Therein Lies My Great Value

Chapter Nine: Therein Lies My Great Value

Isolde and Marius approached the exit of the overly adorned shop in taut silence; the twinkling lights, glittering so festively, made Isolde scowl as they walked through them and out into the snow-carpeted street. Marius watched her questioningly as she shot a sharp sigh into the air in front of her, her warm breath scattering in a cloud of retreating vapour.

"Thank Merlin that's out of the way," she declared, hoping that alone would explain her terseness. Her stomach stirred with apprehension; taunting snippets of conversation and her father's letter buzzed imperiously through her mind as she tried to piece them together, trying to make some semblance of meaning out of the concurrent events. Her lips ached to spill her concerns, but she knew Marius, despite his always good intentions, would be unable to help.

Marius had never met her father; during the six years they had been friends, Barnabus Hamilton had been a mere topic of conversation, an ignorant object of occasional scorn, and Isolde had always gone to great lengths for him to remain as such. Marius had visited Isolde in the holidays many times– always when her father was away on business. And even then, she had received a number of jibes for the things she couldn't hide, namely her huge, ornate home, which her father had neurotically enhanced over the years. "Kept this under the carpet, didn't we?" Marius had teased as he'd entered the grand entrance hall. In her father's desperate pursuit for grandeur and recognition, not a single inch or crevice of their home had been left untouched. Isolde had fought zealously to keep her bedroom the way it had always been; for months, it had been the only whisper of their more modest, happier life, until she had returned for Christmas in her second year to find it re-decorated, her ragged childhood treasures replaced with hollow, glistening decadence. Even Marius had light-heartedly accused her of ungratefulness, but Isolde knew it had not been an act of love - merely another box ticked, another stepping stone to affluence.

No. There was no point in offloading her concerns to her friend. It would be akin to opening her heart to a Flobberworm, so ignorant was he of her father's ways. As they strode back beneath the town clock, Isolde could not dispel the newfangled unease now swirling in her stomach as she carried the thick paper bag by its mauve ribbon handles. The emerald material had felt surprisingly light when it had clung around her body in the changing room, but it now felt like a lead weight in her fingers. Why had he been so insistent on her buying that particular dress? And what did Mrs Lark mean in her warning about his 'powerful friends'? Clearly, she had known a great deal more than she had divulged, and her discernible nervousness told Isolde that she'd only disclosed that out of unbridled concern for her.

As the snow-capped roofs of Hogsmeade shrivelled into the landscape behind them, they continued in silence, their only accompaniment the clumsy thumps of boots in deep snow. Isolde was so absorbed in her own thoughts that she had not noticed Professor Snape walking just a few metres behind them.

He had not meant to tail her back to the castle. Since his earlier clandestine musings within the clock tower, Snape had managed to embrace half an hour of quiet solitude within the crumbling walls of Zuranders. Having already declared himself weak for not being able to shirk contemplations of one of his students, he had felt determined to prove that he had at least some resolve left by evading his walled refuge: he could resist temptation.

For an entire fourteen minutes he had managed to dodge the tempting clutches of moth-eaten books, of shelves which stirred his intellect beyond any tome the Hogwarts library could. His mind had been made up beforehand, of course, though he would always assure himself, in future moments of self-chastisement, that it had been the familiar clunk of Moody's stick which had finally driven him towards the coveted shop.

Now, even from his ample distance, he could observe that the ambiance had altered drastically since the pair's arrival to the town only two hours earlier. No longer did the flutter of carefree laughter pervade the air, and he distinctly observed, with a wry curl of his lips, that Marius' arm no longer held Isolde's coat-wrapped form, and instead hung limply by his side. In Isolde's own hand there hung a swaying bag. His curiousness made him squint through the light flurry of snowflakes to read the printed name on its side: Minchin and Lark's.

He could not help himself; could not prevent his thoughts from wandering to the possible contents of the paper carrier. Though his own mind gave precedence to more pressing matters than the imminent Yule Ball, the cacophony of girlish squeals outside the shop's window confirmed that it was the current distraction. And yet, although Isolde's form had been one of the jubilant crowd, she had seemed somewhat underwhelmed by the entire prospect, entering the depths of the shop almost reluctantly. Had her mood lifted once she had set her sights on the perfect dress? Had she, like the other girls in her year, emerged from the shop in a state of euphoria at the thought of making her grand entrance?

Seemingly not.

"Can I see it then?"

Marius' cheer-infused voice shook Isolde from her musings. She gave him a questioning look but did not alter her pace.

"Oh, come on. You make me stand in that frill infested shop for over half an hour and – what? – I don't get to see the almighty purchase?"

"You'll see it at the Ball," she returned icily.

Everyone would. The mere thought made her feel nauseous.

"Iz, what's the big deal? It's just a dress." In an attempt to lighten the mood, Marius playfully grappled with the ribbon handles of the bag, tugging on them with more force than he needed to, for he had not anticipated them to be hanging so freely from her fingers.

Two gasps sprang simultaneously into the air as both students watched the bag plummet into the snow, its emerald contents tumbling out like spilt ink.

As Snape strode onward through the increasingly deep layer of snow, his eyes penetrated the bag as he crafted his own mental image of what lay inside. His thoughts had traitorously spawned many smouldering images over the past few weeks: Isolde's pale legs wrapped rigidly around his waist; her soft, lissom shoulders and throat beneath his rough tongue. In a mere instant, he tweaked his visions to make room for dark velvet straps, which he rolled teasingly between his finger and thumb, before drawing them down over her otherwise bare shoulder. He caught fistfuls of skirt in his frantic hands, dragging them unceremoniously up her thighs, grazing her exposed skin with his fingernails...

"You absolute idiot!"

For a brief moment, Snape thought Isolde's sudden outburst had been targeted at him, so absorbed was he in his indecent thoughts. He deserved no less a response, he thought ruefully, as the scene now only paces in front of him pieced itself together.

"I'm sorry, Iz. It was an accident, I just wanted to see..."

Both students suspended their quarrel as they noticed their teacher's presence, though anger and embarrassment still bloomed across their cheeks. As he approached, Snape found himself unable to look directly into Isolde's eyes as he ground his tempting thoughts deep into the pits of his consciousness. Biding his time, he stooped forward as he reached them, drawing the emerald gown into his hand and out of the snow. Its satiny form fell to its full length as he stood upright once more. In spite of himself, his eyes swiftly drank in every lustrous inch of it, noticing the straps – thinner than those he'd imagined – and the long thigh-length slits cut within the now sodden skirt. Even in her presence, with her bumbling Ravenclaw friend by her side, he literally had to wrench out the recurring image of the dress scooped around Isolde's waist. In his attempt to seize some resolve, his expression morphed into one of self disgust.

Isolde watched in startled silence as her professor scrutinised her recent purchase. Even when it had clinched her body in the shop, she had felt and seen its hideous splendour, but as she saw it, in the cold light of day, as it hung obscenely in her professor's grasp and caked in trampled snow, she flinched with sheer loathing. As Snape tossed the green heap into her hands – for the bag was soaked beyond repair – she could have sworn his face wore a glimmer of disgust before he strode between them both in the direction of the castle.

Isolde clutched the damp garment to her chest for the remainder of the journey, only to hurl it into the depths of her dresser on her return.

oOoOoOo

She had waited, agonisingly, for a week, and now two letters sat open on her desk. She had read them both twice already, but the lingering twitch of unease in her stomach made her eyes cast over them once more:

Dear Miss Hamilton,

Madam Malkin.

The second letter she had not been expecting, but the distinctive serpent-embellished crest left her in her no doubt as to who the sender was:

Isolde,

B.A.F.R.M. Hamilton.

The crumpled shards of parchment proved as distasteful as the dash of musty emerald velvet squashed into the depths of her dresser. I have every confidence the gown I reserved for you looks enchanting. The words caused scarlet to flood Isolde's cheeks, sheer molten mortification to engulf her. She could not deny that the dress was beautifully made. It's very fabric oozed wealth, but an obscene cost did not always promise an enchanting garment. The thin slip of material her father called a 'gown' was designed for one purpose and one alone: seduction. The question was: whom did her father intend for her to seduce?

Draco Malfoy was out of the question. It was common knowledge that the heir to the Malfoy fortune was escorting puff-ball Parkinson to the ball. Pansy shrieked about it whenever she could, her mind evidently clouded with romantic fairytales. Malfoy, alternatively, intended to live up to his heritage and commandeer his date's innocence in the greenhouses after the dancing.

Placing the letters within the concealed draw of her writing desk, Isolde found herself once more contemplating her father's intentions. Slytherin house was a den of pureblood boys drenched in excessive wealth. Was one of them her father's target? Not that it really mattered. Going to the Yule Ball wearing the gown would make her a target for any red-blooded male.

Except, perhaps, the only red-blooded male she actually wanted.

Try as she might, Isolde could not extract the image of Snape's disgust from her mind. The pathetic excuse for a garment was hardly suitable for a school function, and her professor's curled lip was clear evidence that Snape did not approve. The force with which he had thrust it back into her hands, as though it were something he had extracted from the school sewers, caused her humiliation to treble.

The drawer containing the letters fluttered closed with a resolute click. The movement was soft and languid, quite unlike the mood of the young woman who closed it. Humiliation made way for fury. Rashness overpowered rational thinking as she forced herself from the desk chair, storming toward the elegant figure of her dresser. Upon opening the offending drawer, the musty stench assaulted her. Clearly thrusting a wet dress into an enclosed space was not the wisest of actions. It hardly mattered.

There was only one solution. Before hesitation could gain its unwanted footing, Isolde tore at the green velvet. The cacophony of seams popping, material shredding and her own unconscious growls of fury filled the common room. Magic stirred around the garment, clearly charmed against any magical affronts. It seemed as if her father and his companion had looked past the age old delight of physical attack.

Scooping up the shreds of her Yule Ball monstrosity, Isolde dropped them into the fire, revelling gleefully in the acrid scent of burning velvet.

oOoOoOo

After fourteen-years of comforting structure, Severus Snape found himself rather disconcerted by the forced divergence from his usual routine. Drinks with Lucius Malfoy could hardly be described as a pleasant occasion, though Severus did appreciate the indulgent weekly tipple of Ogden's finest. Usually, the blond spoke of his conquests, his son or his admonishment that Severus had yet to bed a ripe little student. These cascades of meaningless nothings were easy enough to drown out; two additional guests in the drawing room, however, were not.

"Severus, old boy!" Lucius drawled upon his appearance in the fire grate. "I trust you know Barnabus Hamilton and Ichabod Flank?" Before Severus could answer, the blond continued. "Barny here has invited us for drinks at his manor."

Barnabus Hamilton was a rake of a man, tall and thin with shortly cropped dark hair and a thin goatee. The only similarity he had with his sensual, curvy daughter was his piercing grey eyes, which were now observing Snape with great interest. "Lucius, my old friend, you flatter me. My humble abode is a mere hovel compared to your house. Hardly a manor, I daresay." After drowning Lucius in sickening flattery, Hamilton turned to Snape. "Ah, Severus! It has been quite some time. I haven't seen you since you were fourteen years old!" A tittering laugh left his thin lips. "My little Isolde speaks of you all the time. She's quite an enchanting thing, isn't she?"

Bombarded by Hamilton's slimy syllables, Severus found himself unable to vocalise, a cocking of a thin black eyebrow all he could muster. My little Isolde speaks of you all the time. Somehow he doubted it. Nevertheless, he nodded curtly. "Your daughter is certainly one of Slytherin's more promising students, Mr Hamilton. Her work in Potions has been nothing short of impressive."

"Barny, please," Hamilton chuckled, slapping Snape on the shoulder. "No need for formality between friends." He pointed a long finger toward the ornate pot of Floo powder on the mantle. "I hear you enjoy a glass of Ogden's now and then," the goateed man continued, taking a small handful of the sparkling substance. "Back at the manor I have several bottles of Ogden's 1942 vintage, very rare." Curling his lithe form into the grate, Hamilton dropped the powder. "Hamilton Manor."

Lucius followed suit, leaving Severus momentarily alone with the man known as Ichabod Flank. From the way Isolde had reacted to the man's name, Severus had half expected the boy he remembered from school to have morphed into a hideous sleaze bag, complete with thinning comb-over hair and sweaty palms. This was not the case. Sprung from the gene pools that spawned both Lucius Malfoy and Gilderoy Lockhart, Flank's looks had only improved with age. Thick blond hair fell to his shoulders, framing chiselled features and deep blue eyes.

Severus shot a final look at Flank before ducking into the fire. The idea of being Hamilton's guest nauseated him. The concept that he would have to spend time with the handsome blond with a penchant for rape rendered his mood even darker.

It was best just to get it over and done with.

oOoOoOo

There was not an ounce of Isolde in the manor.

Its hard lines and grand designs reflected only wealth. Malfoy Manor, while grand, still showed some of the personality of its owner. Lucius' pomposity could be seen in the albino peacocks flittering about the front garden, his lascivious nature peeking through the spines of expensive pornographic tomes or the murals of nubile young women in his study. Hamilton, however, had none of this. His home was an empty cave, a den of expensive nothing.

What exactly did Isolde do here during the summer? Was her room a haven away from this expanse of wealth? Did she recline upon the loveseat and read her text books, waiting for her father to return?

His musings were cut short as Hamilton roared "Linny!" into the empty expanse of the drawing room. Within seconds, a tiny pop filled the room, accompanied by an equally tiny house-elf.

"Master has returned!" the elf squeaked. "Linny is sorry for not greeting Master at the fire. Linny is not knowing that Master is coming back."

"Stop your blabbering, elf," Hamilton sneered. "I want a bottle of Ogden's 1942, four glasses and my cigars."

"Linny is doing that now, Master."

The elf popped, returning mere seconds later with the required items. Severus could not help but notice the tattered state of the elf's pillow case, the paleness of her olive-green complexion and the way her bones were visible beneath the cracked shield of her skin. Not even Lucius' mistreated army of house-elves seemed as decrepit as this poor creature. Having always believed that common courtesy toward house-elves was the least the tiny beings deserved, Severus was appalled at the condition of Linny.

As the elf was dismissed, Hamilton poured out the whisky. The taste was fine, but having seen the nature of servitude within the house, Severus could hardly stomach it.

"Shall we cut to the chase, then?"

Lucius' voice cut through the silence like a knife through butter.

"The chase, Lucius?" Severus turned his onyx eyes toward the handsome blond, perched on a chair before the fire. "Am I to understand that there is a reason for my being here?"

"Of course, Sev," Hamilton interrupted. Severus' hands clenched around the glass, the intensity of his grip almost enough to shatter the ornate goblet. Sev. The nickname had long since ceased to be one of endearment, its one syllable now a clear reminder of all that he had lost. How dare that slimy little man call him by the same nickname as her? How dare he even...!

"You're going to be our little spy on the inside," Lucius interrupted, a smirk tilting his lips. "Tell me, Severus, have you seen Isolde Hamilton's latest purchase?"

"If you're talking about the non-existent scrap of velvet she intends to wear to the Yule Ball, I daresay I have."

Hamilton's eyes glittered at this. "So, my little Izzy has been flaunting the dress around the common room, has she? And here I was thinking her letter to Madam Malkin meant she did not like it!"

"As far as I know, your daughter is not one to flaunt," Severus said, his voice dark. "The only reason I saw the dress is because she accidently dropped it in Hogsmeade. I retrieved it for her."

"She dropped it?" Hamilton's voice rose a little, his quick temper rather obvious. "Has she no idea how expensive it was?"

Severus did not reply. It all made sense. The Isolde he thought he knew would never willingly don a gown like that in public. Nevertheless, what kind of father wanted his daughter to parade herself in front of her fellows dressed as an expensive concubine?

"I'm sure there is no damage," Lucius dismissed. "What matters is that she wears it to the Yule Ball, and you, Severus, must see to that."

"I hardly think it is my job to tell my students what to wear, Lucius."

"In this case it is, Snape," an unfamiliar voice interjected. It seemed that Flank had found his tongue. "You see, I hardly wish to bed a girl. I chose that dress for a good reason. It will turn her into a woman."

"Are you telling me I should force one of my students to wear a gown simply so that you can bed her?" Severus' anger was starting to taint his baritone. He knew he would have to return to Hogwarts soon, so as to stop himself from dismembering the three men before him. "Besides, if your reputation is correct, you do not usually flinch at bedding girls." He swiftly unfolded himself from the loveseat. "If you will excuse me, I have no intention of listening to plans regarding one of my students. Good night."

Ignoring the protestations of Hamilton and Lucius, Severus disappeared into the Floo, his mind pounding with disgust.

oOoOoOo

By the time Severus had reached the third floor of the castle, his hands were still quivering with fury; even as his temple and palms met the cool stone of the unsightly gargoyle, his knuckles twitched of their own volition.

As soon as he had emerged from the fireplace in his office, his first impulse had been to inform the headmaster. He was sure that, in his haste, he had even left his office door ajar. But now, as he stood at the foot of the concealed stairwell, the ridiculous password merely loitered across his tongue behind his thin, pursed lips. Angry shards of breath shot out of his nostrils as he willed himself to isolate his thoughts – to settle on the best course of action.

What perplexed Severus more than anything was the sheer degree of fervour he now felt as a result of the evening's exchange. Certainly, he would have been sickened by their discussion of any of his students in such a context, and he had no doubt that he would have quitted their company in the very same manner. But he had to ask himself: would he be so embroiled with rage if it had not been Isolde they had been plotting about? Would he have flown so feverishly up four flights of stairs for the likes of Miss Parkinson? His stomach twisted as he digested the answer.

The concept he could not bring himself to dissect was why he was so enraged at all. Under ordinary circumstances – with an ordinary student - Severus would have at least kept his cool, dealing with the matter in a prompt but impassive way. How much of his current mind-set, then, was inextricably latched on to his own attraction towards Isolde? How much of his disgust was a natural, professional aversion to his student being discussed by tongues of squalor? And how much was an irrepressible, knee-jerk response to the threat of her being seduced by someone other than himself? His stomach knotted tighter.

"Fizzing Whizbee."

Severus shot away from the marble statue as it suddenly jerked beneath his fingertips. He was almost certain he had not uttered the words himself.

"I know how you loathe my eccentric choice of passwords, Severus, but it's not like you to forget one."

Within milliseconds, Severus regained his composure and forced himself to meet the familiar and infuriatingly blue, twinkling eyes of Albus Dumbledore. The two men stood for a long moment in the murky corridor which was lit by a single torch of light fixed to the now visible stairwell. Though his own eyes now transcended the spherical steps, he could sense the headmaster's gaze still upon him.

"Shall we?" invited Dumbledore, his long, aged fingers warmly indicating their ascent.

"I – no," Severus corrected himself. "It can wait." Even as the words left his mouth, part of him chastised himself for his rapid retreat. The girl was in danger. Why, then, was he suddenly so wary of expressing his concerns? He could feel two orbs of blue silently asking the same question.

Their eyes met once more. "Are you sure, Severus? You seem troubled." Snape considered how he must have looked to his colleague and friend – his back vaulted in torment over the winged gargoyle – and silently cursed himself once more for his emotional display.

"Nothing a well-brewed Sleeping Draught won't cure, Albus."

"I have no doubt that you stock nothing else." The headmaster smiled. Severus grimaced as he watched Dumbledore's jovial lips shift to a figure of compassion. "The door is always open, my boy." His half-moon spectacles glinted in the flickering candlelight, and Severus was relieved to find this veiled the old man's eyes as he opened his mouth and lied once again.

"I am fine, Albus. Goodnight."

Dumbledore knew better than to harass his colleague for an admission which he was not willing to give, but as he watched the obsidian cloak retreat around the corner, he recalled the only other time he had seen those shoulders so deeply bent in anguish.

oOoOoOo

It was well past four o'clock in the morning, and even though the solitary window of his office was immersed in the Black Lake, Severus could still detect meagre glimpses of sunlight penetrating its murky depths. He had not so much as entered his bed chamber, so consumed was he with thoughts of Isolde and the three vile individuals who were driven towards her ruin. It mystified him that one was her own father.

Three times he had stopped in his tracks on his way back to the dungeons. Three times he had almost turned on his heel and ventured back to the headmaster's office. He knew that Dumbledore would be equally appalled and would make no allowances in ensuring Isolde's safety, even if it meant prohibiting her from attending the Ball altogether. Severus considered pursuing such a route on his own, but something told him even that would not be enough; it would take more than a mere social embargo to keep Ichabod Flank at arms' length.

As he sat rigidly at his desk, Severus drew back his left sleeve in one graceful tug, and his eyes fixed guardedly on the unsightly Mark. He had not needed to say the words aloud; the fearful stare in Lucius' eyes had confirmed his suspicions. It was not just his Mark which had grown significantly darker over the past few weeks. No doubt Karkaroff's arm betrayed the same signs also; he had received enough foreboding stares along the staff table to confirm as much. Having betrayed a number of fellow Death Eaters shortly after the First Wizarding War, the goateed wizard certainly had more to fear than most, though Severus was by no means free from apprehension. It did not take a darkening Mark to predict Voldemort's rebirth; even fourteen years ago, on that cursed, unforgettable night, Dumbledore had told him as much: the Dark Lord will return, and Harry Potter will be in terrible danger when he does.

Harry Potter.

As if he didn't have enough to concern himself with, Severus had to watch the insufferable boy's every move, now that he had inexplicably been chosen by the Goblet of Fire – despite him being underage. That in itself was too much of a coincidence, occurring around the same time his Mark had begun to blossom.

Severus covered the offending stain with a fluid jerk of his arm, simultaneously thanking his wits for not informing the headmaster about Isolde. If it was indeed the case that the Dark Lord was about to rise once more, it would not serve him well if he was mid-broil with Lucius. Though he was almost sure the Dark Lord would be pleased with his observation point within Hogwarts, he could not be seen to be openly defiant of his fellow Death Eaters in the meantime. Even though Barnabus and Ichabod were not yet part of the circle, Severus suspected that was their true desire, and it would not be long before they too would bear the same Mark.

It would be for the best, he reasoned, if it appeared that he was acquiescent to Hamilton's request.

Though his insides curdled at the prospect, Severus knew what he had to do.

Isolde would wear the dress, whether she liked it or not.