People Will Think You're Up to Something

Author's Note: Whilst A Slytherin Seduction is named after the wonderful piece written by a fellow Muffliato member, it is not the same. Our version is tacky and nowhere near as awesome as the real thing. And many thanks to Lindsey for tagging and betaing!

Chapter Fifteen: People Will Think You're Up to Something...

Fitzwilliam Brinkley was a figure steeped in obscurity. Born and raised in the apartment above his bookshop, he had never felt particularly inclined to leave the sanctity of Hogsmeade. Why should he need to move his physical form when adventure could be found between the dusty pages of his books? Even as a student at Hogwarts, the magic of words had encapsulated him. He consumed his textbooks, excelled at his essays, but found very little inclination to practice physical spells.

He had not always manned the shop: that had been his father's responsibility. Instead, Brinkley had accepted a position as Assistant Librarian at Hogwarts. It was a job he adored. When he was not protecting his precious tomes from the rough grasp of students, he would find a secluded spot to read, to immerse himself in a world so very different to his own.

This segment of his life was idyllic, but it was doomed to fade. Two years after taking up his position at Hogwarts, Flourish and Blotts opened in Diagon Alley. Brinkley's father, Zachary, had assured his son that their vast clientele would not abandon them. Yet he had been wrong. Cheaper prices and ready access to their London based shop via Floo meant that within the space of a year Zuranders was all but abandoned.

Brinkley had attempted to aid his parents, sending home the majority of his pay packet. It was only a short time later he realised his money was being spent on cheap Firewhisky. His mother left, and his father took his own life two weeks later.

And so Brinkley had returned. Over the next few years he had reshaped his family's little bookshop. Removing all the texts available at Flourish and Blotts, he stocked his shelves with rare and beautiful volumes. At the same time, he made his keep selling filth to hormonal teenage girls. He did not ask questions; he did not want to interact with his customers. He just wanted to be left alone with his books.

Of course, Severus knew nothing of Brinkley's past, and he had little inclination to find out. Late though the hour was, Brinkley's attention did not waver from the dusty tome in which his upturned nose was buried. Swimming within a leather-bound ocean of knowledge, the aged bookseller barely noticed the tinkling bell, nor did it occur to him that he should have closed the shop hours before. What was the point?

To Severus, the sheer indifference of Brinkley only added to the appeal of the shop.

Sweeping the long ebony cloak from his shoulders, Severus placed it upon a tarnished hook jutting from the door frame. Had the Potions master been susceptible to sentimentality, he would have allowed a smile to grace his stern features. This tiny niche of a bookshop was so monumentally different to the lascivious den in which he had spent the last few hours. It was the equivalent of stepping into a hot shower after a day spent slicing particularly foul potions ingredients. In fact, comparing Hamilton and Flank to the nastiest contents of his storeroom brought Severus a momentary spark of joy.

Instinctually, he headed for the looming book case to the left of the door, eyes grazing the familiar spines. Moste Potente Potions. Potio Pallidus. The Art of Brewing. It always amused Severus that the students had such volumes within their reach, yet a fear of learning meant that they steered clear of the bookshop. Or, at least, most of them did.

It seemed like an age since he had first encountered Isolde Hamilton within these walls. In many ways he wished he had not. Life had never been particularly easy for Severus, but he had comfort, structure, routine. Like a hurricane, Isolde had swept into his sphere, uprooting everything in her path. The worst thing was: Severus could not even blame her for it! How could she help having a repulsive father? She could hardly be blamed that her family connections and fine looks had attracted the attention of that lecherous rat, Flank.

Annoyed that Isolde had infiltrated his thoughts once more, Severus found himself gravitating toward a previously unfamiliar nook of the shop. He had ventured there only once: the day he had found Isolde sprawled upon the bay window. It still amazed him that Brinkley had not been drawn from his reading by the girl's mewling, the moans roused by her apparently vivid dream. This particular memory proved unwelcome, and Severus was starting to wonder if he should have indulged in the morsel presented to him at the Mewling Quim. It had been a very long time since he had bedded a woman, maybe an unfeeling encounter of the flesh would distract him from Isolde?

The mere thought of such an action sickened him.

He would not become Ichabod Flank.

Snatching a glimpse at the bookshelf brimming with lascivious novels, Severus turned to the bay window. The cushions were haphazardly scattered over the worn crimson velvet, no doubt untouched since Isolde had lain upon it. Awkwardly, he perched upon the edge of the seat, reaching for a nearby cushion with long, calloused fingers. Though the material was worn, the softness of the furnishing was undeniable. No wonder Isolde had found herself so quickly ensconced by sleep.

It was only once he had moved the cushion that Severus noticed the harder object, thrown beneath the velvet puffs. A book. The book. Placing aside his cushion, he took the tome into his hands. It was light, both in weight and content, the worn cover a clear indicator that it had been cradled by many sets of hands, read by hundreds of eyes, women young and old seduced by its lewd contents. A Slytherin Seduction.

Cocking an eyebrow, Severus turned to the title page. No author had acknowledged the work. Perhaps the writer did not wish to be associated with it? Or maybe, they believed it added an air of mystery. Not allowing himself to ponder on this, Severus opened to a random page, his eyes falling on a thick block of prose:

"You look beautiful tonight." His soft whisper caressed her ear. "It is almost as though you have dressed...," she could feel his smile, "... for me."

"I have no intention of seducing you, Belle. Fucking you, absolutely, but trust me, seduction is entirely unnecessary."

Severus snorted, but nevertheless flicked through several more pages.

Kneeling before her now, he dragged her legs over the armrests of the chair, pulling the nightdress to her hips. More than anything, she wanted to push him away, but as long fingers began to caress her through the thin silk of her emerald green knickers, protestations turned to groans.

"Mmmmmm, Tiberius." How easily his name poured from her lips, as though it were meant to. The two syllables caused him to smile against her clitoris, moving a hand away from her thighs to plunge double digits into her. Climax threatened, yet was cruelly snatched from her as he drew away. "You bastard," she snarled.

The longer he immersed himself within the text, the more Severus felt like he understood its most avid fan. Isolde was an intelligent young woman, surely aware that the fantasies portrayed within these pages would never be translated into reality. It was escapism then, pure and simple. An escape from her father, her housemates and probably, he conceded, him.

Severus leant back against the window, allowing the book to remain poised, open, in his fingers.

What was he going to do?