Promises (Temporarily on Hiatus)

Today, I'm going to respond to a review the normal way. Unfortunately, LaBib is the only one that's caught up and reviews on this website...

LaBibliographe: I imagine that the name of the Professor changes to suit each Head of House, but the overall sentiment remains the same. You know those Slytherins are a licentious bunch. And I assure you, there will be much more smut to come, so to speak.

--/--

The corridor was dark, dank, and I had to light my wand in order to make my way safely down the passage. My breath was deep and slow, but it shook slightly in the moist air. The hall was clouded with cobwebs and grime, lichen grew on the stones, making them slippery, and beetles, iridescent shells flittering, scurried across the floor.

My God. That was all I could think. My God, what had I done...? I suppose I was pleased with the way things had progressed. He had—we had... I didn't know what to call it. It would never be "making love" and "fucking" seemed so crude. We had... had sex. Yes, that's it. Sex. Nothing more than that.

My head still twinged a bit from the port; apparently I had drunk more than I thought. I had never imbibed that much liquor before, only having had champagne and perhaps an illicit sip of vodka before the previous evening. I paused to press the heels of palm to my eyes, rubbing away the sleep and disorientation.

Lying in bed this morning, I had such a strong urge to trace his scars with my fingers. I hadn't noticed them last night due to the low light, but in glow of the lambent green ceiling fixtures, I saw them quite clearly. Thin, spidery things; silver, slightly raised. I wanted to feel them, kiss them, lick them. The way they spanned across his chest. Some were not so delicate, however. A particularly large gash sliced from his clavicle to his naval; it was sinuous and thick, curving up his torso like the Euphrates. Unfortunately, I didn't even get to acknowledge them, let alone give them the attention they deserved. I feared angering him. The morning was strained enough and pointing them out would only add to the awkwardness.

I reached the end of the hallway and touched my wand to the seemingly impenetrable stone wall. This was the part I had been dreading.

"I am Professor Severus Snape's... personal prostitute." I mumbled the alliterative phrase, which ultimately didn't satisfy the wall because it didn't budge. If I would have to say this every time I exited the man's chambers, I might start to lose my mind. I repeated the sentence, louder this time, and the stone seemed to melt away. There was a wooden panel in front of me and I pressed my palm against it, causing it to swing open.

The Common Room was empty and cold, the fire had died out some time ago and the Great Lake weighing overhead did little to insulate the space. I glanced at the large grandfather clock and saw that the Express was departing just at that moment.

"Haven't seen anyone come through this door in quite some time," a low voice rasped.

I spun around to face my addresser. The entrance to the passageway was a long painting of an unidentified wizard that the Slytherins just called "Bats", due to the eponymous animals that hung from the man's outstretched arm.

"Oh," I replied lamely. "You mustn’t tell anyone."

"Of course not... Evelyn. It will be our secret."

"Who are you?" Realising that this question was rather rude, I added, "Because I certainly can't call you Bats."

"Octavius Nigellus Avery. Head of Slytherin House from 1805-1835. At your service." He offered me a small bow and the bats fluttered agitatedly. "Now tell me about your night."

"What?" The portrait grinned menacingly and sat down in the black velvet chair that he was posing in front of.

"You silly, salacious slut! Did you really think that my silence would come free? Sit down and tell me exactly how it went."

"No," I snapped. "I won't! You're obscene."

"I will tell every portrait in this school where you just stumbled in from if you don't tell me precisely what transpired."

"I..." Seeing no other option, I took a seat on a hard leather sofa. I attempted the brief, clinical approach first. "I sucked him, he fucked me, I gave him a handjob this morning."

"Ah, no, darling, that won't due. Sit down." I did. "Tell me every sordid detail."

And I did. It was difficult at first. I was embarrassed and couldn't articulate exactly what I felt or what had occurred, but it became easier. I started getting aroused about halfway through and by the end, everything seemed much clearer in my mind. Through this strange request, I became much more comfortable with the entire situation.

Octavius seemed pleased with the narrative and stroked his vampiric pets soothingly. "You're a good girl Evelyn; I can't understand why people don't like you or at least, the extent to which they don't like you."

"Sorry?" I inquired, befuddled by his pronouncement.

"I mean, I have noticed you can be rather condescending and arrogant at times, but the others needn't be so rude about it."

"What do they say?" I sighed and slouched down in the seat

"They question your blood-status quite often; I myself have never heard of the Harper family. They're unsure if they should even pretend to like you any longer. You're uppity about all the wrong sort of things, and it wouldn’t hurt to call someone a Mudblood on occasion. Oh—and stop acting like such a know-it-all. No one appreciates it."

I took the abuse without a word of protest or reproach. It wasn't as if I didn't already know. I sat there heavily, fingering the straps of my dress, my cheeks growing hot. "Oh."

Only six more months, Evelyn. You can manage six more months.

"Yes, if you want to keep your friends I suggest you start acting in a manner suitable to a young Pure-blood witch; you must be getting married soon..."

I stood up and walked away without another word. Up in the dormitories, I threw off the dress, pulled on some plain black robes, and got out my application. It was difficult to stay focused. I found myself thinking about Snape or the portrait's "advice" or my parents. I would miss them terribly over the holidays, my siblings too. I had never missed a Christmas; no midnight mass, no brunch the following morning, and perhaps I wouldn't get any presents this year. But there was Oxford, my consolation, my salve. My chest tightened and throat constricted for a moment, in terror, paralysing. What if I didn’t get in? It was always something I avoided; I didn't want to think about it.

I spent some time trying to decipher Snape's near illegible scrawl and making changes accordingly. I smiled slightly upon completing it, pleased with the finished product. My stomach groaned in protest of my neglecting it, and I decided that I could treat myself to a spot of lunch. I kept my head down as I strode briskly through the common room, taking care not to acknowledge that horrid painting.

The tables in the Great Hall had been cleared and a small round one had taken their place. It was empty, save for a single faculty member: Professor Faire. Though he was an insipid character, something about him made me squirm. There was something not quite right about him; a dangerous flash in his eyes, a cruel twist of his mouth.

"Evelyn," he called out. Professor Faire had never been anything but kind to me, but the familiarity, the intimacy of using my first name was undeniably inappropriate. "Come; sit by me."

"Oh, all right," I conceded. There was no polite way of declining his offer, and so I set myself next to him and picked out my lunch selection from the array of food in the middle of the table.

"Have you seen the Prophet this morning?" Faire asked as I was nibbling on a wedge of Stilton.

"No, I haven't." He handed me the paper and I read: HOGWARTS EXPOSED, A STARTLING LOOK AT BRITAIN'S SCHOLASTIC DECLINE. The following article detailed every flaw, every defect, every crack, failing, and foible, often exaggerating and embellishing certain details. It cited "anonymous sources," whose quotes either demonstrated a lack of intelligence on the students’ part or indifference from the faculty. The passage concluded with a rousing call for the appointment of a Headmaster, confident in the fact this would solve all of our problems. It was highly suspicious, this article, seemed like just the sort of propaganda Lucius Malfoy would use. It was a very clever move, however, and would win him the support of the simple fools that believed the Daily Prophet was a credible source.

"Ouch," I responded and Professor Faire laughed just a little too loudly.

"Ouch indeed, Evelyn."

We continued to make small talk; the weather, Defence Against the Dark Arts homework, and other platitudes that made me drowsy.

"Why didn't you go home for the holidays?" Faire asked just as I was about to excuse myself.

"Oh..." I struggled to think of a plausible answer. "I—I suppose that I just want to get used to being away from the family. If I do become an apprentice, there's a good chance I'll have to stay at school as well."

"Are you excited?" He was staring at me, intense, fervid.

"I, well yes," I stuttered, confused by this sudden surge of passion.

"And Oxford?" His hand rested on my knee, and I jumped up.

"Oh! I have to go, Professor," I spluttered before cantering from the room.

--/--

I spent the rest of the day in the library. Dust glimmered in the weak light that streamed in through the grimy windows and settled lightly on the spines of books. I felt too ill, too unsettled to read but the warmth and familiarity of the room was soothing. The place was so familiar; I had come to love these shelves, the off-white carpet, worn thin by the shoes of innumerable students. Eventually it grew dark, and I knew it was time to make my way down to his office.

Tapping carelessly on the door, I waited a few moments before he instructed me to enter. Professor Snape was lounging comfortably in the chair behind his desk, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, smoking cigarette clenched tightly between two fingers. He took a slow drag before mashing the tip into a saucer.

“Good evening, Miss Harper.” I didn’t respond immediately. My eyes had fixed themselves on a shadowy, almost smoke-like haze on his left forearm. Snape scowled and yanked the sleeve down, breaking my fixed stare.

“Good evening, Professor,” I replied absently. My eyes locked with his for a moment before looking hurriedly away.

“What is it, Miss Harper?” he inquired suspiciously. I sat down in the chair opposite him and shrugged.

“Nothing.” The lie was easy, fluid.

“Do not lie to me,” he snapped, leaning over the desk. “Tell me or I will make you.”

“It’s nothing, Professor. Really, I’m just tired—”

“Don’t suppose for an instant that you can be dishonest and get away with it. I am smarter than you, Harper, and much more perceptive. Do not force me to use Legilimency.”

“You wouldn’t,” I retorted, calling his bluff.

“I already have: that night I had you over my desk for the first time.”

“How could you? That is such an invasion—”

“Spare me the self-righteous indignation. I had to make sure you weren’t going to run off and tell someone.”

I sat there, pouting. I was furious with him. He had no right to delve into my mind like that.

“Listen, Harper. I wouldn’t waste my time perusing your adolescent psyche. You are being extremely conceited in thinking that I would even be interested in anything you have swimming around up there. But now you are going to tell me what is upsetting you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about the painting?” I asked, blood rushing to my cheeks at the remembrance.

“What painting?”

“Octavius Nigellus Avery.”

“Oh Merlin, don’t tell me you fell for that one. Really, I thought you smarter than that, Harper.”

I narrowed my eyes at the dig and pursed my lips. “He said he would expose us! What did you expect me to do?”

“Ah, perhaps I should have warned you. Octavius is a wanton, old lecher. You needn’t tell him anything; he’s charmed to keep quiet.”

I stared at him, jaw thrust forward, eyes narrowed; my mouth twitched. “Oh.”

Snape sighed. “What else, Miss Harper? I know there’s something else.”

“I...” I was scared to tell him. I didn’t know how he would react.

Maybe I deserve everything. I mean, I let Professor Snape have his way with me yesterday. And he only grabbed my knee. It’s not as if I —I mean— I could have overreacted. It could have been an accident, and it’s not as if it hurt anyone, and I should be flattered, really...

“Evelyn.” The way he said it made me shiver. I folded my hands in my lap and started at them intently.

“Professor Faire... he grabbed my knee.”

“Bastard,” Snape muttered darkly. “And no Headmaster to whom to report. We could take it to the Board of Governors—”

“You can’t,” I cut in. “Faire is Lucius’s nephew.”

“And you didn’t think it prudent to tell me before?” he snapped savagely.

I gave him a long look. “We weren’t on speaking terms.”

There was a pause. “I can do something about it. I can make sure that he never does anything.”

“No, you can’t! Professor... I promise I won’t let myself be alone with him. Really—but you just can’t say anything. Promise me you won’t. Promise me.”

“Miss Harper...”

“Please?”

He pressed his lips together. “Fine, fine. But you are not to... get involved with him.”

“I would never!”

“I mean it, Miss Harper, don’t engage, encourage, or... excite him.”

“All right, Professor.”

We stared at each other in silence, eyes averted, mouths compressed.

I think we were both trying to sort out why what Faire had done was so heinous yet Snape’s actions weren’t objectionable in our eyes. I wanted what Professor Snape had done, what he had given me, but that didn’t make it right.

Grabbing a girl’s knee is a sleazy gesture; it means that a man know the woman isn’t comfortable with any overt sort of flirtation, but he is going to attempt it anyway. Professor Snape never danced around it. He had me because he wanted me; the punishments were erotic, never seedy or limp like a caress on the knee.

Professor Faire and I had never established any sort of relationship, whereas Snape... Severus and I had. I would often come in a few minutes early to class to talk with him; they were small, trivial discussions, but I got a sense that he didn’t mind them. And he had always been around, from my first year to the current one (admittedly, he was my Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher my third year and the Headmaster my fourth, but he was never erased entirely from my life).

We were very similar people in some respects, with common interests and were amused by the same things. I always laughed at his snide comments, his mordant witticisms, because they often seemed to be an expression of my own thoughts or attitudes. We frequently exchanged quips, and I couldn’t help but smile when Severus delivered a particularly stinging blow to a fellow pupil. He made me laugh; my professor had made me happy, had established a relationship with me long before he had bedded me. I respected and trusted him, which was more than could be said about most people in my life. I didn’t know Faire, I didn’t trust him or respect him. His touch made me feel nauseated and repulsed.

"Did you bring me here to just to stare or are you going to look over my application?" I quirked a corner of my mouth upward and handed him the crisp, slightly curled parchment.

"Cheeky," he commented dryly, before adjusting his glasses and beginning to proofread my resume. I shifted nervously in my seat, tapping my shoes against the ground and nibbling on my lower lip.

"Will you stop that?" he snapped, and I stilled my fidgeting feet. "Would you like to help me with a potion later, Miss Harper?"

"Oh yes," I replied, perhaps a bit too quickly, as he continued to scan the parchment. "What sort?"

He didn't respond immediately, instead choosing to finish his cursory review of my application. "To remedy this," he finally replied, tapping tacitly on his lenses.

"Oh?" I stood up and circled his desk, perching on the edge. It was a very risky move, I knew, but I needed something to distract me from all the upsetting things that had transpired that day. I bent over slightly and removed the spectacles. "Hmmmmm... I rather like them, Professor. You look so smart with them on."

"Do you? Well, I'm so glad that you have no say in the matter. Get off my desk." Snape nudged me with the toe of his boot, and I slipped off the table.

"What did you think, sir? Of my revisions?"

"I am... impressed. It's good—"

"Good? Well in your language that translates to... excellent or superb, I believe."

He raised his eyebrows for a brief moment before letting them furrow together. "I said it was good. If it were 'excellent' or 'superb', I would have said that."

"Would you?" I asked incredulously. I didn't think the words were a part of his vocabulary.

"Yes."

I slumped against a row of shelves and directed my gaze towards a small jar that contained a small, dysmorphic looking creature.

"It was very good," he conceded with some difficulty. I turned back towards the man, who was still seated in his chair, legs crossed, and arms folded over his chest. "I think your application is up to Oxford standards. I see you took my notations into consideration."

"I really respect your opinion, sir," I replied simply; it was the truth.

"Well, good. Do you need me to write you a letter of recommendation?"

"Oh, erm, no. That usually comes from the professor you’re apprenticing under—"

Quite suddenly, Professor Snape sprung up and grabbed my waist.

"I don't understand why you're doing Charms." His voice was dark but controlled, as always. "I could have you all to myself. You wouldn't even leave my chambers, I don't think. Mark papers, grade potions. It'd be—what do you Catholics call it? Ah, heaven..."

I squirmed against him, trying to loosen his grip. The thick buttons of his long coat dug into my back, pale, tapered fingers gripping my abdomen. The scene reminded me of the dream I had months ago; it seemed like ages. That fleeting, ethereal vision had manifested itself in this moment. He was not gentle; nails digging through the fabric of my robes, wedging a crooked knee between my legs. I was pleased to note that he didn't smell of alcohol, that he was sober and still being so... familiar with me. "You mean, I'd be your slave," I pointed out wryly; he didn't correct me. "No thank you."

He let me go, and I took a few sweet gulps of air.

I was secretly delighted by the exchange. He wasn't just interested a quick screw; he had expressed a desire to keep me locked away, all to himself. The thought caused a chill to slither up my spine; I could never consent to such servitude, such forced hermeticism, but the idea of being his was undeniably arousing

He opened the door to his personal stores and stepped inside. The air was thick with an earthy fragrance, like soil and dried herbs. The room was warm, devoid of moisture, with rows upon rows of neat, wooden drawers. Their fronts were smooth beneath my fingers as they skimmed along the wall. Severus was balanced gracefully on a set of steps, taking pinches of this and that. He'd occasionally gesture in the direction of the worktable and I'd scurry over and give him a container to put the ingredients in. It felt good to be of use, to help my professor like this. I wouldn't have minded being his apprentice. I came to the conclusion that it would have been an enjoyable, as well as enlightening, experience.

"Come along, Miss Harper," he mumbled distractedly as he glided from the room. I followed close behind, trying to keep pace and balance all the herbs he had thrust into my arms.

There was a large workspace in the corner of his office, with a long table and smooth pewter cauldron, and sharpened utensils that glimmered in the low light. Snape hurriedly lit a fire under the basin. I watched, mouth agape, as he made the potion. I had never seen him work before this; his movements, so precise and fluid. The way a blade slid across the ingredients without any hesitation, deliberate and smooth. I was transfixed. Occasionally, he would mutter something in low, rasping tones and I would have to decipher his request and act on it.

Once it was clear that he had finished, I glanced up at him, smiling briefly.

"You are very good," I pronounced earnestly.

This earned me a rather disapproving look from Professor Snape, who didn't appreciate such serious pronouncements. "Yes." He grasped the collar of my robes and half-led me, half-dragged me into his chambers.

"But the potion!"

"It needs to stew, Harper," Snape explained, brusque and impatient. He dropped me onto the sofa and made his way over to a chest of drawers. He returned with a crystal bottle, filled to the brim with an amber liquid. He set himself next to me, removing the stopper, and took a long draught from the bottle.

"Remove your robes, Miss Harper." Though the command was sharp, there was a certain warmth with which he spoke it.

"Yes, Professor," I lisped in a mockingly sweet tone. I slipped off the long cloak and dropped it hastily to the floor, leaving me in a loose blouse and bottoms.

"Pert little snot." Professor Snape pressed the rim of the bottle to my mouth. I wiggled my tongue down the neck before he tipped it up, sending a flood of the liquid down my throat. I swallowed reflexively but began to cough furiously as the alcohol seared my throat. It tasted horrible and smelled horrible and made my eyes water.

"That was very cruel of you, Professor," I coughed. "Very cruel."

"And that surprises you?"

It didn't, I surmised, and responded with a non-committal shrug. Professor Snape gulped down some more and offered me the bottle.

"Oh no!" I pursed my lips shut and crossed my arms over my chest.

"No?" he hissed dangerously. I had forgotten my promise to obey him, but certainly that oath didn't extend to such a minuscule matter as this.

"I don't—" Snape slipped the decanter into my mouth and arched his eyebrows. I took the crystal bottle from him and took a swig. If I was going to drink, it would be on my own terms. It burned a little less this time and soon warmth spread through me.

"Oh, that's nice," I muttered, grinning stupidly. Snape bared his teeth and I couldn't be sure if he was snarling or smiling in response. Whatever the case, it was a frightening gesture. We passed the drink back and forth until we had finished it all.

By that time, I was giddy and hot and fumbled with the buttons of my blouse before giving up and burying my face in Snape's lap.

He groaned and began to scrape his nails against my scalp. It felt nice, and I nuzzled his palm.

"Oh, Professor..." I sighed, my tongue tripping over the words. "Can we go to your bedroom?"

"I was planning on screwing you here," he admitted, without a moment's hesitation. I'm never really sure if I became entirely comfortable with blunt pronouncements like this, but I really had no say in the matter.

"Oh," I pouted, looking up at him with wide eyes and a small frown.

"You minx." He pushed me off his lap and gestured grandly towards his chambers. I learned that night that liquor made him pliable. I could manipulate him, as opposed to him controlling me. He became much more agreeable and easy to deal with.

I stepped into the bedroom, which was significantly cooler than the sitting room, and began to struggle with those buttons again.

"Undress me."

Undress him?

"What?"

"Undress me."

I didn't understand this almost childish demand. It was silly. He was perfectly capable of undressing himself, or so I thought. And then I noticed the difficulty with which he bent his fingers, the slightly swollen knuckles, the way they curved in a claw-like manner.

I sighed and averted my gaze. "Of course, Professor Snape."

I sat next to him on the bed and debated for a moment how to go about stripping him. The sight of his hands, inflamed by his earlier actions, made me pity him; I knew he didn't want to be pitied, but I couldn't help myself. I ached to press his hands to my mouth, place cool kisses on the joints, have him tap the pads of his fingers against my skin. But I quashed these tender impulses and tipped my chin upward. Thankfully, he had already removed his more cumbersome articles and all that was left were his white shirt and trousers. Though I was admittedly inebriated, I managed to unfasten all the tiny buttons that lined the front of his shirt. I pushed it off of him, and gasped as he pressed his open mouth on my jaw, moving down my neck.

I tentatively placed my hand on the back of his head. His hands fell on my waist, and he pressed me savagely down onto his erection. Snape teeth tugged at my earlobe unexpectedly and I fell off his lap onto the bed. I was disoriented and only began to work on his trousers out of some primal, impulsive instinct.

"My boots," he pointed out. I got onto the floor and unlaced the thick, leather things, tugging them off his feet. In a sudden moment of inspiration, I put them on, cinching the laces and tying them in thick bows.

"What do you think?" I asked, standing up on unsteady legs. I finished off my blouse and crumpled it up hastily, discarding my trousers as well. Snape had stepped out of his trousers and, with a pained expression on his face, had managed to peel off his socks. I was fumbling with the clasp behind my back, when Professor Snape beckoned me over.

"I can manage it, Professor," I assured him. I usually had no problem with unhooking my brassiere, but I was drunk, very drunk, and couldn't help but giggle with every floundering grasp.

"Come here." Not bothering to argue, I did as he asked, allowing him to pull me onto the tops of his thighs. Snape pressed his mouth against a shoulder blade and began to drag his teeth across the skin. It tickled but I cried out when he bit down; he had contorted his fingers in a way that incited him to clench his teeth in agony, an involuntary response to the pain. To make up for the rather savage gesture, Snape pecked softly at the flesh, as he removed the garment.

"No knickers?" he inquired mockingly, pointedly staring at my minge.

"No."

"Minx," he muttered for the second time that night.

Because he was so drunk, he had a difficult time getting an erection. I don't think he was cognisant enough to be embarrassed about it, nor was I particularly upset. I wouldn't have had the coordination or state of mind to do much anyway. We rubbed against each other, grinding, our mouths finding flesh somewhere. It was like wrestling almost, tumbling about, tangling in the sheets, teeth nipping. Professor Snape had expressed that first night that he was no lightweight, so perhaps he wasn't as drunk as I thought; he eventually aligned himself with my sex and sank into me. We groaned in unison, and he began to move in me. His mouth was against mine, sticking in some sort of passionate gesture. He tasted like the liquor we had imbibed earlier, though that was one of the few specifics I remember about that night. Another was that his hair brushed my cheek, just like I had hoped. I'm not sure if either of us climaxed really; I was too drunk to notice. And eventually he just collapsed on top of me with a guttural grunt. He clutched me to him, as he lay on his back, sheets pulled up to his waist, and pressed my cheek against his chest. I could feel a ribbon of scarring beneath me and smiled. His hands held me there tightly, almost dangerously so, but even his vice-like grip could not keep me from passing out.