Bewitch the Mind

Chapter Six: Bewitch the Mind

The moment the foul substance slid down his throat, Snape felt instantaneously sickened by his actions. He knew full well the complexities of the potion, the ramifications of consuming a draught brewed by another. Cupiditas Mortis was a curious concoction. During the brewing stage, the potioneer subconsciously siphoned all of his or her lustful thoughts into the cauldron. Upon drinking, these wisps of memory would react with the ingredients, negating the effect of lust – a tricky sequence of events that required the potion to be consumed only by the brewer. Should another consume it, the effect would be like reading the brewer's mind or jumping into a Pensieve brimming with their thoughts. It was a breach of privacy, a clear violation of trust. To commit such an act upon a student was unforgiveable.

This hidden turmoil of emotions was one of the reasons why Severus found himself, only three hours later, perched uncomfortably on an embroidered chiffon couch within the cavernous sitting room of the Malfoy Manor. The tumbler of Firewhisky clenched between his fingers provided welcome respite.

Upon discovering that he, Severus Snape, was the object of Isolde's intense sexual fantasies, it was not exactly wise to seek out the companionship of Lucius Malfoy. The handsome blond had a lurid reputation, and Severus was aware that the wily millionaire had made his sordid way through many of those that occupied the female wing of the Slytherin dormitories. Disgusting though he found this, Severus had not intervened. Lucius was just the kind of man to encourage Severus to bed his little fan...

"Severus, my dear friend," he would drawl between languid puffs of his cigar. "I honestly don't know how you deal with it. An orchard of ripe young women at your fingertips, don't you ever get the urge to...?"

"I will not sleep with my students."

Severus's answer remained identical every time the subject was breached. This had suited him well. For the past thirteen years, he had felt no desire to bed students. Had he not foolishly consumed Isolde's potion, he most likely would have been able to resist even her.

His mind was so consumed with thoughts of the girl that he almost tuned out of Lucius's waterfall of light conversation. It was only when a familiar name filled the air that he snapped back to attention.

"...ask a seventh-year called Irene Hamilton, or something."

"Isolde Hamilton?"

"Yes! That's the one. Barney's girl." Lucius's grey eyes glittered. "Apparently, Draco is quite enamoured by the little chit. Tell me, is she a looker?"

Severus's lips curled into a sneer. "Would your son be interested if she were not?"

"Ah, fair point," Lucius smirked. "I daresay; I am quite disappointed that Draco has snatched her up, she sounds like a morsel I may enjoy. I do miss your little orchard, Severus."

The blond failed to notice the storm clouds brewing over Snape's features. The Potions master seemed permanently shrouded in a cloud of dourness. Fury consumed him for dual reasons. Firstly, Lucius's insinuation that Severus was nurturing an orchard of girls for the millionaire's consumption was revolting. Secondly, the idea of the blond, despite being Severus's only "friend", touching Isolde Hamilton made his skin crawl.

"I was under the impression that Draco has yet to ask Miss Hamilton to escort him to the Yule Ball," he stated with a cock of his eyebrow. "As far as I am aware, she has not been snatched up by anyone."

"Draco is my son," shrugged Lucius. "He will succeed. Now, tell me Severus, what brings you to my humble abode at this hour?"

Severus almost snorted at Lucius's display of humbleness. "I came to drink, Lucius, not to discuss the frivolities of my students."

As his cutting words hung between them, Severus swallowed the stinging remnants of his Firewhisky in one fluid motion. Contrary to his verbal protest, though, his own thoughts lingered rebelliously on one enigmatic apple.

Since his reckless consumption of Isolde's potion earlier that evening, his mind had been infiltrated with bulging pockets of yearning, their buttons straining from oppressive scholastic decorum. Sometimes they would pounce in haphazard wisps of feeling – just feeling – which could not be pinned down or made sense of. At other inopportune moments, titillating snippets of fervent encounters de-robed themselves to him: some had clearly been meticulously woven by their mistress across the course of many restless nights and sleep-inducing classes, and Snape himself found he was surprised – impressed, almost – by their inventiveness. Half expecting to see clichéd scenes of parted legs atop a classroom desk, or prolonged gazes of longing across rows of seats, he had been unnerved by a more tempting spectrum of scenarios: earlier that very night, when reprimanding a stuttering Hufflepuff in a second-floor corridor, water-dipped willow branches swept through his mind; Isolde's pale, naked back against an obliging tree trunk; a southward tug on his hips as her legs clasped tightly around his middle. The curfew-evading second year had been left flummoxed as the characteristically headstrong Potions master departed mid-battle, seeking the quietness of his office.

Only minutes later, his quill poised across another disappointing essay, Isolde's flushed collarbone crept stealthily beneath his parched lips; ignorant chatter permeated a single obstructing doorway as his teeth caught hold of a gasping nipple. The familiar innards of his storeroom encircled his vision as Isolde rocked back and forth, all thoughts of discovery discarded.

Severus's own laboured breathing roused him from his thoughts and his eyes darted to Lucius; his acute fear moulded quickly into a mere grimace.

Lucius's eyes were already fixed on Severus, his leisurely stance complimenting the hint of amusement in his countenance. Still smiling, he turned his attention to his crystal tumbler, rolling it nonchalantly in his palm.

"Ah, yes, the drink...," he mulled with feigned innocence. "Often makes the fruit even riper, does it not?"

Severus clenched his teeth behind placid lips, knowing all too well that the alcohol, far from giving him a reprieve, had actually heightened the potion's effects, suspending them to another plane entirely, where he could only balance on the sidelines and wait for the strings to be cut.

"You work too hard, Severus," Lucius continued, his eyes beginning to opalize from the mixture of intoxication and smoke. He tilted the stout decanter above his companion's glass, filling it generously. "You deserve a little... distraction; I have no doubt that your unwavering poise and brooding psyche have those little minxes hissing and writhing beneath their green-clad sheets..."

"I am not going to repeat myself again, Lucius. I will not sleep with my..."

But even as his glass's base met the marble side-table – before a splash of Firewhisky pricked the back of his hand – Isolde's ivory breasts clambered into his view once more.

Gleaning far too much pleasure from his friend's inarticulacy, Lucius's lips curled into a wry smile, his eyes practically glistening in triumph.

"No," Severus shot at him, though Lucius's expression did not falter. "No. I have far more pertinent matters weighing my thoughts – and so do you, no doubt."

The gesture had been minute, but Lucius's eyes swept to Severus's left arm and, behind his rosy, whisky-fuelled cheeks, his face turned ashen.

oOoOoOo

Thumb and forefinger pinched the bridge of his aquiline nose, eyes closed in a meditative attempt to quell the furnace ignited by the caustic combination of Firewhisky and Cupiditas Mortis. This ferocious heat caused his body to break out in a sweat, the thin grey cotton of his night shirt twisting uncomfortably around his body with accumulated dampness. The sheer intoxication of arousal was unbearable, only strengthened by the collage of lascivious fantasies playing before his closed eyelids.

Cold showers did nothing, nor did consuming a fresh batch of Cupiditas he brewed himself. Wrapping his fingers around his stiff length did nothing to ease the pain, for it simply surfaced images of Miss Hamilton's nimble fingers brushing across sensitive skin, those plump lips wrapping around...

Snape growled, thrashing the emerald sheets from his bed. At various intervals throughout the night he had contemplated taking a leaf from Lucius's book, bedding the girl, thrusting her clear from his system. The chit was more than willing, she was of age, and she would not inform the headmaster.

I will not sleep with one of my students.

This cardinal rule boomed in his mind, dragging him once again from the cesspit of his thoughts. This one rule had eased him through thirteen years of teaching, and throughout this time, he had not had a shortage of offers. Slutty little seventh-years, their skirts too short, their eyelids fluttering in a foul show that might have attracted the likes of Malfoy-senior, but hardly roused the ardour of the Potions master.

Isolde Hamilton, though, seemed an enigma to the rule. Perhaps she would have slipped by his radar: subtle, intelligent, little make-up, a – thankfully – normal length skirt. How many Isolde's had there been? Modest girls, who, as Lucius had said, hissed and writhed within their beds at the thought of him?

The whole concept was utterly preposterous.

oOoOoOo

By the time Isolde slunk into the Slytherin common room the following morning, she had all but given up on trying to make herself look human. Several nights of interrupted sleep had left her complexion the unpleasant shade of sour milk. Her eyes were rimmed with pits of black, giving her the appearance of a sickly panda. This did not necessarily concern her. It was a Saturday, after all, and perhaps looking foul would deter the irritating stream of juveniles that insisted on asking her to accompany them to the Yule Ball.

Sinking into a particularly squashy leather armchair, Isolde feebly greeted her roommate Kathy who looked irritatingly perky this morning.

"So Iz, are you going to actually say yes to someone today?"

Kathy's face split into a derisive grin, her blonde curls bouncing around her shoulders as she greeted her friend.

Isolde moaned. "No Yule Ball before breakfast, Kath."

"The Yule Ball provides suitable conversation for any time of the day," her friend replied pertly. "And besides, apparently the sexiest guy in Slytherin is going to ask you out today!"

Isolde cocked an unplucked eyebrow. "I hope you're not talking about Draco Malfoy," she sneered. "He's fourteen, and besides, I think he made a better ferret than dance partner."

As the words left her mouth, the common room was filled with the obnoxious tones of the aforementioned Malfoy.

"True enough she hasn't exactly looked good lately, but even scruffy and unwashed Hamilton is hot. Not to mention pure-blood."

Isolde's sneer deepened as she sank into the chair. Fortunately, mini Malfoy had failed to see her.

"Father was trying to teach me how to woo her, but personally I found it rather pathetic. The only woman he ever goes near is Mother, and he hardly needs to woo her. He probably has not even flirted with another woman since the sixties."

Isolde snorted with silent laughter, while Kathy turned a violent shade of pink. It seemed that Draco Malfoy was the only member of Slytherin unaware of his father's escapades amongst the residents of the girls' dormitories. Kathy, herself, in the throes of her sixth year had fallen under the spell of Malfoy senior.

"Needless to say, I hardly think I need to ask Hamilton if she'll come to the ball with me. I already know she'll say yes."

With the final clip of Draco's arrogant little tongue, Isolde sprung from her chair. "Draco Malfoy, you are right, you do not need to ask me to go to the ball with you. I would not waste your breath. I would rather go to the ball with one of Professor Snape's pickled critters than set foot on the dance floor with you."

oOoOoOo

At the sound of his own name, Snape's pupils expanded like spilt ink, and he slowly edged closer to the periphery of the commotion. His rationale for entering the common room so early in the morning completely evaded his mind as soon as he registered the owner of the voice. The mounting cluster of students hovering keenly around the quarrel provided ample concealment for him to observe undetected.

"Wouldn't surprise me if you went with the great Black Bat himself if he would stoop low enough to ask you, Hamilton. I've heard from my father that you prefer the more mature variety." Draco's minions scoffed wolfishly at his sides as a triumphant sneer spread across the boy's colourless cheeks.

Snape's insides simmered at the juvenile suggestion, but – to his own surprise – he fought his natural impulse to grab Draco by the scruff of his neck, finding himself intrigued to hear Isolde's response. What did Draco mean by his insinuation? A slight twinge of jealousy murmured in his empty stomach as he pictured another man's puny lips on Isolde's milky white breast.

As he watched from the doorway behind her, he spotted a barely discernible twitch of the hand which clenched Isolde's wand. "And what do you mean by that, Malfoy?"

The malevolent crease tore through Draco's cheek as he gratifyingly observed her cheeks flush to an incensed crimson. "Just what I said, Hamilton. Father tells me you quite enjoy the sweaty clutches of older men..." He paused for breath – visibly daring himself to continue: "...Ichabod Flank, for example?"

Snape did not have time to consider the half-familiar name before the huddle of students diffused in a flurry of gasps and mirthful cries; as his view became clearer, his first sight was that of Isolde grappling furiously at Draco on the common room floor, their black robes twisting in a mass of bedlam.

The throng of bewildered students, one by one, stifled their yelps and catcalls as they became aware of their Head of House and the fierce expression he wore as he strode towards the two wrestling forms.

"You bastard!" Isolde barked, in a voice so rasping that even Snape was taken aback.

Despite his clearly disadvantaged position, with Isolde's legs clamped firmly around his middle, Malfoy laughed sadistically. "Hit a weak spot, have I, Hamilton?"

Before Isolde's elevated fist could descend on his flushed face, Snape grasped it in his hand and hauled her upright, leaving Draco to scamper to his own feet and take refuge beside Crabbe and Goyle. Snape retained his fistful of Isolde's cloak as he spun her around to face him, her features a fusion of angry tears and pants.

The cacophonous roar of only seconds ago was blanketed with silence as the entire room stared expectantly at their professor.

At long last, his voice hissed through the stillness like a rogue snake.

"To my office, Miss Hamilton. Immediately."