Chapter Five - A Question of Concentration and Mind Power

Well, here it is. A nice long one for you! Same disclaimers as before: we only own Isolde, and I'm sure she'd prefer to be owned by Sev.

Chapter Five – A Question of Concentration and Mind Power

The walk back to Hogwarts was painstaking, Snape's disappointment almost a visible haze in the air between them. She simply could not look at him, unable to bear the twisting of his lips or the disparaging glint in his onyx orbs.

He did not speak until they had reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, his voice nothing but a whisper in the cool, dark corridor.

"The forty points awarded for your potion will be deducted, Miss Hamilton, and you will serve detention with me tomorrow night at eight. I suggest this time you be prompt." For a second, his black gaze bore into her grey. "I presume you still have my purchase?"

Shaking, Isolde extracted the parcel from her robes and Snape took it wordlessly before swooping away. The young Slytherin watched as her professor was enveloped by the dungeon's perpetual gloom, her own company now a blanket of sheer misery.

She did not care about lost points or detention. These were mere flesh wounds - unimportant, petty. All she could think about was how she had disappointed Snape. Never before had she felt so ashamed.

oOoOoOo

Only a thin cocoon of candlelight surrounded Snape as he sat rigidly at his desk; the unearthly glow flickered timidly around his form as if the light itself could sense his growing aggravation.

Abruptly, his statuesque pose was broken as a hand dove into a misshapen tower of parchments, searching furiously for her distinctive script. Once located, the remaining sheets were cast haphazardly to the floor as he studied the one in his shaking hand. He didn't know what he was looking for - only that he needed something concrete on which to ground his tangled inferno of thoughts. His restless eyes scanned the page, drawing some comfort from the familiar handwriting, the graceful quill strokes he had known since her first year. They were not too dissimilar to his:

The three most integral ingredients of any Forgetfulness Potion are Lethe River Water, valerian sprigs and mistletoe berries, though the manner in which the valerian sprigs are prepared can have a profound impact on the potion's potency. If simply torn from their stem, the essence of the valerian is released at a much more gradual pace throughout the brewing process, which can...

Snape pursed his lips as the words swam round his head - words which, he thought, came from an extremely bright and, at times, charming young woman. Not a young woman who immersed herself in lurid, base fantasies housed in the farthest aisles of a back-alley bookshop. When he had first caught sight of her there that day, as he had roused Brinkley into a mass of garbled excuses, he had been impressed – proud, almost - that, unlike her peers, she had chosen a hearth of history, of knowledge and insight, instead of preferring the main street emporiums of shoddy gadgets and tooth-rotting sweets.

As his eyes scanned her essay once more, Snape still could not fathom who he was most exasperated with: Isolde for so shamelessly disregarding the weighted responsibility he had given her, or himself for – even for the briefest of moments – thinking any more of her than an asinine schoolgirl. Though it may have been veiled in a cloak of duty, he had meant it to be a reward – a sign of trust: he would not have furnished just any student – even a Slytherin – with the task of collecting his coveted book.

With a brash sigh, he let Isolde's faultless manuscript drop onto the floor with the rest.

oOoOoOo

The glossy pages shrieked in the furious embrace of the flames, shrivelling like ancient skin before morphing into little leaves of ash. The sight brought Isolde no respite, nor did the vicious destruction of the offensive material. Tears descended down her cheeks, dripping onto the now soaked front her robes. Worms of pure shame squirmed relentlessly in her stomach, mingled with stabbings of sheer humiliation. His image was burnt into her memory: the disappointed glint in his obsidian eyes, his beautiful lips curled into a disgusted sneer.

It was useless. It did not matter if she burnt every bodice-ripper in her collection; the damage could not be undone. His respect for her had disintegrated like the little flaky ashes bursting from the overworked fireplace. She was entrapped in a cocoon of utter despair, unable to take comfort in the company of others. None of them knew. If she told them, would they understand? Ninety-nine percent of the student body were a disappointment to Snape. Marius would probably shrug, uttering a thoroughly unsympathetic "Join the club!" Had she not had his respect in the first place, she would not be suffering this sheer turmoil. No doubt, she would be comfortable sleeping in her four-poster, dreaming of Cedric Diggory like most of the girls in her year. Instead, she had been in possession of this amazing gift - the mild admiration of her snarky professor, and, like the fool she was, she had thrust it aside like a useless scrap of parchment.

The once beautiful form of The Potions Master's Mistress now stood in tatters, a torn mass of string, glue and ripped paper. With a final, pathetic sob, she thrust the cover into the flames. For the last time she watched the shimmering fumes of the painted cauldron.

For the last time, she admired the stern, dark figure of the Potions master.

oOoOoOo

Surviving on a mere three hours of broken sleep, Isolde found herself struggling through Tuesday's classes. Hours dragged on, every class a steep slope she needed to clamber over, every word said by her teachers a mere jumble of syllables she could hardly understand. She avoided the Great Hall, terrified at the prospect of his scrutiny. It did not help that the aroma of food made her stomach crawl, and already she had been forced to sprint to the bathroom to diverge her stomach of the little she had consumed.

Her final class, Herbology, ended with the distribution of assignments, but Isolde could not even react toward the bold "O" scratched in the corner of the parchment. She desperately wanted to escape, to dive into the warm confines of her bed and disappear into the realm of sleep.

After battling the freezing path between the greenhouses and the castle, entering the Great Hall was like plunging into a hot bath. Content to ignore her surroundings, she beelined for the dungeons, and barely noticed as she ran head first into a shriek of black cloak.

"I suggest you watch where you are walking, Miss Hamilton." His voice was laced with venom. Outside now seemed tropical compared to the freezer in which she was currently entrapped. Snape continued. "Unless your mind was so consumed with filth that you have now lost the ability to watch where you are going?" He drew the last four words out, each syllable a cruel verbal slap.

Her grey eyes focused on the hem of her robes. Long fingers took her chin, lifting her face so that her gaze met his.

"You will look at me when I am speaking to you, Miss Hamilton."

It was only now that Isolde realised they were alone in the dungeon corridor. Of course, that made sense; Snape would never cup her chin under the scrutiny of others.

"Do not forget your detention," he hissed, dropping his fingers and swooping past into the Great Hall.

Once safely out of his hearing range, Isolde scoffed at his reminder: how could she forget her detention? It was the only thing that had consumed her waking and sleeping thoughts for the last twenty-four hours. Part of her could not believe that only one day had passed since he had found her huddled cosily in the window seat of Zuranders, completely oblivious to the night which had crept around her as she devoured every word of A Slytherin Seduction. She winced at the memory as it haunted her for the umpteenth time that evening alone: the way he had snatched the book from her pulsating fingertips; the way he had spoken so disgustedly of its contents.

Filth, he had called it.

As Isolde made her way to her dormitory, through the common room and the cloud of smoke slithering from the tips of a group of wayward housemates' cigarettes, she imagined once again the dark eyes which had penetrated her guilty skull. She had been a breathless mound of desire when he had found her, and she hadn't needed a mirror to tell her how pathetic she had looked. His eyes had said it all.

And now she had to face them yet again – alone – in the territory of the dungeons where they were always at their most cruel.

In the once comforting confines of her dormitory, Isolde's mind swept through a blur of apprehensions: what would this detention actually entail? Her thoughts entertained the possibilities, ranging from the mundane to the surreal. If she would have to scrub unyielding dirt from the rims of cauldrons, at least she would have something to occupy her mind – if he gave her a pedestrian task like that, perhaps she would not feel so revolting as each labouring second ticked by. Yes – she could almost pretend that she had merely been clumsy during class, or forgotten her homework, perhaps. The very concept of being punished for acts of such negligence would have sickened her once, but she now longed for their tedium.

As the evening dragged on, Isolde became more and more restless, and she found herself looking incessantly at the time. With only half an hour to go, the most horrific possibility leapt brutally into her mind: what if he made her go and fetch the rest of her sordid stash of books? As she sat on the edge of her bed, her eyes nervously scanned the row of hardbacks lined neatly along her bedside, their true identities masked by a simple transfiguration spell: Hogwarts: a History (The Warlock's Embrace - the first one she'd ever purchased), Advanced Potion Making (Cauldrons Aflame), Tales of Beedle the Bard (Alchemist's Delight) and One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi (Stirring Desires). Isolde's eyes scrutinized each distasteful title, imagining herself carrying them wretchedly through the dungeons to his outstretched, disapproving hand.

She could not bear it. In a frenzy of fear, Isolde's hands grasped their offending spines and tossed them haphazardly into the convivial flames of the hearth. Despite the recent humiliation they had brought her, she felt her insides still pine for every page as she watched them curl mutely in the heat. It was not worth further humiliation, she counselled herself inwardly as she held back the impulse to wretch. Her roommates may have been fooled by the deceitful covers for years, but he would see through them in an instant. It was not worth it.

If only Isolde's imagination had been more extensive - if only she had known how cruel he could be and how much he intended for her to endure - she would have spared her pathetic hoard of smut for another day and worried more for herself.

oOoOoOo

She had knocked twice already, and still had received no answer. Not even the icy "Enter" she had anticipated.

Battling with a desire to be punctual and a fear of expressing impatience, Isolde decided to enter the classroom without approval. The last thing she wanted was to be reprimanded further for being late.

The classroom was empty with the exception of a bulbous, pewter cauldron which lay empty on the desk where she usually sat. Guardedly, she inched closer to find an assorted spread of ingredients and tools laid beside it. In the minute's stillness she had been granted, Isolde scanned the herbs and potted liquids once again, trying to glean some semblance of meaning from them, but her overarching fear diluted her thoughts.

Abruptly, Snape's distinguishing black form swept into the room from the supplies cupboard behind his desk, bringing one final ingredient to join its comrades. As he laid it down in front of her, his dark, disparaging eyes met hers.

"Miss Hamilton," he announced emphatically, almost as if he were announcing her presence to an unseen spectator. A defined pause allowed him to fix her gaze unyieldingly before he continued. "As you are such a keen analyst of ingredients, perhaps you can identify these for me." A cloak-veiled arm swept pointedly across the desk's surface.

Isolde's eyes fell to the cluster of goods between them, and she compelled herself to focus: the first was a dozen pieces of wood, the size of acorns. She absentmindedly grazed one with a fingertip to confirm its texture. "This appears to be cedar wood, used primarily as a muscle relaxant or sedative..."

She dared to glance upwards for confirmation, but Snape's eyes remained still, disobliging.

"Er... and these," she continued awkwardly, pointing to a handful of crisp, yellowed petals, "are dried chamomile flowers, I think."

"You think?" Snape challenged immediately.

Isolde nodded. "Also a sedative, sometimes used to balance oestrogen levels..."

Under normal circumstances, he would have been rather impressed, but his mind was fixed solely on retribution. "And this?" he pressed onward, indicating a plant with pale violet flowers.

Isolde swallowed. "That is ashwagandha root, sir."

Snape nodded curtly. "The three core ingredients, Miss Hamilton, of the potion you will make for yourself this evening."

Though seemingly meaningless to a removed bystander, Snape's wording did not go unnoticed to Isolde. "For myself, sir?"

"Indeed. For – your – self, Miss Hamilton" he repeated, pronouncing every syllable as he arched himself towards her over the desk.

Isolde knew he was clearly driving her towards some crushing conclusion, but her nerves, mangled with the intermittent recollections of yesterday's humiliation, prevented her from reaching it. Receiving no further aid from her professor, Isolde studied the ingredients once more: ashwagandha root, cedar wood, chamomile... the bottled substance looked distinctly like Horklump juice, which she knew was used as a base for numerous healing potions.

Surely not.

Isolde may have made the connection sooner, had she not ignorantly presumed that even Professor Snape would not be so cruel.

Her eyes brimmed with tears, which she fought back in an instant, before meeting her professor's eyes once more. "Cupiditas Mortis," she declared finally, her features crestfallen.

"Translation?" Snape pushed her, unmoved by her whisper of tears.

"Essentially – Death of Lust, sir," Isolde replied, in as detached a tone as she could muster. He would not break her, though that was clearly his aim. "The strong mixture of various sedatives counteracts the aphrodisiac present in the ashwagandha, aiding the drinker in... controlling their desires, sir."

The awkward silence that polluted the dungeon provided Isolde with subsequent time in which to think. Cupiditas Mortis. Had Snape slapped her across the face and declared her a brazen whore in front of her housemates, Isolde doubted that the pain would have compared. More than anything, she wanted to loathe Snape for his cruelty. Life would have been much simpler had she shared her classmates' resentment of the reputed 'Dungeon Bat.'

What made this desire problematic was her inability to do so. A niggling voice at the back of her head kept reminding her that she deserved this punishment. She deserved to be humiliated for her behaviour in the bookshop, for her idiotic dreams of seducing the Potions master. This train of thought led her to a tirade of questions: how many hormonal students had Snape assigned this potion to? How many like-minded girls had shivered under his intense gaze or marvelled in his cruelty as they chopped the odd little assortment of herbs and flowers? Trying to exorcise these unpleasant realities from her mind, Isolde diverted her thoughts to the task at hand.

Cupiditas Mortis was a deceptively simple potion. Created in the twelfth century for use in the nunneries of Europe, its simple ingredients with their well known properties failed to arouse suspicion amongst the Muggles. Its simplicity was now a curse to Isolde, the simple steps too basic to draw her attention from her misdemeanours, her mortification. She could not even tamper with the potion to render it useless, for to do so would only convert the brew into a deadly toxin. Snape knew exactly what he was doing.

Within the space of thirty minutes, Isolde added the last of the chamomile blooms to the viscous potion. It bubbled erratically, turning a rather unpleasant shade of olive green. It required no further brewing, the sticky substance within ready to consume. Isolde shivered at the mere thought.

"I have finished, sir," she coughed awkwardly, daring a glance toward Snape's desk. He was perusing a pile of essays, the scowl on his face palpable. Within a few seconds, he looked up, cocking an eyebrow.

"Obviously."

Paling, Isolde retrieved a ladle and clean beaker from the supply cupboard, placing them gently upon her desk. Unfolding himself from the hard wooden cradle of his chair, Snape swooped toward her, eyes glittering.

"An acceptable attempt, Miss Hamilton. However–" Snape paused, the dagger of silence causing Isolde's heart to whack against her chest, "...I do not remember telling you to retrieve a beaker." With a sharp flick of the wrist, Snape summoned a phial from the open supply cupboard. His movements were like a dance, the fluid motion of the ladle sweeping into the bubbling cauldron of goo. Without spilling a drop, he transferred the measurement to the phial, popped in the cork and vanished the rest of the cauldron's contents. The phial disappeared in the folds of his cloak.

"You will tidy your working area, and then you may leave, Miss Hamilton."

Isolde was unable to move, spindly roots of confusion keeping her locked in place. "Excuse me, sir; you said I needed to take the potion."

Snape's face contorted into a sneer. "I said no such thing, Miss Hamilton. I said the potion was for you, but I did not specify when you would take it." The sneer morphed into a cruel smile. He was so close now that she could almost feel the scraping of wool against her bare arms, and her senses were overrun by his intoxicating authority.

"I suspect that by now you have destroyed all evidence of your little – addiction," he purred softly. "Pity. However, if I ever find you in a similar situation again, I will have no qualms in administering this potion to you myself. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well then. I suggest you get started," he replied frostily, nodding towards the remnants of foliage on her work surface. "You may have nothing better to do this evening, now that your stash of smut has been incinerated, but I do."

As Isolde dragged dry leaves across the desk into her scooped palm, the sheer degradation which had saturated the last forty minutes of her existence still sank into her consciousness, along with her professor's lofty reduction of her innermost desires and yearnings into one piteous word: addiction. The idiom had not even quitted his snarling lips before she felt herself wince involuntarily, grasping disgustedly at the sleeves of her own robes, knowing for certain that if she let go she would cry.

And that would be unforgivable.

Irretrievable.

And yet, despite her professor's close proximity, as he had towered expectantly over her, an unruly image had still inched its way into Isolde's vision: his strong, rough hand grasping her slender neck as he poured drops of Cupiditas Mortis between her lips; the unbridled pulse of her neck against his fingertips as she gulped it down; his warm, labouring breath on her cheek as he told her how pathetic she was. The insane paradox of the display did not evade her, but it was far from laughable.

"Miss Hamilton!"

His voice shook Isolde callously from her thoughts, and she looked at her professor in horror as their remnants scattered guiltily from view. Blinking with realisation, Isolde's eyes met his.

Snape's mouth was already poised for his next acrid remark, but it closed at the sight of Isolde's mortified gaze. The very same gaze she had greeted him with inside the shadowy confines of Zuranders the day before, when he had fiercely snatched the incriminating book from her hands. The very same gaze she bore when she had practically cried out those shocking words into the smut-caked pages.

"Please sir, I want you," she had pleaded, before his presence had registered in her mind.

"Please sir, I want you."

He had been so consumed with disappointment and anger, even on their caustically quiet walk back to the school, that her words had not manifested themselves until now, as she stood in front of him again with the same look of knotted horror and longing.

An elongated silence sprawled between them as their eyes remained fixed – Isolde's exhibiting every raw emotion she suffered, and Snape's revealing nothing but appraising everything.

"I will not repeat myself again," he spoke finally. "You are dismissed."

Too untrusting of her own voice to utter a reply, Isolde simply nodded and made a swift retreat from the room.

The door had not even snapped shut before Snape seized the still-hot phial from his robes, uncorked it, and swallowed its entire contents in one keen gulp.

*Insert evil laugh*