I Know You Like to Feel... Involved

Chapter Eight: I Know You Like to Feel... Involved.

Even within the fiery green embers, Lucius' golden eyes flared with tenacity. "Surely with a spot of persuasion..."

"Lucius, I refuse to encumber myself with juvenile drivel. If the girl has said she will not go with him, there is little I can do to change that." In his mind, he corrected himself: there was little he wanted to do to change it. In fact, it gave him great satisfaction to see his friend's desperate glare peeking out of the cinders of his dust-embellished hearth. "I hear she put up quite a fight..."

"Don't toy with me, Severus. Draco informs me you were there to see the whole glorious show. As their Head of House, surely it is within your power to..."

"To what?" Snape scoffed from his high-backed chair, his fingers cradled within each other. "To force the union? I would have thought that defeated the object of seduction, Lucius, if I prompted the match on his behalf." His lips curled smugly, and he allowed his thoughts to drift fleetingly to a well-cosseted image from Isolde's potion, in which his mere breath made her groan with desire. "I have to confess," he continued, letting Isolde's ragged sigh trail through his consciousness, "that, having such a well-versed instructor as you, I thought Draco would be an adept seducer. It seems, in this case, the apple has indeed fallen far from the tree..."

"Are you saying you will not assist him at all?" Lucius spat through the already spewing flames.

"I am saying that it seems the matter is over and done with. Miss Hamilton has made it clear that she is not interested in your son."

Through the dazzling green flames, Lucius' face contorted with resentment before an unsettling smile settled in its place. "She has indeed made her bed, Severus. I just hope she can bear to lie in it..."

Severus knew the expression well, but it was laden with new-fangled meaning which troubled him. His face twitched with suspicion, but before his lips parted to reply, Lucius' sneer dissolved into the flames.

oOoOoOo

As the twenty-fifth of December neared, Isolde felt her dread settle as permanently as the fallen snow. In an attempt to avoid the haze of sickening Yule Ball excitement, she incarcerated herself within the library, taking some comfort from the looming pinnacles of books. Every now and again an ill-placed volume would slide from a shelf, zipping across the room toward its correct home. To the ignorant eye, Hogwarts' grand library seemed a cacophony of activity, a cornucopia of intrigue. Surely, it would be impossible to study within such confines? Though mildly fascinated by interactions of the flying tomes, Isolde, like every student at Hogwarts, had soon learnt to ignore the imposing magic.

Though the library provided initial respite from the plague of Yule Ball chatter, as the month dragged on this incessant talk soon trickled under the doors, looped between the monolithic book shelves and punctured her personal space.

Isolde's mood was made equally sour by the arrival of her father's delivery. Extravagant as always, the parchment was sealed with the Hamilton crest. Isolde had given the crest momentary observation, the sneer on her face evident to all. The ornate "H", surrounded by vines and little serpents, was so indicative of the Malfoys. It was an ode to the power that Barnabus Hamilton so passionately coveted.

Ripping apart the seal, the small lump of paper unravelled, revealing a sackful of plump Galleons and a small note.

My most glorious daughter, Isolde,

B. A. F. R. M. Hamilton

Isolde had almost giggled at her father's ridiculous attempt at snobbery. The letters were over crafted, each figure capped with a silly little loop or curl. The five consecutive initials brought a tint of red to her pale face, a clear reminder that her father had also inflicted such a foul long name on herself. Born during the height of You Know Who, her own title reflected her father's rather sickening adoration for the Dark Lord. It also sounded bloody ridiculous. Often, during rare moments of contemplation, she pondered what life may have been like if she had known her mother for longer. Would her father be a different man? More modest? Would he exist away from his ever present cloud of false snobbery; the lingering reek of cigars and Firewhisky?

Cosy within the library, Isolde fished the fat velvet pouch of Galleons from her school bag, taking another glance within. Her father was a wealthy man, no doubt about that, but he had never laid this wealth extravagantly upon her. Isolde would have been foolish had she believed he hid his wealth from her so that she could grow in modesty. The truth was, the dark haired millionaire preferred to spend his cash wiling his way up the social ladder, purchasing ridiculous house crests and nestling himself between the thighs of expensive concubines. Why, then, was he sending her money now?

There was only one way to find out. Shoving her homework back into her bag, Isolde began the search for Marius. If she was going to endure Hogsmeade torture, she might as well do it in the company of a friend, even if she had to apologise on bended knee.

oOoOoOo

Two large bundles of warm clothes bundled through the thick new-fallen snow, their laughter permeating the chilled air, trickling into the freezing confines of the clock tower. Hidden behind a thick shard of tinted glass, Snape felt his lip curl involuntarily at Spencer's closeness to the girl. The remnants of her potion trickled into his self-control, urging him to swoop upon them, snapping the boy's groping digits and taking Isolde into his own arms. The thought disgusted him. His forced reaction to the chit was entirely physical; the idea of actually partaking in a relationship with her, laughing with her as they neared the tiny wizarding village, filled him with utter dread. What did he care if Spencer took care of her emotional needs? The idiotic Ravenclaw was good for nothing else.

"Snape!"

The trademark growl of Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody broke Snape's shield of contemplation, dragging him back to reality. Hogsmeade duty was pure torture. Hogsmeade duty with Moody was akin to the Cruciatus curse.

The grizzled Auror loped toward the glass, torn lips folding in disgust. "Perving on the students, eh Snape? Developing a taste for young flesh, eh? Wait 'til I tell the old man..."

Snape sighed lazily. "Dumbledore is unlikely to believe such utter garbage, Alastor. I suggest you focus your lopsided gaze elsewhere." Well aware that he had left his statement thoroughly ambiguous, Snape swooped from his position, descending the sharp staircase and emerging into the embrace of the courtyard. Moments later, the lumbering clunk of Moody's walking stick announced the presence of his thoroughly unwanted shadow.

Surrounded by a swirling mass of excitable school children, Snape forcefully combated his raging desire to visit Zuranders. The tiny shop would remain untouched by the Yule festivities, its bookshelves devoid of holly and mistletoe. There would be no Christmas carols, no garish colour schemes. The only red and green to adorn the store would be the faded leather of the various books.

Like a man wading through a dark ocean, Snape traversed the crowd of Christmas shopping, his superior height aiding him toward his destination. A flash of chocolate caught his eyes, thick luxurious curls jammed beneath a Slytherin beanie. Despite the comical company of her friend, the girl's back seemed hunched, eyes downcast. Snape soon saw why. The shop she was standing before was bursting at the seams with young girls, screeching shrilly about various gowns. Snape fought back the urge to deal out detention to a fifth-year from his own house, whose grasp of the English language seemed to be limited to "Oh my god! Oh my god! This is soooooo cute!".

Fighting back the urge to vomit, Snape watched the retreating back of Isolde Hamilton, wondering exactly why she was subjecting herself to such torture.

oOoOoOo

Lauren Parker's outburst was not lost upon Isolde or Marius, the latter bursting into an evil grin the moment the words brushed his ears.

"So, Izzy-kins. Why exactly are we in this place?"

Isolde rattled the pouch of Galleons. "Father's wish."

"And when have you ever done what your father wants?" Marius interjected, his eyebrows cocking at the sight of Pansy Parkinson, a fourth-year Slytherin, decked out like a sugar-coated pink cream puff.

"Draco is going to think I'm sooooooo hot in this!" The pug-faced girl twirled on the spot, eliciting an exultation of cheers from her friends.

Isolde coughed unsubtly, her eyes rolling. "What is it with these people and the excessive use of the letter 'o'?"

"Didn't you know, Iz, it makes you sound soooooooo hoooooooot."

Despite herself, Isolde started to giggle manically, clutching her friend for support. The outburst drew the attention of the pink clad Pansy, whose face turned ashen.

"What are you laughing at, Hamilton?"

"Marius, old boy," Isolde smirked, "it appears that the cream puff can actually talk."

The Ravenclaw curled his hands into a makeshift telescope, looking through. "Astounding, old chap, a truly amazing discovery."

Pansy's cheeks were now the same colour as her repulsive dress. "Oh, and who are you going with then?" Her voice was a shrill shriek. "Draco tells me you've been spending a lot of time with the dungeon bat lately. Perhaps you'll go with him? Best wear something short; I hear Snape likes a good hard grope!"

Marius' hands shot toward Isolde's shoulders, forcing her out of the attack position. Smouldering, Isolde shot away. As they neared the part of the store reserved for more upmarket clientele, Isolde started to fume. "How dare she? How dare she?"

Marius, assuming that her reaction was a natural response to being accused of sleeping with a teacher, wrapped his arms around her. "No one believes Pansy, Iz. These rumours come and go all the time. Just yesterday, someone told me that Cedric Diggory and Professor Sprout were caught... er... repotting his mandrake."

Despite her anger, Isolde choked with a re-emergence of giggles. "I always wondered how that dunderhead managed to receive such good marks in Herbology."

Marius shivered, his response cut off by a dreamy voice from the shadows.

"I assume one of you is the offspring of Barnabus Hamilton?"

Isolde's eyebrow rose in an uncanny impression of Snape's. "That would be me." The offspring? Honestly... what was with these people?

The owner of the dreamy voice stepped out, revealing a gaunt woman with scarlet locks, tied suffocatingly at the back of her head. Her thin frame was wrapped in a cloud of black velvet.

A thin, taloned hand grasped Isolde's wrist. "Come this way, little girl."

Little girl?

Isolde followed, waving goodbye to her friend. The private changing room was dead silent, not an iota of noise pollution from the main shop permeating its magically thickened walls. There was no furniture, just an ornate mirror perched beneath a large chandelier. Hanging from a small hook near the mirror was a gown.

Formed of the finest emerald velvet, the dress fell in exquisite waves from the hanger. Though it appeared plain from a distance, at closer quarters, the material shone with infinitesimal textures. Long sleeves flared, the dissention of the longest part reaching mid thigh.

The gaunt woman slunk away, allowing Isolde to remove her winter clothing and slip into the garment. Upon the hanger, the dress looked modest, but upon her curvaceous form the low neck accentuated her full breasts revealing more cleavage than she would have liked. Slits broke the velvet skirts, so that when she walked, flashes of skin all the way to her thigh could be seen. It was a gown to be worn by a woman bent on seduction, not a present from a father to his seventeen-year-old daughter.

"Excuse me Mrs..."

"Lark," crooned the enigmatic skeleton. "Yes, my dear?"

"I am not sure if this dress will be suitable for the ball. I was after something a little more..." Modest? Teenage? Asexual?

"Your father was very specific that you were to purchase the dress, Miss Hamilton." With a flick of the woman's wand, Isolde felt the comforting confines of her winter clothing replace the dress. The sheath of velvet was now beautifully folded in the woman's emancipated fingers.

Isolde opened her mouth to argue, but the woman once again interjected. "I have also been barred from selling you any other dress."

Confusion swamped Isolde. Her father was rich, yes, but surely he did not have enough power to dictate the functioning of a totally separate business. Reading her facial expressions, Mrs Lark smiled. "I am sorry, dear." Her harsh figure took on a softer edge. "If it were just your father, I would not have adhered to such a rule but..." The soft voice faded, a flash of fear dancing over gaunt cheekbones.

Hesitating with the Galleons, Isolde stood firm. "But what, Mrs Lark?"

"Your father has powerful friends, Miss Hamilton," the woman eventually replied, voice back to its initial tone. "I suggest you be careful."

Thin fingers snatched the Galleons from her palm, thrusting a bag into her hands.

Upon emerging to the company of her friend, she could do nothing but send Marius a very confused look.

oOoOoOo

"Is that her?"

Ms Minchin's more rounded form approached Mrs Lark's side as they watched Isolde's back disappear through the arch and into the main shop. A mere nod confirmed the assumption.

"She's a pretty little thing," Ms Minchin mused as her sister's gaunt fingers clutched the thick, glinting Galleons so tightly her knuckled whitened. "Seems almost a shame..."

"Keep out of it, Armeda; business is business," Mrs Lark cut in waspishly.

"I know, but... she hardly seems old enough to..."

"She's not old enough. Not at all." Turning to face her sister's stout frame, she shoved the tainted handful into a more willing pair of hands. "Still a mere schoolgirl, and yet..."

Both women bristled visibly. The counter was laden with unfinished sentences as they stood behind it, the shared guilt suspended between them. Deliberately, Mrs Lark turned to a curtained alcove and scrubbed her hands in the murky basin as her sister cranked the lever on the cash register, depositing the Galleons into its brass mouth. "We are best to forget about it, Soph. Mr Malfoy made his request very clear, and the consequences if we did not comply. We can't have anyone finding out about the lease... not for the sake of a stranger, even if she is only a child..."

"I know." Sophia Lark busied herself, unfolding scarves only to fold them once more. "I know."