Hackneyed Plots and Tired Clichés

Chapter 3: Hackneyed Plots and Tired Clichés

"They hate Misako!"

"Who? The faculty?"

"No. No, you ninny, the readers," raged Harmony. She thought Snorri looked entirely too calm. "They've threatened to kill her if she comes between them and Severus ... I mean, between Hermione and Severus."

"Do you think they'll waft her a poison-fan letter?" he asked before he realized how murderous Harmony looked. A little rationalization was in order. "Hate is better than indifference, and we have to get Severus experienced."

"Experienced?"

"In all the stories I've read, Severus is a bedroom god," he said. "He transports Hermione; he takes her to another world. He's the very devil with his tongue. He's got to learn how to do that. He's not going to acquire any skill brooding in the dungeon."

Snorri couldn't resist. "Unless you think it's his acid tongue that eats pussy."

"What?"

"We can let him become accomplished with Misako before she has to return to the States, leaving him free," said Snorri. "Does that make you happy? We can create some dramatic tension."

"The dramatic tension is supposed to come from the heroine's concern over his feelings for her, not from the anguish of seeing him behave like an adolescent," said Harmony.

He accused her of writing another predictable romance. She accused him of having Severus fornicate with anything in a skirt as an immature male wrote out his fantasies.

During a lull in the exchange, Snorri pointed to the first chapter and said, "It looks like Mr. Barston has a private dick."

"I don't see that his personal life has anything to do with this," she said.

"I was talking about the story," he said, handing her the magazine. He thought himself lucky to discover Harmony was poison early in the game.

Harmony read the last section by Biff Barston. It reinforced her impressions from yesterday. Misako was an inspired character rich in plot potential. Harmony had been distressed by the hate mail and had wanted to work with Snorri on the plot problem, but he had become defensive and critical, and the whole discussion had gone wrong.

"Look," said Snorri, "I obviously don't have the depth of understanding needed to capture the romance crowd, so why don't I let you go back to your office and work on the part of the story that needs your special skills."

He turned to his stack of classics, clearly dismissing her.

Her hopes of another great session with the pencils and flip chart crashed around her feet. Harmony trudged to her office, trying to figure out what was wrong with Snorri.

Keeping in mind the cold and unforgiving nature of girls, Snorri picked up his pen.

She never got to meet him during her stay in Britain even though she roamed the isle from the wilds of London to the calms of the moor while always seeking an encounter. She once thought she had a glimpse in a smoky pub; she could have seen more of a cowl-covered figure if she had dared to crawl closer to the bonfire ritual; there was a brief flash of a thin, pale hand as it wielded a wand to torture a victim in the basement of an old mansion; but his full countenance was never revealed to her. Misako Ogami had heard that meeting the Dark Lord face-to-face could change one's way of looking at the world.

Back in her own office, Harmony reflected on Snorri's failure to engage in a reasonable discussion and his provocative statements about romance novels. His failure to be a mature individual and appreciate the benefits of an exchange of opinion with her meant she would have to salvage the next chapter of the tattered story by her own steadfast efforts. She stared into space while her quill hand moved of its own volition.

How does one tell the story of a tale, quickly over, that changed the fate of those involved and whose ripples touched the far reaches of wizard society though some lives merely bobbed on smooth waves while other lives were torn by a rushing tide from their moorings and dashed on the waiting rocks? How can it be told by a young writer abandoned by her compatriots and who has not the skill of characterization by dialogue of the first or the knack of the penetrative simile of the second? Her only hope is to strike as close as she can to what happened and pray the story itself provides solace to the reader in her troubled times, especially a reader who has been betrayed by a lack of fortitude and commitment when she sought only a communion of spirits.

Harmony paused to stifle a sniffle. It would take some time to recover from Snorri's unforgivable dig that romance novels were obvious from the first paragraph and that reading them was equivalent to cheating at solitaire.

Is there not a special dispensation granted to a summer dalliance that renders the alliance immune to the usual criticism often heaped upon a brief affair that quickens the heart and restores the courage of those lucky enough to have found a companion who gladdened their spirit, though only a short while, on the long and often sad journey that we all must take, especially those who destiny has pricked out to receive more of the burden of existence so that others may better flourish?

How like a tender shoot our Professor Snape was during that fateful summer when a corn-fed colonial set her sights on stripping him of his husk of reserve and sampling his golden kernels until leaving him but a cob of a wizard although it is a testimony to the hardihood of our stock that she did but butter the "ear" of our hybrid and leave him sweeter and smoother, worthy of a dash of salt and able to plow a long, cross-pollinating furrow.

"Will anyone know what you're talking about?" asked Snorri.

Harmony jumped and yelled.

"You've got to stop sneaking around," she said as she re-gathered her writing implements. "Women always know when you're talking about sex. And why don't you go back to your office and cheat at some more solitaire."

Damn the interruption. Now she had to regain her train of thought.

Having decided to write about this most delicate of subjects, the author searches her conscience for the most appropriate manner in which to present the story. The usual rules for writing are generally useless in an undertaking of such a delicate nature. The suggestion to provide the reader with concrete details that one hears in grammar school conflicts with the necessary modesty and restraint recommended for our topic while the strategy of balancing narration with dialogue runs the risk of clinical description interrupted by sentiments that bring a blush to the ear of the sensitive. The writer can at best grip her courage with both hands and venture forth with the hope that the audience subscribes to an effort that attempts to balance quiet dignity with the directness needed to accurately portray a personal moment in the lives of the two protagonists.

The verbal byplay and suggestive manner of Misako Ogami in the lab combined with her late-night invitations for tea that were laced with comments about recreation in the face of loneliness soon had Professor Snape wondering about the sincerity of her hints. He had long cultivated a manner which discouraged attempts at familiarity and which correspondingly limited his ability to reply in kind, but the isolation of his life had him longing for the company and conversation of a lovely and talented lady.

Late one Friday evening while partaking of tea in her apartment after the card game, he managed to say, "I do need to get away from this castle. After breakfast tomorrow, I intend to head into London or somewhere else for lunch and possibly some sight seeing and recreation. I don't know if spending the day in such a manner is appealing to you or not."

A little reflection shows our professor had thought things through since the invitation was open-ended enough for Misako to mention whatever activity she preferred, and if she declined, he could spend the day away from her, engaging in those things which would let him forget her: drinking in a pub, for instance, while railing against teases.

"I think getting away from this castle for a while is a wonderful idea," she said. "I suppose there's a wizard complex in London. Would you mind showing it to me if that's not too boring for you?" Propelled by his long awaited invitation, things she had meant to keep in reserve found their way to her lips. "And surely, you come from someplace, Severus. I would like to see it if it's not too inconvenient."

Unknown to our friendly and spontaneous Miss Ogami, her words had struck dread into the heart of her companion who until then had been experiencing an almost delirious sense of well-being, but her open good-spiritedness won against the wall he had erected against the rest of the world, and he ventured to remark that his background was humble and his childhood memories were not pleasant ones.

To his surprise, this revelation caused her to step to within an personal distance of him and reply that he was all the more admirable for having overcome a disadvantaged background and non-supportive family to become one of the world's most accomplished Potions masters and a professor at Britain's school for witches and wizards and that she had some idea of what it had cost him in terms of hard work and alienation from close relatives to achieve his present position.

At this point he could not help but put a hand on the waist of someone who was so physically close and sympathetically understanding and who had demonstrated a perceptiveness of hardship, sacrifice, and struggle that he previously had dismissed as unknown to someone who appeared to accept her position as a world-wide expert in such a natural and easy manner that she had appeared born to assume the mantle. He began to see previously unnoticed depths to Misako Ogami that transcended her obvious physical and social charms and that suggested a meaningful relationship with her would be a life-enhancing experience, and for the first time, he began to wonder if her imperturbable attitude was only a façade that hid strong emotions that she dare show only to those who she trusted.

"You're quite lovely," he managed to say. This simple statement drew forth more than he expected as she embraced him and brushed his lips with hers. It is tempting to write that he responded gently and in kind, but his pent up emotions that had been whipped into a turmoil by constant exposure to a desirable lady he considered unattainable burst through the floodgates that had already been cracked by her suggestive conversations and her open preference for his company, thus causing him to pull her to him, plunder her mouth, and press against her in such a lascivious manner that a modest maiden could well be forgiven for retreating from an embrace that appeared almost an assault, but this maiden was made of stern stuff and not only withstood the barrage of undiluted affection and admiration but was able to reciprocate as well as she received and even to indicate that more unbridled devotion and wanton longing would be welcomed.

We can well imagine that our hero, suffused by the charms of an enthusiastic witch, was able to make only primitive gropes that, despite bringing out delighted squeals disproportionate to their audacity and crudeness, did little to advance the action in progress to a mutually satisfying resolution, which placed the rational course of affairs in the hands of the witch who doggedly maneuvered her busy wizard into a chair where he at least had the presence of mind to lift her skirt, a move that had the two-fold effect of revealing amazing limbs that further enflamed him and of freeing those worthy legs to straddle him, and although we could hardly advocate the lady's actions, it is only just to note that in this case, as in most of life, it is only due to the efforts and guidance of the female that events can come to a successful conclusion.

A lovely lady in his lap and in a posture inviting behavior that bordered on improper caused both delight and confusion to our favorite professor: his imagination, hoping for this and more, was at war with his past experience that involvement with the opposite sex caused great pain, and his imagination, now running wild, was in conflict with his reason that told him his acquired, protective behavior was not likely to attract and hold a fair damsel; and these fears were in addition to the usual hesitancy in approaching a female due the eternal questions about what she really wanted; but his instincts, which where quickly surfacing, had him performing the minimum actions of embracing her and stroking her hair; and his admiration of her as a person, not to mention his adoration of her physical charms, had him murmuring endearments that, while not practiced or polished, were balms to her ear and bolstered her inclination to remove some restrictive garments whereupon he fastened himself upon her bosom with such hearty enthusiasm that both were transported to a new level of activity that sought a more nearly perfect union of body and spirit which they were ready to achieve once several last items of clothing no longer impeded them.

"Do you mind if I make love to you, if I make love to you while you have me?" she asked.

There was no immediate answer as the shock of entering Misako, accompanied by her moans of pleasure of at last receiving a wizard she had long wanted, preempted any rational response he might have had and flooded his nervous system with an ecstasy he had not known could be his. Misako, too, was not in command of all her faculties as she discovered how powerful it was when a wizard who already had captured her emotions captured her physical affection as well.

"Then all rational thought stopped as his dart of love scored a bulls-eye in her knickers," interjected Snorri.

"You're not helping," screeched Harmony.

Thus it was some time after she had completely accepted him that she was able to express, with tracing fingers and nibbling lips, her gratitude that he had accommodated her and to ask, with pleading eyes and begging kisses, that he possess her.

How tempting it is to write that despite being lost in the shining eyes, raven tresses, gripping thighs, lovely breasts, and welcoming sheath of a woman whose company was everything to him, our hero tended her with finesse and took her to the outer limit of bliss, but the simple fact of the matter is that he was lost, and being lost, his most basic instincts took over and his body responded quickly and eagerly to the matter at hand with the result that he made no effort to postpone the pleasures of mating that surged through him and into his receptive lover, and if the sad truth be told, his sense of completion stilled any regrets he may have had about his performance.

Misako, far from being unhappy, held him gently and whispered that she was glad they were lovers at last, and Misako, with a tenderness he did not know she was capable of, was coaxing him into reciprocating those small acts of fondness that mean so much to both parties when, to their surprise, they found him regaining his readiness which prompted him, after he was fully erect, to stand and, with Misako wrapped around him, walk over to the bed where, still inside her, he managed a comfortable arrangement that let him discover the delights of making love to a witch (screwing Misako's brains out): resting lightly in her total and gracious embrace (Misako sopping wet and parting for him), moving in an affectionate manner that rocked her in a gentle but compelling rhythm (Misako's feet waving in the air), enjoying her building tension accompanied by the sounds of pleasure and the murmurs of endearment (Misako groaning and slopping), seeing her become a little girl as her passion removed the signs of age (Misako's head tilted back and her face contorted), feeling her intense writhing as their coupling consumed her (Misako grunting and jerking in copulation), experiencing the intimate convulsions of her mating (Misako having an orgasm), and finally holding a woman as she snuggled in her afterglow (Misako flushed and sweaty and making a wet spot).

A few minutes later, seeking reassurance that she was special to him in a manner consistent with feminine modesty, she said, "I suppose I'm another of your many conquests."

The thick male, who possibly had some excuse because of recent events beyond his wildest expectations, merely shook his head no.

Taking the initiative in holding the relationship together, which so often falls to the female, and still hoping for a positive affirmation of some regard for her, she said, "You can summon some clean clothes and spend the night if you like."

She got only a questioning look.

Completely giving up on the male animal uttering a kind word or making some gesture that he wanted her companionship, she declared, "You seduced me. You should spend some time cuddling me." She paused. "You don't think we're going to keep this a secret, do you? In a magic castle?"

At last, her wizard, showing some life, said, "I'll be glad to stay if you like."

"Yes, I would like that," she said, thinking she better give a direct answer since any subtlety was obviously lost on him.

Misako was happy to discover that, once in bed, he would let her snuggle while Severus, expecting it to be uncomfortable and finding he did have to adjust, found contact with her soothing and he slept peacefully through the night. When they arrived together at the breakfast table the next morning, Severus was initially nervous about the reaction of the other castle inhabitants, but he soon relaxed as they greeted Misako and him and acted as they did any other morning, and in fact, the summer passed with everyone acting normally even though Severus believed something extraordinary was happening.

In order to mingle with non-wizard society if it became necessary, Miss Ogami had traveled by conventional aircraft, and now that it was time to return home, she had said farewell to everyone in the London wizard complex and traveled alone to the airport where, arriving early, she sat in a cafeteria overlooking the runways and sipped a final cup of British tea. She scribbled a few lines on a napkin, and when her flight was announced, she stuffed the napkin into the glass of ice water that obliterated the script as thoroughly as the return home would obliterate her stay on the magical island.

Can you hear the drums, my Severus?

Calling from your distant past it's time to go.

Recall the fire, my Severus,

Burning bright to hide the starlight in its glow.

Does duty call, my Severus?

Every hour every minute longs to be.

Turn your back, my Severus,

Not knowing everything you mean to me.

Can you say goodbye, my Severus?

Let me go and never think about our lives?

Farewell to you, my Severus.

We both are lost no matter who survives.

Harmony was proud of herself. Not only had she written the bothersome Misako Ogami out of the story, she had accomplished it in a manner that would make the readers happy to see her go. Misako had slipped under Snape's barbs instead of performing the dance of insults and the contest of wills for which the audience hungered; she had introduced Snape to the delights of the opposite sex but in such a natural and uninhibited manner that proper persons everywhere would be taken aback; and she had shown Snape that women could relate to his troubled past and be sympathetic, but she had done it easily without the drawn-out tension and multiple misunderstandings that a hero-heroine relationship needed to provide a decent plot. Harmony was particularly proud of the poem dissolving in the glass of ice water that gave the tale an artistic touch while, at the same time, identifying Misako as overly sensitive and with a streak of creativity that would certainly repel most wizards – especially if a fellow writer, that plagiaristic pig, was representative of the species.

Our favorite professor was now primed for the inimitable Hermione Granger.

Several hours later, there was another appraisal.

"No, no, no, no, no," raged Biff Barston when he read the opening to the third chapter. "Not another Granger-saves-Snape-from-the-alien-spores story. It even has the cliché of the spores delivered by a femme fatale."

His reasoning was straight forward. Miss Grayson had obviously written this section, and Biff knew that Miss Grayson would not stray from the formula romance. Anything else would alienate the readers. At most, if the story even acknowledged it, the formula romance had the dark hero commit his unfaithful dalliances off camera. The fact that Miss Grayson wrote it explicitly meant the dalliance had a dark and tragic side from which only the love, talent, and devotion of Miss Granger could save him.

Biff knew the story could take several directions as Miss Granger fought to save Severus from the spores and protect him from the consequences of his unpredictable personality changes.

But each had been done to death a thousand times over.

Biff Barston assumed the Hermione-saving-Severus theme came from the original. He supposed the saga began with Severus Snape, a brave but overwhelmed young wizard, failing to save the mother of his child from the Evil One. Severus would hide his love for his child under gruffness until, at the end, he would reveal himself and, in a grand act of redemption, help his son defeat the Evil One while seeming to give his own life doing so. But Hermione, a friend of his son who secretly loved Severus and who was the brightest witch of her age, would use incredible skill and devotion to save him.

Biff Barston tipped his hat in admiration. It had to be a well-crafted saga with scenes of great power. He would have to read it someday.

But people were continuously confusing Snape with that other dark hero, Lord Spock from 'Pride and Star Quest' who was always being chased by marriage-minded damsels because of his property and constantly being infected by behavior-altering, alien spores.

Biff hated it when people got the classics of literature confused.

Recalling the love he once had for his craft, he decided he would treat this as a challenge. No matter how hackneyed and brainless the plot, he would do his best to infuse it with new life and fresh insights.

"Miss Patil, not quite yet," rang a baritone voice like a bronze bell through a mountain village.

Padma paused and glanced at the instructions on the board. "Oh, right. Stir another minute before dropping in the ground beetle shells, sir."

About half the class paused in their premature addition of the beetle shells and, in the calming reverberation of the voice through the chamber, reread the instructions and profited thereby.

Ten minutes later, Miss Patil, along with the rest of the class, turned in a tube of arthritis-relief potion, shimmering a brilliant azure blue.

After lunch, the first-year Ravenclaws and Gryffindors awaited their first Potions lecture in a large, sunny, airy room that had materialized on the second floor of the castle. The instructor entered.

"Not many of you will like Potions because it is difficult and exacting, but if you have the talent, it is one of the more rewarding fields. It is the source of the household products you use everyday, and it is responsible for the healing draughts that contribute to the quality of a long wizard life. It is a major part of the economy with about one-hundred wizards engaged in research and refinement and about one-thousand wizards engaged in the production, delivery, and retailing of everything from broom polish to antidotes. A significant fraction of medical wizards specialize in diagnosing maladies and prescribing the appropriate potion."

The change had not gone unnoticed.

Ron Weasley knew what had happened. "Misako Ogami," he stated, recalling the raven tresses, the bright eyes, and the lithe figure. "But the effect is going to wear off, and it'll be worse than before." He was more convinced than ever that he should have been the one to host the visitor. On the other hand, there was Parvati of raven tresses, bright eyes, and nice figure.

"Hi, Parvati," he said at the breakfast table.

"Oh, hi, Ron. Say, have you heard about Professor Snape? Padma says he's become the best teacher she has."

"He's okay," said Ron.

"I wish I was taking Potions. Don't you just love those penetrating eyes that look right into you and understand? Do you think he'd notice a girl who wasn't in his class?"

Before she finished describing her fascination with the Potions master, Ron, with all the grace of an actor cut from a major scene, said, "Look, I think I'll join Harry. We need to schedule some practice."

"Okay. Bye, Ron," replied Parvati.

Parvati turned to the girl next to her. "Are you going to apply to be Professor Snape's assistant? I'm sure he'd choose you. Wish I was good at Potions. How many hours a week would you have to work?"

"He's looking for two people," said Hermione. "Each works two two-hour shifts a week between tea and dinner." Hermione gave Parvati her serious look. "Aren't you worried about his change in behavior?"

"Why? Because he's not being mean to everybody? My sister says he's stricter now than before, but he's helpful, and everyone is doing better."

"Are you sure this is the real Professor Snape?" asked Hermione.

Parvati began backing away. "Why wouldn't he be? Are you sure you're okay? You did get hit with an evil curse last spring." Parvati became accusing. "Just because he's a Slytherin doesn't mean he can't be a nice person. You should give other people a chance. I bet even Draco could be nice if he tried. I bet he'd be dreamy. He's smart and witty and good-looking, and more people would like him than like you. He wouldn't have to try hard to get any girl he wanted." Suddenly aware of what she was saying, Parvati clamped her hand over her mouth and ran out of the Great Hall.

Under normal circumstances, Hermione would be amused at Parvati evincing signs of a ferret in season, but there were serious matters at hand. She hadn't given much thought to spying, but she now recognized the harm a double agent could do. It occurred to her that previously it had been easy to tell the good wizards from the bad wizards because the bad wizards treated people cruelly. But if the bad wizards adapted a façade of good will, there was no telling what they could get away with. They could insinuate their way into power like warm honey flowing into the nooks and crannies of a muffin, and the wizard community would be toast. They could be doing so even as she sat at the breakfast table gossiping with Parvati and doing nothing.

She concluded it was an insidious plot, indeed, and something had to be done. It appeared up to her to capture the simulacrum and rescue the true Snape. It would be difficult if the simulacrum were nearly as powerful as the original. Nevertheless, it was the most serious attack yet made by their opponents. She had no choice, and her only chance was to ambush the fake-Snape. She hoped to take the simulacrum intact, but she reminded herself that it and its cohorts probably hadn't been gentle with Professor Snape. Not that treating the sarcastic twit gently was at the top of her list of demands for a better world. Realistic projection said that neither of her usual male partners would be adequate for this challenge and that she should be prepared to use her feminine wiles. The next morning, she, along with one-hundred other witches, paid more than usual attention to her grooming. That night, noticing the futility of her initial effort, she began practicing her stunning spells.

Older and wiser heads, as they would have us believe, were also considering the matter.

"You've both read the report, I assume," said Severus. He, Albus, and Minerva were having a private tea. He had delivered the results of the hospital examination early that morning.

"Alien spores," said Albus. "Sexually transmitted."

"Is there a cure?" asked Minerva. She was less enthusiastic about a cure than she wanted to admit. The Potions master was one of the few who were her equal, and now he was humane and charming instead of sarcastic and sadistic.

"This may offer us an opportunity," said Albus.

"You can't be thinking about taking advantage of this poor man's affliction," said Minerva.

"Imagine our opponents laid low by an attack of good will," said Albus.

"We would be spreading the disease," said Minerva. She turned to Snape. "I hate to say this, Severus, but we don't know the long-term consequences. It could be disabling or fatal."

"Our opponents intend to disable and kill us," said Severus, "but on the other hand, spreading the spores to them would increase the chances of the general population becoming infected."

None of the three mentioned the method of transmittal or how transmission could be aided by the appropriate potions.

"These spores are too dangerous to play with," stated Minerva, determined to oppose any scheme to the best of her ability.

"I think it's worth the risk," said Albus, determined to put his plan into action. He was mentally running through a list of opponents' wives and wondering which were best to put in Severus's path. He had no doubts about the seductive powers of the new Snape. He had seen the female student body react. To his credit, he did not consider using them. Well, more accurately, he hadn't considered it very long although staking out an infected Hermione Granger had its attractions.

Minerva was certain Albus was making another error in judgment. He hadn't been giving Harry Potter enough information and support, and now he was throwing Severus into the fray without thinking through the possible consequences. He was, once again, contending with inadequate means against formidable forces. Minerva decided that she had to eliminate any Death Eater witch infected by Severus, or at least hold the infected witch in stasis until a cure was found and the crises was over. She spent a significant part of the next morning in front of her vanity mirror thinking that a glamour might let her waylay a Potions master on his way to a Death Eater's wife – an act of self-sacrifice of course.

"I really admire your new classroom, Severus."

He paused on his way to lunch. "I don't know why I didn't realize earlier that plenty of light and excellent ventilation would make a good Potions lab."

"Have you chosen your lab assistants yet?" asked Minerva. "I'm tempted to apply myself. I could use a refresher in Potions, and some lucky girls, er, students, will get to work with you."

"I'm not certain they'll be so lucky."

"Oh, I am," she said. "In return, we could try some advanced transfigurations together."

"That's a thought," he said, walking to lunch with her.

In case this manuscript falls into the wrong hands and the reader is shocked, it can be mentioned that witches have a life-expectancy of one-hundred-fifty and that they age proportionately. If the reader's Arithmancy skills are as poor as some chroniclers who got a number of things very wrong, it can be added that a non-wizard would peg Minerva as being in her early thirties. She had, it is true, left the blush of youth behind, but some witches are more attractive in their middle age. She had also left behind some awkwardness although her ambition, her severe manner, and the social strictures of her profession had left her inexperienced with wizards.

The house-elves were cognizant of all the above immediately, and Biff, Wizard for Hire, was among them. He informed his employers and received the expected reply: stop Snape. The American officials had decided that it was to their advantage to prolong the civil war that continued to weaken Brit wizardry. They had long suspected that Miss Ogami was part of an underground movement seeking to bring an end to wars.

Biff also informed his employers that he needed a new cover. One more month as a house-elf and he would celebrate his own version of Guy Fawkes Day plus Fourth of July.

Snorri read the manuscript in despair. The next plot direction was clear, but what did he know about evil ladies? This section belonged to Miss Grayson with her personal insight into their psychology.

Fate oft takes a hand where plans fail.

To our dearest Professor Snape,

Two ladies of your long acquaintance find themselves both desiring and needing your kind services as an escort to a ball and social affair of some importance.

We beg a prompt and positive response.

Yours,

Two devoted and grateful servants.

Severus was thinking they were the wrong witches. He didn't have a chance with the rich bitch, Mrs. Malfoy, and he wasn't looking forward to dealing with her bitchier older sister. But he was also thinking it was a chance. He could circulate at the soiree and meet more amenable women.

He was puzzled by the small voice telling him that he should be gracious to Narcissa and Bellatrix since they had invited him and he consequently had the duties of a guest.

Out of his melancholy longing arose a solution to escorting the two Black sisters: he would pretend they were Misako and treat them accordingly. As a result, the two sisters had a marvelous time dancing and mingling. When the evening ended, they were reluctant to part with his company, and they asked him to escort them back to the Manor.

Narcissa wondered about Severus. Had he finally grown up and got over his schoolboy crush on a little red-haired girl? It would have been a great love story if it had turned him into a noble person, but it had turned him into a mean-spirited bully taking his disappointment with life out on helpless students. But word had traveled fast in the small wizard community about his transformation, and Narcissa was curious if the reported change was as genuine as it appeared to be this evening.

Bellatrix also wondered about Severus although she was concerned that he might no longer be a prospective partner. After some initial torture for her failure at the Ministry, the Dark Lord had excluded her from his company, and she ached for the proper attention. She had plans for a cruel Snape, but she despaired over a considerate one. Nevertheless, longing is always present in the human heart, and it was possible the polished exterior hid a cold soul grown all the more sadistic for being forced into concealment. She would play his game – up to a point.

"You've been a charming escort this evening," Bellatrix told Severus as they arrived at Malfoy Manor.

"You are too kind," he replied. "I think my manners are rusty."

"A little practice can cure that," she said, giving him a smile as they entered a cozy withdrawing room. "Cissy will be here in a minute. Can you stay for tea while we relax, or must you be back at school?"

"They expect me late; tomorrow is a Sunday; and I would love to relax over tea if I'm not intruding," said Severus, taking a comfortable chair.

Bellatrix sprawled across a couch and kicked off her shoes. "Then Cissy and I will have to save our vicious gossip for breakfast, so we don't harm your delicate ears."

Narcissa arrived and followed her sister's example of sprawling on a couch and kicking off her shoes. "I hear you're experimenting with new equipment, Severus."

Severus was thinking he must be missing Misako terribly because he had to make a conscious effort not to stare at their shapely ankles and calves.

Over a cup of tea, he tried to describe test tubes. Narcissa and Bellatrix looked puzzled when he asserted they let him concoct more precise potions. The two women were intrigued and wanted to hear more about it when they were more alert. There weren't any social occasions next weekend, but they hoped he could come and play quoits and croquet with them at the Manor. "Certainly," he said. They hoped they weren't too forward if they suggested a game of croquet tomorrow afternoon.

"A leisurely game in the open air would do us good after a strenuous ball and a stifling evening," said the two ladies.

"A capital idea," he said.

After he had left, Narcissa yawned and remarked that cultured and well-mannered wizards were a rare find while Bellatrix yawned and hoped his manners cultured a good and mean streak grown sly.

Back in his quarters at the castle, Severus was undressing and thinking that some intelligent, adult company would be good for him.

After the Sunday croquet game, Severus returned refreshed to find Albus asking how the plan was proceeding. Severus reported that everything was in hand, the best approach was slow and easy, no one was suspicious, and the scheme would catch the enemy unawares. When the old codger finally left, Severus consulted his calendar: more relaxing games in the sun and fresh air with two gracious ladies, another masked ball with attractive and witty women in abundance, and trips to some interesting places on the continent with Bellatrix in disguise. He was an honorable friend of the family, offering diversion and solace in a time of stress.

An equally fruitful meeting was taking place in a high tower of the castle.

"Would you consider recommending me to Professor Snape?" asked Hermione.

"Don't you think he's a bit old for you?" replied Minerva.

"I'm sorry," said Hermione. "Is he too old for me to be his lab assistant?"

"Oh, that," said Minerva.

"It's an excellent chance to review Potions and learn things not in the regular courses," said Hermione.

"I assure you, the regular courses have been well planned and contain everything you need," said Minerva.

"Yes, yes, of course," said Hermione.

"Besides," said Minerva, "I suggested to Professor Snape that some faculty interaction would be good. He welcomed my interest in potions and seemed interested in trying some transfigurations."

"But aren't you and the other faculty members already experts?" asked Hermione.

"Are you suggesting that we are too old to try new things and have exciting adventures?" asked Minerva.

"No, professor," said Hermione.

Hermione left thinking the old bat would never see forty again while Minerva lamented that the only intellectually qualified student was too innocent for the current fracas.

Pomona was willing to recommend several wizards while Filius could choose five good candidates from the bevy of witches that had sought his support. Severus decided to think about the applicants over the weekend – a weekend that would test his thesis that he was an honored friend of the family.

"I could have sworn your ball was further away," said Snape as he watched Bellatrix knock her ball into his and then send his ball out of the court and down the hillside.

The third time it happened, with the two witches making an effort to keep a straight face, he became suspicious.

"Aha," he said, twirling suddenly to catch Bellatrix's ball moving along the ground. He had seen the telltale movements of a wand under her cloak.

Severus knew the rules of chivalry, and he knew the ladies knew the rules of chivalry, and he knew, and they knew, the rules of chivalry did not extend to croquet. He glared at Bellatrix.

"I've been a bad witch," she said.

He clutched his mallet and ground his teeth.

"I deserve to be punished," she said.

"Yes," he found himself saying.

"If you can't find it in your heart to forgive me, you should spank me now and get it over with," she said. "I beg you to not let it fester until your righteous wrath turns to cruelty."

This was taking a strange turn, but the memories of trudging after his ball after he was certain it was aligned for a winning shot and the disappointment of a perfect afternoon for croquet ruined overcame his prickling sense of being drawn into a game not of his choosing.

"Now is fine," he said.

"If your soul is so hardened that you must have revenge, then grant me the courtesy of retiring to a private place where I can retain a shred of dignity," she said, taking his hand and leading him into the Manor and hence to her bedroom.

Severus was momentarily at a loss, but he fell back upon a solid pillar of his existence: he was a secret fan of Buffalo Biff. It had been ages since a new episode had appeared in the magazine, but he had internalized the simple, stern ethics, and The Code of the West knew what to do with people who cheated at croquet. A spell he had performed many times turned his wand into a buggy whip.

Crack Yee Haw! Crack

The occasion demanded a ten-gallon Stetson, boots with spurs, a cloak, and no more. Visions of a lone, misunderstood, but intrepid wizard galloped through his head as he galloped around the room.

Mule train, Hyah, Hyah, Crack

Clippetty-clop, clippetty-clop, clippetty-clopping along.

There's a load of bonded sherry for The Horse and The Duck.

There's a wand made of cherry for a wizard out of luck.

There's a crate full of bagpipes for to play a marching song.

Mule train, Clippetty-clop, clippetty-clop. Get along.

Hyah. Crack Crack

"What about me?" complained Bellatrix.

"I need a star," said Severus.

"Yes, you can have a star. You're the Deputy Marshall," she said.

"I'm placing you under arrest, ma'am. You seduced the bank vice-president for the combination to the safe. You swiped the deed to the Widow Hardy's apple spread, nicked the silver from the payroll wagon, and laced the sherry at The Horse and The Duck with LSD."

"Fond memories all, love," cackled Bellatrix.

"Under Sub-Galactic Code, Section 912, Paragraph B, you are due to receive numerous lashes and assorted personal indignities."

He waved his whip-wand. Bellatrix found herself face down and spread-eagled on the bed with her wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts. She had a moment of doubt about dismissing the rumors that Severus had gone wonky. Now she wasn't so confident. Sub-Galactic? What adult wizard spouted that nonsense?

He snapped the whip-wand, and Bellatrix was left with only her most enticing garment. "I must say, ma'am, you certainly do justice to black silk. Yee Haw."

Bellatrix decided he was a man of direct action and judicious taste and the rumors about his going wonky were exaggerated.

Severus, The Lonely Wizard, sat on the footboard of the bed, letting the tip of the whip run over the body of an apprehensive lady.

"It ain't right, but I'm goin' t' have to drive my mules hard tonight," he soliloquized to the stars above. "Some varmint done contaminated the sherry at The Horse and The Duck, and if'n I don't get this shipment to those thirsty railroad workers in time, there's gonna be a rumble."

He cracked the whip in the air. Bellatrix screamed.

Bellatrix didn't feel the blow. She concluded she was hurt badly enough that the injured part of her body had become numb. She winced as he trailed the whip down her back, seeking the next place to strike. He brushed the end of the whip across her silk-clad bum. She tried not to react, but he watched the delectably-shaped silk move.

He thought it time for a series that built to a crescendo of thundering hoofs and ended with a wild ride.

She felt the tip of the whip on the inside of her left knee and knew he was taking careful aim. Snick. There was nothing. The tip of the whip must have cut like a razor blade. She felt the tip of the whip on the inside of her right knee and knew he was, once again, taking careful aim. Snick. Once again, there was nothing.

The Dark Lord had once made a string of razor cuts up her back that she did not immediately feel. Then he watched her body twist in its bonds as the wounds registered. He watched her face contort as she tried not to scream. She had broken and sobbed as he leered at her.

Now, she tried to control herself, but her body knew what was happening, and it writhed as the whip made its way up her thighs. Stroke. Snick. Stroke. Snick. She was breathing hard when the whip paused, halfway to the junction of her legs. There was a smart snap on each of the globes of her ass, so sudden and unexpected that she cried out.

The whip returned to teasing the inside of her thighs. Stroke. Stroke. He watched her desperate dance, and he watched the expanse of black silk between her legs develop a wet streak. She knew her knickers were getting wetter and wetter. She thought it was blood.

The lady was groaning and moving with the ballet of the whip. Stroke. Snick. It reached the black silk.

Bellatrix had never experienced such delicate and diabolical agony. Her husband's touch, whether erotic or punishing, had always been clumsy. The Dark Lord's tortures had been exquisite, but they had not left her longing for more. Now, she was sure she was going to die from the last whiplash and die if the next didn't arrive soon. The vicious instrument trailed up between her legs and flicked the tender spot between them. She moaned and struggled in her bonds. There was another flick of the vicious and achingly blissful whip. And another. She could not endure another. When it came, she yelled.

Bellatrix Lestrange's toes curled, and the black silk expanse between her legs became dark with its soaking wetness.

Severus was caressing her. The Dark Lord, too, had caressed her after torture. She was still lying face down and waiting for the numbness to wear off and the deep cuts to make themselves known. She was waiting for the pain. But this torture-euphoria was unlike anything the Dark Lord had produced.

And the Dark Lord had never removed her restraints and her knickers and said, "Spread your legs, sweetheart."

The servant of the Dark Lord did what she thought she would never do again. She spread her legs in invitation. She gave the wizard between her spread legs an affectionate look and pushed herself across the sheet toward him. When he touched her wet entrance, it told her to move closer. She inched toward him, causing a parting of puffy lips, and the parting lips told her to sigh and arch her back which brought him inside her which made her moan and spread her legs wider and wiggle closer to him until he was buried in her. The whip was right: there was the offer of all the delights in her knickers. Severus deigned to let the senior Black sister impale herself. It wasn't so bad – the moving of muscles in her shapely legs, the arching of her elegant back, the twisting of her cute bum, the inviting depths of her sex, the look of surprise on her face.

Bellatrix was doing a slow squirm that caused the tip of the wizard to rub a special place inside her. Someone was making a wet noise and softly moaning. Severus was calmly accepting the sacrament of the witch he was capturing. She was thinking that neither the Dark Lord nor anyone else had done anything so healing, so compelling, and so intense that she never wanted it to stop, but just when it became unbelievably good, a liquid bliss spread from her spine to her brain and then to the rest of her. The wet noise and soft moaning was replaced by the sound of heavy breathing.

The wizard accepted the witch clenching and drenching him. He began easing in and out of her, now wetter and more demure, as she let him enjoy all the charms of a classy lady.

"Sweetheart," he told her. He brushed the hair back from her face. He wanted to look at his lady as he mated with her.

Severus shot his load of sperm and spores into Bellatrix – daughter of purebloods, wife of Rodolphus, servant of the Dark Lord, and craziest nooky west of the Firth of Forth. Yee Haw.

As he drew the bath water, she examined her backside in the mirror. "The skin's not broken. I don't see any welts. I'm barely pink, and I think that's from sex."

Severus paused in testing the water temperature. "You sound both disappointed and grateful."

"I don't know what to think," she said.

"You'll have to work it out," he said.

Bellatrix bit her lower lip and gathered her thoughts. "Let me adjust."

She thought sleeping together was silly, bourgeois, and dashed inconvenient. Severus told himself that perhaps it was for the best that he not become too entangled with her life, and he retired alone after setting his wards.

An hour after midnight, an alarm jolted him out of a sound sleep; he grabbed his wand and rolled out of bed, ready for action. It was Bellatrix entering his room.

"I'm having nightmares," she said, a bit puzzled why she was telling Severus her problem. She couldn't imagine anyone helping her.

He climbed back into bed and motioned for her to join him. Since she had bothered him, she didn't think it was proper to just leave, and there weren't many options, so she did join him. Once in bed, she could hardly refuse when he coaxed her into cuddling. What could he do to her that he hadn't already done? She thought that maybe she could relate some of the horrors and return to her own room, but simply being snuggled around him was soothing, and she decided to relax a while and then leave.

She woke in his arms with the early sun streaming through the window. She greeted the house-elf who was placing the morning tea on the bedside table and turned to the lump beside her.

"Severus? Sweetie?"

He opened one eye, and she handed him a cup of tea. He added early-riser to her list of psychoses.

He looked cute in the morning. It wouldn't hurt to give him a friendly kiss, nothing too lascivious. She thought it friendly. He was muttering about spilling his tea – what a grump. She placed his tea back on the stand, thinking he had better use for his hands. She tried a more intense nibble now that the cups were out of the way. This was pleasant. And his hands were now free to hold someone who was just being friendly – a little wake-up ritual. How comfortable to hug and nuzzle a little. He should wake up and hug back. Oh, yes, he was. She could snuggle in close against him, and he was warm and comfortable and kissing her. She could press her breasts against him – they had been so neglected. She offered them to his lips. Surely, he could do one little thing for them, for her. Oh, my. That was better than she thought it would be. There was a stirring below her navel that wanted more. Certainly she could kiss him passionately if she liked, especially after what he had done to her last night. He didn't seem to mind, but she didn't know what to do with the ache between her legs. Maybe if she showered affection on him, he would do something. She let her lips move down his torso until they found his erection – a lovely, lovely erection. She let her lips and tongue tend it. Oh, it was hard and slick, and then he was lifting her head to kiss her and pulling up her nightgown, and his hand under her knee was opening her thighs, and there was her aching, aching self, and he was in. He had slid in so easily, so easily, and she had made an animal sound when it entered her. She knew he was looking in her eyes, watching her turn soft, drinking in her sweet sadness at yielding, listening to her panting moans as she waited for the strokes that would take her. When his insistent moves began, she was kissing his eyes, his nose, his mouth as her inner core warmed. She moved for him as a primitive part of her accepted him and welcomed him. She heard herself whimper with the piercing pleasure of being taken. She smiled. Sheer, feral lust shot through her, and she was not aware of her last desperate cries and frantic moves before her system blanked out from overload.

When the world returned, she was one with it and her lover.

Then all of last night and this morning connected in her mind as she held him in her peace and stillness. She, Bellatrix Black Lestrange, had a lover. The world was different – nothing had changed – everything was wrong – her life was better. She would have to deal with it, but first things first. "I'm off to the loo, love," she said.

Severus sat on the edge of the bed. His thoughts kept returning to Misako, the idyllic summer, the impossibility of joining her in the States because he was needed in the current conflict, and the impossibility of her remaining with him because he was caught between both sides in the coming cataclysm. He was thinking that some kind of sex was better than no sex, but Misako had spoiled him. He wanted sex graced with romance. Now, he was in the clutches of a witch who was witty, energetic, good in bed, and whacko. He was getting tired of his life being destroyed because of a power-hungry sociopath.

"Curse you, Dark Lord. Curse Evil. Curse Wickedness."