The Second Time You Have Spoken Out of Turn

Chapter Seven: The Second Time You Have Spoken Out of Turn

Isolde could barely recall how she had gotten there, but she now found herself standing restlessly in the empty office, its walls lined weightily with dust-encrusted tomes. Her vision blurred with a mixture of stale tears and mediocre candlelight, she sat herself heatedly in an inhospitably solid chair and stared at Snape's vacant seat.

All visions of desire she felt for her professor seemed darkly laughable as her mind dissected his typically biased treatment of her harasser: she had been the one who had been dragged unceremoniously from their scuffle; she had been told to go to his office for further chastisement. Her anger bubbled further as she pictured Snape praising Draco for his expert jibes and cruelty, patting him paternally on the shoulder as they mocked her pitiful outburst.

How had Draco known? If he had mentioned any other one of her father's distasteful companions, she would have scoffed at him with blithe amusement, but a mere reference to Ichabod Flank made her retch in sickening remembrance. Though she knew he hadn't the nerve to join the Death Eaters' ranks, he had cited his association with Lucius Malfoy on numerous drink-fuelled occasions.

Had he bragged about his nauseating conquest to his friends? Had he, in smoke-filled rooms of bravado, recalled fondly the way his uninvited fingertips had clawed her skin in the illusory shelter of her bedroom; the way her dear, ignorant father invited him again and again to their house, unaware of the liberties his companion had taken behind his too-trusting back? Having spent several weeks in a smog of sleepless nights and paranoia, Isolde had finally broached the subject with her father. Expecting him to cast his companion out of their household for good, she had been horrified at the sight of Mr Hamilton's unaffected composure. The mere memory of his stilly brow, his indifferent snuffle as he distractedly blew his nose with a green handkerchief, infused her with rage; she had grown accustomed to falling second to his ambitions of grandeur and Slytherin camaraderie, but his self-interest had reached a new summit.

Isolde was almost glad when she heard the sound of approaching footsteps, driving her away from her thoughts. She had just enough time to remove a fresh, hot tear from her under-eye as the door shot open and Snape's cloaked form strode inside.

They did not need to make eye contact for Isolde to once again sense his resounding disappointment. A muted flutter signified that his cloak had been removed, no doubt draped neatly over a bench or stool. The clip of his slightly heeled boots was the only sound that resonated in the chilly office.

"Never before..." his voice trailed furiously, disappearing into a far more poignant silence as the Potions master perched on his worn leather desk chair. After what seemed a lifetime, the treacle-like textures of his voice one again poured over her. "Look at me."

It was a simple enough request, yet her head felt like a lead weight as she tilted it upwards. Her steely grey eyes fell under the control of his obsidian ones, the intimacy of the exchanged glance causing her bottom lip to tremble once more. Those mesmerising orbs, usually devoid of emotion, at this moment spoke many things. There was the undeniable tint of disappointment, mingled with a flash of something else... could it be concern? Apart from the intensity of his gaze, Snape was otherwise pallid. His features were masked with sleep deprivation, the dark shadow beneath his eyes comparable to her own. Her curiosity, despite the dire nature of her situation, was momentarily peaked. What had kept her professor up all night? Bad dreams? Indigestion? A good book? The intoxicating company of a woman? The latter caused worms of jealousy to burrow their malicious way through her gut.

"I find myself astonished," he began slowly, his eyes never leaving hers, "that within the space of two days I have found one of my most promising students not only malingering while in the course of doing an errand for her professor, but also engaging in fisticuffs with a fourteen-year-old boy..."

"Malfoy..."

Isolde's reunion with her own voice was short lived as Snape lifted a thin hand, a simple movement requesting her silence.

"I have neither the time nor inclination to listen to your excuses, Miss Hamilton." Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. "Thirty points have been taken from Slytherin, and both you and Mr Malfoy will be serving detention."

The tone of his voice suddenly took on a different edge, the flash of something different in his eyes becoming more profound. "I suggest you show more caution in your dealings with Draco Malfoy, Miss Hamilton. I fear that neither he, nor his father, will give up because of the near exchange of blows."

"His father, sir?"

Snape's face became unreadable. It was clear he was about to divulge information that he was quite keen to keep to himself. "Lucius Malfoy has taken an interest in you as a potential partner for his son."

Isolde could not hide the mask of disgust that flittered over her features. "Me and Draco Malfoy?"

"You are pure-blood, and related to some of the most powerful families in the wizarding world, Miss Hamilton. Your connection to the Black family alone is reason enough for Lucius's interest." How exactly Snape knew so much about her family tree failed to register with Isolde at this moment; she was too overcome with revulsion.

Snape continued. "Lucius Malfoy has snakes in many dens, even your own."

"Flank."

Snape's lip curled at the name. "Indeed."

"Sir, I loathe Ich..."

Once again, Snape cut her short with a flick of his hand. "Ichabod Flank has a hunger for young flesh that rivals that of Lucius Malfoy. Unlike his friend, however, Flank rarely gets the consent of the girl in question. Though I doubt Flank's actions toward you were appreciated, it would be wise not to encourage Draco to spread further rumours on the matter."

Isolde's teeth dug into her lower lip. "Yes, sir."

"Your detention will take place tomorrow evening at seven. Meet me in the Entrance Hall. You are dismissed."

Snape's eyes snapped from her own, resting on the large pile of papers stacked neatly on the polished surface of his desk. Isolde left as quietly as she could.

oOoOoOo

Despite the cascading apprehension regarding the nature of her own detention, Isolde could not help but smirk the following day when news of Draco's evening with Snape reached her ears. It appeared the Potions master required pulverised Flobberworms for an upcoming project - six barrel loads of the sickly paste, to be precise. It had taken the fourth-year six and a half hours to squash the plump worms to Snape's satisfaction. The thought cheered her. If Snape had her doing a similar task, it would never compare to the sheer humiliation of brewing Cupiditas Mortis.

Wrapping her dull black cloak tightly around her shoulders, Isolde traversed the familiar path to the Entrance Hall, heart throbbing painfully in her chest. It was ten to seven, and Snape had yet to appear. Only a handful of students remained in the cavernous hall, meeting friends before filtering off to their prospective common rooms. A couple of ghosts flittered through the aged stone wall, perhaps exchanging a word or two with a painting as they passed. Everything appeared so normal; it almost tricked Isolde into believing that her situation was not that bad.

This blanket of ill-conceived relief was immediately discarded upon his arrival.

His thin face was like marble, carved into a mask of sheer concentration. Students darted from his path like insects falling prey to a bat. The long flaps of his cloak flicked with his determined movements.

"Miss Hamilton, follow me."

Snape did not even slow down, and Isolde had to near jog to keep up with his pace. The chill of the evening air assaulted her, but Snape's footfalls did not falter. Their path was familiar, the footprints scarring the virgin snow leading straight toward the greenhouses.

The oddly comforting aromas of manure and greenery welcomed Isolde into the slightly warmer glass clad buildings.

"This evening we will be working in Greenhouse Six," Snape uttered finally, stopping before an opaque glass door.

Isolde quickly caught her breath. Greenhouse Six? She had never heard of it, and it was this unfamiliarity that left her with a sense of foreboding. Her eyes fell upon Snape's pockets as the Potions master extracted a small bronze key. Within seconds, the greenhouse door creaked open, revealing uniform rows of perfectly manicured plants. Upon entering, the young Slytherin recognised a few of the specimens: asphodel, liquorice root, lavender. All of them, innocuous or dangerous, were potion ingredients.

At the far end of the greenhouse, a small bench had been set out with many long pots, a small bowl of round seeds perched in the middle. Snape took this bowl between his fingers, showing the precious contents to Isolde.

"Please identify these for me, Miss Hamilton."

Her voice emerged croaky and unused, her intense eyes falling upon the little seeds. "I believe they are New Zealand Kowhai seeds, sir."

"Correct, Miss Hamilton. The properties of the Kowhai?"

"The Maori of New Zealand used the bark and sap of the Kowhai to ease external and internal pain. In the wizarding world, the sap is often added to headache potions."

Snape cocked a thin black eyebrow. "Very impressive. Most students do not even bother to learn the properties of their native plants, let alone those from across the world." Placing the bowl back down on the dirty wood, Snape handed her a scalpel. "Kowhais are particularly difficult to propagate out of their native habitat. The seeds must be prepared in the correct way to assure sprouting." Carefully, he dipped two long fingers into the shallow bowl, extracting a seed. Holding it almost to eye level, he sliced the tip of the seed with the scalpel, before thrusting the tiny ball into the moist earth of a nearby pot.

"There are seven hundred seeds, Miss Hamilton... work quickly."

It took Isolde a long moment to register his command; the sound of her professor's richly smooth voice – even when talking about seeds – coupled with the increasing humidity of her new surroundings, gave her a fleeting sense of giddiness. It was only when Snape began to delve into the empty window-box beside her that she exchanged her vacant expression for one of inquiry.

Locating the object of his search, his fingers ensnared a weathered piece of rope, which he pulled upwards to reveal the netted sack to which it was attached. Isolde's eyebrows inched further up her forehead, wordlessly seeking clarification. Her face was already feeling the clamminess characteristic of being overseas, but Snape's pale complexion appeared unaffected.

Always unaffected.

"I will return shortly, Miss Hamilton. I trust you can slice seeds without my supervision."

It was a statement, not a question. At least that was something.

Though she continued to look up at him expectantly, Isolde received none of the explanation she sought. After taking a momentary glance in her general direction, Snape strode magnificently towards the glass doors at the far side of the hut, leaves and vines quaking as he troubled the aged floorboards.

Even after his departure, Isolde struggled to stay on task. Despite him showing a hint of understanding – sympathy, even – in his office the previous day, she felt somewhat ruffled by the fact that she had received an equally tedious and time-consuming task to her adversary. It seemed the only thing he had spared her was the chance of getting covered in worm guts.

And now he had left her to it. Isolde wasn't sure whether to take it as a compliment that he trusted her to be alone inside his private greenhouse with his well-pruned and orderly rows of plants, or if she should feel slighted that, if rumour could be relied on, he had supervised Malfoy for the entire six and a half hours.

Had she disgusted him so much that he couldn't stay in the same room as her?

Half-formed recollections snaked traitorously through her mind: a hardback tossed distastefully into her quivering lap; her hand shamefully stirring a murky green potion; a pair of black, disenchanted eyes staring across a desk. Shaking them from remembrance, Isolde sliced into her forty-fifth seed, plunging it deeply into the damp soil.

oOoOoOo

She wasn't certain how much time had passed, but as her tired fingertips dipped absentmindedly into the bowl and isolated the six-hundred-and-eighty-eighth seed from its remaining associates, Isolde noticed she and the greenhouse were shrouded by blackness. The blackness she longed for - the innate flourish of robes no one could even aspire to imitate – had still not returned. She was almost relieved, desperate as she was to avoid even further retribution, and she took only a brief respite to create some artificial light for herself before stooping back to tedium.

oOoOoOo

His dark shadow preceded him as he made his way across the grass towards Greenhouse Six. The net sack he had departed with was now full to capacity and floated at his side.

As he neared the glass structure, illuminated by a sphere of light within, the sight reminded him oddly of a night-light he had owned in his youth. Stopping in his tracks, a patchy recollection shook itself from the clutches of a caged history: the sphere of light reaching out to a smaller pair of eyes in a darkened room, a woman's choked cry through paper-thin walls. Discharging it promptly, he strode onward.

Snape's now sallow eyes narrowed as he came within yards of his destination, the figure at the centre of the light becoming fully formed. His immediate thoughts were furrowed with irritation – why had the wretched girl not finished yet? He had been in the Forest for over three hours: ample time for her to complete her task.

The longer his gaze fixed on her, however, his features softened, and – had the darkness not masked it completely – a slight smirk would have been visible on his thin lips. Despite being a great nuisance to him over the last week – in more ways than he would readily admit – the girl had supplied him much satisfaction as her deceptively slender limbs assaulted Malfoy's only son and heir at his feet.

His smirk wavered. Whether she realised the enormity of her actions yet or not, Isolde had made some powerful enemies for herself, and Snape knew he would have to keep his ear to the ground, for both of their sakes. He inwardly rebuked himself for his far from ignorant mention of Isolde at Malfoy Manor.

"Well, Miss Hamilton?"

His solid baritone preceded him as he re-entered the greenhouse, the sack of foliage nestling in the nearest corner in a weary heap. Isolde's eyes shot to the contents of the sack: Thorn Apple. Despite being acutely aware that she had been asked a question, she could not help considering for a moment how her professor had collected such a toxic plant – and what for? Ironically nicknamed Angel's Trumpet, its leaves were used in some of the deadliest poisons in existence, and she half wished she had been able to witness him gathering them, demonstrating skills she knew he had but would never exhibit within a classroom.

Her eyes met his at the sound of his heavy sigh. "I had hoped you would be finished by now." His voice was laden with the usual streaks of displeasure, but it lacked its acidic bite. He looked weary, in fact.

"This is hardly the same as mashing up a heap of worms; a troll could do that, and it probably wouldn't have taken six and a half hours." Isolde smiled lightly as she recalled being told the tale of Malfoy's detention earlier that morning. "This requires precision and care," she added, slicing another seed from tip to tip.

Snape half-smirked in spite of himself, a flash image of Malfoy's perspiring, gut-spattered face tickling his mind. "How many left, Miss Hamilton?" A minute nod targeted the almost empty bowl.

Without looking into its concaved depths, Isolde replied instantly: "Two." The absence of 'sir' did not escape either of their notice, but both were too tired to acknowledge it.

Snape watched Isolde's hand reach into the bowl, pinching the penultimate germ between her fingers. Before he really knew what he was doing, his own hand gravitated towards the final russet-shelled speck as he withdrew a scalpel from beneath his robes.

Two separate fingers penetrated the same patch of damp soil.

"And now, Miss Hamilton – bed."

oOoOoOo

Bed.

One simple word. Three letters. One syllable. Bouncing off the tongue of most, the word held little connotation for the exhausted Slytherin. The sharp jab of sound was merely a description of something she, at this very moment in time, severely coveted. Wrapped in Snape's smooth baritone, the word took on an entirely new edge. Possibilities caressed her, unlikely situations boring into her skull like incurable parasites. So consumed by the mirage of fantasy clouding her mind, Isolde did not trust herself to utter a word. Unhindered by her usual barriers of self-control, her traitorous tongue would no doubt twist her words into something thoroughly unsuitable, like yes please.

Futilely attempting to obscure the red tint of her cheeks, Isolde fell into line behind the clearly agitated professor. From the rear, his visage was not broken by the paleness of his complexion or the flash of white at his collar. Hair met cloak met boots, as though he were a statue carved solely from obsidian. A spectacle of ebony ready to be immersed within the deep pool of pitch night outside.

It was almost worth the points, the tedium of three hours seed cutting, to spend this inkling of time with him, to follow in his wake like a sickeningly willing shadow. Her fingers still tingled from momentary contact with his, that fateful little second when they had plunged their seeds into the same pot. He had pulled away quickly. Was her touch so repulsive to him? Why did he retreat as though stung by one of Hagrid's Blast-Ended Skrewts?

These questions rung in her overactive mind as she followed him, lingering in the uncomfortable cocoon of silence that had grown with the utterance of one tiny word.

Bed.

oOoOoOo

Though he had been a tall lad, the teenage Severus Snape had been plagued with a perpetual scrawniness that did not seem to dissipate with onset of puberty. It did not matter how many calories he consumed or how much exercise he did, no muscle nor fat seemed to hold to his thin frame. In his fifth year he had experimented with a body building potion, with catastrophic results. Even nineteen years later, he shivered at the memory of his reflection, the lumbering form of rippling muscles, unnatural and utterly ridiculous. That day, he had refused to emerge from the haven of his four-poster, waiting for the potion to run its natural course. During his torturous teens, he had similarly attempted to combat his beak-like nose, pasty complexion and slick hair to little avail. The victim of relentless bullying, notably by James Potter and his cronies, Snape had resorted to hiding. By his seventh year he knew every secret corridor, foothold, den of shadow, underground passage and corner of the school.

As an adult, Snape used this extensive knowledge of the school's hiding places to corner unsuspecting teenagers. These same dens of shadow, hidden from the other teachers, were the favourite little sinkholes for hormone-ridden teenagers. Snape loathed them all, furious that they were using his old sanctuaries to partake in an activity that his teenage self had longed for.

Now, nineteen years later, Snape found his mind turning to these hidey holes for a different purpose. He knew how many there were between the greenhouses and the Entrance Hall doors. All it would take was a quick suggestive glance of his eyes, a gesture of the hand, to draw Isolde into one of these cracks. That lithe, feminine form, so violent in the assault against Malfoy, would mould against his own tall frame. He yearned for her soft lips to be crushed beneath his own, smooth legs wrapped around his waist as his long, calloused fingers trailed beneath the soft fabric of her school skirt.

It seemed amazing to him that the same form which ignited repulsion from the girls in his own year could elicit such passion from his student. The side effects of the potion still rankled him, the images of her moaning under the caresses of his own, long-fingered hands, was almost enough to crack his weak veneer of control.

His ardour rising, he could almost hear her sharp groans as his hips thrust to meet hers, the delectable contrast of cool air and her warmth engulfing him.

No one would ever know.

No one would ever need to know.

She would be willing, oh so willing. As Lucius so crudely stated, she would fall into his hand, a ripe fruit ready to be plucked. His mind flashed back to stories from his childhood, Bible stories that his father had hounded upon him in an attempt to quash the taint of magic from his son. Isolde was like the plump, perfect apple and he was Eve, beyond tempted to take what he wanted, despite the ramifications of his actions.

I will not sleep with one of my students.

This mantra, however, the nine words that had dragged him through his teaching career, seemed to grow weaker with every step, every moment spent in the company of the intoxicating young witch.

It was crystal clear.

Isolde Hamilton was going to be his downfall.

oOoOoOo

Unaware that her own lust was once again depriving her Potions master of another night's sleep, Isolde found herself plunged into unconsciousness. Wrapped in the cocoon of emerald cotton, sleep came easily, her body yearning for a return to normalcy. This sleep was not invaded by an army of dreams, battling forth to fill her mind with Snape's naked form, his skilled fingers, the gentle, yet passionate brush of his lips. Her sheets were now twisted around her figure as she flipped and moaned in restless slumber.

She emerged from this sea of wonderful deep sleep at nine thirty-seven the following morning, a sharp spike of sunlight jabbing through a gap in the velvet hangings of her four-poster. A smile curved her lips as she remembered the day: Saturday! Though her list of homework was almost as long as the essays she would have to write, Isolde could not help but enjoy the prospect of a weekend.

Her momentary jubilation deflated, however, the moment she stepped foot in the library. Several pairs of eyes followed her, replaced with several more as she slunk out of view. Muffled giggles permeated the air, joined by huffs of disgust. Self-consciously, she patted her hair and smoothed the front of her robes. Had she spilt something on herself over breakfast? Was there a lump of scrambled eggs in her hair?

Finding the secluded table where she and Marius usually partook in their weekend study, she found herself confronted with a disgusted look. Marius's features, usually creased in a smile, were instead downcast, his lips imitating one of Snape's trademark scowls to perfection.

"Is it true?"

His voice mirrored the aura of repulsion. Pale blue eyes bore into her grey.

"Is what true?"

Panic gripped her. Had he found out? Did he know of her delicious fantasies, doused in a healthy coating of Snape?

Marius seemed to be gearing up, forcing himself to utter the words. "I know you don't like Diggory, but honestly Isolde, Malfoy?"

"Malfoy?" Isolde merely gaped.

"Rumour has it that you pretty much jumped him in the Slytherin common room. I know he's rich," Marius spat the word venomously, "but he's fourteen, for Merlin's sake!"

Fury slowly engulfed Isolde, her lower lip trembling. "Jumped him? Fuck, Marius, you know full well what I think of that disgusting little ferret. I am insulted that you are even giving this crap the time of day!" Lowering her voice a little, she continued. "For your information, I got into a fight with the little slime ball. When I get my hands on that foul little...!"

"Ahem!"

Both students spun around to locate the source of the noise. Scanning the mass of spines, Isolde's eyes fell upon a pair of scathing eyes, magnified by a pair of harshly cut spectacles.

"Sorry, Madam Pince," Marius murmured; though he was certain her intervention had been a response to Isolde's fetid language, he had apologised automatically, feeling a heavy layer of guilt mixed in with his hastily consumed breakfast. Turning back to face his friend, he could see just from her harried expression that she had been telling the truth. Fucking Malfoy. He wasn't sure who to feel more enraged with – the rancid, fourth-year git for spreading such a callous lie, or himself for lapping it up so unquestioningly.

"I'm sorry, Iz," he said in almost a whisper as Madam Pince strode past his rear, her hands laden with misplaced books, and seated herself back at her desk around the corner.

Isolde angrily fingered her Advanced Potion-Making book, knowing that if she opened her mouth, another torrent of outrage would spill out. A sharp huff of breath swept across the table to Marius's own book, the pages thrashing up briefly at their corners.

"Everyone knows Malfoy is a complete dick," he continued, trying to undo the damage of his tactless tirade. The mere mention of the Slytherin's name made Isolde's shoulders bristle beneath her olive coloured sweater.

"That's the understatement of the year," she spoke finally, unable to let his comment disband without correction. "I swear," she continued, dipping her quill irritably into Marius's ink pot, "this Yule Ball is more trouble than it's worth."

He watched the tip of her quill scratch arduously across the top of her parchment, forming the name he knew so well. But it had not escaped his notice that Isolde had not been herself of late; clearly, something was troubling her - something intangible. Something six years of friendship couldn't help him put his finger on. He had always found her to be enigmatic – even during their first year, when she had surprised him by stealing a steaming mouthful of his coffee before introducing herself as his brewing partner: "I saw you brewing a Sleeping Draught last week," she had explained. "It was... quite adequate," she had smiled, before filling the previously vacant space beside him. "I'm in no need of a brewing partner who copies my every move like a stunned pixie." Her manner of approach had made him somewhat stunned, not least because she was a Slytherin, and Slytherins kept to their own house – didn't they? Isolde never failed to astonish him even now.

As he stared at her across the library desk, the corners of his lips curled in affectionate recollection. "Come on, Iz; you must be a bit flattered that so many people have asked you already. And it's only November!"

Her quill paused over her eloquently penned title as her eyes shot up to his. "Yes, it is only bloody November. And it's a farce! Never have I seen such..."

"Why don't you go with me?"

His words hung in the air between them as Isolde stopped mid-sentence, a rogue drip of ink punctuating the silence and spoiling her neat craftsmanship. "Oh, for fuck's sake," she cursed, whispering a cleansing spell beneath her breath. If the essay had not been for Professor Snape, she probably would have left it there, smudging it dry with her thumb. Marius watched the stain sink without trace into the parchment, wishing he could clear his own residue as competently, but the words still lingered across the cluttered desk.

"I meant just as friends, of course, to... get the others off your back. You know, as a favour?" As soon as his words left him, he braced himself for their impact.

"A favour?" Isolde spat, slamming her Potions book closed. She knew, even as she rose out of her chair, that she was overreacting - severely overreacting - but she was pig sick of it all: the Ball...the bloody Ball, Malfoy and his overzealous, meddling father, and Snape. Professor Snape: the only person she had actually fantasised about going to the foolish function with, though she knew deep in her gut that he detested such frivolities. She had seen him on many occasions, hovering with heated displeasure in the far corners of the Hall, his black pupils seeking out overenthusiastic students to reprimand just to make the minutes go faster. She knew she was being ridiculous, and yet...

"Don't flatter yourself, Mr Spencer," – oh, Merlin, she was even starting to sound like him – "What makes you think going with you would be any more bearable than spending the evening with Malfoy?"

Marius blew out a strained laugh. "That's a bit below the belt, Iz."

It was. She knew it was, but she felt too inflamed with frustration to haul herself back. Clasping her books and parchment to her chest, Isolde shoved her chair under the table and stood behind it to face her bewildered friend. "Look, Marius, I'll see you later. I'm not in the mood for studying now."

"No kidding," he muttered, lowering his eyes to the empty desk space opposite him. "Maybe when you've calmed down..."

But his words fell on deaf ears as he looked up in time only to see Isolde's hair disappear behind a colossal shelf of books and out of sight.