Chapter Two - Ensnare the Senses

Chapter Two – Ensnare the Senses

It was a long walk back to Hogwarts, especially whilst battling with the merciless winter wind, but, for once, Isolde was thankful for it. She needed to think, and she needed to think alone. Forward planning meant that her fellow Slytherins already knew she wasn't returning to the school with them; she had fully intended to flick shamelessly through her new purchase, teasing herself with glimpses of filth...of rough, ink stained hands running down tender skin.

But a less appetising topic took precedence in the forefront of her mind: he had seen her; he had known she was there all along. A part of her chastised herself for her naivety; she didn't know much of her professor, but she should have known by now that he did not miss a thing. Nothing got past him.

Her stomach lurched with uncertainties: how long had he been there before he had spoken? Had he seen what she had been reading from his towering vantage point? The more she tortured herself with possibilities, the more thankful she was for the extensive walk back to the castle. If he had gleaned even a speck of the smut which infected the pages of her book, she would need to compose an explanation...an alibi. And yet, if he had seen her, as her back was turned, slip the delicious prose into her cotton robes, there would be no point.

He was biding his time, no doubt.

Even when Isolde had reached the refuge of her dormitory...had slipped the damning evidence into her bedside table drawer...her heartbeat refused to compose itself.

Reaching down to its bewitching form, she pulled it out of the drawer again, simultaneously withdrawing her wand from her robes. The delectable image caught her gaze immediately as her wand tip shook with uncertainty.

Just say it, she scolded herself. Incendio... incendio... inden...

Isolde let out a frustrated cry at her own spinelessness before tossing the book back into the drawer and kicking it shut.

oOoOoOo

The week flittered by in a churning mass of essays, foul weather, Quidditch related excitement and anticipation for the upcoming Christmas holiday. The passing days imbued Isolde with enough confidence that, by Friday, she was once again consumed by curiosity for what lay between the crisp white pages of the book. It had remained incarcerated in her sock drawer, hidden from view by a gaudy collection of knee highs. If she were to be logical about the situation, having smut in her possession was not forbidden at Hogwarts. In fact, if it cut down the number of forbidden encounters in disused classrooms and hidden corridors, smut was encouraged. Furthermore, Snape had shown no indication that he had seen anything when he had taken their NEWT Potions class on Thursday.

The coast, it seemed, was clear.

She had chosen Friday night for her initiation into the wonderful world of The Potions Master's Mistress because if she became addicted, and this was a severe possibility, she could sleep in. True enough, the following morning heralded the much anticipated showdown between Gryffindor and Slytherin on the Quidditch pitch, but Isolde had little time for the sport. Quidditch reminded her of unpleasant evenings with her father. He would obtain tickets from work, dragging Isolde along so that he appeared a 'family' man. Before every game, he and his 'friends' would visit The Mewling Quim, an incredibly seedy (albeit expensive) victualling house in Knockturn Alley, eventually arriving at the stadium so inebriated that everything remotely female became a target. Abuse would be shrieked at various players, and as Isolde grew into a fine young woman, her father's delightful friends started to get a little too close for comfort. True enough, Hogwarts Quidditch hardly incorporated the drinking element, but the house rivalry still seemed, to Isolde, to be a little counterproductive to the study atmosphere of the school.

Ignoring the excited chatter of her fellow students, Isolde sent a quick goodnight to her friends before bundling herself up in the squashy four poster she had loved since first year. Once again, she cradled the illicit tome in her fingers, running her thumb gently down one side of the two-dimensional Potions Master. It was uncanny; just how much it resembled him.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the book to page one:

The classroom was aflame with tangible apprehension, the air thick with vapours rising ominously from copper and pewter rims.

That desk: she had imagined it so many times. It featured in her waking dreams as her head lay on her pillow each night...a cold, welcoming surface for her bare back as her Potions Master pushed her slowly backwards against the wood-grain to explore her further, to pull her alabaster knees apart with his large, commanding hands...

Isolde felt her abdomen flutter as she lay safely inside her jade-coloured covers, the dark drapes concealing the beads of sweat which had unceremoniously crept out of her forehead during her moonlit read.

This was a superb purchase, she thought to herself, as she silently thanked Merlin for not setting it alight a week earlier. Only four paragraphs in, and she had been reduced to a heap of desires and perspiration.

And she could not ignore just how much the dark iniquity described inside the covers resembled her very own Potions Master: Professor Snape.

Oh Lord. Just the whisper of his name in her mind did unspeakable things to her insides.

Isolde smiled softly at her own foolishness, and yet she could not help but wonder...as she often did...how many other girlish forms lay in their beds, at that very moment, imagining long taffeta robes grazing their bare thighs, black imposing eyes watching their nipples harden in the cool dungeon air.

Isolde had long resigned to the idea that she could not be the only one plagued with lascivious thoughts regarding the Potions Master. He epitomised tall, dark and mysterious. Encapsulated in their own little caves of emerald, scarlet, buttercup and periwinkle velvet, did the Potions Master's other admirers find themselves dreaming of his lips, which would surely taste of dark chocolate and Firewhisky, encompassing their own? Did long calloused fingers dance upon their tender skin, brushing against them with the dexterity and skill of a talented musician? Were they, like she, currently absorbed in the pages of The Potions Master's Mistress in a futile attempt to relieve themselves of this pent up desire for their teacher?

Isolde consumed every word, every sentence, every cliché until the enchanted candles that floated within the closed curtains of her four poster morphed into spluttering stubs. Tiredness clawed at her eyes, but she was too absorbed by Mercer's delicate prose to put the book down...

"Miss Spurr."

His voice danced within the howling of the bitter wind. Eleanor shifted on her feet, turning her head to face her pursuer. Caught by the wind's talons, his cloak flashed angrily about him, snapping in the weather's onslaught. His usually immaculate obsidian hair was a wild mane around pale features. His long stride broke the distance between them, long fingers eventually capturing hers. Eleanor could not draw her gaze from the intensity of his dark orbs nor pull away when his soft lips brushed against hers...