Fifteen: The Unbreakable Vow

December 1996

I despise the holidays. As a rule I would never deign to attend a Christmas party save on direct order from Dumbledore. (He was not above this unique form of torture.) This year, however, Horace Slughorn's annual revel held the tantalising prospect of observing Miss Granger in more exciting attire than the shapeless school uniform. Given this exceptional circumstance, I made an uncharacteristic show of courtesy in accepting his invitation.

I had discovered her plan to attend the affair several days prior, as a result of an unfortunate incident involving several illegal potions that I had confiscated from a giddy gaggle of empty-headed girls in the hallways. I had idly set the contraband upon the extra desk, where they were quickly forgotten until that evening when Miss Granger entered for one of our final meetings before the end of term. Greeting me in the typical fashion, she sat down to her work, but I still failed to register the nature of my gaffe till some minutes later when I heard a sudden gasp...

She was sniffing an opened phial and turning a fiery shade. "Is this for me?"

I leapt up – too hastily – and snatched from her the offending flasks, inadvertently brushing her fingers and upsetting a candle in the process. Hot tallow spread over her desk.

"Of course not. Have you lost your senses? Sniffing an unidentified substance – I ought to serve you detention; you know better than that."

"It's a love potion," she breathed.

"There is no such thing," I hissed.

By this time I had fled to the other side of the room. It was terribly obvious: Her foolish inhalation of the offending vapours had had a calefacient effect. A warm pink had inflamed her cheeks, her pupils grown wide . . . Sweet Circe, my folly!

I felt I must explain: "Your classmates were carting these round in the hallways, and I took them away. The holidays have made you children all muddle-headed, smuggling in things like this."

"Well, it wasn't me! They're meant for Harry. Professor Slughorn's party – all the girls want to go with him... I mean, I don't, of course; he's like my brother. Are you going?"

"I do not attend Christmas parties."

She fell silent and set to cleaning her desk while I undertook the proper labelling and shelving of the illegal substances (which were to be archived along with a Lappish lungfish I had confiscated from Miss Prufrock). In the bottle labelled Pollywog Powder, there was in fact the Amaranth Ale; in the InstaFog phial, the Daemiana; unlabelled bottles held the Damsel's Delight and the Salomé No.9.

This endeavour failing to adequately distract me, I sat and shuffled through the post, picking up what appeared to be a Christmas card upon my desk. Could it be . . . ?

Seasons Greetings, Mr Snape, from the Apothecary!

Gordon Smallweed

(Where did I know him from? Ah yes, I remembered him now: Hufflepuff, A student, family of particularly low degree. I read the last bit:)

Postscript: It has come to our attention that your last transaction, on the twenty-sixth of September 1995, involved a cancellation of one order of five hundred doxy eggs. Regarding the recent changes in egg viability, we at the Apothecary are committed to product improvement and we have consulted Britain's foremost expert on fairy evolution, Dr Ebeneezer MacFusty. I have included his illuminating response: "Due to a latent fault in the bloodline, a deleterious trait has emerged in the global supply strain, whereby the self-protective venom normally produced by adult doxies develops precociously in the eggs and destroys them."

Dr MacFusty assures us that this is a natural process. A periodic purge of this sort may be necessary for the life of the colony to go on. We at the Apothecary are in search of new strains and feel certain a solution is right around the corner. In the meantime, why not try instead the closely related imp eggs...

Preposterous prattle. As if one could simply substitute the one thing for the other! I tossed it in the fire; this was Slughorn's problem now.

My subsequent efforts at concentration were equally fruitless. I shuffled a quire of manuscripts and tried to look anywhere but at Miss Granger's desk, where she sat buried in Quintessence: A Quest. A slash of colour in the corner caught my eye: There had entered a stray canary – no doubt a remnant of student Transfiguration revision sessions. It had managed to make its deviant way down to the dungeons, and it now darted from stone nook to shelf along the office wall, scattering little fountains of dust as it went. In and out of the shadows it glinted, a garish luteous yellow. The door lay wide open, but the poor bird could not seem to locate it.

A descending dust-cloud brought a whiff of birch to me: The Salomé No.9 must have been improperly bottled, I thought and hurried back to the shelf to replace its seal.

"Damn those Weasley boys; they are making a fortune off these," I muttered, not without envy – a skilled and ambitious potioneer could earn rather a lot of money if he weren't indentured to Hogwarts.

She made a funny, muffled noise and I looked up. To my astonishment, she was crying. Hastily averting my eyes, I returned to my desk while she attempted to stifle the sound. I had not caused her tears in over a year. What could I have done to offend her? Was this an odd side effect to the Damsel's Delight? Did she require a Draught of Peace?

I was quite at a loss. At last, I said stiffly, "Are you hurt?" The words sounded sharp in my throat.

Her eyes shied away. "It's nothing."

"Liar. Tell me."

She sniffled an apology and something about a row with Weasley.

I stared. "Weasley?" Surely she didn't fancy one of them, did she? How remarkably out of character that would be.

She mumbled something about Miss Brown. "Do you think it's because she's a pure-blood?"

Pure-bloods again! "Do I think what, exactly?"

"I mean . . . why he's so into her."

"What makes you think I know anything about Weasley's sexual preferences?" I said irritably. "Perhaps you ought to discuss this with him and not me."

"I-I can't. I know I should, I know, but I just can't do it. I guess I could write him a letter..."

"Can he even read?"

She glared at me. "...but that would be cowardly."

"I see." I didn't.

". . . What do you think of Lavender Brown?"

She was treading into dangerous waters indeed. I said evasively, "She smiles too much."

She continued woefully to herself, "Everyone knows the jokes about Muggle-born women. Martians and mushrooms and all that. Even wizards from open-minded families . . . It's the wizarding culture. They've been conditioned to prefer other pure-bloods, haven't they?"

"Never underestimate the appeal of heterosis," I muttered.

"What?"

"Never mind."

She was trying to discreetly wipe her nose on her sleeve. I cleared my throat and added, "I'm certain it's nothing to do with blood. The Weasleys are universally known for their . . . tolerance."

Her little bow mouth turned downwards in anger. "No, it's not blood at all, is it? Wizards want beautiful witches that will put out, is that it?"

That was surely much closer to the truth, and I unwisely told her so. "Big help you are," she snapped and turned away. Several minutes later, she was still sniffling and gazing disconsolately at the wall when the desperate canary, in a mad thrust for freedom, flew over her head and out the door.

I ought to have bade her cease such detestable boohooing and take her adolescent problems elsewhere, but something – a stray surge of oxytocin perhaps – stayed my tongue. Ignoring a tentative ache against my ribcage, I lent her a handkerchief, decided I must attend the Slughorn soirée, and thanked Merlin my Slytherins did not often require this sort of awkward consolation.

"Please – please don't tell anyone," she implored from across the desk. Her long lashes were matted; in her blurred eyes there was real pain. I noticed her blouse was missing a button.

I said gravely, "I am the soul of discretion."

* * *

A horrible visceral throbbing from the Wireless greeted my reluctant entrance to Slughorn's office. A sizable crowd already glutted the humid room, which had been Engorged beyond recognition and reeked of hashish. A quick scan revealed that Miss Granger had not yet arrived and that the old Potions master had spared no expense: Spun-glass baubles bobbed on spruces. Gold and green ribbons of tinsel waved along the walls. Long damasked tables, stuffed with a prodigality of dishes and drink, were lit by elf-candles. Suspended aloft was a fairy-filled specular sphere the size of Rubeus Hagrid's head, spinning and spewing red flecks of light every which way.

The attendant elves¹ had been ordered, on pain of permanent clothes, to don for the evening red or green stocking caps tipped with golden bells, and they now flowed like a grumbling, tinkling current underfoot, serving the hors d'oeuvres. A platter of langue du chat went by, as did another of Elysian Eclairs (courtesy of Ambrosius Flume), some high-protein Flobberworm fritters (one of Humphrey Belcher's new products), and a tureen full of something that looked like toadspawn.

No one seemed suspicious of my presence, possibly because I had made it very clear to Horace that my attendance would be of a purely proctorial nature. "Naturally," Slughorn had cheerily replied without further ado. Albus had been a bit more reserved in his judgement.

"Horace tells me you'll be attending his Christmas party," he commented after a staff meeting.

"I hardly have a choice if I am to find out what Draco is up to."

He raised an enquiring eyebrow. "I doubt he will make the invitation list."

My camouflage was prepared. "No. But consider his recent attempt with the cursed necklace. He may see large gatherings as opportunities. The students . . . will be vulnerable there."

He looked unconvinced. I continued resentfully, "Or is the Hogwarts student body no longer as important as when you extracted my promise to protect them?"

Albus said softly, "I was merely hoping you were going for fun."

'Fun' would hardly describe the pandemonious mess I now beheld. Most of the adult guests were wandering haphazardly about, undoubtedly waiting for Potter to arrive. They were the usual lot of Slughorn collectibles: There was Skandalus Morke, upper-crust Slytherin patron, in his gabardine suit; Jo Wheatley, chief cereologist of the annual International Gardening Competition, dancing with Pierce Vale, Certified D.M.G.; the vampire Sanguini and his leech, Worple; Dahlia Fowles, owner of Pribbles and Prabbles, deep in conversation with Vivian Darkbloom, the popular 'witch-lit' novelist; Belcher making quite a stir by sporting his other new product, Thestral-skin breeches. (Thank Merlin for small consolations: They were visible to me.) Several I did not recognise: a man with a waxed moustache and a mutch who was drinking like an Abraxan, a strutting old witch with a wattle and a mask of peacock feathers. I was the only Death Eater present.

Nor were the children of Death Eaters invited, it seemed: Malfoy, Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle were unsurprisingly absent. Slughorn's selection of students instead comprised most of Hogwarts's best bootlickers, who were now taking advantage of the open bar and well into the early stages of inebriation: Misses Weasley and Windermere were falling all over themselves bobbing for 'poisoned' apples; Mr Hodge and Miss Coverly were making their unsteady way to the mistletoe; a far too enthusiastic round of blind man's bluff was taking place in the corner.

The collector himself, hiding his paunch under a lustrine smoking jacket, was as always puffing and blowing in the thick of it all, flourishing a tumbler and jiggling round several well-tweezed young witches who were mouthing along as the Wireless blared:

"For my sweetie, a wand of lignum vitae . . . "

I slid to the wall, vowing to tear his molluscan throat out if he ever leered that way at Miss Granger. (He had always had an eye for the beautiful girl, not to mention a fondness for awarding her all the credit – even if it was obvious that at least half of her insights had come directly from me.) As I edged round the periphery for more complete reconnaissance, crude shards of conversation and lyric intruded:

"...My dear Gala, let me introduce you to Papirus, my Ghost writer..."

"...wood of life, good enough for Merlin's wife..."

"...incurable Mugglephilia! Have you seen his scar? He loves showing it off..."

"...He's missing a few Knuts, I think..."

"...Don't fret, dear; they're very common. I've got some wart remover in my purse..."

"...I've been in the business for twenty years, and let me tell you, I know it when I see it..."

"...Other witches may settle for softer goods, but give me a nice, strong wood..."

"...Severus!" Slughorn was beetling his way toward me. "There you are! You're looking sharp tonight. Dressed again as a lump of coal, I see!" He gave a hearty, self-congratulatory laugh, jowls and velvet hat-tassels shaking. "I can tell you haven't yet partaken of my garden of earthly delights. Come, have a tipple . . . You haven't seen Harry, have you? He's the star of the show tonight. You don't know how many girls have been trying to wheedle love potions out of me..."

"You know, you really should not be throwing that word around. The students are becoming confused."

"Oho! Yes, the students! Of course they are. At that age, lust and love are practically synonymous. They don't realise that some things are impossible to imitate. In fact, I seem to remember..."

But I was no longer listening. Hermione had entered the room.

I could not have prevented the involuntary rush of blood that overtook me at that moment, for it was indeed Hermione – not Miss Granger, mere teaching assistant, but a full-fledged young witch of perilous beauty. Who was this creature? Her dress – some vaporous, nearly transparent thing (I had never seen so much of her skin) – and what had she done to her hair? There remained not a trace of frizz in the curls that now framed her face, those perfect, sinuous locks falling atop her bare shoulders.

Less impressive was her choice of escort – seventh-year Cormac McLaggen, a boorish brute of mediocre talent who was by no means any improvement over a Weasley. He was trying to take her by the arm, but she seemed to be paying him little attention. Her glance darted round the room, and she gave a girlish wave to several other students before she saw me. Did I imagine, for the briefest second, a sparkle in her eye upon meeting mine, before her purulent date dragged her behind Major Tweedy and Colonel Starbottle?

"Excuse me," I mumbled and slipped off through the crowd after her receding form. Alas, I was afforded only a brief caudal view before McLaggen secreted her away round the corner behind a livid bit of shrubbery and a cloud of green smoke from the Warlocks' Creaothceann Restoration Campaign.

I took up station behind the beverages table for a wider angle, fixing my eye, sullen and stealthy, on the shrub and the potential threats to Miss Granger as they moved round the bloated room: Slughorn, Darkbloom, Sanguini².

It seemed as if hours passed. The Wireless racket was replaced by live plinking and twanging from the Shropshire Mandolin Ensemble, though it was nearly impossible to pick out a tune from the increasingly cacophonous buzz of the crowd. Potter made his grand entrance, followed by his goggling, overly painted entourage. An impromptu game of 'Which Witch to Switch' erupted with boisterous cheers and died just as quickly as one of the witches in question cast a well-aimed Impetigo. Mr Eldritch and Mr Fleming lingered too long within earshot, debating which concoction was strongest, pointing out witches, and recounting hyperbolic tales of sexual prowess, complete with erroneous anatomical details and highly improbable measurements.

"Are you still seeing her?" said the gullible, envious Fleming.

"Nah, mate, she kept saying that women want proper dates . . ." They moved away as Sybill Trelawney stumbled up.

"The brined roe is delightful. Have you tried it?" she said, turning her bottle-eyeglasses towards me and pushing a foul-smelling dish in my direction. I politely declined, but she was undeterred. "Severus, have you given any thought to my prophecy of the other night?" she said, referring to a one-sided conversation over last week's dinner that I only half-remembered. Something about an old fairy tale. "The night is coming."

"I'd say it's here already." I tried to inch away and wondered if she were sloshed enough not to notice a discreetly cast Silencio.

"There will be a door, but you will not have the key. And . . . a trap. Yes, there will be a trap. You will set it yourself."

I examined the assemblage of social lubricants on the table before me: Madame Rosmerta's oak-matured metheglin, Pure Alma cider for the weak of stomach, elf-made wine for more discriminating palates, Old Ogden's for the traditionally-minded, essence of arillus for those who liked to play dangerously, and several obscenely-coloured fruit cordials. Hoping to numb the sudden pain in my ears, I reached for familiar solace: the old aqua vitae, water of life. Giving the bottle a habitual sniff for toxic substances (excepting the ethanol, of course), I procured a clean glass from Slughorn's house-elf (Sniggly, her name was, wasn't it?) and poured several decent-sized fingers.

Several sips later, I was starting to despair. Where was Miss Granger? Had she not yet managed to give that lout the slip? And what was she doing with him anyway? The evidence of their incompatibility was overwhelming: His mind was far her inferior; he had the refinement of a Blast-Ended Skrewt, no ambitions whatsoever aside from Quidditch, and little interest in hers, it seemed. Was it purely physical? I suddenly recalled that the mistletoe was located precisely in the corner where they were hidden.

"Have you seen Harry Potter?" said Sybill mistily. "I must tell him about the wandmaker."

Oh, why had I even bothered to come? What did I think to gain? It was all talk of Potter or the usual drunken drivel. I was only putting myself even more at her mercy. What pathetic obsession! Enough of this useless passion! Better that I had stayed in the dungeon with the other dead creatures.

"He's over there," I grumbled.

I was mulling an excuse to slip away and return to my cave when at last my reward surfaced: a rosily flustered Miss Granger pelting away from a distinctly disgruntled McLaggen. Dress flowing, mane flying, she darted through the crowd like fugitive prey and disappeared, only to emerge seconds later with Potter and Lovegood in tow. They wound their way through the clotted mass of teeming bodies – straight towards me.

She stopped at the table before me. Scooping herself an inappropriately large chaliceful of mead, she flung her hand up towards the ceiling and huffed, "Is that all boys care about? Cormac hasn't asked me one single question about myself, no, I've just..." She turned and I could not catch the remainder until she suddenly cried, "...oh no, here he comes!"

In an instant, she had thrown herself into my secluded corner and, falling right into me, gasped, "Oi! Professor! Can I hide with you back here?"

"I suppose so," I murmured blandly, quite pleased at this fortuitous turn of luck. "Warn me if Trelawney approaches," I added, taking a fiery swig.

She forced a nervous laugh. I noticed that she had hastily stepped backward, as if she feared physical contact. Was I so repulsive? Had I neglected some detail of personal hygiene? Or did she suspect my true motive? Perhaps I should not have tidied my hair. She was being suspiciously quiet. Where was her usual 'Babbling Beverage' chatter? Could she not say something? Anything?

A horrible thought occurred to me: She might be waiting for me to speak. Was she waiting for me to ask her something about herself, as she had hinted to Potter she wanted? I rejected this course of action immediately, as it would only prove I'd been snooping. But should I not say something? I could hardly mention how lovely she looked. Deriding her Neanderthal of a date seemed in poor taste. Mentioning the shipment of double-ended efts that had finally come in would only remind her of how old and dull I was.

Seconds ticked by. Was there not some protocol for these sorts of encounters? My hands hung unnaturally at my sides; what did one normally do with them at moments like this? She held her brimming cup at her side, and I had the irrational urge to test it for poison. What if Potter had slipped her something? Could that explain her sudden shyness? (One of those shoddy Weasley brews may not have much effect, but a well-brewed Amortentia – perhaps with just an extra touch of Ashwinder eggs... Could he have stolen from my stores? One trembled merely to imagine what such a potion could do! ) Setting my own empty goblet aside in despair, I stood in stiff silence, feeling as if a Snitch were stuck in my throat, all too aware of her bare shoulders at my side.

The room was getting uncomfortably warm. The rough edge of my collar chafed at my neck; sweat clung to my groin. Fairies whizzed unpredictably past us, fluttering madly up to the ceiling like time-lapsed constellations. McLaggen stalked by in complete ignorance of Miss Granger's presence beside me. Others surged round our cramped space, pushing her closer to me until at one point, mere inches separated me from her small but exquisitely fine breasts, the details of which I could nearly discern through the gauze of her dress. Sly side-glances brought me further, heretofore hidden, details: the curve of an instep, the gentle sacral arch, the delicate sternal sulcus.

She was now sipping her mead very quickly. How she must despise being trapped back here with the old chaperone – Snape the slimeball, Snape the overgrown bat – instead of with her band of heroes. She was starting to look a bit dejected; was she preparing to flee once again? Wiping a paralysed palm on the fabric of my thigh, I knew I must speak, deliver some sort of properly teacheresque compliment before I went mad. Young witches appreciated compliments, did they not? Perhaps one or two could be strategically employed. Something that might encourage her to linger a bit longer...

Think! What could Snape possibly say to a beautiful witch? I must take the right tone . . . Miss Granger, your lovely dress is very much in the way . . . I could easily use it to tie your wrists . . . Miss Granger, how do you feel about fellatio? Fancy a vigorous fuck on the dungeon floor?

"Are you all right?" she said.

"I am fine," I snarled, crossing my hands over my shameful lap.

She gave a sudden start, and I followed her stare – from across the room MacLaggen had spotted her. In a moment, she had turned towards me, and her words tumbled out: "Would you like to dance?"

There was a breathless pause as my heart wobbled traitorously. Every sense in me leapt to obey. But I harboured no illusions. With careful scorn, I said, "Do my ears deceive me? A dance with Queen Granger? How utterly . . . charitable of you. Tell me, if I call your little bluff, and you are forced to dance with the greasy git, who shall bear the greater shame? Miss Granger or her boyfriend? And by the way, have you just taken a Hair-Raising Potion?"

Her dark eyes had lit up. As I attempted to collect my scattered wits, she listed towards me, and the sudden souffle of her scent hinted at barely imaginable pleasures. She said softly, "You're dodging the question, Professor..."

...but before she could grant me the thrill of my name in her mouth, Slughorn's great adipose arm came snaking into our lovely little hidey-hole and snatched me away. Oh, the indignity! All of a sudden, the sweaty appendage was around my shoulder and a hot sour breath on my chin, and I found myself exposed to a gathered group of motley spectators whom I do not even recall in the discordant whirl of events that followed:

Firstly, my ardour chilled as rapidly as if I had been plunged into the Great Lake just outside (a fate that would have been much preferable to a Slughorn embrace, which can only be likened to being hit by a side of beef). Following this, his series of alarming comments in praise of Potter's performance in Potions obliged me to turn my attention to the boy, who was clearly up to something suspicious and had thoroughly duped the Potions master in the process. Even if Granger – the only Outstanding in Potions last year – was feeding him every instruction, even if Lily's spirit had suddenly awoken in him, he could not possibly acquire the level of genius claimed by Slughorn. Certainly not with the old man's Procrustean pedagogy and that rusty old textbook. Better than me, even, he had claimed.

Perhaps I could have avoided future calamity had I the chance to properly deal with Potter, but at that complicated moment, the arrival of Draco Malfoy threw all into chaos.

Filch was dragging him in by the ear. The music ground to a halt; the dancers stilled. Dimly aware of whispers going through the crowd – "the Mark", "his father", "Azkaban" – and Potter watching me like a Hippogriff, I felt the blood drain from my face, the hairs on my forearm rise in the useless vestigial reflex. Draco had been in an upstairs corridor, Filch had said. Had my time run out? Was the hour come round at last? Or had another student been harmed? Miss Granger's face came swimming up through my mind. I had a variety of antidotes on my person, of course, but the new initiate would no doubt be experimenting with only the Darkest sort of magic. What would it be this time?

Struggling to erase the fear from my expression, I swiftly ushered the boy out of the party and into a nearby classroom, and there ended any hope of speaking to Miss Granger again.

Draco was a mess. Gone was the petulant air of the privileged, clever child; in its place was a gaunt, desperate young man who had lost any trust he might have once had in his Head of house. There was liquor on his breath, days-old lacquer in his hair. He would tell me nothing, and he shrank from me, retreating into the remains of his pride and bellowing like a cornered beast in terror. I was forced to resort to Legilimency (expressly pre-authorised by the Headmaster), but he blocked even that. (Bella's tricks. His mad banshee of an aunt, an able Legilimens herself, had clearly been tutoring the boy.) I could glean only that his plan, whatever it was, seemed not to be ready yet.

Even as I breathed in relief, I found a part of myself reflecting on what emotions the boy must be Occluding. (This digressive train of thought, when I ought to have been solely focussing on the mission at hand, came upon me for no particular reason that I can recall, other than perhaps the accursed habit I had developed of studying certain students.) Surely he was terrified for his parents, as they would be tortured and killed if he failed – and most likely if he succeeded as well – and he was undoubtedly suspicious of my offer to help him, as I'd had no apparent motive for taking the Vow and putting my own life at risk.

It was not that I identified with the boy; Draco was as far from my younger self as his father had been. But I was struck by the parallel nature of our positions. He was to commit murder to serve his master, and I to serve mine. And he shared something else with the boy I had been: the illusion of control. Had I not also once thought I could climb the ladder to power? Had I not also risen swiftly, only to realise, too late, that the way up was also the way down?

I could gain no traction whatever with him. He turned and ran from me, down the dark dungeon corridor, hurtling away from the echoes of mandolin players and unbearable laughter, past the garlands and mistletoe and the Slughorn family crest, towards that unknown future when I would lift his Dark burden onto my own weary shoulders. His footfalls dwindled in the darkness. I felt very old.

So I crept solemnly back to that preposterous party to catch a last glimpse of Hermione, but she had disappeared, along with McLaggen. This revelation only adding to my choler, I spent a very ill-disposed night stalking round the castle, imagining her in his arms, grimly hoping and dreading I would catch them in some corner. But she was nowhere to be found.

* * *

¹ My own house-elf was absent, being forbidden from alcohol and occupied that evening in the brewing of a powerful rat poison.

² Vampires, too, have a taste for the young, and I have recently learnt that they hold a strange attraction for witches as well. Why anyone would think it erotic to be bit on the neck is beyond me.

Author's Notes:

* Hermione says some lines here that are direct quotes from HBP.

* Tonnes of thanks to my beta Countrymouse, for help and bearing with me during a long absence.