceptionally cruel game, and Isolde felt as though she was still blindly grappling for the rules.

Finally, he elaborated. "I need you to go there, now, on by behalf." As he paused, Isolde fought to hide her relief brought on by the apparent swing of circumstance. "An extremely rare and long-awaited book has, at last, arrived, but due to my demanding schedule today, I am not at liberty to collect it myself." Her professor delved into the dark folds of his robes and brought out a wax-sealed scroll of parchment. "Give this to the shopkeeper – it will verify that I have sent you – and bring the book to my office on your return. I trust you do not need directions to the shop?"

The bubble of tension that had been forming about Isolde suddenly popped, allowing a warm flood of anxious relief to spread throughout her. With slightly shaking fingers, she retrieved the parchment from Snape's light grasp, daring a final glance into his onyx orbs before departing. His only response was a sharp nod.

oOoOo

"So, little serpent, what did the bat want with you?"

Isolde shot her best friend a rather nasty glance, tucking the parchment safely into a voluminous pocket of her school robe. Upon leaving the labyrinthine lair of the dungeons, she had found herself presented with a coffee. How Marius always managed to obtain coffee remained a mystery to her.

"He wants me to do an errand for him."

Marius shot her a disbelieving look. "He wants you to do an errand?" A mischievous smirk warped his lips. "He had you in the dungeons for quite some time; just what kind of errand was this?"

A violent blush splashed across Isolde's face. "Marius! It was nothing like that!" Despite the joking tone in her friend's voice, Isolde could not control the burning in her cheeks. More than anything, she wished that Snape had asked that kind of errand of her. He was cruel and utterly terrifying, but when he had snared her within the intensity of his gaze, she was sure she would do absolutely anything to please him. With the mental images of what these acts might be dancing about in her mind, she continued. "He just wants me to collect something from Hogsmeade."

"Collect something from Hogsmeade?" Marius's repetition of every word she said was starting to drive her mildly crazy, but she nodded anyway. Marius scoffed. "Lazy git."

Isolde ignored him, sipping the coffee. Unlike the strong brew she had consumed before Potions, this was much milder, laced with vanilla and a splash of cream. It was pure heaven.

"So Izzy, darling, shall we go down to the Quidditch pitch and laugh at the Gryffindor champs or head to the library for a bit of study before dinner?"

Isolde cocked an eyebrow. "You're really not a normal boy, are you, Marius?"

"Boy?" exclaimed the Ravenclaw, distorting his body in a parody of false offense. "I am a man, dear snake."

"Of course you are." Isolde smirked, before sighing. "Professor Snape wants me to do this as soon as possible, so I'd best head to Hogsmeade."

"Care for some company?"

"It is probably best if I do this alone."

oOoOoOo

Severus was pleased to note that Isolde had declined the company of her little Ravenclaw pet. As far as he knew, the slight brunette was the only student who ventured into his little haven, and he was determined that this would remain so. He did not exactly mean to spy on the conversation, emerging from his dungeon for an undoubtedly painful meeting with the headmaster, but the enticing aroma of vanilla coffee and the irritating laughter of her friend had snatched his attention. The more he was exposed to the dark haired lad, the more he was reminded of James Potter. Potter had the same disregard for authority, the same ability to dismiss all with a snap of humour.

Isolde Hamilton, however, was quiet, one could even say awkward. She had few close friends, a passion for study, and an addiction to coffee which was quite unhealthy. He did not exactly know how she had stumbled across Zuranders bookstore, but her affinity for this place, mixed with her skill at potions, made her an individual worthy of his note.

oOoOoOo

As Isolde made her way to the quaint little town, she felt strangely empowered for being given permission to leave the school grounds on a weekday. Privileged, almost.

But, above all else, she felt relieved.

She smiled to herself as she crossed a grassy knoll, recalling the palpitating fear she had experienced when her professor had first mentioned the bookshop. She had always hoped that, at least on a professional plane, Snape found her to be a mature and competent student. Inevitably, she had her moments of silliness, but she had taken great care to ensure that he never witnessed this side to her. Even with Marius, Isolde often tempered her usually witty or playfully offensive retorts when her professor was within hearing range, so keen was she to impress him.

The mere possibility of him knowing her secret had shaken her to the core. Surely, he would find the entire prospect juvenile. Clichéd. Repulsive. Laughable.

That was the worst scenario of all: for him to laugh at her.

For a fanciful moment, Isolde's thoughts entertained the idea of a fifth response: as her shoes clicked upon loose pebbles, she imagined herself standing in front of him as large, coarse hands ran through the pages of her sordid book.

A raised brow. A tiny snarl, perhaps.

And then hands on skin - a shower of hot, forceful kisses, punctuated by breathless sighs of urgency.

Pebbles blended into crisp snow as Isolde fast approached her destination, her body heat surprisingly high for the surrounding climate. As Zuranders came into view, Isolde shook her ridiculous thoughts from her mind and re-focused herself on her reason for being there.

The familiar tinkle of the door welcomed her back as she searched her robe pocket for the parchment. Clearing her throat to get his attention, Isolde handed Brinkley the scroll. "Professor Snape asked me to give this to you," she explained, still feeling a warm tinge of pride that he had entrusted her with such an important task.

Brinkley almost snatched the parchment from her outstretched hand, disgruntled that she had disturbed him from his reading, as always. As he read the enclosed message, Isolde stole herself a moment to glance around the musty, book-laced room. Her heart fluttered as she reminded herself that her professor not only frequented here, but he knew she also did - almost as if they shared a secret which she, for one, would never forfeit.

"Sign here," came Brinkley's guttural voice as he pointed to a dotted line on what looked like an order form. Taking the dishevelled quill, her eyes meandered further up the page, and her stomach gave a whimsical lurch when she spotted Snape's elegant penmanship. Her own signature looked mediocre in comparison.

"You be careful with that," Brinkley said, gesturing to the package now in Isolde's arm. "Took me an age to get hold of. Merlin knows what he wants it for," he cogitated, almost under his breath, as he returned to his own hardback.

Isolde knew that her presence was now a distant memory to the shopkeeper, as he re-immersed himself in A Goblin's Home.

She smiled to herself as she turned on her heel to leave, but before she even reached the rusty door handle, she felt the yearning...the sheer, unbridled curiosity for the shelves she knew so well. The aisle she had trodden on so many times lurked at the far end of the shop, and yet she could almost feel its merciless pull.

The longer she waited, the tighter the tentacles of temptation became. They tore at her self-control, wrapped around her sense of duty. Not even the intriguing weight of Snape's purchase in her pocket or the icy jab of the door handle in her palm could break her from temptation's fatal lock.

A single glance at her watch told her she had an hour and seventeen minutes until Snape expected her; surely that was plenty of time? It would not hurt to have one tiny little peek. Like a chocoholic venturing toward her stash or a smoker reaching for the packet, Isolde's mind filled with excuses, justifications, anything to make her quest into the heart of the shop acceptable.

The bookcase jammed with saucy novels was beautiful. To Isolde, this towering monolith of books held more treasure than all the underground vaults at Gringotts put together. Gently, she ran the pads of her fingers along the books' glistening spines, her eyes searching for the ideal title.

A smile curled her lips when she noticed it: A Slytherin Seduction. It was her favourite novel, or it had been before her latest purchase. Seduction was one of the mysteries of the bodice-ripping world. It had no identifiable author, its pages filled with everything delicious, corrupt and utterly forbidden. Slipping the thin wodge of papers from its home, Isolde made her way toward a nearby bay window, lined with a collection of heavily worn crimson pillows. Through the grime, she could see the snow tossing and turning through the sea of relentless wind.

Surely it was best to wait until the weather settled down?

Content in her bubble of half-baked justifications, Isolde opened to the very first page of her old friend, quickly glancing at her watch in the process.

Plenty of time.

oOoOoOo

Her back was thrust against the wall, robes snagging against the rough hue of ancient stone. She barely noticed; all she could concentrate upon was the vicious dominance of his lips, the forceful entrance of his tongue. Urgency spurned his every caress, the desperation in his actions indicative of her own. Long, calloused fingers bunched her skirts, revealing hot skin to bitter cold ribbons of dungeon air.

Whimpering, her own hands battled with the confines of his fly, trying to free his prominent bulge from imprisonment.

"Patience, Miss Hamilton," he hissed against her lips. "Tell me what you want."

She almost cried with exasperation. "Please sir, I want you."

"Excuse me, Miss Hamilton?"

"I want you!" Tears flooded her cheeks.

"Miss Hamilton! That is quite inappropriate."

Storm grey eyes snapped open, widening at the visage of Snape leaning over her, the battered copy of A Slytherin Seduction dangling precariously from his fingers. Isolde felt herself melt into the crimson cushions, mortification rendering her utterly mute. Outside, grey had morphed to black, and the only light within the small bookshop came from a number of tiny candles flickering amongst the shelves. Snape looked livid, his dark eyes glistening furiously in this minimal light.

"Miss Hamilton, I find myself quite surprised." The disappointment lacing his smooth voice was palpable.

Her voice returned in a vomit of excuses. "Sorry, sir... Must have fallen asleep, sir. What time is it, sir... I am so sorry, sir!"

"I did not ask for your excuses, Miss Hamilton. I simply asked you to do a small task for me. A task, it seems, that held less interest to you than the pages of this-" he dropped the bodice ripper into her lap "-filth."

Ashamed, Isolde peered down at the once comforting cover of her favourite smut. Now it disgusted her. "I'm sorry, Professor."

"Enough! You have wasted enough of my time this evening, Miss Hamilton." He turned in a flurry of black wool, a wordless gesture for her to follow. Letting the tome fall onto the dusty cushions, Isolde followed the black-clad professor from the shop.

Not surprisingly, Brinkley noticed nothing.