I Thought We'd Keep This Private

Chapter Thirteen: I Thought We'd Keep This Private

Every gurgling vessel of potion was like a Remembrall, each one emanating enough heat and haze to recapture their encounter a dozen times over. As Severus wound himself through the warren of stirring students and whisperings, even an unrelenting trail of waspish criticisms could not distract him from the remembrance of that night.

Of course, lessons with his N.E.W.T. class were the most taxing; having the subject of his clandestine musings etched cruelly in front of him – amongst the mist of burning crucibles – was torture. Each lock of stray hair she absentmindedly hinged behind her ear betrayed hints of her rogue tresses – the way they had fallen upon his bare chest, each teasing tendril scraping away scales of unsettled longing. Each time she released an agitated breath between her plump lips as she sliced her herbs, Severus was forced to recall the rhythmical pants of pleasure she had recited in his ears as she climaxed for the second time that evening.

He had not let go of her wrist until he had her on the other side of his office door; had not spoken another word in reply until he had commanded her to disrobe him.

And he had not touched her since.

At that moment, as Severus reached to dip his quill tip in a serpent-woven ink pot, Isolde's hands let go of the irksome belladonna seed and gravitated towards the top of her thighs; as she artlessly wiped her purple-stained fingertips across her skirt, his eyes grappled at the measly centimetres of bare flesh this allowed him, indifferent to whether her gesture was deliberate or not.

Despite the ceaseless orchestra of chopping and scraping, all eyes darted to their professor as pot and ink crashed to the floor in front of his desk.

As grey eyes met black for the first time in days, the swollen bubble of fancies and titillating recollections swam questioningly between them for the briefest of moments, before bursting and smearing across the stone tiles for no one to see but him.

One scathing look in the general direction of the room was enough to make the entire class refocus their attention to their work, allowing Severus to scrutinise the blackened, sticky puddle daubed into the floor at his feet. Realisation stared boldly up at him from every discoloured shard and speck.

It had not happened.

Not any of it.

Along with the sickening taste of actuality came the realisation that Isolde was now staring boldly at him also. Amongst the timid mass of bowed heads, her grey eyes penetrated his from the security of her desk. True to form, they gave away little and yet hinted at a multitude of conflicting sentiments: fear, amusement... pity, even? As Severus held her gaze for a moment longer than intended, he thought he caught a meagre glimpse of unsatisfied longing, though hers was securely veiled behind a now lowered pair of lashes rather than on the cold stone floor for all to see.

"Evanesco."

The word lingered in the air as Severus silently questioned why he had chosen to voice the spell. Watching the tar-like stain vanish into nothingness, he knew he had needed to hear it; needed to acknowledge that it had not happened. Even that very night as he entered his bedchamber alone, he had fought in vain to pry apart the truth from his own hunger, choosing instead to tiptoe devilishly on the fence between what had actually happened and what he had wanted.

He had slipped beneath his emerald sheets in a delectable haze, unable to even blame the befuddling warmth of liquor. He had hardly drunk a drop all evening. And in odd recollection, that had made it all the more delicious – to be sound of mind, yet allow the lines to blur: where her hands on him ended, and his own hand wrapped around his erection began, he could not tell and did not care.

He could barely recall what he had said in reply to her impish proposal on the night of the Yule Ball, but he could not deny that he had regretted it several times since. The first time was just seconds after his rebuff, when, instead of retracting into a girlish heap of tears and stomps, she had smiled – smiled! – and coolly declared, "What a shame," before removing her high-heels and returning to the common room barefoot.

It was undeniable that there was something about Isolde which had beguiled him for some time, and this modest display of disappointment made Severus wonder if she really was worth the risk after all. Who else in this classroom (the school, even) would have responded in such a mature and tasteful manner, he thought to himself as he began to wander around the hushed benches again.

After deliberately boycotting Isolde's desk four times during his rounds, Severus returned to his dais to announce the end of the lesson, inviting students to bring their completed potions to the front for inspection.

Isolde was always a careful handler of her ingredients and equipment, but it was clear that she was taking longer than usual; when only a few clumsy stragglers remained, Isolde was still decanting her potion into a vial marked with her name.

Severus fumbled in feigned occupation as he watched her out of the corner of his eye, half contemplating going to his storeroom until she had gone. Dipping his quill in replenished ink, he inwardly cursed his juvenile notion.

"Professor?"

Chatter and haze no longer between them, he and Isolde were alone for the first time since his regretted dismissal. Since their encounter. Since...

Involuntarily, his eyes crept towards her lips, which now hovered millimetres apart from each other, resembling two strawberry halves. His groin stirred; surely she was about to ask him to reconsider? Where he would usually sneer and demoralize, Severus was uncharacteristically ready to admit his error, crush her lips with his again.

Lowering his quill onto its rest, Severus looked across his desk at her, raising his brow questioningly.

"You haven't told him, have you?"

For a moment, Severus was stunned. Pupils expanded into oblivion. "Excuse me?"

"Professor Dumbledore; you haven't told him yet, have you?"

Quelling his disenchantment, Severus mustered a silent shake of his head.

Isolde's shoulders relaxed visibly as she reached into her robe, her hands fumbling with some unidentifiable parchment. "Thank Merlin. You mustn't tell him because..."

"Miss Hamilton," Severus cut in, recovering by the second. "I am not accustomed to receiving demands from students."

Unfazed, Isolde handed him the folded parchment; the seal had already been broken and inside laid just one line:

Emeric takes a hand in what is done in haste*

Severus read the words three more times before looking back at Isolde.

"It's from my father. It arrived the day after the Ball." She silently read the upturned words to herself before continuing. "It's his crafty way of sending me a threat without actually saying a word of his own. Emeric is..."

"I know who Emeric is, Miss Hamilton. As hard as it may be to believe, I took the same classes as you did when I was a student."

When I was a student, Severus reminded himself. Yes, he had made the right decision.

"So, your father doesn't want you to act in haste by – what? – informing the headmaster of an attempted rape, on the school grounds, no less?"

Isolde simply nodded.

Severus passed the parchment back in disgust. "I am sorry, Miss Hamilton, but I am not making any promises of the kind. Professor Dumbledore has a right to know. The only reason I have not said anything until now..."

"Please, Professor." Her eyes reeked with momentary desperation until she laughed bitterly. "My father is like a spoilt child, sir, and, like many pure-bloods, he is a sore loser. Just after my mother died, and my father's friends inhabited our home freely, he made it quite clear what would happen if I should refuse one of their advances again." If Isolde's eyes threatened tears, she hid them well, and though her voice sounded almost unrecognisable, it did not falter.

Severus' eyes narrowed questioningly. "He made what quite clear?"

The bitter laugh again.

"As sickeningly quaint as it sounds, this place is quite a haven for me." She gestured in the general direction of the classroom walls and the school beyond. "My father knows that all too well and will not think twice about taking me home for good, before the school year is over. I doubt Flank will care about his whore having impressive N.E.W.T. results, either."

Though the word crawled from her lips like a vile insect, Severus still felt the jealous twang in his abdomen, followed by an even stronger boulder of resentment for not having actively prevented Flank's latest attempt.

"All in all," Isolde concluded nonchalantly, "it might be best for both of us if you don't try to assist me again."

Severus' eyes widened for the most fleeting of moments. "Miss Hamilton, I would strive to protect any one of the students in my care if they came to some harm. It is my..."

"Duty, yes," Isolde finished boldly. "But what if one has conflicting duties?"

Silence arched between them until she spoke again.

"I think it may be best if you remain friends with my father and Mr Flank – for the time being, at least."

Question upon question rose like a floodgate, but Severus found himself making a peculiar choice:

"How can you speak of him so respectfully?"

"I find titles help me to keep my distance," she smiled, absentmindedly taking his black quill from the desk's surface, ruffling the reluctant barb with an index finger. "It's not out of respect, I assure you."

Indeed. Severus knew all about that and was already regretting calling her anything but 'Miss Hamilton'. He eyed her with increasing prudence as she shifted from one foot to the other, firmly securing the menacing parchment within her robes once more.

"You know much more than you are revealing, Miss Hamilton."

The following moments ensued in a haze of distortion; both of them tore their gaze from one another in unison – that, he could recall with utter clarity – and, for the briefest of moments, he could have sworn that Isolde's eyes flickered towards the dark wool of his left sleeve, but as the footsteps got heavier, all attention was drawn to the figure which had just entered the classroom.

oOoOoOo

Had Severus not already met the figure clenched in shadow, he would have been able to discern his identity from Isolde's reaction. While tense before, the seventh-year's discomfort was now palpable. Pale features were rendered so pallid as to give her the constitution of a ghost. Grey eyes widened, pupils dilating so as to almost hide the grey from view. The quill, once lazily poised between her long fingers, was now shattered in a vice-like grip. One emotion poured from her: anger. It was clear from the quaking of her lower lip, the defensive stance of her taut young body.

"Father."

Barnabus Hamilton smiled in what he no doubt considered to be an indulgent manner. Unfortunately, wrought on thin lips, the expression manifested itself in the visage of manipulative cruelty. It appeared to be one of the few expressions in his repertoire, the other being the slimy smile he threw at his friends. Severus' anger toward the man boiled into a crescendo of blind hatred. He had not loathed a creature so much since James Potter had blessed the ancient halls of Hogwarts.

As was his nature, however, the Potions master did not allow his stance to portray even an ounce of this venom.

Hamilton tapped his cane on the stone flagstones, eyes still focused on Isolde. "Izzy, be a good girl and let the grown-ups speak in private, would you?"

Isolde let the shattered remains of his quill fall to the floor, crossing the small distance between desk and door in an instant. Severus was almost disappointed that she did not kick up a fuss, demand her father's respect, throw the quill in his face. On the other hand, her silent dignity only strengthened the unquenchable affections he had for her. Once the heavy oak plank slid shut in her wake, the intruder turned upon him.

"Severus, old boy, how splendid it is to see you again."

Old boy? Since when had he and Hamilton ever been on old boy terms? He barely tolerated Lucius addressing him in such an inane way.

"Mr Hamilton." His nod was curt, unwelcoming. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"Well, you see, Severus. It has come to my attention that you failed quite spectacularly in the little job that Ichy and I gave to you." Once again, Hamilton's thin features wrenched into a sneer. "I do not appreciate failure, especially when it involves the welfare of my little girl."

Severus raised an eyebrow. What did this man know of welfare? Furthermore, what did Barnabus Hamilton think he was doing threatening him? Raised with a silver spoon in his mouth, Hamilton had never placed much precedence upon learning. Why would he need too? He would inherit the family fortune whether he received 'Outstandings' or 'Trolls.' If he were to challenge Severus to some kind of magical duel, the mewling rich boy would find himself shipped back to his daughter in a potions vial.

Not that Severus would want to place Isolde through such turmoil, if turmoil she would feel.

"You see, Severus," Hamilton continued, gently rubbing his thumb along his lower lip. "You assured me that my daughter was going to wear the dress, but Ichy tells me she wore a cheap bag purchased by a Ravenclaw."

Severus felt the knot in his stomach tighten. As much as he disliked the presence of Marcus Spencer in Isolde's life, the idea of Hamilton and Flank getting their hands on him... The foolish Ravenclaw clearly had no idea how treacherous his path now was.

In response, the Potions master curled his lip into a vicious sneer. "I believe I made my stance on the matter quite clear, Mr Hamilton. I am a teacher, not a babysitter. If you wish for your daughter to expose herself like a prostitute at a school function, I suggest you sort it out yourself."

Hamilton hissed, the facade of civility fading into oblivion. "You are walking on very thin ice, Snape."

"You are correct," Severus replied, clearly catching Hamilton off-side. Something about Isolde's warning chilled him at this moment. I think it may be best if you remain friends with my father and Mr Flank. As much as he loathed taking advice from an eighteen-year-old girl, her point was valid. He simply could not allow his anger to consume him. "You will have to excuse me, Mr Hamilton...Barnabus. I am simply – annoyed – that I was unable to fulfil my duties that evening."

At least he was not lying, nor was he adulating like the filthy creature before him. He had failed his duties. Had he been more keyed to the situation, his Isolde would never have found herself enduring the unwanted gropes of Ichabod Flank. Let Hamilton believe what he wished.

The facade started to reform over Hamilton's face: that sickening little smile quirking his lips. "No matter, no matter, all is forgiven among friends. We shall forget all about it, for there are much more important things for us to concern ourselves with."

What was the incessant fool prattling on about now?

"More – important – things?"

"Of course! You see, if things are meant to be, they will be, Severus. My daughter will be married to dear Ichy, during her Easter break."

Married? Once again, the writhing serpent of Snape's anger roiled within him. She was only a child! Keeping his face passive, Severus cocked an eyebrow. "Exulted though you must be, Barnabus, I fail to see how this concerns me."

"Oh, why of course it concerns you, old boy! You have to make sure that my little girl floats down the aisle a virgin."

Severus paled. Yet another impossible task. How was he supposed to protect the girl from her own fiancé? Better yet, how was he to protect her from himself? As Hamilton slipped from his office, Severus made a decision, one that Isolde would hate him for. One that he wished he did not have to make.

He would speak to Dumbledore.

Authors' Note: Many thanks to Lindsey, our magnificent beta! For those of you who may not have read the books for a while, students are taught that Emeric the Evil once owned the Elder Wand and behaved very rashly, terrorising thousands of people with it before getting slaughtered in a duel. Professor Binns gets him mixed up with Uric the Oddball in History of Magic. The proverb is our own magical twist on a Turkish proverb, and the assumption is that most Wizarding families will have passed it down through generations.