A Merciless Affection

Chapter 19: Of Frocks...or of Chocolates

The posting on the boards of yet another 'Educational Decree' on Wednesday morning was not the most encouraging of signs. It was particularly alarming that this edict, forbidding teachers to teach anything outside their own subject areas, seemed to be aimed especially at something like the Occlumency lessons. How the woman could have already found out about the arrangement was anyone's guess, but if she had discovered that, there was no knowing what else she might have uncovered. It seemed altogether too likely that a conversation with Umbridge would end with the woman denouncing her for her relationship with Snape.

But Sarah had no choice. Simply failing to show up for any more of the woman's classes would certainly attract her notice, even if she were not already armed with information against them. So she approached Professor Umbridge immediately after breakfast, requesting an appointment with her. The woman seemed very flustered and consulted a fat diary before informing Sarah that she could not possibly see her before seven o'clock this evening.

It was unfortunate that it was necessary to skive off Defense Against the Dark Arts before the stated appointment. But her absence would be easier to excuse than her failure to turn in her essay during the lesson. Still, Sarah had to get a very firm grip on herself before she knocked on Professor Umbridge's door.

"Come in," the sickly sweet voice said.

The office's decor reflected the same bizarrely little-girl sense of taste as Umbridge's choice of clothing did. The walls were covered with pictures of kittens, and every flat surface was covered with crocheted doilies. The woman herself had changed her black academic robes for ones with a pattern of large strawberries printed all over them. The same fat bow as she had been wearing this morning, however, was still bound to the top of her head.

"I could not help noticing, Miss Darkglass, that you were not in class today. And you were not on Madam Pomfrey's ill-and-injured list. Do you have some explanation for this?"

"Yes, and that's what I need to speak to you about," Sarah said. She took the seat opposite Umbridge at the woman's signal. "You see, I just found out that I have a chance for a very prestigious apprenticeship. But it will require a better mark on my Potions N.E.W.T. than I had originally been aiming for. I'm going to have to spend a lot of time studying, and it's become plain to me that I can't continue to give my full attention to the rest of my classes. I'm going to have to drop at least one. And I'm afraid that Defense Against the Dark Arts is the only one I can afford to drop."

Umbridge's toad-like face puckered with displeasure. "I regret very much to hear that. Are you sure that you can't drop some other class? Or perhaps if you applied yourself more rigorously...."

"I wish I didn't have to. I enjoy your class so much," Sarah lied, hoping to mollify the woman. "But I've got to have a N.E.W.T. in all my other courses for my apprenticeship. Besides," she had a sudden stroke of inspiration, "the Ministry does such a good job of protecting us, you know, it hardly seems as if anyone really needs more than an O.W.L. in Defense, does it?" She tried to look as earnestly innocent as she imagined that someone with that point of view would look; in reality, she was holding her breath.

Umbridge's mouth spread into a wide grin. The transformation was almost frightening. "Why, yes, that's very true," she said. "I suppose you're right, dear. A prestigious apprenticeship is surely worth the sacrifice. Although I shall sincerely miss having someone of your insight and intelligence in my class."

It was difficult not to choke in reaction to such a bare-faced falsehood. And yet...was it possible that the horrid woman believed herself to be in earnest? Did so few students tell her what she wanted to hear? Such a ready and positive response to her efforts to suck up to Umbridge, unexpected as the reaction was, helped Sarah achieve a grateful expression. "Thank you for understanding, Professor. I'm not sure all of my teachers would have."

It was truly disgusting the way the woman slurped up flattery. "Think nothing of it. I'm glad to have provided some small assistance. By the way," Umbridge went on, conspiratorially, "where is this apprenticeship? Being in the Ministry does give one connections...."

It was a bad moment, but the truth--carefully modified, of course--had served her so far, and now it might lay the foundation for dealing with future problems, should Umbridge's presence continue beyond this school year. "Here at Hogwarts, actually," Sarah admitted. She managed a self-abasing blush. "I don't know if I'll be the one selected for it, but I hope so."

"Really, a Potions apprenticeship here? With Professor Snape?"

Unable to read Umbridge's expression, Sarah decided to take the bull by the horns. If Umbridge did know the truth, although that now seemed unlikely, it wouldn't make any difference what she said. "Yes, isn't that incredible? He doesn't often take an apprentice, so I've heard. But he believes that several in the N.E.W.T. class this year are exceptionally skilled, and he's decided to offer the opportunity to one of us." Sarah managed to work herself up to positively gushing.

"Well, well," Umbridge said. "That would be splendid, wouldn't it? Indeed, keeping students of your caliber around is an excellent idea. I shall have to put in a good word for you with Professor Snape."

"Would you?" Sarah raised both her eyebrows and her voice. It almost frightened her that, having figured out the right line to take with this teacher, she could do it so well. "Oh, I'd really appreciate that, Professor."

"There, there," Umbridge responded, "you just do your very best, and I've no doubt that things will work out. They always do, for the deserving."

* * *

Rehearsing this conversation the next evening to Snape was almost as entertaining (and far less nerve-wracking) than living through it.

"Do I need more than one guess which House she was in?" Sarah asked.

His upper lip curled slightly.

"Um hm," she murmured with a smirk. Then she leaned on her elbow. "Well, I don't know if she'll really remember to talk to you," she concluded, "but even if it slips her mind, if something comes up later that reminds her about me, the seed is planted for making her think that my apprenticeship is a good idea."

"Excellent," Snape said. He leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose. "Now, about your project. I've decided to teach you to make Wolfsbane Potion."

Sarah stared. Partly because she was outraged that he would decide for her what she was going to work on. And partly because what he was suggesting seemed far beyond her abilities. "There are hardly a dozen wizards in the world who can brew that correctly," she said, stunned.

"Yes, and I happen to be one of them. Which puts you in an ideal position to learn." As if taking his own words a little too literally, he put the basic premise of his suggestion into action. "I believe you can be taught the right touch for it," he continued with his double-entendre. "If not, there are other possibilities."

"What about what I wanted to do?" Sarah asked, letting the defiance of her words leak into her reactions just a little, artfully resisting his seduction. It was a little troubling that she enjoyed that game as much as she did, after what had happened. But their relations, from the very beginning, had skirted along the edge of rape many times before he had dragged her over it. He seemed to like it that way. Fear, he whispered to her once, is a powerful aphrodisiac. Disconcertingly, she had found it true...but only--in her own case, at least--if she was willing to be frightened. And how he might have developed a taste for it was another of those things that would not bear much thinking about.

"What did you want to do?" he asked, between kisses.

"Well, something more within my abilities. Polyjuice? Veritaserum? I was leaning toward the Veritaserum. It could be...useful."

"I remind you that the use of Veritaserum is strictly regulated," he hissed. But there was a teasing note in his voice, she thought.

"You could hardly tell on me, could you?" Sarah whispered impishly.

"It depends on what you planned to ask me. There are a great many things I don't want you to know."

"Why not?" Sarah grinned, reaching up to kiss him. But he held her back.

"You know why, Sarah," he said with abrupt soberness. He locked eyes with her, and she would have sworn she saw pain there for a moment. Then his expression softened and he was kissing her again, as if his lips could erase the coldness they had just spoken. "It will quickly become apparent to me whether you will be able to eventually manage the Wolfsbane or not. If you can't, you may work on the Polyjuice."

Sarah stuck out her tongue at him. She might have predicted that he would take that as an invitation.

* * *

The excuse she had made to Umbridge about not having time for all her other courses came true in spades. Snape provided her with a stack of literature on the Wolfsbane Potion. It did not take much reading to discover that the theories being discussed were of a much higher order that she could readily comprehend. When she admitted as much to Snape, however, he gave her another stack of reading, with the suggestion that if she was able to digest the new material first, she would probably then find the Wolfsbane articles understandable.

"Why didn't you just give these to me to begin with?" she complained.

"For two reasons," he said. "First, I wanted to you recognize the fact that what you are about to attempt is extremely difficult, even for experienced potion-makers. Second, now that you know what you don't know, you will be able to read the preliminary material with a far more discerning eye toward gaining the knowledge you lack."

And so she read. Constantly. Until her eyes blurred and she began to have dreams about listening to Potions lectures that almost made sense in her sleep, but which she couldn't understand in the slightest when she woke up. Snape quizzed her periodically on her progress, and set her to making potions that were meant to help her get the hang of certain techniques or permit her to observe particular effects described in her reading.

With a Hogsmeade weekend coming up in February, when she intended to purchase her potion-making equipment, Sarah made discreet inquiries to Gringotts and discovered, to her chagrin, that Aunt Portia had, indeed, asserted control over her money. Sarah's inheritance was not huge; she had never imagined that she might live on it indefinitely without employment. Malcolm Darkglass had decided to settle much of his wealth on his Nott nephews, but he had set aside what should have been a very reasonable portion for Sarah. The Ministry, however, had wrangled over the question of whether or not the testament of a criminal who had died attempting to elude justice could possibly be valid. In the end, the estate was settled more or less as her father had intended, except that Darkglass Hall was given to Julia--who had been bequeathed nothing in the original will--and which she promptly sold (for less than it was worth, Aunt Portia had complained) to the Notts, who had always wanted it anyway. It was supposed to have gone to Sarah.

Although part of the money resulting from the sale had been given over to Portia to assist with the expenses of keeping them in her household, Julia had at least had the foresight to set up a separate small account, with a certain portion to be made available each year, for Sarah to use for school expenses. And whether because Aunt Portia considered the sum it contained paltry enough not to concern herself with it, or because she had some tiny portion of mercy left in her, she had not touched the school account. There was not a great deal left in it, although Sarah had always been thrifty. The equipment would pretty well leave her poverty-stricken, although she would still have enough left to replace the nightgown Snape had spoiled. Sarah had mended the hem, but it wasn't entirely even and it now showed off her ankles and calves in a most unbecoming way.

Sarah wrote a stern letter to her aunt, demanding that she stop interfering in her business. After all, she pointed out sarcastically, Portia had made it very clear that she wanted nothing more to do with her niece.

Aunt Portia's response was haughty. Sarah could do as she liked with her life. But Portia would not sit aside and permit the girl to squander her money--at least some of which, she pointed out, had been Julia's dowry--on foolishness or wickedness. Those were her precise words: foolishness or wickedness. As Sarah's guardian, she had been made co-signatory to her accounts, an arrangement that was not due to cease until Sarah's 25^th birthday. Perhaps, Portia hinted, by then the girl would have come to her senses.

* * *

The advent of St. Valentine's Day on the very day of the Hogsmeade Saturday disturbed Sarah's internal equilibrium yet again. She should not care about such a uselessly gushy day. Pink hearts were for people who were truly, madly, deeply in love with each other. What she had with Severus was...well, from the beginning it had been lust, and there was still plenty of that. And the ease she felt in his presence was...well, it was something; she wasn't quite sure what, but she couldn't remotely call it being in love. But thanks to this stupid holiday, she felt more than usually miserable tramping through the streets of Hogsmeade alone.

She would buy her equipment and her new nightgown and get back to the castle as quickly as possible. Snape had not been assigned chaperone duties today, which was just as well, since they couldn't safely meet in the village anyway. She would hurry back and spend the afternoon with him. Grading papers, like as not. Brewing another tricky potion. And, hopefully, other things.

In Dreggs and Pennyworth, Sarah spent far too long over her choices, trying to figure out what she really needed, looking at various models of the equipment, trying to decide where she could skimp. Finally she concluded that the most important item was a high-quality scale. She could borrow most of her minor tools from Snape's lab, since he had plenty of spares. The few other things she needed, she bought in a lesser quality. Still, the amount she had to lay on the counter for her purchases made her wince.

It was a relief, all the same, to find herself with more money left than she had originally feared. If she didn't spend too much on her new nightgown, she might even have some left to.... To buy him something? She sighed at the thought. How would he react to that? She was a little afraid to find out. She was not about to spend her last few Knuts on something he would simply disdain.

Around the corner from the apothecary's, partway down the side street, was The Briar Rose, a discount shop. Mostly they sold a mish-mash of new or nearly new clothing gleaned from Muggle bargain tables or jumble sales. Sarah left her bags at the shop counter and began the arduous process of sorting through the possibilities.

On the table of Christmas wear, marked down to half price, she found what she was looking for. There. It was perfect. The red flannel nightgown was trimmed--rather garishly perhaps--with green lace. Nothing virginal about it--on the contrary, it was positively matronly. It was a fair match for his own grey nightshirt, and if he complained about being confronted nightly with Gryffindor red, she could point out the lace as a concession. What was more, it was cheap.

Congratulating herself on her find, Sarah bundled it up and headed back to the counter to pay for it. But something caught the corner of her eye, over along the wall where a few items were hung up on display. A green shimmer. She stopped and turned to look.

Oh, my....

The top of the garment was a riot of fretwork, rather like Battenburg lace, only in the same deep green shade as the fabric itself. Silk, her hesitant touch (after approaching it hypnotically) revealed, although it looked like satin. It appeared to be hanging in midair from the wooden hanger; the straps, which were tangible, had obviously been treated with something to make them invisible. In awe, Sarah lifted the hanger from its hook and held the loose gown against her. The tiny rolled hem hit her barely at mid-thigh.

The price tag? She trembled as she looked for it.

It wasn't quite as bad as she feared. But, with the flannel gown (which she must buy, since she clearly couldn't wear this green skimpiness in the dormitory) it would exhaust every Galleon she had, including the little she had decided to leave in her account as a buffer when she made her withdrawal at the Gringotts branch office this morning.

Still shaking, Sarah took it to the counter. "I'll take these two," she said. "But can you hold them for me for a few minutes? I'll be right back."

* * *

After dealing with her purchases in her room, Sarah drew the curtains around her bed, created the wall of silence, and turned her ring to the left.

"I was wondering where you were," Snape said, coming out of his office into the workroom and sealing the wall behind him. "The grading is finished."

"Oh, good," Sarah said, leaning casually against the archway between the bedroom and the workroom.

He fixed her with a sharp look. "You're up to something."

"Whatever makes you think that?" Sarah asked in mock innocence.

"Because I know that look," he purred. "A very Gryffindor look."

"You're sure it isn't a Slytherin look?" She raised her eyebrows.

He frowned. "You haven't given in to the pressures of the day and gone and bought me something abominable, have you?"

"I didn't buy you anything...exactly," she said. "I leave it to your judgment whether it's abominable or not. What's this?" She noticed a new project on the nearest table, and stepped over to investigate. It was finished, already bottled. She read the label. "Raspberry Passion?" she asked dubiously. Then, spying the nature of the instructions on the table, she blinked. "You made a potion out of Witch Weekly?"

Snape cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable. "Someone on the staff requested my assistance with a recipe."

"I don't supposed you'll tell me who?" Sarah grinned.

"The request was made in confidence," he said. "And you have far too little respect for your teachers as it is." He slipped an arm around her and with the other hand picked up the bottle. "This is what was left over. I don't imagine it's very strong, considering the source, but it might prove...entertaining."

"Mmmm," Sarah agreed. "Well, in that case, perhaps you should begin unwrapping your present. I warn you, it's in layers."

"Hmmm." He unsealed the bottle and took several sips until he had drunk about half; then he offered it to her.

"Gah, that's sweet," Sarah coughed. It was very definitely raspberry-flavored, though. As he predicted, the effect wasn't much, although it was enough to make the pre-existing idea of going into the bedroom more imperative. Also, she was feeling a good deal warmer than before. "Definitely time to start on your present."

"Layers?" He managed to open her outer robes. "What on earth did you...?"

Sarah laughed, the inhibition-relaxing effects of the potion resulting in a sound that was almost maniacal. "Better than my old one?"

"You'd be better without," he growled softly.

"Ah, ah, remember, layers." Sarah managed to shed her outer robes completely. He went to work almost immediately on removing the red flannel nightgown.

"Careful," she warned, worried that the little green outfit would slip off with it. "Here, let me." She wriggled out of the red flannel, tossing it down on top of her outer robes as if she were performing some kind of strip tease. Something in her brain told her she ought to be thoroughly abashed, but the potion wasn't giving her much help in listening to it. Now she was standing there in nothing but the shimmering green silk.

The amount on the price tag paled in comparison: his expression was priceless.

"Abominable?" she asked, in a voice that matched the fabric.

It seemed to take him a long time to find his voice, which had become more than usually dusky. "So...Slytherin? I knew you'd come over to our side eventually."

"Go, if you wish. If you think you can. But leave Sarah to me."

Sarah felt as if her breath had been knocked out.

"You know this is for Sarah's sake, Malcolm, not mine!"

"I don't want to leave, Mother, please! Father will promise to be good, I know he will. Please, Father!"

Her mother's arms around her were like bands of iron and silk. Her father's grey eyes were so sad. Surely he would agree!

"Take her if you will, then, Julia. Keep her if you can. But she'll come back to our side of her own accord, eventually."

She couldn't breathe. Her stomach had been jerked out by the tiny Portkey from the Witches' Protection League. Aunt Portia had sent it by owl post.

"What's wrong? Sarah, what's the matter?" It wasn't her father's voice. She blinked, trying to see past the images that had arisen from some heretofore mercifully darkened corner of her memory, filling her head and her heart with unbearable pain. It was someone else's voice. An unhandsome face, furrowed with concern. Severus Snape.

A Slytherin. A Death Eater.

Whose side am I on?

"Damned magazine recipes! Are you all right? Speak to me." He was shaking her.

"I..." she gasped. "Just...memory..."

"Sarah? Damn it, I can't..." He had his wand out, wavering. "Sarah?"

No words would come. No words could mend what had happened.

"Damn it! Legilimens!"

He was trying to pry into her head. She could feel it, like a cold hand reaching inside. Perhaps nothing else could have brought her back to her senses as quickly as that sensation of violation. The instinct which had kept that memory hidden from herself for so long was not about to share it with the man who had called it out of hiding with such a teasing echo of her father's words.

She found herself staring into his black eyes. Her own felt as hard as stone. Behind them, the pain was draining out of the memory, all of it cold, all of it turning to stone.

He lowered his wand.

"Are you all right, now?"

Sarah shut her eyes for a moment. "I think so. Sort of." Somehow she found the edge of the bed and sat down.

"What happened? Was it the potion?"

"I don't think so." Sarah swallowed hard, still tasting raspberry. But whatever effect the potion had been having had been washed away in that flood of pain. "It was what you said."

She hadn't meant to say that. Hadn't meant to tell him.

"What are you talking about?" The usual edge was back on his voice.

She looked him in the eyes again.

"I really don't know," he said. "This may not be the best of times to say it, but you're as gifted a natural Occlumens as I...was at your age."

"That's really something, isn't it?" Sarah murmured weakly, sarcasm leaking in from somewhere. "I know how you hate giving compliments."

"All I saw was a glimpse--your parents, I assume. Fighting over you?" In the course of this comment, his words had softened until they were only as firm as his anxious grip on her shoulder.

"I hadn't thought about it in so long. I hadn't remembered. I didn't want to remember." She was hearing, in her own voice, the pain of the memory, more than feeling it now. "The day my mother took me away, my father said that sooner or later I would...that I would come back to his side," the words tumbled out, choked, and she huddled down, wishing all of it could just disappear.

Snape stood up then, walked a few steps away. With his back to her he said, "It would appear that I am very good at picking out trouble." His words seemed to transmit a declaration of rejection that struck her as brutally as if he had backhanded her across the face.

"Don't say that!"

He turned around; perhaps the desperate note in her voice had told him that he had said something very wrong. "I did not mean you. I took on that trouble of my own accord. But this...." He pounded his clenched fist against the wall. "I would rather choose whatever pain I inflict. Not find that I've set it off like a booby-trap."

"I didn't mean to disoblige you," Sarah said. She intended to sound bitter, sharp, but the words came out dull and hollow. She watched, in empty disbelief, as he came and knelt before her, reaching out a hand to cup her face.

"I didn't intend to hurt you. Not today. Gods, not with this." He ran his fingertips lightly over the emerald silk. "You chose this for me, didn't you? And look where that's led. Damnable holiday."

"It isn't your fault." Sarah shook her head. "You couldn't have known. I didn't know. It just struck me so suddenly." Her voice cracked. "Because it was true, you know? It had come true."

Maybe he had no answer for that. She wished he did. Could he not at least say, No, you're not on his side, you're on the right side? But one thing was enough, for the moment, to quiet her terror: he lifted her bodily into the bed and held her cradled against him, stroking her hair, sometimes softly, sometimes with a sense of his own pain in his fingertips. But he did not cease until the world went finally, mercifully away.