Rating:
R
House:
Astronomy Tower
Ships:
Original Female Witch/Severus Snape
Characters:
Original Female Witch Severus Snape
Genres:
Romance Angst
Era:
The Harry Potter at Hogwarts Years
Spoilers:
Order of the Phoenix
Stats:
Published: 03/19/2005
Updated: 07/13/2015
Words: 282,703
Chapters: 64
Hits: 98,814

A Merciless Affection

Verity Brown

Story Summary:
When a N.E.W.T. Potions field trip goes badly wrong, a chain of events is set in motion that may cost Snape more than his life, and a student more than her heart. Angst/angsty romance. SS/OC (of-age student). AU after HBP but canon with OotP. Contains mature theme and some sex.

Chapter 04

Posted:
04/01/2005
Hits:
2,271


Chapter 4: Past the Point of No Return

For a while the world narrowed to breathing and not being able to breathe. Between the intervals of the latter, it occurred to her that she was the very picture of dishevelment. She had lost her shoes somewhere along the way, and with her skirt pushed halfway up and her vest askew, the front tails of her blouse sticking out from underneath where he had reached up inside it...if anyone saw her now, no rapid scramble to correct her appearance was going to hide what they had been doing. But there was no knock on the door, no footsteps out in the deserted dungeon corridor. If she should suddenly decide to scream for help, no one would hear her.

The thought was like a splash of cold water. As if it had caught him as well, he stopped groping and looked into her eyes. Abruptly he rolled off her and lay beside her gasping. The sudden break left her body protesting.

"Point of no return," he hissed between breaths. "And don't waste time deciding."

There were words for a woman who would leave a man in a situation like this. Ugly ones that Sarah had overheard in the common room.

"No." She shook her head. "I'm not that kind of girl." Then, because she saw a glimmer of doubt in his eyes as he rolled onto his side to face her--not the kind of girl who would actually sleep with her teacher?--she said, "If I had intended to leave, I wouldn't have come here at all."

If there had been any randomness in his seduction before, there was none now. As he kissed her, one hand then another fumbled at his waist. Her skirt migrated the rest of the way up, and as he settled against her, she became shockingly aware that the only thing protecting her virtue--such as it was--from immediate ruin was the thin cotton layer of her smallclothes.

He dealt with the problem, but not in any way she might have expected. Frowning, he leaned back again, retrieved his wand from its pocket and whispered fiercely a charm she had never heard before, "Rapacio!"

The chill that ran through her blood might be on account of the brush of cold air where she was suddenly missing her underpants, but she doubted it. But it was far too late to decide that there might be something frightening about having a Slytherin for a lover, especially one that rumor credited with an old allegiance to...

Too late...

His mouth on hers stopped the involuntary cry of pain at her lips. That hurt! She hadn't imagined that it would feel like... How badly was she injured? And how on earth would she explain to Madam Pomfrey how...?

Tears welled up in her eyes. But he had released her lips and now he was staring down her with the same probing gaze with which he sought out weaknesses in the classroom, a warning that he would mock her for weeping. She blinked in an effort to hold back the tears, but her trembling lashes threw a single drop onto her cheek.

Delicately, as if handling some fragile ingredient, he caught it up on a fingertip. Then, to Sarah's horror, he brought it to his lips. What did it taste of? Pain? Fear? Was that what he wanted to taste? Had he intended this to seem like rape, no matter how willing she might have been? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his wand where he had dropped it on the bed, and her underwear just a little beyond.

She turned her eyes back to him. Tears or no tears, the sense of betrayal must be pouring out, because his expression tightened into anger.

"Were you actually so innocent that you didn't know that it would hurt?"

The words stung. He had that knack of making everything seem as if it were one's own fault. Curiously, the familiar tang of it stiffened her spine.

"I knew," she whispered, defying the darkness of his eyes. "Just not how much." Although, in truth, the pain was dissolving, fading to a stinging ache, leaving her aware of pressure and other sensations that tried to rekindle the desire that driven her there to begin with.

She hadn't expected such an answer to change anything, but his forehead smoothed, and he bent to kiss her again. She swallowed a whimper as he moved against her, renewing the pain. But there was more to it than pain now. She wanted to laugh at herself. All the time that she was kissing him, that her hands were crushing the fabric of his shirt, her mind was hunched up in the back of her skull taking notes. So this is what it's like.

Not quite the lesson you would expect from your Potions professor.

It did not last very long. His breathing tightened, a terrible tenseness that shook his whole body. A sound, somewhere between a grunt and a moan, escaped his lips. All the strength that held him together, body and soul, seemed, for a long, long moment, to pour into her and through her like a flood of magic.

Then there was breathing, just breathing, quieting from ragged to barely audible.

Finally he eased himself away from her. Her body protested that must be more than that. And yet somehow that rush of energy had been satisfying in a way that few things in her life had ever been.

Snatching up his wand from the sheets, he slid out of the bed. "I've no doubt," he said, with still a hint of breathlessness that marred the sneer, "that you will find this crass. But I'm not about to waste perfectly good ingredients."

"Ingredients?" Her legs were cold, she realized, although she found that she did not yet have the will to sit up and do something about it.

"You don't really think, do you," his voice carried in from the workroom, "that when a potion calls for a drop of virgin's blood, you're supposed to make a donation by pricking your finger?"

Her mouth still formed an "Oh!" when he came back through the doorway. His hands were full of squares of cotton wool, some of it already smeared with blood.

"Inspongus!"

With a tingle, the damp mess between her legs was cleaned away. She pushed herself backward and up into a sitting position. The stain of blood on the sheet, startlingly wide, got the same treatment, disappearing into the cotton wool as if it had never happened. And with that, he stalked back off into his workroom.

Ok, so it was crass. But the curiosity of a Potions student overcame any thought of being upset with him. She grabbed for her underpants and, having made an effort to pull her appearance back together, she tiptoed to the doorway.

"Not falling apart?" he asked over his shoulder. He had placed the besmirched cotton wool into a glass jar on one of the worktables.

"Why should I?" she returned.

In lieu of a reply, he pointed his wand in her direction. "Accio librum materiae humani!"

The instinct to dodge was fortunate. A book zoomed through the doorway, neatly missing her head. He caught it and began flipping through the pages.

"If you have retained sufficient presence of mind to act as an assistant, you will do so. If not..." he gestured dismissively toward the office doorway, shadowed by the tapestry that hung outside it, "leave."

Sarah swallowed hard, trying to quiet her heart, which was still thumping madly from the supposed attack. "You want an assistant?" she asked warily.

"Not particularly," he snapped. "However, as you will no longer have the opportunity of preparing your own supply during your apprenticeship, you should at least participate. Especially since, unfortunately, I am obliged to split the proceeds with you."

"So female Potions apprentices usually...?" Every trade had its secrets, but this...

"Yes." Having located whatever information he was seeking, he snapped the book shut and reached for one of the beakers of common solvents. He poured it carefully into the jar until all the cotton wool was submerged. Tendrils of red swirled into the liquid.

"With their instructor." Fascinating.

"Or a fellow apprentice," he answered, a little too offhandedly. "You are hardly in a position to find that startling, Miss Darkglass. Now, study the instructions." He held out the book. "Near the end."

Sarah came forward and took it. The covers were of a remarkably fine-grained but worn black leather. The title on the spine was still just visible, although tarnish had darkened the silver leaf: The Collection and Preparation of Human Ingredients.

It was the sort of book, she felt instinctively, that would have been in her father's private library at Darkglass Hall, and she opened it with trepidation.

Viscera. That was a little too far, assuming that the contents were arranged alphabetically. But the illustrations of intestines being drawn out and wound up on spool were disturbing enough that she flipped a whole section of pages backward in her haste to rid herself of the images.

Liqueur Mortis. Unfamiliar with the words, she let her eyes pause on the page. This is a powerful fluid, the book informed her, distilled from all the collected excretions of the subject while they are dying. A bound, naked figure, illustrated in obvious agony, was suspended from the waist above a large cauldron, blood or vomit gushing from his open mouth.

Sarah shut her eyes and then the book. "I think," she whispered, "that I'm going to be sick."

"Use the bathroom!" Snape ordered sharply.

Sarah took a deep breath. "No, no, I'm all right."

"If you aren't capable of so much as finding a recipe..."

Sarah flicked through the pages with her eyes barely glancing off the titles. "There." Virgin's Blood. An essential ingredient in some of the more powerful healing potions, as well as draughts for binding men to... "Most of the things in this book are only used in the Dark Arts," she said. She could hear the hint of accusation in her own voice; surely Snape would not miss it.

"I am aware of that," he said tightly, keeping his eyes fixed on the jar.

Sarah could not seem to stop herself. "People say that you..."

Darker still. "I am also aware of what is said about me."

Keep your mouth shut, Sarah. "Does Professor Dumbledore know that you have books like this?" No, I have to know.

He turned; his eyes were less hard than she expected. "I assure you that the headmaster knows perfectly well that I have done far worse things in my life than take one of his students to bed." There was a curious note of guilt--just the vaguest hint--in his voice. "The instructions, Miss Darkglass."

Sarah bent her head over the book. The best choice for obtaining the required raw materials may vary depending on the desired end use. For healing potions, a bride on her wedding night produces the highest quality product...

Well, so much for that.

... while rape is sometimes to be preferred. However, except in the most delicate instances, the differences are usually minimal. The preparation process, as she expected, was tricky--blood was difficult to work with, because even minor errors would cause it to congeal hopelessly within moments. Dilution in the appropriate solute--Snape was still tending the jar--was just the beginning.

Sarah turned the page, finishing off a paragraph full of cautions. The next subheading read: Suggestions for Maximizing Blood Flow. She scanned it reluctantly, her face growing hot.

"It's been exactly eighteen minutes. Tongs?"

She looked up and saw that she was closer to the rotating tool rack. "Wood or metal?"

"Wood."

She passed him the requested item, then watched as he fished the soggy cotton wool out of the swirling red murk. It was excessively disconcerting to consider that it was her own blood in there.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what?" Suspiciously. Or maybe just distractedly. The damp cotton wool was making a ruddy mess of the worktable. "Evanesco!"

"For not following the...um...suggestions." She jerked the book slightly.

"Hmph," he snorted. "Let me see that." But he flipped back the page to check on the next step in the process.


It was nearly midnight when Sarah dragged herself up the stairs of Gryffindor Tower with a tiny vial clenched in her fist. Up in her room, she opened her trunk, grabbed the first soft article she could find (disturbingly, it was a old pair of underpants), wrapped the vial in it, and stuffed it deep into the corner of the trunk.

"Wow, it's late."

Sarah jumped.

Angelina went on sleepily, "Did you have to scrub the whole dungeon floor?"

"Uh...no. Snape was...um...working on a...uh...complicated potion, and I had to do the...um...messy stuff." Sarah, who had never had difficulty saying whatever needed to be said, found herself tripping over the lie. She hoped that Angelina was sleepy enough not to notice.

"Oh...well, that sounds less painful than usual." Sarah heard Angelina turn over and her breathing change to a half-snore.

You've no idea...

She slipped off her clothes and pulled on her nightdress. With every brush of the fabric, his touch still clung to her skin. When she climbed into bed, the weight of her blankets... Don't think about it!

Sarah curled up on her side and tried to think of something...anything...else. But her usual getting-to-sleep habit of mentally listing potion ingredients was no help tonight. A succession of uncomfortable thoughts crowded through her mind instead. Go back to your dormitory...Rapacio!...the liqueur mortis--no, anything but that...her own blood swirling round and round in the jar...the potential for manipulation...

It won't happen again. You know it won't.

Well, then, it won't. I got something out of it, didn't I? A rare potion ingredient.

Experience?

That, too. Sort of.

You want to do it again.

Sort of.

Sort of? So who are you going to encourage?

Well, not a Slytherin. Not a Gryffindor either. Maybe I'll wait until Christmas holidays. Maybe Michael will want to...

Maybe.

She tried to conjure up Michael's face, his silly grin, his close-cropped red hair. Weariness hit her with a crash like a wave, knocking her over, setting her afloat; her nerves had been strung tight all day...no, all week...since... Michael would kiss her, very, very gently. Sarah drifted. His hand was stroking the back of her head. That was so nice. Warm, it was warm. He was so close and warm, and his dark hair fell against her cheek like a curtain, shutting everyone and everything else out.

Warm. Safe.


Author notes: A/N: The Liqueur Mortis is not my own invention. It appears (under another name) in Fred Saberhagen's A Matter of Taste, described in far more gory detail than I did. The worst potion I think I've ever encountered in fiction. It's the reason I don't read Saberhagen's vampire novels anymore (despite the fact that the earlier ones, especially The Holmes-Dracula File and An Old Friend of the Family, are quite good).