The Curse of Acrasia

by georgetwinz

Rose LeRoy, an ambitious young potions witch from the U.S., has the opportunity to spend a year abroad working at Hogwarts. The only Potions Master qualified to help is none other than the notorious Professor Severus Snape. Will her attraction for him interfere with her work? Or will something more sinister sabotage her affairs, or even worse, endanger her life?

The Curse of Acrasia

-J.L. Voris, author of The Woman with No Name: A George Twins Novel, available on Amazon

Chapter 1

It was difficult to choose what to wear. Not because Rose was finicky about fashion, but the European Wizarding World had issues with muggle fashion, and, well, pretty much any kind of muggle connection. The American witches and wizards were a much more informal group. They wore muggle clothes most of the time. Occasionally, a private club would insist on formal wizarding wear and of course The Paumanok School of Magic required a traditional uniform. The majority of witches and wizards, however, wore muggle clothes made by a few select designers from the wizarding world – they had fun designing muggle clothes with little magic touches here and there. Europe, however, was a very different place with a much older tradition. Thousands of years older. That kind of history was mind-boggling. Rose finally decided not to fret, and go with what she would normally wear for a professional interview – a primarily muggle design with some touches of witchcraft. A blouse and skirt with sensible knee-high boots (refined dragon leather, of course) with sensible one-inch heels. The collared shirt was impervious to rain and climate controlled (no underarm sweating). The skirt resisted drafts, and her boots repelled water and mud. She kept her belongings in an elegant satchel (theft-proof) with a long travel strap that fit comfortably across her body.

Rose LeRoy, an American witch on a fast track to becoming a Potions Master, was traveling to London, England, in the hopes that she would be working at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Rose graduated from The Paumanok School of Magic at age 17 with honors in Potions. She was one of half a dozen students that had been awarded special honors, and the only one with honors for innovation in potions since the school was founded in the late 1600's. Upon graduation, she immediately enrolled in The Hullta Hullisle Navajo Institute for Advanced Magic and spent two years studying potions under the most talented Potions Masters in The United States. While there, she published several articles in various potions journals – primarily on innovation of method. Upon her graduation, she had procured the coveted internship at Obbat Laboratories. There, she was to work under Dr. Gregory Ehross, the lead Potions Master in their experimental division.

While serving her internship, Rose invented the Tractim Potion, and published her findings in the elite scholarly journal, Potions Review. Based on this invention, and with Dr. Ehross's encouragement, Rose applied for and became a lucky recipient of the Trustman Futhers Grant, a highly prestigious and sought after grant that provided almost unlimited funding and was created by the United Federation of Witches and Wizards – a council of all the magical ministries in the civilized world.

In her first six months as an intern, she aided her mentor in discovering the Velociter Potion, which quickened the affects of a potion, partly by increasing blood flow and partly by magnifying the magical properties of a potion. She helped Dr. Ehross refine and revolutionize his technique and method, her specialty area of study.

Using the methods and technique they had, together, created, and referring to him for various questions, she had then developed the Tractim Potion, which slowed blood flow and also decreased the adverse magical properties of a potion. Obviously, this potion would be incredibly useful when someone had been poisoned, or rather poisoned and cursed – a volatile combination of the two.

The Velociter and Tractim Potions were primarily developed to be used in very small quantities, to quicken or slow a potion's effect. Of course, there were spells that did the same thing: Tardus Sanguinem slowed the blood flow and Velox Sanguinem increased blood flow; however, they were incredibly complex spells usually only mastered by Healers and sometimes by Aurors – to attempt either of these spells without mastery could easily result in the patient's death. Similarly, there were spells that could cure or slow down a curse, but this was also highly specialized magic and not always available at the crucial moment. Thus, these potions had great value in that, if used in the correct amounts, any witch or wizard could administer them.

When Rose had discovered Tractim, she offered Dr. Ehross part of the credit, but he had refused, claiming the aid he provided was something any professional in the field would have done. He was impressed by her discovery and encouraged her to submit her findings to Potions Review instead of the journals she was used to publishing in, which were practical and well read, but not nearly as prestigious. He also strongly felt her invention had large implications in the wizarding world and was concerned even Obbat Laboratories lacked the resources necessary to develop Tractim. He presented her with multiple grant applications and told her to take extra care when filling out the Trustman Futhers Grant. Indeed, if not for Dr. Ehross's guidance and encouragement, she would not have advanced so quickly.

Given her accomplishments, Rose should have been pleased, thrilled even, but she was overwhelmed by her love affair with Dr. Ehross. She had heard the rumours when she arrived at Obbat Laboratories. The rumours about Dr. Gregory Ehross and his serial dalliances with interns. Rose hadn't paid too much intention to the gossip, as she felt it had very little to do with herself. That is, until she met Dr. Ehross. He had been handsome, charismatic, helpful – besides his weakness for seducing interns, he was a fantastic mentor. He did, as she was warned, proposition her: and she did, to her own astonishment, sleep with him. She hadn't had much time for dating during her school years and perhaps that was why she fell for Dr. Gregory Ehross advances. Her lack of experience made her vulnerable to flattery and romance.

It began as a secret and ended quite publicly. Or rather, people pretended not to notice, (or more realistically, they assumed no young female would refuse his advances) until word got around she was the recipient of the Trustman Futhers Grant, which had never before been bestowed to an intern, let alone an employee at Obbat Laboratories. At that point it was difficult to avoid the scornful glances from her coworkers (primarily witches, of course). The word was that she had got the grant as "payment" for sleeping with Dr. Ehross. A ridiculous slander, especially coming from her coworkers. If anyone knew Obbat Labs in the least, they knew its strenuous and uncompromising interview process. Intern applicants were grilled almost as hard as potential full-time employees. Of course, the top executives and members of the board had no complaints whatsoever. In their mind, it was a huge win: a tremendous money-making invention topped with a prestigious grant so they wouldn't even have to fork over the money to develop it.

This slander took its toll on their "relationship." Even Dr. Ehross, the most famed and highly esteemed employee at Obbat Laboratories, whose intimate liaisons with interns had been tolerated and "politely overlooked" for years, felt the pressure and scrutiny of his behavior. He was shocked when his longtime colleagues and friends suddenly gave him the cold shoulder. His charismatic warmth gave way to a stiff, civil professionalism: a change to his personality that, rationally, Rose had been expecting, but emotionally it cut her to the quick. So sudden and dramatic was the public shaming that he did not end their year and a half long affair in person or even by phone. Needless to say, he stopped visiting her flat and she was not invited over to work nights in his private laboratory. As soon as she would return home from work and latch the door behind her she would burst into tears. This had gone on for a month until, with tremendous relief, her two-year internship ended.

The obvious benefit of Tractim was its ability to slow the affects of poison. Of course, many antidotes existed to slow and cure the affects of poisons. Tractim, however, was developed for that particular nasty brand of dark magic – the cursed poison. These poisons differed in that some element of dark magic was added to the brewing process, making them more difficult to cure. This was, of course, the tricky part. In order to discover the quantity of Tractim needed, she had to experiment with poisons. Poisonous potions were treacherous substances, obviously with magical properties. Tractim itself was a highly magical compound, and in order to work, one needed to know the identity of the poison itself. Some poisons are more potent than others and the right amount of Tractim is needed to be administered in order to counteract the affects. Too much Tractim would kill a patient. Not enough and the patient would die from the poison.

Discovering what a person had been poisoned with, was quite easy. A few spells could discover it, but even easier - one could tell from testing the blood and performing a simple spell on the blood itself.

The grant had supplied a list of 50 potions that would benefit from Tractim, 40 of these were poisons. Most were illegal. The experiment itself would be easy enough. Using a simple litmus test she could test each potion and easily identify the "end point": the maximum amount of Tractim that could be added without destroying the original potion. The difficult part was locating the poisons to experiment with and possibly even having some of these poisons concocted in order to test Tractim. She had permission to acquire and test poisons from the United Kingdom's Ministry of Magic as well as the Administration of Magic in America. Obviously she would not be consorting with dark witches and wizards who were operating off the grid. The only Potions Master capable and possibly willing to aid her was Professor Severus Snape. The recipient of the funding, the prestige, and part of the profits once Tractim was up and running, would go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – if they agreed to take her on as an Apprentice.

She sent an owl to Professor Snape and arranged to meet him just outside Diagon Alley in The Leaky Cauldron, London, England. She had never met him in person, and was of course aware of his dark past, but in the potions world, his dalliance with the dark side as a young man only seemed to heighten his fame. As always, in academia, knowledge and former attachments to the darker magics held a certain glamour and cachet. She found all that nonsense rather sickening, and often did not get along particularly well with her academic counterparts.

Dark magic in and of itself was an interesting field – it definitely had its merits, but also its immoral grotesqueries; however, aligning oneself with a genocidal maniac wizard did not carry any cachet whatsoever. According to Professor Dumbledore, a famously talented and ethical wizard, Professor Snape realized the error of his ways and abandoned Lord Voldemort before he was defeated. She found this story very believable – in her experience, many arrogant bullies were on the so-called ethical side of things, but that didn't make them good witches and wizards. She could easily understand how a young person could get seduced into a cult-like rebellion and discover far too late that they were part of something violent and malevolent; however, she still found this aspect of Professor Snape's history repellant. She hoped he did not wear this ugly past like a bohemian badge of honor.

Close to departure, Rose peered into the mirror to finish her toilette, her stomach jittering with excitement: the first thing she noticed was her pallor. She was so pale. Always pale. Not much to be done about that. She spent most of her time in a laboratory. American witches self-tanned with a potion that immediately adjusted the melatonin in the skin. Even though Rose thought she looked better with a tan, she preferred the way the sun tanned her body. Honestly, though, she didn't have the patience to sit in the sun unless she was very tired. She applied some dark eyeliner, mascara and a little blush. Now, she looked better. Her eyes were almond-shaped and a bluish-gray with a very thin ring of green near the pupil. She had a thick dark brow and fine, wavy brown hair. She kept her hair shoulder length – rarely wearing it down. She grew used to keeping it all tied back in the laboratory. Nothing worse than a strand of your own hair floating down into a potion – utterly ruining it. She swept her hair into a simple bun, pinned it in place and let her bangs hang elegantly around her cheekbones. That was a luxury, not to have to pin back her bangs. Her face had what she thought was an elegant profile, smallish nose and fine cheekbones; but when she looked at her face head-on it was clear she had a more rounded chin, which gave her a soft feminine appearance. She was not fond of her chin. She loved strong chins, long noses and sharp features.

She stepped back, having prepared her attire and bag for the trip. It was true, she looked young, not any older than her 22 years. But she also looked professional, which was the best she could muster. She hastily drew a Potions journal from her satchel and stared at the moving image – it was a small picture of Professor Snape standing in a group of other witches and wizards of high acclaim. He certainly looked handsome – it was a recent photo, a year old. He had a prominent nose and lovely olive skin. Dark, longish hair and dark eyes – he was certainly her type. She shook her head, ending the direction her thoughts were heading: remember the last time you had an inter-office romance.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on Ringbower's Landing, a lonely little place on the east tip of Long Island about a mile from a well-known muggle lighthouse. The portkeys to England were at Ringbower, and she wasn't skilled enough to apparate to another continent. Most witches and wizards were not, and those with the talent would probably use a portkey anyway. She forced out the twinge of regret at having to travel this way. She would have preferred to experience the cross-continental travel, but there was no time for this appointment. She closed her eyes, focusing on her destination. She turned, experiencing the physical nausea and claustrophobia, but letting it be background noise. Her mind stayed clear – Ringbower's Landing, Long Island. Then, the disorientation stopped. She opened her eyes, only to have them water. A cool and vigorous wind whipped her hair wildly about and stung her face with ocean spray. Crashing waves left mounds of foam at her feet. She turned away from the wind towards a great rock with a long, grassy shelf that hid her from view. Objects were strewn in the sand. Her eyes scanned the ground for a broken beer mug. She located it half-buried in the sand near the rock face. That was the portkey to The Leaky Cauldron. Next to it was a broken needle and a used condom: she had forgotten where the needle led to, but the condom would take her to the Ministry of Magic. She pulled the beer mug out of the sand and waited. The portkey was hotwired to activate whenever a witch or wizard picked it up. This usually only took a minute or two. Rose felt the familiar tug in her gut as she was lifted off the ground and spun into confusion. She closed her eyes in the chaos and concentrated on The Leaky Cauldron, just as she would if she had apparated. She found that this type of focus led to a calmer and more graceful arrival.

The chaos stopped and her feet found the ground without stumbling. She could hear noises – clinking glasses, low chatter, laughter. Next, she smelled the atmosphere – heady with cigar and incense smoke, and a curious perfume of patchouli and sandalwood, sharp whiskey, appetizing stew and the slightly sour and stale odor of the city. She did not open her eyes until the spinning stopped. She found that any nausea or lingering disorientation dissipated more quickly if her eyes stayed closed until all dizziness diminished. That way she did not stumble or fall when she took her first few steps – which was not very professional.

Her eyes needed a moment to adjust – not because it was too bright, but incredibly dark. The only light came from a fireplace and various candles situated on small, wooden tables and a large hanging candelabrum over the bar.

Her first thought was that the Leaky Cauldron was busy. She could only detect two empty tables. Her second thought was why is everyone staring? Wizards gave her a brief once over and turned back to their tables once they saw her avidly looking around. The witches, though, stared blatantly and rudely. She quickly realized why. Every single person in the Leaky Cauldron was dressed traditionally in long robes, and many even wore hats. She felt her cheeks redden in embarrassment and shrugged off the reaction with a disgusted sigh. Who cares what she was wearing? She internally kicked herself though, for not doing more research on the subject. The ignorant foreigner – what a boring trope.

She took a deep breath and sat at the bar, ignoring the stares. She checked her watch – she was 10 minutes early. She quickly flagged down the barkeep and ordered a shot of Durmstrang vodka – paying him up front. She shot down the vodka quickly, enjoying the burning sensation of the liquor followed by the telltale icy shiver. She had made up her mind to fortify herself with another before facing Professor Snape (she was sure she would be able to recognize him from the photo in her Potions journal) when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Ms. LeRoy?"

She jumped and whipped her head around. Professor Snape stood behind her. He was thankfully not wearing a hat, but he was wearing long, black flowing robes. His presence struck her deeply. He was an incredibly absorbing person to look at – she was surprised to find that she was incredibly attracted to him – he was absolutely riveting in person, something she never would have guessed from the photo.

She felt her mouth go dry and did not speak for a moment. He was unsmiling, but seemingly calm and patient. She was relieved he didn't even glance at her attire. She could feel her face redden yet again, realizing she hadn't spoken yet. She wet her lips.

"Professor Snape, it's a pleasure," she offered her hand and he shook it. Small smile this time - amusement.

"I have a table," he indicated to a spot near the fireplace.

She was uncomfortably aware of loud murmurs and whisperings now, in addition to stares. Good God, she thought, this is an internationally renowned pub in one of the most popular magical cities in the world, and this is a big deal?

Her limbs felt as light as feathers and she walked, or rather floated towards the table. As they sat down she became aware of a sound – and realized she could literally hear her heart beating. She forced herself to calm down and take a deep breath.

"Some wine?" he offered.

She nodded. He picked up a carafe on the table and poured out two glasses. They drank – a few polite sips.

"I'm impressed with your discovery," he said. "It's not often one so young accomplishes such a feat." He narrowed his eyes slightly as he looked at her face.

"Thank you," she replied. Her heart had suddenly stopped beating and was now blowing up like a large, glowing balloon – her chest almost hurt with happiness. "Of course, you made several discoveries by my age," she added, nodding towards him. She sounded slightly breathless. She wished she could be calm, like him.

He lifted his lips for the briefest moment, accepting the fact and the compliment.

"Professor Dumbledore sends his praise and would be delighted to host your project."

"Wonderful," she gushed, unable to control a broad smile.

"I, myself, am very busy with my classes…"

Her heart plummeted – she doubted she could complete this project without him.

"However," he continued, "if you would be willing to act as my aid and help out with grading, setting up and breaking down experiments, that sort of thing," he said with a wave of his hand, "then I will have time to assist your project."

"Absolutely."

"Right. I have here a few standard contracts – privacy and so forth," he waved his wand and produced a few papers in front of her. "They are standard for Hogwarts Visitors," he reassured her.

She nodded emphatically, skimming the contents. They were non-disclosure agreements of any and all activities she may participate in or observe.

"And I am sure you have one of your own?" he enquired.

"Oh! Yes, actually. Of course I do." She was flustered. Her grant money hinged on the signing of such an agreement. She produced the documents from her satchel.

"Professor Dumbledore has given me permission to sign for him…" began Professor Snape.

"By proxy, of course."

When their papers were signed and sealed, Professor Snape caught the eye of Tom, the proprietor of the Leaky Cauldron. The kindly man, slightly stooped, approached the table with a smile and asked them if they needed anything else.

"Would you please send these letters out? Express Owl. Thank you." Tom nodded enthusiastically and Professor Snape gave him a generous tip.

"Now that's sorted, here is what you'll need at Hogwarts." He handed her a small list. "Primarily, traditional attire. The students wear uniforms, of course." He said all of this in an offhand way, but it was clear he had no idea what to expect from an American Witch. She almost giggled, as if she would show up to a highly esteemed and prestigious private school in ripped jeans or hotpants. "Madame Malkin's is a decent place to buy robes. It's right here in Diagon Alley. If you don't have any pressing engagements today, you may as well browse around now before the rush hits come September 1st. It's a nightmare," he added, his voice taking on a harder edge.

"That's a good idea – I don't like crowds either."

"Then I'm sorry to say you must arrive to Hogwarts by train. I'm afraid you'll be traveling with the students. There is a station here in London. It's all in the letter."

"With the students?" she asked, her voice rising a little. "Will there be room?" She was not overly fond of children. Especially teenagers. Their undisciplined treatment of magic was annoying. She did not get along particularly well with her peers back when she was in school and did not have any nostalgia for the past. She realized she would do just about anything to complete this project and work with Professor Snape, but truth be told she was not at all pleased at the prospect of helping him with his classes.

Professor Snape smiled, then pursed his mouth to stop himself.

"I believe they have a handful of compartments in the front reserved for adult travelers. If you arrive early and speak to the conductor, I am sure he can accommodate you… Although, there won't be much you can do to avoid children at Hogwarts," he said, lowering his head and peering up at her with a raised brow.

"I understand. I will be fine," she laughed nervously. "But," she added, before she could stop herself, "We do, you know, get our own sleeping quarters, right?"

"Of course. The teachers have their own wing and you will live there with us. You will have a flat of your own."

"Wonderful," she breathed with relief.

"Well, unless you have any more questions…" he said, standing up.

"No, not that the moment," she replied.

"…then I will walk you to the entrance to Diagon Alley, and then I must be off."

"Of course," she said, strapping on her satchel.

They walked to the back of the pub and out into a bricked enclosure.

"Just wave your wand and tap on these bricks."

The wall melted away to reveal a relatively quiet line of shops down a cobbled avenue. It was lovely and quaint, a pleasant place for a stroll as far as shops go. She had never been a particularly keen shopper, choosing instead to order most items via owl. The less dealings she had with people, the happier she tended to be.

A few Leaky Cauldron patrons budged past them rudely to enter Diagon Alley.

Professor Snape leaned in and whispered, "Best to steer clear of Knockturn Alley. They may have the ingredients and poisons we need, but you can leave those purchases to me or our gamekeeper, Hagrid."

She could feel, ever so barely, the heat of his breath on her neck as he spoke quietly to her. Goosebumps broke out on her arms and she could feel the hairs standing on end. Her skin tingled and tickled, and she shivered uncontrollably.

She nodded, wide-eyed, not from alarm concerning the content of his warning, but in her effort to try to conceal the bizarre way he aroused her physical body. She had definitely traversed the dark magic retail, and it was true that the areas were more dangerous with shops like that – attracting dark wizards and witches. Undoubtedly he knew this – most potion masters find themselves in these areas from time to time in search of borderline ethical ingredients. Some shops, though, had gotten progressive and worked with mortuaries in a mutually beneficial manner (the exchange of money for body parts, of course) to offer sensitive ingredients, procured in an ethical manner. He merely warned her out of social decorum: civility, chivalry. He was quite polite, and this was nice. She had heard he was very unpleasant and disagreeable, but she didn't find that his behavior warranted the rumor… yet.

She scanned her list - mostly clothing items. So they had anticipated as an American she wouldn't know how to dress. Hilarious. She decided to get this part out of the way and went straight to Madame Malkin's. Luckily the shop was quiet. Not a soul in sight. She walked to the back and heard a woman humming to herself. She looked behind a clothes rack and saw a figure crouched low in front of a dressmaker's dummy. She cleared her throat.

"Oh!" exclaimed the woman, leaping to her feet, wand in hand.

Rose held out her hands – "Sorry!"

"Goodness, you frightened me!" exclaimed the woman, pocketing her wand. "I am sorry I pulled out my wand – what you must think! It's just that I rarely get customers at this time." She shook her head, smoothed her hair, which was pulled in an elegant bun on top of her head and gave Rose a beatific smile.

"Now dear," she said, "how can I help you?"

Rose had already decided the best way to broach the clothes issue was to be perfectly honest.

"I'm American…"

The woman nodded sympathetically.

"And I am not used to formal dress. As you may know the American Designers favor muggle clothes with magical enhancements."

Again, that sympathetic nod.

"Anyway, I have a post at Hogwarts and I need to dress accordingly."

"Darling that's wonderful," she said, with a clap of her hands. "Congratulations! I can serve all of your needs. How long are you staying on?"

"A year."

"Goodness – and I take it you have no robes?"

"Two," she consented, with much embarrassment.

"No matter," she replied, bright-eyed. "We'll fix you up. Now, let's start by getting you a refreshment, because I must be truthful here. This will take an hour or two and we won't be able to complete your wardrobe at once. We'll do it seasonally, how's that?"

"Sounds good," Rose consented, feeling immensely relieved that the grant money had already been deposited in her account. It was a generous grant and she would be able to clothe herself in this fashion for one year. Come to think of it, when her post was over at Hogwarts, most of her robes might go for a lot of money at auction. Even though the American magical community had no need for the technology muggles embraced, they were definitely inspired by muggle inventions. The muggles had an Internet auction for goods and the magical community had stolen this idea and made magical posts in order booklets that had a live auction mode. She would probably get back all the gold she spent on tailored robes and then some. They were a bit of a novelty in America.

"What would you like to drink?" asked the woman. "I'm sorry, dear, I am Madame Malkin, and you are?"

"Rose LeRoy." They nodded to each other, politely.

"I have elf-made wine," she said temptingly.

"Sparkling?" Rose asked hopefully.

"But of course."

A few glasses later and Rose was chatting away merrily, never having had so much fun at a shop before. Madame Malkin or 'Estelle,' as she insisted on being called after the first glass of wine, was an artist. She began by doing Rose's colors, whispering that she had picked up the trick from watching a muggle television program. She winked at Rose and laughed shyly as if she had revealed an embarrassing secret. She then asked Rose several penetrating questions about her personal style and then told her she would procure her robes that were faithful to her style, but adhered to Hogwarts requirements.

The hat discussion was a bit tense. Rose didn't really like to wear hats, and Estelle had quite a time convincing her they looked good, especially because they were required in the presence of Hogwarts students.

"But the wizards don't have to wear them!"

Estelle tutted, "I know, the poor things, so little variety to choose from."

They compromised. Rose favored small, close-fitting hats made with pliable material. Estelle complained that they looked more like an abbreviated sleeping cap.

"Why are they for sale in your store, then?" argued Rose.

"They're new…and trendy," she said the word like it was an infectious disease. "This witch designer from Scotland," grumbled Estelle. "Rumor has it she's a werewolf!"

"Well, I love them!"

"You do?!" asked Estelle, incredulously, forgetting her complaints.

"Yes, actually. As far as hats go, these are alright."

"They're not very feminine, but I suppose they'll do," consented Estelle, privately thrilled she had found a hat that Rose loved.

In the end, Rose walked out with five new robes and three hats. All very dark in color: primarily black and midnight blue with variety in the details: buttons, stitching, material and fit. At one point, Estelle complained that Rose had a Wizard's eye for clothes and when Rose insisted on only dark colors, she accused her of wanting to look like a Hag. Once she had tried them on, though, it was clear Estelle was pleased with her work.

"You may look ominous dear, but excellently cut and tailored."

"Do I look like a London witch?" asked Rose excitedly. She was still wearing her favorite outfit – A long black robe, fitted throughout the torso and flowing elegantly to the floor – shoulders slightly raised and tufted, scores of small black buttons down the front. And a fitted black hat, perched to the side with a few dark blue feathers smoothly attached, fitted to the contour of the hat so they weren't standing on end.

Estelle stood back and surmised Rose with a frown, her fingers resting on her chin. She sighed.

"Sorry, dear. You do look fine, but I'm afraid to say you look like an American Witch in British clothing." She looked over at Rose worriedly, as if she had said too much. But Rose giggled happily. Truthfully, she was a bit tipsy after the second glass of sparkling elf wine. Clearly so was Estelle, as she laughed too – a high, tinkly laugh that brought a blush to her cheek.

"I think we could do with some tea," she hiccupped. Rose agreed. She did not feel up to portkey travel followed by apparition under the influence – after all, concentration was everything when it came to the art of apparation.

An hour later she left the shop after promising Estelle she would stop by for tea the first weekend of term.

Chapter 2

A week sped by – Rose subleted her flat to a coworker at Obbat Laboratories and she carefully packed her wardrobe in addition to her at-home potions kit. She bewitched the cases so that they weighed under ten pounds each. Her potions-kit was in a wooden trunk, a bit old-fashioned but it suited its purpose. Her wardrobe was bewitched to fit inside a muggle suitcase, as that was the American way.

She wore the travel robes newly outfitted by Estelle. Black, as usual. The robe was nice and comfortable, but fitted. Estelle had complained it was too "revealing."

"But it covers my arms and legs," she had argued.

"Your clavicle is entirely visible, and so are your calves," complained Estelle. "It barely looks like a witch's robe."

"My calves?!" she had cried in disbelief. If Estelle could see the mini-skirts in her closet she would faint. She had secretly chosen this style because it resembled an old-fashioned muggle trench coat. Although it was more feminine – it had buttons all down the front, was fitted at the waist with convenient besom pockets at the hips and flared elegantly to a full skirt sweep out to a mid-calf length. It had princess seems down the front and back, rolled cuff sleeves, and large, notched lapels, displaying an elegant neckline. Also, she could travel to the London train station without drawing too much attention to herself: the travel robes looked old-fashioned, but not outlandish. She didn't want to bother with changing again. She wore her favorite black Scottish cap with the dark blue feather – a bit eccentric perhaps, but not abnormal for a city as eclectic as London. She completed the look with black, lace-up booties and leather gloves.

The weather was warm, nearing 70 degrees Fahrenheit, as it tended to be in early September. Rose bewitched the travel robe to a comfortable temperature. She liked to be a bit cold.

The platforms were crowded. She was constantly jostled and stared at as she made her way towards platform 9 ¾. Finally, as she drew near, she easily located the witches and wizards. Wasn't there some kind of rule about not drawing attention to oneself? She couldn't believe it. Everywhere she looked, families wore traditional robes and outlandish hats. Ridiculous! And all the owls in cages – it was like a traveling circus. The muggles stared, but no one seemed to ask any questions. No wonder Europe was infamous for its prejudiced attitudes towards muggles – you'd think they were stupid not to realize an entirely magical race of people dwelled among them.

She stared at the barriers and finally located platform 9 ¾. Good gracious. A long queue of families was standing in front of the barrier, children racing carts at it and then disappearing. A few muggles were standing and watching in amazement. One started to say, "Where did they disappear to…?" when a stern-looking ministry-wizard appeared behind them and whispered "Obliviate!" The two muggles looked dazed for a few moments and then one asked, "Which platform are we going to?"

Rose wandered over to the ministry wizard. Curious, she asked him, "How many people do you have to modify during this time?"

The wizard looked up. "Not from around here, are you?"

"Sorry," Rose apologized, not really knowing what she was apologizing for. "I'm American. I've been hired to work at Hogwarts."

"Ah," he replied. "Worst time of year, apart from when we host the World Cup," he looked weary. There's a dozen of us posted throughout the station. We specialize in memory modification. That's all we do. He gave her a long look from head to toe. For a minute she wondered whether he was coming on to her. He was a bit burly for her type. She liked a brooding, intellectual man.

"I wished more dressed like you," he sighed.

"Thank you?" she replied with a smile.

He winked at her, but was then distracted by a girl with a purple rat on her shoulder. He rushed over and she could hear him telling off the girl's parents.

She joined the queue and waited patiently for her turn. Looking around she could see no muggles staring, so she casually leaned against the barrier and in a gentle whoosh of air, found herself on the other side. She bustled towards the train – an old-fashioned steam engine. Only one car was open to accept passengers. No conductor in sight. She sighed. It looked like she would have to battle her way to the conductor. She joined another queue and waited while sobbing parents and whining siblings said their farewells.

Once onboard, the noise increased exponentially in the contained space. Children screaming, children shouting with laughter, children yelling every word as they talked to each other. And the smell, the indescribably awful smell of sweaty, loud-mouthed slavering children. Rose tried not to breath through her nose as she battled her way through the car. Two small children, first or second years, whizzed down the narrow aisle looking behind them and flinging rudimentary spells. They collided into her forcing her suitcases out of her hands. The potions-kit landed with a loud clunk, but luckily she had cast many spells on it to protect its delicate contents. She reeled and almost toppled over. The children had bounced off of her and were lying, dazed, on the floor, looking at her with shock.

"WATCH WHERE YOU'RE GOING," bellowed Rose, her wand pointed at her throat. She had cast the Soniferous charm, and her voice boomed throughout the small compartment. All voices abruptly stopped and a hush fell over the cab. She still had the wand in her hand and was pointing it in front of her. She was shaking with rage.

As she turned to enter the next cab she heard a resentful voice mutter,

"You don't have to yell." The voice spoke quietly, though.

The next cab was full of older children. Sullen, reckless adolescents. They had heard her in the previous cab and they cleared the aisle, staring at her impertinently, with narrowed malicious glares. They spoke loudly to each other, probably much louder than they normally would, mindlessly rebellious because an adult was in their midst. A small queue had formed at the back of the cab – children on their way to the front. She waited impatiently as they awkwardly grappled with their trunks. Meanwhile, a group of large, loudly petulant Gryffindor boys – already dressed in school robes, brimming with coddled health, began to bully someone. Rose sighed. She did not like being reminded of school. Both the privileged and the under-privileged brutes she had been forced to contend with.

"Where do you think you're going?" one of the brutes called out. Rose reluctantly turned around and saw a young boy, clearly not quite an adolescent. He was a head shorter than the older boys and he looked ill-kept with a pale, unhealthy complexion. He was standing nearby and the boys were blocking the way back to the first cab.

"I am looking for my cat," responded the boy with a sigh. He looked defeated, as if he knew what was coming and was resigned to it.

"Aren't you the one who's father's in Azkaban?..."

"And his mother is a muggle whore," sneered the second boy.

"I have a spell that will skin your cat alive," grinned the third boy.

Just then a compartment opened and a girl came out screaming. A streak of gray shot past her into the aisle and through the open door to the next cab.

"That cat attacked me!" she sobbed. The boys rushed over to pacify the hysterical girl. In the commotion bags were rustled in the overhead compartments and a particularly large and heavy trunk teetered dangerously over the boys.

Rose took a swift step forward and bent towards the pale boy. "Wingardium Leviosa," she whispered with a nod toward the large trunk. She then turned around and headed towards the next cab.

She heard a low, indecipherable whisper as the small boy cast the spell, and then a tremendous crash and loud shouts. She sneaked a peak over her shoulder and saw two of the brutes on the ground, one with blood trailing down his head. The small boy dodged around them and joined his cat in the first cab. Rose smiled with satisfaction as she hurried towards the conductor.

The last cab was also full of children, but the environment was vastly different. There was a stiff edge to the conversation. As she maneuvered down the aisle, she heard various speeches, not quite conversation but one-sided monologues concerning career goals and aspirations.

"Ah," Rose thought with a roll of her eyes, "the prefect cab." She dodged past boys who studiously ignored her and girls that eyed her travel robes disdainfully.

"No manners," muttered Rose. She finally saw a man in uniform, another adult! She could have cried with relief.

The man was tall and rail-thin. He saw her approaching and his face broke into a mischievous grin.

"Hello, are you the conductor?" she asked.

He looked her over, while rubbing his stubbled jaw.

"Who's asking?" he flirted.

"Sorry, my name is Rose. I am working at Hogwarts this year. Only, I was told you could find me a compartment…" she leaned in a little closer and whispered, "without children."

He opened his eyes in affected astonishment, "Why, Miss Rose, don't you like children? Aren't you going to teach at Hogwarts?" he put on a mock-southern accent. Rose almost laughed. The English did the worst southern accents.

Rose rolled her eyes, "Not really. I am there for research."

"Well, I don't know," drawled the conductor.

The conductor was over the top, but cute, in a sleazy kind of way.

He took her hand, making her blush. "I guess we can make an exception, just for you." To her embarrassment, he bent over and kissed her hand. Several prefects who had stopped their pompous speeches to eavesdrop, gasped in disapproval.

He then walked down the aisle, opening compartments, shouting, "Oye, you, how many of you are sitting in here? You can take one more. You there, sit in this compartment."

After a few delegations he had cleared an entire compartment. He held the door open, "My lady," he said bowing low. Rose laughed with genuine amusement.

"Thank you," she said shyly. He introduced himself as "Timothy," and gave her his card, making her promise to meet him for a drink in Hogsmeade.

"We'll go to The Hog's Head," he said, then leaned in to whisper in her ear, "no children go there."

She giggled, blushing deeply. No one had flirted with her in quite a while. He then stowed away her suitcases for her and told her a witch would come by shortly with refreshments.

Chapter 3

As the train pulled out of the station, Rose settled herself in the moderately comfortable booth, pulling down the blinds to blot out the cityscape. She reached over and flicked off the lights. She sighed with relief, resting her head against the cushioned seat. Her voice felt rough and her throat hurt a little from yelling at the boy. She needn't have yelled – the Soniferous charm was strong enough. A whisper can sound like a bellow or louder depending on the strength of the charm.

She was not used to such commotion. Most of her time was spent in a sterile, quiet, temperature-controlled laboratory. Back in the states, she lived in a small town near Obbat labs: the upper floor of a duplex on a dead-end street that overlooked a park. The nearest building was an elderly assisted-living complex for muggles. Rose hadn't been in a large city for about a year and had certainly never lived in one. Occasionally she travelled to New York City to visit a friend from school. She had enjoyed experiencing London, but she could only take a few hours at a time before complete exhaustion and irritability took over. Rose thrived on quiet and solitude. Her only solace at having to work at a children's school was that Professor Snape had promised her the teachers resided in a separate wing. He had also said she would have her own living quarters.

She relaxed into the seat, imagining how nice it would be to have her own room to escape to after helping Professor Snape with his classes. She closed her eyes, imagining she had the Hogwarts castle all to herself and she could explore the corridors and grounds at her leisure. As she drifted to sleep, in her mind's eye she was swimming in a stream in the Forbidden Forest, the water deliciously cold against her naked body. Then she found herself lying in a bed. She was wearing a long, white muslin nightgown. She tried to raise her head, but found she could not move. Moving her eyes as best she could, she saw the walls were made of stone and a potions kit was set up against the far wall. The room was dark, but she could see the moon shining through mullioned windows. She was startled to realize a man was sitting next to the bed. His hand was on her thigh – it looked dark against the whiteness of her nightgown. He then flexed his hand, gathering the flimsy muslin into his fist. He brought his other hand over very suddenly, making her gasp. And, grasping the material in both fists now, he pulled the material taught until it began to rip, very very slowly, exposing her knees, her thighs and higher up until…

"Oh!" A loud knock on the door made Rose jump in her seat. Her heart was pounding and her mouth was very dry. She swallowed and found that her throat was indeed sore.

An older witch slid open the doors and peeked in. "Hello, dear! Fancy anything off the cart?" She gestured to a large cart full of sickening sweet confections.

"No thanks," replied Rose, in a gravelly voice.

"What's that? You coming down with a cold?" asked the witch, looking concerned.

"I don't think so," answered Rose, struggling to clear her throat. "I'm afraid I exhausted myself yelling at the children," she admitted glumly.

The witch threw back her head and cackled. "Right annoying, aren't they? That's why I always have this on me," she said, pulling a bottle partway from her robe.

Rose nodded solemnly. She could understand having whiskey on hand to deal with a train-full of unruly children.

"That and a shield charm," muttered the witch. "I know just what you need. A hot toddy. Take care of that throat of yours."

"Thank you," Rose nodded gratefully.

"You normally drink whiskey?" asked the witch.

Rose shook her head.

"More lemon and honey then." She moved aside a display of chocolate frogs to reveal a large tray on top of the cart. It held several earthenware mugs, a kettle and various tea ware. She took a jar of honey and spooned liberal amounts into the mug, letting it pour thickly off the spoon. "Made this myself," she said proudly. "Moly honey – I have a small bed of Moly flowers in my backyard – and it's helpful if you've been cursed" she added. She poured the steaming tea into the cup. "I make it nice and strong." Lastly, she squeezed three slices of lemon into the cup. "I like to leave the lemon rind in the cup," said the witch, looking at Rose.

"Absolutely," she agreed.

"Now we pour a nip in here," she said pulling out the bottle, "….or two," she said winking at Rose. She poured a tidy amount of fire whiskey into the steaming liquid. She stirred the contents and handed Rose the steaming mug. "Leave the spoon in there and stir it every so often to mix the honey."

Rose took a timid sip – it was delightful. She could feel the vapors soothing her nose and the hot tea coating her throat like a healing bath. She gave an audible sigh, closing her eyes in enjoyment.

"That a girl," said the witch, placing a kind hand on her shoulder. "You drink that up and by tonight you won't have so much as a twitch in your throat."

"How much…"

The witch shook her head and placed the chocolate frogs back on top of the cart.

"Thank you."

"When you go to Hogsmeade, pop into "The Gardener's Friend." They sell my Moly honey there and a few other oddments I've concocted from my garden. It's quite a popular place. Professor Sprout stops by regular."

"I will. I'll be needing some... let's just say extraordinary ingredients for the potions I'm concocting."

"Eh, into potions are you? Well then I suspect I'll be seeing you," said the witch with a wink.

"Excuse me," said Rose as the witch began to leave, "I'm Rose. Rose LeRoy. What is your name?"

"Viola Fitzsimmons," replied the witch. "Now, you have a nice time at Hogwarts and don't let their self-important ways dampen your spirits. It's an exciting place and Dumbledore's a nice enough wizard."

"Right," agreed Rose. She kept forgetting that it was so obvious to everyone she was an American.

After Viola left, Rose drank down the hot toddy as quickly as she could without burning her tongue. She felt pleasantly relaxed and raised the blinds to look out the window. Green pastures and rolling hills met her gaze and she rested her head back against the cushioned seat and closed her eyes.

Chapter 4

A loud knock, brought Rose reeling back into consciousness. She leapt up in alarm, knocking over her empty teacup and banging her head on an overhead bin.

"Ouch!" she complained rubbing her head. The conductor pulled open the compartment door, "We've arrived at Hogwarts love," he said with a wink then continued on to the other cars, bellowing as he went, "Time to disembark! Collect your belongings! Oye, you! Quit running!"

Shouts and screams of alarm and excitement rang out through the railcars. Rose thought it best to stay in her compartment and let the children exit first. She reached into her pocket to retrieve her wand and repaired the broken teacup, setting it carefully upright.

About twenty minutes later, the noise had died down and she thought it would be safe to exit. She grabbed her suitcases and walked down the empty aisle. Sweets wrappers littered the ground and she could detect chocolatey smears on the compartment doors. One door had a scorch mark from a spell. Rose shook her head – she hoped that Violet did not have to clean up this mess.

She stepped off the train to a quaint and totally deserted bricked platform. She appeared to be in the midst of a forest. Tall trees surrounded the platform on every side. Across the tracks she caught a glimpse of blue through the trees, and a fresh breeze ruffled her hair, smelling of damp earth. Out of curiosity she followed a small footpath towards the alluring scent and after a yard or two came upon the edge of a vast lake. In the distance the imposingly massive columns of Hogwarts castle glittered in the afternoon sun. Not far from the shore, a collection of boats rowed towards an immense and many-tiered castle. Rose squinted - it appeared some of the children were rowing to the castle. She looked around. No rowboats were left on the shore. Perplexed, she returned to the platform. The train had left. A dirt road led off into the forest in the general direction of the castle. She saw well-worn tracks, presumably made by carriages and figured this was the way to the castle. She pulled out the casters attached to the bottom of her trunk and suitcase. Both cases on wheels now, she turned and began to walk down the lane into the forest, carefully avoiding the deep ruts in the ground.

The forest was drenched in the rays of the setting sun, casting its glorious light on various woodland activity. Bowtruckles frolicked happily on an old oak tree that spread its branches benevolently over the path. Rose walked by, waving happily. They paused to stick out their tongue at her, but did not perceive her as a true threat, which was good because she did not have any woodlice to pacify them. She whistled aimlessly as she wandered down the road. Out of the corner of her eyes she though she saw movement in the forest. Her wand was in quick reach and her instinct told her she was not in danger, but clearly she was being watched.

After a half hour's walk, the lane began to curve and then straighten out. She saw the castle in the distance. She estimated that she was about fifteen minutes behind everyone else, which may not even make her late for the feast. It would take those poor kids a lot more time rowing across that lake.

Just then she caught site of an immense black gate, presumably the gate to the castle. Whatever had been following her made a rustle just behind her. She slowly turned around, heart beating a bit fast. She reached for her wand. A white figure partially emerged from the tree - enough to stick its glowing white head into a patch of sunlight. It was a unicorn. A young foal. Rose smiled happily. She had never seen a unicorn in person before – they were very shy creatures. She knew better than to approach it, so she stood watching it, appreciating. The youngling shook its mane and sniffed the air. She heard it paw the ground then it reared back into the forest and took off.

Rose slowly walked across the lane to the spot the unicorn had stood. She stepped carefully off the path and took a few steps into the forest. There, on a branch sticking out in the sun, something sparkled lustrously, like a diamond. Rose reached out and picked up the long, silky string of unicorn hair. She carefully wound it around her finger into a ball and placed it in a small compartment of her bag.

Hurrying now, she approached the black gate. It was chained shut. Rose dropped her bags in surprise. No doubt other enchantments kept it locked as well. How was she to get in? She did not have an owl on her. Everyone knew apparation was not possible on Hogwarts grounds. She supposed someone would come for her once everyone else had arrived – perhaps the groundskeeper? The sun was sinking fast now – the rays had disappeared under the horizon. The diffuse light created pink and purple streaks in the clouds. She sat on the grass, propping her head up on one of her bags. She breathed in the fresh, life-giving air and enjoyed the purple sky. They would come for her. She stopped worrying and put her arms behind her head.

Some time later she awoke with a start. The sky was a deep blue and the forest was dark. No one had come. What was she going to do? She had never excelled at transfiguration – she couldn't transfigure herself a boat or a tent. Would the train even return to the Hogwarts platform? She had just decided to head back to the platform, when she perceived a dark figure in billowing robes approach the gate. She leaned into it, resting her face against the bars.

"Hello?" she called out.

The figure grew closer and she recognized the dim profile of Professor Snape. He opened the gate and beckoned her in then headed back toward the castle in a hurry. She broke into a mild sweat struggling to keep up with him as she awkwardly managed her luggage.

"Why weren't you on one of the carriages?" he demanded.

"Carriages took the children to the castle?" she asked. "I didn't see any – I waited until the train wasn't so crowded before I got out."

"Are you telling me that you stayed in the train to avoid the children?" snapped Professor Snape, stopping abruptly.

"Well, I… I just thought it would be better to avoid the commotion until it had quieted down some," stammered Rose.

"They. Are. Just. Children. Not the scourge," he snapped, setting off again at a tremendous pace. "You have missed Professor Dumbledore's opening speech and you have also missed the sorting, an important ceremony in which first year witches and wizards are sorted into their houses," snapped Professor Snape. "As I am to assist you in your research, you are considered my guest and therefore an honorary, albeit temporary, member of my house. As such, I expect you to behave appropriately. I will not have you bring embarrassment to the Slytherin house. Slytherins do not make displays of cowardice by scampering away from common irritants. And that is what children are, Ms. LeRoy, common irritants. It is my job to eradicate their self-important, coddled ways and force respect, or at the very least fear. To perform well in their studies is the only way they will survive. Period. I will not have you flouting my reputation by behaving like a frightened maid."

For Pete's sake, thought Rose, rolling her eyes.

"Need I remind you of the importance of my role as a professor, Ms. LeRoy? I, and my colleagues are the only hope these children have of gaining the necessary skills to survive as witches and wizards. Need I remind you how fragile security and justice are in the wizarding world? Only eight years has passed since we fought a terrible war that ended the life of many talented witches and wizards. Who is to say when the next will be?"

"I am not frightened of children. I loathe them. I may not envy your job, but I do not question its importance," argued Rose, feeling like it was a bit unfair of him to pin her with being insensitive to the value of education in addition to the hardships of war simply because she was late for dinner.

"I just missed the carriage. I was not informed of the manner of transportation that would take me to the castle. I had no idea they would leave so quickly," said Rose. "Certainly no one greeted me at the platform."

"At Hogwarts you'll find resourcefulness highly valued," sneered Professor Snape, clearly unimpressed with her excuses.

"Alright," sighed Rose. "I'm sorry I missed the carriage. It won't happen again. I mean, being late and… the avoiding-children thing," she stuttered.

Professor Snape shook his head in disgust.

Wonderful, thought Rose as they entered the castle and walked down a candle-lit stone passageway. I have made a wonderful first impression. Stupid American, she thought to herself. It was the first time she thought of herself as that kind of American: the too-casual, self-indulgent bungler. And it wouldn't be the last.

She was vaguely aware that the castle was a deeply impressive place – it had a crisp vividness to the air, as if it were a super-reality. It certainly was an old magic – this place. She had read about its history – thousands upon thousands of years old. They of course had nothing like that in the states. Her awe and appreciation, however, was severely dampened by an oppressive feeling of being on display, of constant scrutiny. Rose, a person accustomed to spending most of her time locked away in a laboratory room, hated being the object of attention – especially when she felt judged. She would have to play a role when she was out and about the castle. She could not be the wide-eyed, observant Rose. She had to act as if she held a stupid political office, as if she were an ambassador of America instead of a nerdy, imaginative potions witch.

Professor Snape led her to a small wooden door that opened near the high table in the dining hall.

"Leave your bags here," he snapped, before leading her into the dining hall. Just before he opened the door he turned and scrutinized her appearance. She was suddenly very aware that he was only a few inches from her body. She felt the heat rise to her face. His face, however, was still twisted with aggravation. "You have leaves in your hair," he muttered in exasperation. He leaned forward and picked a few leaves from her hair. Her body contracted with excitement at his touch. The sensation made her feel angry and betrayed. How utterly unfair to have any attraction towards someone while they are berating you.

He glanced into her face as he removed the leaves and seemed to become aware of the fact that he might have overstepped his bounds. His eyes widened in surprise and his brow smoothed out.

Rose sensed a tension. Oh my god, she thought. Were they about to kiss? Surely not! What would she do? Right outside the dining hall! What if someone came out? Of course she wouldn't say no, but what about that reputation he was referring to? What if one of the children saw them kissing? Wouldn't that "flout" his authority?

And then he stepped back abruptly, snapping the tension, and muttered, "Sorry." He opened the door and swept through, leaving her no choice but to follow.

The great hall was lit with hundreds of candles – her eyes squinted against the brilliance. The candles flickered and glimmered in mid-air above the tables and reflected on gold plates and cutlery.

"Very glamorous," she thought. As they walked down the high table, heads turned as all the teachers gave her curious (and some impertinent) looks. She nodded to each gaze, while rushing past to keep up with Professor Snape. He stopped midway down the table and took the chair next to Professor Dumbledore and indicated she take the one next to him. She sat down and immediately Professor Dumbledore leaned over and introduced himself.

"Glad to see you've finally arrived Ms. LeRoy," he said with a genuine smile.

"Thank you. I apologize for my delay," she stated seriously.

"Not at all. Not at all. You've missed all the drivel and arrived for the good stuff. I think you'll find the wine we serve of particular high quality," he said with a wink.

Professor Snape pursed his lips at Professor Dumbledore's flippant remarks, but seemed satisfied with the exchange. They became engrossed in conversation and for the moment Rose was free. She sighed with relief, immediately reaching for the wine in front of her. Internally she toasted Professor Dumbledore, clearly a wizard with a sense of humor. She tasted the wine – it was rich, full of ripe berry, and very strong.

Just then, the witch seated to her right, who had been immersed in conversation, turned towards her.

"I am Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor house," she stated pompously.

"Rose LeRoy," she said and offered her hand.

"From America then, are you?" she asked.

"Yes," replied Rose.

"So you attended Paumanok School?"

Rose sighed. She could tell it was going to be one of those conversations. The kind where you might as well not talk at all, but hand the person your dossier and then listen to them criticize it. She cleared her throat.

"I attended Paumanok School from age 11 to 17. Afterwards, I attended the Hullta Hullisle Navajo School for advanced magic for two years, specializing in potions. Then, I entered an apprenticeship with Obbat Laboratories." She paused at this point, waiting for the scrutiny.

"I find it hard to understand why you would need a school for advanced magic - it begs the question whether Paumanok is challenging enough. Here at Hogwarts advanced magic is already integrated into the studies," she boasted.

Why, lord, why, thought Rose. Why do people do this? Is it because they doubt the quality of their own experience or they just love to be rude – insulting other cultures? Rose could not understand this combative, competitive way of interacting with others – it displayed the inability to entertain different ways of doing the same thing. It displayed the tendency to be set in one's ways and a kind of ethnocentrism that Rose did not have patience for. It also prevented further learning – as if learning ended at some point in life.

"Similar to Hogwarts," Rose began patiently, "Paumanok demands young witches and wizards learn the rudimentary aspects of all magic. Then, as the years progress, students can narrow their focus somewhat, but not entirely. Hullta Hullisle offers concentrated focus in only one area of magic – it is a kind of apprenticeship before the actual apprenticeship."

"It still seems rather redundant and unnecessary," pressed Professor McGonagall. "Why have two apprenticeships, when you can just have one?"

"For someone like me it is anything but 'unnecessary,'" retorted Rose. At Hullta Hullisle I spent the entire time in my own personal laboratory. I devised my own projects. The time spent there allowed me to publish three groundbreaking articles. At an apprenticeship you work for other people completing their projects. My most important research and what I have expanded on since came from my time at Hullta Hullisle."

"Indeed, that is why Obbat Labs hired me in the first place. They wanted my research – something I wouldn't have time to develop at Paumanok."

"Perhaps you weren't dedicated enough at Paumanok?"

"Dedicated enough to invent a delayed-action sleeping draught and slip it to the entire quidditch team on game day."

A small head peeped around Professor McGonagall. "You invented the delayed-action sleeping draught?" squeaked a small man. "I'm Professor Flitwick, head of Ravenclaw." He offered his hand.

"Rose LeRoy," she offered with a smile. "Yes, I did."

"Why on earth would you poison the quidditch team, and wouldn't you be expelled?" demanded Professor McGonagall, nostrils flaring.

"You're only expelled if you're caught, and the quidditch team was comprised of the worst sort of trolls imaginable," sneered Rose, having at this point entirely lost her patience with the conversation.

"Well, if you try anything like that here…"

"My dear witch," drawled Rose patronizingly, "the actions of a 15 year old girl hardly reflect the witch I have become today. How else could I manage to secure a Trustman Futhers Grant?"

"Oh, is that why you're here?" squeaked Professor Flitwick excitedly. "Hogwarts is hosting a Trustman Futhers Grant! Imagine!"

Ms. McGonagall sniffed and turned away, effectively ending the conversation.

Rose looked at her wine glass, picked it up and drained it. I've blown it, she thought glumly. I'll be shipped back to America and they'll take away my grant. She stared forlornly at her plate of turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy and green beans. She hadn't eaten one bite and her stomach growled. The food began to fade and then disappeared. Just her luck. Large blocks of sickening sweet ice cream materialized. She never liked ice cream.

Thankfully, her wine glass automatically refilled.

"Making friends already, are we?" a low voice whispered in her ear. Her body shivered with pleasure. She turned towards Professor Snape. His eyes glittered playfully.

At least someone is pleased, thought Rose, bringing the glass of wine to her lips.

Chapter 5

After the feast, the prefects led each house to their dormitories. Professor Snape bade her follow him to the staff wing of the castle. He led her down winding corridors, up several flights of stairs until they stood in front of a large painting.

In the painting a small man was sitting on a stool, facing away from them. He was painting a picture on canvas propped on an easel. He whistled to himself. Presumably, he had hung all of his work on the wall in front of him. The paintings within the painting moved as well – coughing, scratching, sighing. Something looked familiar about the portraits. She leaned in a little closer…

"He painted you!" exclaimed Rose, pointing at a small, ornately framed portrait of Professor Snape. The painting of Professor Snape rolled its eyes.

"Eh?" squeaked the small man. He stopped painting and turned around, sliding off the stool. "Professor Snape, good evening," he said with a small bow. He was a diminutive stooping man, wearing a white smock over his paint-smeared clothes.

"Bonjour Monsieur Meme," said Professor Snape, "I have another portrait for you – A Ms. LeRoy that will be staying with us for a while."

"Oh?" said the little man. He adjusted his glasses and scratched his bearded chin. "Step closer Mademoiselle, let me see your face."

Professor Snape stepped aside so she could stand directly in front of the large painting, which had to be taller than four feet and almost as wide.

"Closer," beckoned the man. Rose leaned forward until her nose was an inch away from the canvas. The little man muttered to himself and raised his eyebrow. She was always amazed at the miraculous magic of moving paintings. At this proximity she could identify the brush strokes that comprised his body – indeed he was painted quite masterfully.

"I'm a self-portrait," spoke Monsieur Meme proudly, as if he had read her mind. "The best artist in my day, actually," he boasted. "I have an eidetic memory," he said, tapping his head with one finger. "I can recall images down to the very last detail. Well, faces anyway. Never been able to remember what I read," he added with a frown.

He stepped away and approached his stool, calling over his shoulder, "She'll be up there by morning." He pointed to an empty spot on the wall next to Professor Snape's portrait.

"Thank you Monsieur Meme," nodded Professor Snape. Then he turned towards his painting, "We're ready to enter the staff wing." Professor Snape's portrait gave a crisp nod and the wall silently swung inward – the painting comprising the front of the hidden door.

Professor Snape held the door open. "After you Ms. Le Roy," he gestured. She walked into the dim hallway. The door swung shut behind them, revealing a small, brass knob on the other side.

"By the morning Monsieur Meme will have finished your portrait and you will be able to come and go as you please. Simply speak to your portrait and it will allow you entrance."

"I've never had my portrait painted before," said Rose. "Does it differ much from a photograph?"

"Not my area of study. I believe Professor Flitwick could answer your question more thoroughly," answered Professor Snape. He led her down the dim hallway lit only by a few ancient-looking torches placed in metal brackets along the stone walls.

He stopped abruptly at the first door they came across. "This is a room reserved for guests and other temporary staff. I think you'll find it sufficient. It can only be opened with this key," he said, drawing out a large ornate brass key from his pocket. "The door is completely and utterly impervious to magic of any kind," he added as he unlocked the door and let her inside.

I've taken the liberty of attaching it to a key ring with a detecting charm. As long as the key is on this ring, you can always detect its location. He handed her the key.

"Thank you," said Rose. Professor Snape looked at her. She felt suddenly awkward realizing they were alone. If they closed the door, no one would know they were in this room together.

"Breakfast is from six to eight o'clock, good night," he said abruptly and swept out of the room. She peeked down the hall and watched him. He entered a door on the left – the same side she was on. She couldn't be sure, because the light was so dim, but it looked like no other doors separated her flat from his. Could they be right next to each other?

She shut the door and leaned against it with a sigh. She studied the room, which would be hers for quite a while. It was a large room – probably 500 square feet. It was dimly lit by a few torches propped in their metal sconces attached to the stone wall. The room provided a double bed, a wardrobe and a small wooden table with two chairs. Directly across from the door was one large mullioned window, completely open to the night – no glass or screen. She walked towards it and leaned on the window ledge, looking out at the moon and the lake below. She saw it had been fitted with stained glass shutters – they were already thrown open, letting in the brisk wind off the lake. She sat on the bed, looking around. She detected a door to her left near the wardrobe. The bathroom? She would check it out in a second. She lay down. The white linens were cleanly laundered and full of the cool, fresh breeze that filled the room with its rejuvenating scent. She gazed up at the window, catching sight of the moon. A wave of deja vu crashed over her. She sat up in alarm. Why was this room so familiar? The dream, of course. She sighed. The dream of the handsome stranger ripping her white nightgown. She laughed at herself for having such a silly dream. And who was the man from her dream? All she could recall was longish dark hair. Good god, she thought. Could it have been Professor Snape? She shook her head, refusing to entertain such thoughts, but couldn't help wondering what he was doing right at this moment. Preparing for tomorrow's classes? Reading in bed? Was he sleeping? Taking a bath?

She stood up and walked towards the door – it opened onto a small bathroom – no window, no shower, only an old-looking bathtub with clawed, iron feet in the shape of talons, an ornate pedestal sink, a toilet, a small cabinet and a long, floor to ceiling antique mirror, so discolored she could only see herself fully on one side and even then half her face was muddled.

She sighed. Baths were fine after a long day, but she preferred showers for a quick way to clean and refresh herself in the morning before work.

Otherwise, the bathroom was incredibly clean and someone, probably a house elf, had placed a fresh spray of lilacs in a small vase on the sink. House elves were something of a rarity in America – not enough old families. Mostly, large institutions such as schools and government buildings were the only places with enough wealth and establishment to have any. She had never seen one in person. She wondered if she would ever see any house elves at Hogwart's. Once she had been struck with the flu in the middle of the night at Paumanok. She must have been about 12. She had rushed into the lavatories and vomited violently. She lay there for quite some time before gathering the energy to visit the school's healer, Ms. Chavis who insisted they call her Nurse Chavis, even though as a healer she had quite a lot more experience than a nurse. In between bouts she was resting with her head on the floor when she thought she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. She swore she saw a small person, smaller than a first year student even, with large, floppy ears, and odd, baggy clothing. She didn't know to this day if she had just hallucinated from severe dehydration. When she had finally reached the nurse, she was chastised severely for not coming directly to her (and leaving a trail of vomit all the way?). After the nurse gave her a potent healing draught, which worked almost immediately, she had to stay in bed for two hours to rest and hydrate. Nurse Chavis forced her awake to drink a large glass of water every half hour. After being forced to drink down her fourth glass of water she had asked Nurse Chavis about the little person she saw in the bathroom.

"Just a house elf - you interrupted its rounds. They work mainly at night and sometimes during lessons to avoid being seen."

"Why don't they like to be seen?" Rose had asked, as Nurse Chavis forced another glass of water down her throat. Punishment, it seemed like, for asking questions.

"They like to get on with their work. They don't like bother," responded Nurse Chavis sharply, as if she was talking about herself instead of the house elves.

Chapter 6

Rose promised herself that later in the week she would find the time to attach a showerhead to the bathtub faucet so she could at least wash her hair properly. For now, she was happy to take a long bath. As she turned on the taps, a three-branched candelabrum mounted to the wall above the faucet, flickered to life. A nice touch, thought Rose. She undressed quickly, taking the time to hang up her new robes. As she was shutting the doors to the wardrobe she noticed a pull-chain that was attached to….air. It appeared suspended. Out of sheer curiosity, she pulled it, thinking perhaps it lit up the wardrobe. Instead, a high voice chirped,

"Would you like your robes laundered miss?"

The voice seemed to come from the wardrobe, but quite obviously no one was hiding inside. It was completely empty except for her one robe and several hangers.

"I'm sorry, but who are you?" enquired Rose.

"House elf, miss, Lady is my name."

"Thank you Lady, but I don't need any laundering at this time. My name is Rose, by the way."

"Yes, Miss Rose. Anytime you need laundering, pull the chain. Thank you Miss Rose."

"Thank you," replied Rose, closing the wardrobe.

She stared at the wardrobe for a moment, feeling embarrassed and not knowing exactly why. Of course while she was attending school at Paumanok their clothes were laundered for them. Each child had his or her own laundry bin that would be emptied and cleaned once a week, clothes miraculously appearing fresh and crisp in their wardrobes. Outside of school, however, Rose was used to laundering her own clothes, cleaning her own kitchen, etc. To help pay for The Hullta Hullisle Navajo Institute for Advanced Magic she worked as a waitress at a local wizard's pub. This wasn't unusual in America – many witches and wizards worked odd jobs until they could secure a full time position. Hullta Hullisle did provide housing on location, but many young witches and wizards also lived at home with their parents or rented flats together. She had worked in the pub with three other students also attending Hullta Hullisle – it was a campus pub of sorts.

She wasn't quite sure the wizarding community in these parts were as egalitarian about that sort of thing – working in pubs belonged to a certain class of people. That was her impression, and of course she could be wrong, but she had a feeling that if she told some of the professors at Hogwarts she had worked in a pub, they might find it inappropriate somehow. She felt a sudden sharp homesickness and tears pricked her eyes, making her nose itch. She shook her head – it had been a long day and she was tired.

She set out clothes for the following day and checked on the bath – it was full and gloriously hot. She slowly sunk into the hot water and stretched out her tired limbs, allowing the steaming bath to calm her nerves.

Chapter 7

She woke abruptly the next morning to her alarm clock shouting at her – "Thirty minutes past! Thirty minutes past!" Apparently, it had been bawling at her for half an hour. She couldn't believe she slept through the racket.

"Oh shut it," she yawned and slammed her hand down on the lever.

She had half an hour to make it down to breakfast – plenty of time. She freshened up in the bathroom and re-pinned her hair. The robe she donned was a standard affair – black. According to the Hogwarts letter, dress code required women to wear hats.

"Ridiculous," muttered Rose, as she used the wardrobe mirror to situate her Scottish cap and pin it in place. She had presented Estelle the letter from Hogwarts, and although Estelle did not "approve" of the hat or the robes for that matter, she assured Rose they were appropriate.

She usually wore a little makeup to work, so kept with habit and applied a very thin line of black eyeliner and a light coat of mascara. She placed a little tube of lip balm in one pocket of her robes and picked up her wand from the bedside table and stuffed it into the other. She left her room and locked up, placing the key in her pocket as well.

She looked down the hall and her heart sank as she caught sight of Professor McGonagall striding purposefully towards the door.

"Good Morning, Ms. LeRoy," she said, looking at Rose's attire, allowing her gaze to linger on Rose's hat. Professor McGonagall also wore a black robe, to Rose's relief, and her hat was rather traditional with a pointed top. Rose thought those hats looked ridiculous in pictures, but on Professor McGonagall it looked regal and intimidating.

"My, what an interesting hat," she noted. Rose walked with her to the door.

"Estelle, I mean Madam Malkin, showed them to me – they're new, designed by a Scottish witch."

"Are they really? Very smart," she commented, opening the door. Rose did not detect any irony.

"Thank you," she replied, politely.

"I see the Monsieur has finished your portrait."

"Oh," said Rose excitedly.

"Interesting," commented Professor McGonagall with a sly smile.

To Rose's utter horror, her portrait, an incredibly flattering likeness, was looking up adoringly, even worshipfully at Professor Snape's portrait. His portrait stared straight ahead looking smug.

"Good grief," Rose muttered feeling her cheeks and ears flush.

"Well," said Professor McGonagall, stifling what astonishingly sounded like a giggle, but came off as a soft grunt, "…not to worry, we lot stick to our own. You know," she clarified, "potions, transfiguration, charms… the more you advance in a subject of magic the fewer of you there are. Oh we get competitive at times, but I'd say the Masters of Transfiguration are my closest friends."

That was a very kind and open comment, thought Rose. She wondered if maybe she had been too quick to judge Professor McGonagall and decided to test the waters.

"I grew very close to my colleagues that studied Potions at the Advanced School of Magic. We even worked together in a campus pub." She waited to see what this affect would have on Professor McGonagall.

She looked up in surprise. "You? Work in a pub?"

Rose's spirits fell. "Yes. Many of us worked to pay the cost of tuition," she answered flatly.

"It's just," stuttered Professor McGonagall, clearly embarrassed, "I apologize, but you don't seem the type, socially speaking," she added, examining Rose through her spectacles.

"Oh," answered Rose with a laugh realizing Professor McGonagall was speaking about her demeanor, for she did not have a bubbly, smiling persona.

"Well yes, you're right. I am a bit introverted, but the pub I worked at was called 'The Blackened Bezoar,' primarily frequented by those studying Potions and some from Arithmancy. The owner is a Potions Master, a retired Professor that worked at the school. We were a queer lot," admitted Rose. "None too suave with the social graces."

"Indeed," remarked Professor McGonagall.

Chapter 8

The Great Hall was rife with activity – children scampering down the aisles, practicing spells, shouting, laughing and some attempting homework despite the din. The mood was informal – quite different than dinner last night. People came and go as they pleased. Only a handful of teachers sat at the high table. Professor Snape was not among them. Rose sat with Professor McGonagall and helped herself to a bowl of scrambled eggs and a plate of bacon. After breakfast, she humbly asked Professor McGonagall when classes started – she desperately needed to get her hands on a schedule.

"I'll show you the staff lounge. Professor Snape takes his breakfast there and the class schedules are posted." There was no ambiguity in her voice as she mentioned Professor Snape, Rose noticed with relief. Hopefully that wretched portrait of hers would change its ridiculous posture.

Professor McGonagall led her down a series of hallways, changing direction this way and that in a seemingly purposeful way as to make it impossible for anyone to find the place.

"Most of our offices and the staff lounge reside down this hallway," announced Professor McGonagall. "You'll find it quite easily soon enough," she added, with a thoughtful nod in Rose's direction.

I must look panicked, thought Rose, and made an attempt to straighten her posture and smooth out her face into what she hoped looked like a calm and assuring demeanor.

They entered through a heavy-looking mahogany door with an old-fashioned barred peephole, currently closed. I suppose that would come in handy to keep out students, thought Rose, approvingly.

They entered a vast room, a lounge of sorts. The center was formed by a surprisingly modern looking collection of L-shaped couches that formed a rectangle with only one opening that faced the door. What appeared to be a large indoor hedge grew behind a long section of the rectangle, providing an illusion of privacy from the rest of the room. It gave the room an exotic feel, like something one would find in an atrium or courtyard. I bet Professor Sprout managed that, thought Rose.

Rich, mahogany counters lined the walls of the room. One held a large tea set on a tray next to a double sink. Others held sheaths of parchment, baskets of quills and several bottles of ink.

Rose began to feel a little nervous again. She had never used an ink and quill. All of her schools used muggle pens and pencils. Magically enhanced of course, to have an endless supply of lead or ink. She hoped they wouldn't mind if she used her own pen.

The room was very bright, lit by several floor to ceiling mullioned windows that let in the morning sun. The shutters had been thrown open and a nice breeze ruffled the hedge and the stacks of parchment, which had thoughtfully been held down with a smooth, black stone.

"Here are the schedules," announced Professor McGonagall, and led Rose to the opposite side of the room to a large notice board above the counters. She scanned the sheets, noting when the Potions classes were held. "Copies, I believe are in this drawer." She bent down and opened a drawer in the cabinet below. "Yes, here we are." She handed Rose the class schedule.

"Thank you, Professor." She nodded courteously. Professor Snape entered the lounge and approached Rose. She felt her heart beat faster and her face lift in anticipation. Thankfully, she managed to stifle a smile. Professor McGonagall, however, was not as successful in hiding hers. She faked a cough and covered her mouth, bustling away in a rush of skirts.

"Ms. LeRoy, I see you've found the class schedules."

Rose nodded.

"The first week I will need your help setting up experiments and later, grading papers. That will leave weekends and some evenings free to aid in your experiments."

Weekends only. Some evenings? thought Rose, feeling panicked again, which must have shown.

"That is the time I will be available, Ms. LeRoy," said Professor Snape dryly. You, of course, can spend all of your free time working on your experiment."

"As you can see," he continued, leading her to the seating area, "I teach seven potions classes." They sat next to each other on the couch. Her nerves started twittering at their proximity. She took a deep breath. He leaned in to point at the schedule. His robed arm brushed her shoulder and she felt the blood blast to her face and skin in a rush of heat.

"I will need you in the mornings Monday through Friday, and in the afternoon on Tuesday and Wednesday. I grade in the afternoons Monday and Thursday. You should be free after three o'clock every day and on Fridays you will be free after you help set up and clean up my morning class."

Rose nodded, momentarily distracted by the infusion of blood to her extremities. She felt relieved. That left her plenty of time to pursue her experiment.

"And today?" she asked timidly.

"You've had breakfast I assume? Follow me."

Why, she thought, does it thrill me when he orders me about? She imagined that instead of "Follow me," he instead demanded, "Disrobe." She wondered what she would do. Would she disrobe? Honestly, she didn't know.

He led her down a series of corridors and down several sets of stairs, to the dungeon she supposed. Again, she wondered how she would ever find this place again. She followed his sweeping robes to a cavernous wall-to-wall stone room. Quite obviously the potions room. She could recognize it by smell alone – a peculiar ozone-like odor. He led her to the back towards a large desk, presumably his. One door at the back led to the potions storeroom.

He leaned against the desk and began to describe what he expected of her. It was the usual sort of thing: collecting the jars of ingredients for each experiment and gathering them on the empty shelf in the front so students don't go messing about the storeroom, scrubbing down tables at the end of class (accomplished by the simple Scourgify charm – incredibly handy in potions), minding the potions store and making sure plenty of Dittany was on hand for disasters (Rose noticed a shallow earthenware bowl on Professor Snape's desk with a bundle of the healing herb). As he talked she spaced out a bit, noticing his posture – how he leaned against the desk, crossing his arms. He was a very confident sort of guy, she observed, reputedly uptight, but in person she found it not so. He seemed quite at ease in his surroundings. She found his stance oddly masculine, considering he wore robes, and oddly sexy. She suddenly became aware of herself studying him, and mentally censured herself. She had not been looking at his face, as one normally does when paying attention. She tuned back into what he was saying.

"We have a group of first-year students this morning, so the Dittany will most assuredly be needed," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Where should I be during classes?" she asked.

"I have a room in back – where I keep potions on hand and work in private. I'll show you," he said, walking towards the storeroom. They entered the cramped space and walked to the back. She was standing quite close to him – it was tempting not to lean in and smell him a little. Rose had an excellent sense of smell, she often caught herself smelling items to get more information about them. From where she stood, she breathed in quietly, hoping to catch his scent. Unfortunately the room smelled sharply of herbs, but she caught a faint, elusive scent, something like skin with that peculiar mark of individuality – every human being smelled differently. It was delicious and enticing, she felt an impulse to lick the back of his neck and flushed in the dark room, thankful he could not read her mind. The scent was faint, with an overlay of soap, a mild soap – probably "fragrance-free". She continued to breathe in, hoping to hold on to it, but kept losing it amidst the pungent herbs and soap.

"Just remove your wand and tap here," he had been explaining, and turned around. She had moved quite close to him and he looked a bit alarmed at her proximity.

Easy, she thought to herself, stop sniffing around your colleague like a pervert.

She smiled, in what she hoped was an innocent way, to cover up whatever pervy look she might have had on her face.

Her smile, however, seemed to alarm him even more. He stumbled on his words. "Uhmmmm," he said, attempting to remember his train of thought.

"You were saying something about taking out your wand," said Rose pleasantly. She shuddered inside at the unintentional euphemism.

"What?" asked Professor Snape sharply.

Oh my god, thought Rose, did I sound like I was being euphemistic? Am I flirting? Holy shit. I am flirting.

"Your wand," repeated Rose forcing her face to look serious. "You were saying I should remove my wand."

"Yes, of course," responded Professor Snape, still flustered. "There's a hidden door here to keep students from nosing about. I have an underage charm on it as well. It's high up, third stone from the ceiling. She looked to where he was pointing. In the center of the narrow wall towards the ceiling, a large stone had a faint scratch mark. He tapped it and a door appeared.

The room was smallish, but plenty of space for a table and chairs and a few bookcases. Rose sat on the solid table and looked at Professor Snape, waiting for more information. She hoped she was looking serious, but for some reason she felt coquettish, as if she wasn't in control of herself. He stared at her for a second then turned and left the room. She followed him, the door shut behind her and disappeared.

The rest of the morning passed by dully. He avoided looking at her face when he spoke to her and she felt ashamed, as if she had sexually harassed him.

I really am mucking up this appointment, thought Rose grimly. Without Professor Snape's help, chances are she would not be able to complete her experiment. She could not afford to make him uncomfortable. She made a promise to herself that she would gain control of her feelings (libido) and focus on work.

After class she wandered back up to her room (having gotten lost three times and being forced to ask several ill-tempered and condescending paintings the way).

She approached the painting and was greeted kindly by Monsieur Meme.

"Hello, hello! How was your first day Mademoiselle?"

"Good," muttered Rose, afraid to look up, afraid to see what her portrait was doing now.

"And how do you like your portrait?" he asked, kindly.

Rose hoped for the best and looked up. It. Was. Not. Good. Her portrait, still wearing the travel robes she arrived in, had undone the top three buttons, exposing a subtle cleavage, not quite ample enough to be sluttish, but certainly provocative (oh, how accurate the painting was in terms of her "proportions"). Her portrait was giggling - the cheeks blushed a deep red, and she kept looking at Professor Snape's portrait out of the corner of her eyes coquettishly. Rose immediately looked at Professor Snape's portrait. He was no longer staring forward with a smug and confident look. He had turned and was staring at Rose's portrait in what could only be described as astonishment bordering on horror.

Her eyes filled with tears. She would be asked to leave for sure. She could imagine it now – The American Harlot Thrown Out of Hogwarts for Sexual Harassment.

"I think it's a fine portrait," argued Monsieur Meme. He had his hands on his hips and walked towards her. He obviously misunderstood her tears, thinking she disapproved of the portrait.

"The portrait is fine! It's not that!" protested Rose, tears flowing freely down her face.

"So you say. So you say," said the Monsieur, stiffly. He then began to mutter to himself, "No one appreciates artists anymore."

And if things couldn't get any worse, Professor McGonagall approached.

"Hello dear, how is your day so far? Professor Snape not being too demanding I hope?" she asked kindly. "Good gracious," she said after taking one look at Rose's face, "whatever is the matter?"

"I'll tell you what," said Monsieur Meme, "she doesn't like her portrait. It's an insult to art!" He had worked himself up and was angry now, his hands balled into fists at his side. "Probably the best work I've ever done. It's just like before," he continued, anger turning into anguish. "Why do I even try?!" Then he sat down on his little stool and began to cry. Using his beret to wipe his tears every so often.

"Is that true?" asked Professor McGonagall in disbelief, looking up to search for Rose's portrait. "Oh," she said quietly. "Oh my." She put her arm around Rose's shoulder, "There, there. It's not all that bad. It's just a painting, after all!"

"Just…a…painting?!" sputtered Monsieur Meme in disbelief. "Why do I endure?" he asked in an exasperated voice, pulling on his hair. "I can't take it anymore! I'm finished!" he yelled and marched clear out of the painting.

Professor McGonagall sighed. "Let's go inside," she said looking up at her portrait. It nodded back at her and the door opened.

"What about Monsieur Meme?" blurted Rose.

"Let's not worry about him right now. I'll sort him out later."

"Sort me out, will you?" called out Monsieur Meme from a portrait down the hall. "I'm never coming back! You hear?! NEVER!"

Chapter 9

Professor McGonagall's room was large and tidy. It had several small rooms, which made sense given her talent at transformation. They walked into a foyer, with a coat rack, a rug, a cozy fireplace and sturdy, mission-style table and chairs.

"Please, sit down," said Professor McGonagall, pointing her wand at the fireplace, where it suddenly burst into flame.

Rose sat down on the cushioned chair, enjoying the blast of heat. It was calming. Her tears were already drying and she was starting to feel silly. Professor McGonagall brought a tray of tea to the table and Rose served herself. They sat drinking tea for a while in silence.

"You know, paintings aren't the same thing as photographs," she said, kindly. "A photograph captures an individual's personality and feelings at that moment in time. There is no interpretation by the photographer. The art of the photographer is capturing the right moment. In a painting, it is true that a certain degree of the subject's feelings and personality is captured: however, the artist's perception of the subject is also integrated into the painting. So you see, your portrait is not simply a reflection of you; it's also Monsieur Meme's interpretation of you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, yes," answered Rose, quite embarrassed by her reaction now. "I overreacted. It seems ridiculous now that I would be upset by my portrait's behavior."

"Well," responded Professor McGonagall with a penetrating stare, "Monsieur Meme was and still is a famous artist. He is well known for his rather perceptive portraits. No doubt he picked up on your professional admiration for Professor Snape. Let's not forget that Monsieur Meme is also a man, and a Frenchman at that, and you are a beautiful young woman. He's bound to fantasize, I suppose," said Professor McGonagall, provocatively.

Rose looked at her tea in silence. She felt like she had indeed given herself away. Only someone with something to hide would have reacted that way – the portrait seemed to mock her earlier misbehavior in Professor Snape's back room.

"It's perfectly normal to admire people in your own field of study," continued McGonagall with a knowing look. "I admit, Severus isn't exactly the…," she seemed at a loss for words, "…most affable of men. But, he certainly has impressive credentials."

"I suppose I do admire him," admitted Rose, "But it's not like I know him very well. I just met him. He's practically a stranger," she argued, defensively.

"He's enigmatic," suggested Professor McGonagall with a smile.

"You have worked with him for a while I take it?" asked Rose.

Professor McGonagall nodded.

"Do you think…" she stammered. "Do you think he'll be angry with the whole portrait thing?" Her heart was pounding. She did not want to alienate him.

Professor McGonagall smiled and then quickly hid it by pursing her lips. She was trying to be tactful about the issue, which Rose appreciated, even though it was obvious she found it quite amusing.

"Severus is… moody and unpredictable. However, …" she added, as Rose's face fell, "I don't think he would jeopardize his pride or professional reputation by anything as extreme as refusing to work with you over the actions of a portrait."

"Of course," said Rose out loud. She was immensely relieved. She had put it so plainly and so obviously. It was just a portrait. Not her.

"If anything, he'll have a word with Monsieur Meme," she added.

"Thank you Professor McGonagall," began Rose.

"Minerva, please," she said with a kind smile.

"Thank you, Minerva. I apologize for being over-emotional. It's just I do not want to jeopardize my project and it's early days, after all. I do want to make a good impression."

"Oh, I think you are definitely making a good impression," said Minerva slyly.

"Okay," said Rose with a nervous smile. "Well I should be going. I have some work to do before dinner."

Rose left Minerva's room and made her way down the hall towards her room. Just then Professor Snape came through the portrait door. Rose's heart pounded like crazy. She felt she would hyperventilate. Stop it, she chastised herself.

He appeared slightly flustered. He must have seen the portrait when he came in. Calm yourself, she demanded. His dark eyes caught hers and she felt her stomach flip-flop. Oh god, oh god act normal, thought Rose. Say something normal!

"Anything else for this afternoon?" asked Rose.

"No. Not today. There won't be anything to grade until Thursday."

Rose began to walk away.

"You will let me know when you need me," said Snape just as she was turning away. "For the experiment," he added hastily.

"I'll be ready with a list of ingredients in a week," answered Rose.

Chapter 10

After a long afternoon of unpacking, Rose had dinner in the Great Hall. She was famished and was pleased that she was on friendly terms with Professor McGonagall, but was disappointed in her awkward interaction with Professor Snape. He had greeted her but then completely turned away from her to immerse himself in discussion with Professor Dumbledore for the duration of dinner. Rose was returning to her room (having not gotten lost for once) and stopped abruptly. Professor Snape was standing in front of the painting. He was snapping his fingers at his portrait angrily. A few seconds later the door opened. Maybe it wasn't just her then. Maybe everyone's portrait became distracted sometimes. She waited for about five minutes before she turned the corner, hoping it was ample time for Professor Snape to arrive at his chambers. How long can I avoid the person I am supposed to be working with? She asked herself, feeling exasperated.

This time her portrait was looking away from Professor Snape, the blush still on her cheek, but from embarrassment now versus arousal. Her robes were buttoned all the way to the top, her head was lowered, but she still peered at Professor Snape out of the corner of her eye. Professor Snape's portrait had also moved. Before he had turned his head to stare at her in mute horror, but now it had moved towards Rose's portrait until he stood at the edge. He seemed to be trying to catch Rose's eye, his brow creased in confusion.

"Jesus," muttered Rose in disgust. It had taken her a full five minutes to get her own portrait to notice her, it was so distracted with its own sense of shame, guilt, whatever. Thankfully no one else had tried to enter at the same time. She hissed at her portrait before entering, "Behave yourself, will you?"

The next morning their portraits were still gazing at each other wordlessly – his with open curiosity now and hers still maddeningly coquettish.

Tuesday evening they had arrived at the painting together and he snapped his fingers angrily to get his portraits attention. Rose had joked, "The Monsieur has really outdone himself with my portrait. I feel like I should apologize for something," she confessed.

Professor Snape had looked at her in surprise, clearly not expecting that response, which pleased her. Somehow she had feared he knew about her attraction to him and despised her for it.

"Nonsense," he had replied. "I've had a word with the Monsieur, but I'm afraid it's only made matters worse. He will not re-paint either of our portraits and he refuses to return to his painting."

After that exchange she had felt more relaxed around Professor Snape and quickly learned to appreciate his formal and efficient manner. She smiled often when with him, and although he did not, she noticed he was more vociferous than he had been and confided in her about his irritations concerning house matters. This pleased her and made her want to impress him. She took more care with her appearance and tried to look "smart." Something she never did back home. If anything, back in the states, a total disregard of appearance was the mark of a true potions master. She invested in a sort of pomade that smoothed her hair back nicely when she pinned it up. She used the house elf service and had Lady launder her robes regularly so they were fresh each day he held classes. She manicured her nails regularly, obviously not painting them with varnish but filing and polishing them and using lotion to keep them from cracking.

Rose found it overwhelming to concentrate on concocting forty poisons. She decided it was easiest to separate them first by availability. If Professor Snape could acquire them for purchase she would obviously test those first. The first thing to do would be to show him the list of poisons and have him check off the ones he believes he could purchase. After that, she would study the recipes for the remaining potions, check the ingredient list with both her and Professor Snape's potion store, then make a list of the "difficult to acquire" ingredients and let Severus do his best.

They met in her quarters Wednesday evening for the first time to discuss the first stages of the experiment. She had shown Severus the list of poisons and he had put a small check mark next to the ones he could definitely get and a dash next to the ones he might find. He circled five of the poisons listed and asked her to begin preparations for making them. After a bit of research, using her own personal potions reference books, she found that even if they concocted all five potions concurrently it would take at least 3 months. A year would be just enough time to complete all the work she needed to do and write up the results. She made a list of all the ingredients they would need. Professor Snape asked her to confer with Professor Sprout in case they could grow and harvest the more rare ingredients on site. She reminded him to keep a record of all the purchases so she could reimburse him and also said she would have a tidy sum of gold on hand for purchasing the "illegal" poisons, which would be quite expensive on the black market. She gave him a thousand galleons in a small chest and the forms the grant had provided to keep track of expenses.

She was surprised to find she could work with someone she was so intensely attracted to – she loved her work and it was engrossing; so much that Professor Snape's presence could feel like a friendly camaraderie. If she didn't keep focus, however, she would catch herself staring at his face or feeling the urge to step a little closer to him. Sometimes if he was talking and noticed she was staring at him his face would take on an alarmed look and he would always take a few steps away from her. She would then feel guilty and try extra hard to focus on the work. She found this happened frequently on Thursday evening while they were grading in his office.

After dinner, he led her down to the dungeon where most of his classes were and down a hallway she had not been, to a cozy office. This was clearly his own personal study. The room, although windowless, was welcoming. It had a blazing fireplace, a large table and chairs, a desk and a very intricate and expensive-looking potions set – similar to the one she owned, but somehow more grandiose. They seated themselves at the table near the fire and proceeded to grade papers. Every so often she would confer with him on an answer and he would sneer and call so-and-so an "idiot" or "completely hopeless." She noticed he especially did this when they graded the Gryffindors.

"Why do you not like the Gryffindors?" she had asked him, innocently.

"Gryffindor house attracts the most coddled, pompous privileged brats of all the houses. Their motto is a joke – bravery indeed. They just bludgeon their way through life with their fat heads," he ranted. She had been quite taken aback.

"I did encounter a couple of brutish ogres and a whiny girl on the train. Gryffindors. They were bullying a small boy – very pale and underdeveloped. I wouldn't be surprised if he had been malnourished. Anyway, he fixed them up all right. He seemed like a bright lad. Had a gray cat with him."

"That could be Strommer. He's in my house. Second year."

"They said his father was in Azkaban. Is that the boy you're thinking of?"

"Yes, that's him. He is on the brighter side, but he has a long way to go."

"And what of Hufflepuff?"

"Mediocre. Too soft."

"Ravenclaw?"

"At least they value intelligence, but little else."

"And what do people say about Slytherin?"

"Competitive and resourceful. Of course the Dark Lord was a Slytherin so there's that ominous, undeserved reputation to contend with. We have social connections and of course money. Too much. It interferes with broadening the minds. Most of them are spoiled, of course. In all the houses. No discipline. It's pathetic," he sneered. "But that's why they're here. To toughen up and use their minds and their wits instead of their pocketbooks."

Rose nodded, murmured in agreement and went back to grading.

Chapter 11

As the first weekend of term approached, Rose became excited. On Friday afternoon she received an owl from Madam Malkin, inviting her to tea in London at Diagon Alley on Sunday. She responded in the positive. Saturday she had made up her mind to visit Hogsmeade. She was interested in the shop Violet had mentioned to her, "The Gardener's Friend." She would definitely purchase Violet's Moly Honey and was curious whether they stocked any other sorts of oddments. She decided to query Professor Snape about the place and also this was her lead in to see what he was doing Saturday. She was mustering up the courage to ask him for a drink.

At the end of class Friday morning, she approached his desk. He was skimming through the latest homework assignments. She heard him murmur, "Ridiculous," and then, "Asinine!"

The last class on Friday had been comprised of quite a bit of Gryffindors.

"I am investigating a shop in Hogsmeade on Saturday. 'The Gardener's Friend.' Do you think it would be any help to us?"

"What," he replied sharply, clearly in a rotten mood after teaching.

"'The Gardener's Friend'."

"Oh. I don't know. Ask Professor Sprout. She gets many of her seedlings and so forth from there," he replied testily, tossing a homework assignment on the desk with disgust.

"Only I was wondering," began Rose nervously. She did not think she would be able to do this – ask him out?! What was she thinking? "Will you be in Hogsmeade Saturday?" she blurted out, recklessly.

"I don't know. It depends. At some point I must visit Nocturne Alley. Hagrid promised to come with me – we'll be able to cover more ground that way," he replied. He scratched at a scorch mark on his desk. "Bloody first years," he muttered. He looked up sharply and demanded, "Why? Why do you ask?" His eyes were suddenly focused on her and he appeared angry.

"I was just…" her confidence withered under his angry scrutiny, "wondering, because I will be there." Just. Stop. Talking, she thought to herself. He continued to stare at her angrily. She blushed deeply and looked away.

Without warning, a student burst into the room giving Rose an awful start. The boy raced towards the desk, clearly in a panic, practically shouting, "I think I've turned in the wrong assignment!"

She saw his lip curl and his glittering dark eyes narrow. She backed away towards the door. "See you later," she called out. He did not hear her.

As she left the dungeon she heard his voice ring out along the hallway, "You do not shout at your professors! You will address me as Sir, and you will not run in my dungeon. Is this understood Slattery? Does this information penetrate that thick head of yours?!"

To her immense humiliation, a few tears escaped her eyes as she rushed up the stairs. She hurriedly wiped them away, but more sprang forward. She turned the wrong way, doubled back, turned down another unknown corridor, doubled back again, and finally located the stairs that led to the staff quarters. She looked up at her portrait. Unbelievably, amazingly, her portrait was also crying. Except, this was worse. Far worse. Her portrait was sobbing into a lace handkerchief. Her dress, she noticed, was again unbuttoned to reveal cleavage.

She turned towards Professor Snape's portrait. "What are you staring at?!" he barked at her.

"N…Nothing," replied Rose, startled.

"As you were, then," his portrait snarled.

Her eyes filled with more tears, and trailed down her face. She wiped them away, but they kept falling from her crumpled up face. Good grief, she could tell she was near hysterics. And for what? Because she didn't have the courage to ask someone out? How absurd! How immature!

"There, there," she managed to blubber out to her portrait. Her doppelganger gave her a brief look of gratitude amidst the hiccoughing and sniffles, and the door swung open.

She rushed to her room and did not look up, lest she run into Professor McGonagall. She did not want to be seen in hysterics by Professor McGonagall. She was too proud for that and the witch had been too kind already – she could not ask for pity. She would not be humiliated and thought of as an hysterical American, and worse the hysterical American. By God, as the only American at Hogwarts she would be an ambassador for the States and she would put her best face forward.

An admirable sentiment, but first she would need to calm herself down. She was close to approaching the hysterics of her portrait – she had never fared well with social humiliation, which was probably why she always excelled at potions. A craft that required no communication skills, and allowed her to be in her own mind, which was inevitably the only place she felt safe.

She wrenched open her wardrobe and pulled the cord.

"Can I help you Miss?"

"Lady, I am sorry about this, but is it possible to get some wine? I can come down to the kitchens and retrieve it, if need be," blurted Rose desperately.

"Certainly, Miss. No need to leave your flat, Miss," replied Lady somewhat coldly.

Suddenly, out of thin air, a bottle of freshly opened elf-made wine and an elegant glass materialized on the floor of her cabinet.

"Oh thank you, thank you so much!" gushed Rose.

"Certainly, Miss. Anything else for you?"

"Uh, no thank you."

"I'll just send up some fruits and cheese for the wine," added Lady.

"Oh-oh-kay, that would be lovely," replied Rose trying not to sound like she had been crying.

She picked up the wine and glass and took them into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She turned on the taps of the bathtub and hot water poured and sputtered and steamed out of the faucet. She removed her clothes and threw them on the floor. With a deep sigh, she gingerly stepped into the hot water, which was definitely too hot and sent a violent shiver up her back. Not patient enough to care, she sunk into the scalding water and reached over to pour a glass of wine, keeping the bottle on the floor within arms reach. She leaned back and closed her eyes, sipping from the glass every so often, keeping her eyes closed the whole time and not thinking about anything.

Half an hour and two glasses later, Rose emerged from the bathroom a calm and rational person. On the small wooden table against the far wall, a delicious plate of fruits, various cheeses and a small loaf of bread was laid out on a large platter. Feeling peckish now that she had calmed herself down, she took the bottle to the table and devoured the lot and polished off the wine as well. Quite drunk now, she collapsed onto her bed and took a very long nap.

Chapter 12

Rose awoke from her nap confused. The room was dim and the sky outside was a darkening blue, the sun nowhere to be seen. She was convinced it was the next day and that she had fallen ill because it was five o'clock in the evening. After a few moments, however, the day's events came surging back into her consciousness and she felt yet again the embarrassment of being unable to ask Professor Snape for a drink, compounded by the shame that she felt for turning to drink. She had been asleep for over three hours.

She sleepily pointed her wand at the lantern on the bedside table and accidentally set fire to the pile of parchment nearby.

"Shit," she muttered, her wand still pointing at the lantern. "I mean," she stuttered, shaking her head a little, "Aqua Eructo." Water spewed out of her wand and soaked the entire table and all of its contents.

"Crap." She went to the bathroom and grabbed a towel and began to sop up the mess. It was not good to do magic while hungover.

After sopping up the puddles and wiping the table dry, she staggered over to the wardrobe and grabbed a small wooden box she had placed towards the back. It was her own personal store of potions. She chose a vial of blue liquid labeled, "The B.B. Cure." It was a hangover cure, a special concoction invented by the owner of the pub she used to work in, The Blackened Bezoar. The owner, retired Potions Professor Ollie Plimpton, had said it was the best work he'd ever done. He never tried to mass market it, partly because there were plenty of hangover potions and partly because he said he didn't want the entire wizarding world to have its benefits (he had a misanthropic streak). He invented it because the existing hangover potions simply removed the ill-effects of drinking that caused pain – primarily headache and nausea. His hangover potion was a kind of panacea. It not only cured the pain, but cleansed the liver, provided hydration and vitamins and also created a very mild feeling of well-being. Rose guessed that the last addition to the potion, the sense of well-being, was primarily the reason old Ollie wanted it kept a secret. She thought she detected a dash of Felix Felicitus in the potion – not by taste, but by smell, or rather the fact that when she and her fellow students had each taken their own dose, one said he smelled roses and the other said she could smell sandalwood. Rose, who prided herself on her keen sense of smell, could detect neither of these scents. To her, the potion smelled of damp earth, the way it smelled outside after a spring rain. Felix Felicitus was by no means illegal, but it was highly regulated. One could make it for oneself, but was not allowed to distribute it without inspection.

She downed the vial in one gulp and felt it fizz and bubble down her throat, making her eyes water. As soon as it reached her stomach she felt relief – immediate, soothing relief. Somewhat cheered, she opened the wardrobe to change for dinner. Instead of the usual concern for what would be appropriate, she chose her favorite robes and decided to put on some eye makeup. She spent more time than usual applying it and admired the affect in the bathroom mirror. Rummaging through a bag in her wardrobe she found a bottle of perfume she had always preferred for special occasions. She applied it somewhat liberally. Before she left for dinner, she took out the pins that held back her long bangs and let them curl loosely around her face. She left the back of her hair pinned in place.

She felt as though she was gliding to dinner, she barely felt the floor beneath her feet and didn't have to think twice about how to get there. A small part of her brain murmured, bloody Felix, but the other part felt a-okay(!). She found herself smiling beatifically at the staff and felt their smiles returned. A warm fuzzy feeling made her chest swell - she was beginning to feel welcome.

As she approached her chair, Professor Snape stood and pulled it out for her, leaning in to whisper, "Where is your hat?" He seemed to frown, but ended up looking into her face wide-eyed and confused.

She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly as she sat down. Professor Dumbledore leaned past Severus, "Ms. LeRoy you are looking particularly lovely this evening."

"Thank you Professor Dumbledore," beamed Rose.

"Not at all, not at all," he replied, giving her a good-natured wink.

The wine appeared at everyone's place, but hers. In its place, a clear, fizzing liquid manifested in her wine glass. She immediately recognized a variation of the commercial potion sold in America, Bell-eeze. "Soothe your belly with ease!" was the ridiculously simple motto for this potion that calmed an upset stomach.

"Bloody cheek," she murmured to herself.

"What is that you're drinking?" demanded Professor Snape.

"I wasn't feeling well earlier and the house elves have, let us say, anticipated that I would not be back on track," giggled Rose. "As it is, I feel better, but I am not in the mood for wine so this will do." She raised the glass and tasted it – much better than the American version. It tasted cool, light and airy, like an effervescent cloud. Her stomach pulled and contracted with pleasure – it felt like the muscles could possibly even be smiling.

At that moment the food appeared on their plates and she ate quietly, ignoring Professor Snape's sideways glances. She didn't know why, but she didn't really feel like thinking about him at the moment. Instead, her mind lingered on her trip to Hogsmeade the next day and what she would wear. She imagined herself in "The Gardener's Friend" in her beautiful traveling cloak, perusing and examining the herbs until she miraculously found some hard-to-come-by ingredient for her potions. This daydream was so engrossing that before she knew it, the crumbs on her plate had vanished and a delicious fruit pie appeared. Though not a huge fan of sweets, Rose did enjoy a slice of pie now and then. She took a small experimental bite – the crust was flaky and buttery and the fruit filling was warm, fresh-tasting, and not cloyingly sweet.

As soon as the first staff member rose to leave, she also took her leave, politely wishing Professor Snape a good night. She rushed to the staff wing and looked up at her portrait. Oddly enough, her portrait wasn't there, or rather the frame was still there but her doppelganger had vanished. That was odd. Professor Snape's portrait was looking around worriedly as if he too did not know where she had gone.

"Where on earth is your portrait?"

Rose whirled around. Professor McGonagall stood behind her with a look of concern.

"I shall have a word with Monsieur Meme myself first thing tomorrow," she said importantly. "This is getting ridiculous. Come with me dear," said Professor McGonagall and took Rose's arm kindly and nodded to her own portrait. The door swung open.

"Have a good night," called out the Professor.

"You as well!" replied Rose.

Once in her room, Rose automatically undressed and donned her nightclothes. She found herself opening her potions kit and putting it together with careful and exact motions. Of course she usually handled her potions kit with care, but when she wanted to do something or had a plan, she usually thought consciously about it, or made a note in her calendar. And it was true she had planned on setting up her potions kit over the weekend and Friday evening was technically the weekend. Somehow, though, she felt as if her conscious mind wasn't exactly in control. An even smaller part of her wondered just how much Felix Felicitus potion Ollie added to his hangover cure. His bottles also had no expiration date, which was troubling. Many potions gained power over time. Mainly, though, she concentrated on her potions kit. Once it had been properly assembled she made an inventory of her personal ingredient store. Professor Snape had circled five potions that he wanted her to begin concocting. She checked her potions store with the ingredient list she had already copied out in her calendar. She pulled out the ingredients she already had on hand and put them aside. The only remaining items were rare plants and body parts: from both human and rare magical animals. Talons and feathers and fingernails and so forth. One human tongue was needed. That shouldn't be too hard to garner – just a bit of legwork. They would have to visit the morgue for that one and for all the other human remains needed. After a few hours of preparation and marking in her calendar she got into bed and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

She woke remarkably refreshed the next morning. Bright rays of warm sunshine shot through the stained glass windows making gorgeous colorful patterns on her wardrobe. She felt so good, so full of hope and excitement. That, in and of itself, was suspect. Rose never felt that good, and she was clearly aware of having this thought, but so wonderful and completely novel was this exuberance for life that she let it sweep over her. Once the Felix wears off, she thought to herself, who knows when I'll ever feel this happy again. Of course the very fact that she had that conscious thought was a sign that the Felix was fading from her system.

She had planned to perhaps try to find Professor Snape or send him an owl to see what he was up to today, but she hardly thought of that plan at all. She immediately dressed in her travel robes and decided to visit Hogsmeade first thing. She was very excited to explore "The Gardener's Friend." Perhaps she would see Viola Fitzsimmons again, and she definitely wanted to purchase that delicious Moly honey. She was going to buy two bottles and present one as a gift to Madam Malkin at their tea in Diagon Alley on Sunday.

Rose opened her wardrobe and pulled the cord, politely enquiring the route to Hogsmeade. Lady gave her very simple directions – exit the castle on the north side and follow the path to a well-worn road. Turn left or west, and follow the road in a northwesterly direction and it would eventually lead to the High Street, Hogsmeade Village. It was a tidy walk, but the day was beautiful and Rose arrived in no time.

Hogsmeade was a charming little village with people and students bustling about and the merry sound of old-fashioned bells tinkling whenever someone opened a door to a shop. The weather was crisp and clear, sky an endless expanse of unblemished blue. It was a day when colors seemed super-saturated, as if one's vision had cleared. She approached "The Gardener's Friend," an old brick building that seemed almost taken over by ivy crawling along the walls and even on the roof. She could vaguely see in the tiny gaps here and there that the outer walls had been whitewashed, but now the ivy had torn most of that away to reveal lovely maroon colored bricks.

The inside was buzzing with activity. In the front room, dried herbs had been bundled together in various ways for house decoration. Bushels of apples were stacked near the register for purchase. A long queue formed near the front door, and Rose had to push her way towards the backroom. She discovered a cool, windowless room, or rather, the windows had been shuttered and from the looks of it, bolted as well. Various tall lamps with huge elaborately upholstered shades cast a cozy glow about the place. Floor to ceiling apothecary cabinets took up all of the wall space. She approached the nearest peering at a drawer at head height. It read, in a neat, clearly legible script, "Stinging Nettle Seeds, 3 £ / gram."

Along the back wall, the very bottom drawers of the apothecary cabinets had been fitted with a little curtain not even a foot long, almost like a bedskirt. In front of this stood a witch at the register. Rose grew curious, was this just decoration or was there something in those drawers – something secret?

The room had emptied out a bit and the witch had left the register to help out in the front room. Rose, overcome with curiosity, ducked behind the register and lifted up the curtain. She could barely make out the writing on the drawer it was so dark. She squinted and lowered her head towards the ground. There, on a faded label was written in a fancy script, almost like calligraphy,

"Venomous Tentacula Seeds; price upon request."

"Jackpot!" thought Rose triumphantly.

"Excuse me! This area is off limits!" cried out a witch. Rose stood up so quickly she lost her balance and fell against the counter.

"I'm so sorry, it's just I'm looking for some particular ingredients for my experiments."

"Experiments, indeed," sniffed the witch returning to her place behind the register. She gave Rose an apprehensive glare, as if she were a hag brewing potions to torture muggles or something.

"Let me start over," said Rose, feeling flustered, "My name is Rose LeRoy. I am a guest at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am here conducting an experiment funded by a Trustman Futhers Grant. My experiment requires that I test poisons, to ensure that the potion I've invented will properly slow these poisons, thus providing time for healers to do their job properly."

"A likely story," sniffed the witch. If anything she seemed more alarmed as if Rose was some kind of shyster.

Oh dear, thought Rose to herself. She would probably need Hogwarts to write some kind of letter of introduction with the official seal and all that in order to purchase any of the items she needed.

"Rose, dear!" called out a voice merrily. She turned with a start – she couldn't think of anyone she had met so far that would bellow out her Christian name in public. "I see you've made it out! And how do you like Hogsmeade? Charming isn't it? Rhonda, dear, this is Ms. LeRoy. I met her on the Hogwarts train." It was Viola Fitzsimmons. Of course it was Viola. Rose felt immensely relieved.

"Mrs. Tindle," corrected the witch promptly, as if horrified that Rose would begin calling her Rhonda, dear as well.

"Nice to meet you," replied Rose.

"Are you here for some important ingredients?" asked Viola keenly. "I really do think they may be able to help you."

"Yes, of course," Rhonda piped in. "Do you have a list perhaps, Ms. LeRoy?"

Rose handed over the list of ingredients and added, "Professor Snape and Hagrid are searching for these as well, but we may very well have to grow something ourselves. I will of course consult with Professor Sprout."

Rhonda eyes lit up. "We provide Professor Sprout with most of her more delicate ingredients," she said proudly. "We need special permission of course, as these items are technically not for sale for personal use. But, since you are working at Hogwarts there won't be any problem, and I can keep my eye out for anything we don't have and let you know if we can acquire it."

"Well thank you, Mrs. Tindle," said Rose warmly, "that will be incredibly helpful."

Mrs. Tindle basked in the compliment. "Now, if you'll excuse me I'll just see what we can do for you today," she said, shooing them away from the counter so she could root through the cabinets.

"Now, Rose dear," said Viola taking her arm, "you must purchase some of my honey before you check out."

"Oh yes, I plan on it. I'm also picking up an extra bottle for Madam Malkin. We are having tea tomorrow in Diagon Alley."

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Viola. "A social appointment already. I think you'll enjoy your time here very much," she said warmly.

They chatted for a bit in the front room while Rose filled a shopping basket with a few bottles of Viola's Moly honey, some apples and a fragrant spray of dried herbs to hang on her door.

A short time later, Mrs. Tindle came to the front with Rose's list and also a small package. "I'm afraid we only had one item on hand, The Staff of Circes and only the seeds, but they grow frightfully quickly and Professor Sprout has experience with them." Rose was relieved. The Staff of Circes was an extremely rare flower that grew near Dragon's dung. It was a naturally occurring hybrid of two plants that grow directly in Dragon dung: the common Fiend Mushroom and the rare Death Mantle. The Staff of Circes had elements of both: powerful transformative properties as found in the Fiend Mushroom and dangerously sedative as found in Death Mantle.

"I'm confident we can acquire the Romanian Dragonflower petals within a month's time. I'll send an owl to Hogwarts once it arrives."

"Thank you Mrs. Tindle." Rose tried not to balk at the price tag. "I'll be paying for the seeds separately," she said, digging in her bag for the grant money she kept in a separate satchel. "Luckily this lot is on the grant… otherwise," she trailed off, slightly embarrassed, as she handed over the gold galleons.

"Oh, I know. It's dreadfully expensive," said Mrs. Tindle smoothly. Rose was thankful at being rescued from her embarrassment.

"May I ask what you're working on or is it secret?" asked Viola with a keen glint in her eye.

"Oh no. It's not secret. I've developed a potion to slow the affects of poison; however, we need to test it on the poisons to make sure we add the right amount. Too little and it's completely ineffective. Too much and the patient could die – as slowing the physiological and magical affects of a poison, also slows the heart beat."

"Goodness," replied Rhonda with a hand daintily held to her heart. "Is it safe? Who is the unlucky volunteer?"

"I'm sorry?" asked Rose, confused by the question. And then it dawned on her. "Oh no, testing on individuals is completely unnecessary. Completely. If you have the poison on hand, and all you need is a very small amount, it's an easy experiment to see how much of my potion is needed. Unfortunately, getting your hands on volatile, not to mention legally forbidden poisons, is a challenge. But, the ministry provided a list of poisons they want me to test."

"Impressive," breathed Rhonda. "Now, how is your potion different from a Bezoar? After all, doesn't it have the same affect?"

"That's an excellent question," said Rose. "These are poisons that the bezoar and the common antidotes have no affect on. I suppose you could say they are cursed potions, or rather cursed poisons. An interesting and difficult class of dark magic - difficult to combat and difficult to cure."

"My Moly honey can slow down a curse," boasted Viola proudly. "It's not a very powerful concoction, but sometimes a little can go a long way."

"A wonderful creation, my dear," said Rhonda, patting Viola on the arm.

"Absolutely," agreed Rose. "Curses are famously difficult to slow and require a very quick response time," said Rose robotically, as if she were making a presentation. "More often than not, when one is cursed, no qualified witches or wizards are nearby to offer complex counter-curses." As she finished her spiel she felt slightly light-headed. Was this the Felix Felicitus finally going away? "And on that note," said Rose compulsively, "I think I'll take a few more bottles," she reached over and grabbed three more bottles of Moly honey from the stand near the register, and drew out her personal satchel of coins.

Chapter 13

A short time later, parcels stowed in her bag, she was out in the noonday sun. Professor McGonagall had mentioned another Herbology shop and Rose had planned on seeking it out, but at the moment she felt too content to do anything but saunter. She walked towards the rest of the shops nonchalantly, no destination in mind. Her stomach gave a grumble so loud, the couple walking by looked up at her in alarm. She sought out the nearest eatery, The Three Broomsticks Inn. She headed towards the door, when it popped open with a raucous tinkle of bells and five children burst out nearly knocking her down in their usual oblivious manner. Oblivious to everyone but themselves, grumbled Rose to herself. Luckily, as soon as Rose heard the clamor of bells she drew her wand and managed a variation of the shield charm, which basically created a sort of magical barrier around oneself not unlike a brick wall. The children that ran into her fell backwards painfully. Serves you right, grumbled Rose as the children struggled from the ground looking confused.

Well, she certainly wasn't going into that pub. And whoever heard of a pub allowing children anyway? Ridiculous, thought Rose, feeling at this point very hungry and very irritable. She had walked aimlessly and angrily a short way, when she came upon a shabby building, The Hog's Head. A man exited the pub, weaving happily, letting out a billow of smoky air that could smell foul to those without an appreciation of cigars. This is the place Timothy mentioned on the train, thought Rose. She entered the pub and was immediately aware of two things: one, it was loud, full of raucous laughter the kind that perhaps could erupt into violence; two, the place was extremely dirty – dirty beyond any acceptable degree for an establishment serving anything drinkable, let alone edible.

Loud and aggressive was not Rose's scene. Never had been. She had made up her mind to leave and brave the teashop she had seen nearby when a voice called her name.

"Ms. LeRoy!" She looked up warily. A man was sitting at the bar, waving at her.

"It's Timothy, Love! From the Hogwarts Express!" He waved her towards the bar enthusiastically.

She couldn't help but laugh. It felt wonderful to be recognized – first by Viola and then Timothy, the Conductor.

"Miss Rose, Miss Rose, I do declare," he drawled as she drew near. The bar was crowded, but there was one open seat next to him. He picked up a black shawl that was on the back of it and rolled it up and put it under his barstool. "Come sit down!"

Rose sat down carefully and without thinking too much about it, slipped her right hand into her wand pocket, closing her fingers tightly around it. Just in case.

"What will you drink, Miss Rose?" asked Timothy. His breath smelled strongly of liquor, but he was not slurring or weaving.

"Red wine," answered Rose. While Timothy waved down the barkeep, Rose glanced around. The people sitting at the bar were mostly men, save a young woman who stood leaning against the bar at the far end. She caught Rose's eye and gave her a warm smile. Rose gave a small smile in return. Three men sat together on her other side and were talking loudly to each other. As Timothy paid for the wine, one of them put his arm around her barstool and leaned in to speak. Silently, she cast the same shield charm she had outside. The man was leaning in to whisper something in her ear, but hit his head.

"Ouch!" he exclaimed, jumping back and rubbing his forehead, where a deep, red mark was already developing. "What devilry is this?" he slurred, eyeing Rose disdainfully.

"Now Bob, don't you go yelling at Miss Rose. You've had plenty to drink and now you've gone and injured yourself," he laughed, placing his arm around Rose protectively. He wore a very sweet cologne.

Bob grumbled loudly to himself, complaining about 'house rules' and turned his back on Rose to continue drinking and bantering with his mates.

"You aren't supposed to use magic in The Hog's Head," smirked Timothy. "It's not allowed."

"I didn't," lied Rose. "He's just very drunk." She took a few sips of her wine; it was sour. Timothy smiled and someone caught his eye and he quickly removed his arm from around Rose and sat up straight, turning around to greet someone.

"Strictly speaking that's not quite true," piped the Barkeep. He was wiping down the bar with a dusty rag that left smears of dirt behind. He was an older man with frizzy gray hair and deep frown lines; his eyes, however, were a lively unclouded blue. "I've always allowed defensive charms," he muttered, giving Rose a quick wink when Timothy turned around to greet a friend.

"Rose dear, this is my friend Lydia. Lydia, Rose," Timothy announced. Rose turned and recognized the woman who had smiled at her earlier. Rose nodded her head in greeting.

"So, I hear you're at Hogwarts," said Lydia. Her voice was high-pitched, but attractive – a singing voice.

Rose nodded. She felt as if she ought to engage in conversation. Any civilized person would have a response, but truthfully Rose felt very tired.

"It's nice seeing you again Timothy and nice to meet you, Lydia, but I'm afraid I must be getting back. I'm tired," Rose said plainly and not with much grace. It must be the wine, she thought. But she'd only taken a few timid sips.

Rose stood up and felt a wave of dizziness. Timothy helped her up and handed her her packages. She took a few deep breaths and steadied herself. Her head cleared. He gave her a very cordial goodbye and as she turned to open the door, saw him place the black shawl that had been on the floor around Lydia's shoulders.

"What a creep," muttered Rose and opened the door to a brisk wind that lifted her hair and temporarily stole her breath. As she walked home, she felt another wave of dizziness and sat down on a bench near the road. Her stomach rumbled. She automatically pulled out one of Viola's bottles of Moly honey and opened the cap, breaking the seal. She dipped her fingers in the bottle and scooped up a dripping mass and shoved it in her mouth. She sucked her fingers greedily, ignoring the stares of passersby. She sat there for some time until the bottle was empty. Good grief, she thought. She stood up and felt better – no dizziness. As she walked back to Hogwarts she found herself nonchalantly opening another bottle and eating it, leisurely. This time, though, she drank it straight from the bottle. Or rather, poured it into her mouth – the stuff was so thick.

By the time she arrived at the castle she was on her fourth bottle. Her lips were sticky, her mouth smeared with honey. Honey had dribbled onto her dress and dried into a crust. She had left smears of honey in her hair when she had brushed it aside and now it seemed like glue or cement. Bees had followed her all the way home lazily buzzing around her as she ate and ate. When she finally reached the portraits, Ms. McGonagall's portrait nodded her in again – she must have instructed her portrait to do so, given her own portraits bad behavior. Her doppelganger was still missing from her painting – the empty frame gave her a chill. Professor Snape looked absolutely frantic with worry. He had left his own portrait and was consulting with Professor Flitwick in hushed tones.

Once in her room she threw her packages on the floor and went into the bathroom, thirstily drinking water from the faucet. She looked in the mirror, noting the sticky smears of dried honey on her face, hair and clothing. It has to be the Felix, she thought to herself. She went to the wardrobe to change, but felt a huge overwhelming wave of sleepiness. She wavered and caught herself against the wardrobe. What is going on with me, she thought vaguely, but was too tired to care. She collapsed onto the bed and let sleep drag her under.

Chapter 14

When she first opened her eyes, Rose did not recognize her surroundings. She expected to be in her flat back in the states with the early light of day peeking through the blinds next to her bed. Instead, she woke to darkness. She would have panicked, had she not left the bathroom light on. She felt strangely light limbed, numb even, as she rose from the bed.

As soon as she had reached an upright position, she doubled over, clutching her stomach and whimpered in pain. Cramps wracked her abdominal region and she hobbled towards the bathroom as fast as she could. Before she could even wonder whether her menstrual period had arrived early, she immediately knew she had to use the bathroom.

Just as she sat on the toilet, she had an urge to vomit – no time for nausea, a violent bodily reaction. She hadn't even gotten off the toilet when the contents of her stomach projected from her mouth all over the wall. She sat like that for some time, in too much bodily trauma to have any thoughts.

Finally, everything ceased at once. No cramping, no retching, no pain. Just like that. She stood up and began to clean up her surroundings. She used her wand to clean the vomit and toilet and sifted off most of the filth from her robes. She turned to run the bath and peeled off her clothes and tossed them into a corner. Again, she felt an incredible weightlessness, like a balloon expanding in her chest. She was half surprised that she did not float off the ground.

Rose washed her hands and face at the sink. She stepped into the steaming bathwater and washed her body and hair. She stood up in the tub and let out the water. When the dirty water had funneled through the drain, she ran another fresh steaming tub and sank into the clean water and tried to think about what just happened.

She had been sick. Obviously sick. Probably not the flu, since she felt completely fine now. She had either eaten or drank something that disagreed with her.

"Of course!" Rose spoke aloud, startling herself. "The honey." She had gulped down four sticky bottles of that Moly honey. Evidently, it did not agree with her. She shook her head and frowned. Why had she drunk that honey?

It had to be that stupid hangover potion. Too much Felix. Or more likely, it was old, had expired and the Felix Felicitus had gained strength, making her act weird.

What is in that honey? Rose thought to herself. Probably too much of the Moly Flower, or rather the wrong part of the flower. In many herbal remedies, it's of vital importance to use the correct part of the herb or flower. The root, the flower, the leaves… some of these parts could be highly toxic. Rose sighed. She'd have to find a tactful way of bringing it up to Viola.

She ran her hands back and forth through the now lukewarm water, appreciating the aroma of roses that wafted up every time she moved. Essential oils and extracts from the petals of roses and perhaps other flowers were sent up through the taps. She vaguely wondered whether the house elves had conjured that bit of magic, when someone, or rather something shoved a fiery brand into her stomach.

She screamed, jumping out of the tub and stumbled in the slippery water. Her wand was lying on the basin of the sink. She lunged at it, falling out of the bath and bringing a large part of it with her. She cast a strong shield around her and crouched there, naked and dripping, on the bath mat. The pain came again - burning her, tears watered her eyes. She looked around and could see no one, sense no one. She looked down at her body and saw an angry welt forming on her stomach. Again, she looked around, listening. Where was her attacker? The burning pain came again and again – each time in waves, every time like a hot brand, with a few seconds of blessed relief when the scorches left tears in her eyes and her body violently shivering. The last wave was the worst – she racked her brain for the spell that would reveal a living being in her room, but in the few seconds she remained conscious, she could not think around the pain. And then, everything went black.

Chapter 15

She opened her eyes a short time later and she was still in the bathroom, but three tiny creatures surrounded her and had laid a towel over her naked body. Rose could tell from their faces that they were house elves.

"Don't worry miss! We're taking you to the hospital wing!" squeaked one of the elves. Rose recognized the voice.

"Lady?" she croaked. Her voice felt sore and the pain from her stomach wound nagged her every breath.

"Yes, miss," replied Lady soothingly.

Rose felt herself float off the ground and onto a stretcher that hovered in the air. The movement caused a wave of pain that hit her like a freight train and again everything went black.

Chapter 16

The next time Rose awoke she found herself looking up at a cavernous stone ceiling, lying on a bed near a window. The light of day streamed in, casting a slash of bright gold across the white curtain that had been drawn to give her privacy. She had on a white gown, but was naked underneath, which made her feel uncomfortable. But the first thing she registered was that the tremendous pain was gone. Only a sharp soreness emanated from her stomach area. She pulled up the collar of her loose gown and looked down: below her breasts a white cotton pad was placed over her stomach – it was stained with the blood that was clearly still seeping. She looked back up at the ceiling, praying it would heal and that she wouldn't have to spend the rest of her life with an open wound, constantly changing bandages and bound to take blood restoring potions in order to survive. That all depended on who or what had attacked her.

Just then a woman bustled through the curtain and looked gravely at Rose.

"I am Madam Pomfrey."

"What's wrong with me?!" demanded Rose. She winced as she spoke, her throat raw from yelling out in pain.

"Minerva," she called out behind her.

Professor McGonagall pushed the curtains aside and walked to her bedside. Rose was surprised to see Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape standing at the far end of the room. Thankfully, they did not look her way. She anxiously reached up to touch her hair, wincing as the movement caused pain.

Professor McGonagall touched her hand. "You look fine, dear," she said softly. Rose could tell that she was stressed. Her face was white and pinched.

Madam Pomfrey huffed, "Appearances are hardly the issue here, Minerva. This girl has been cursed."

"Cursed," burst out Rose. "Am I going to perish?" she asked, trying to behave solemnly.

"Well, that is up to you, I think," said Professor McGonagall.

"Oh God, so it's bad."

"Yes," she replied curtly.

"Well, what is it?" asked Rose.

"The Curse of Acrasia," said Madam Pomfrey, dramatically.

"What?" asked Rose sharply. "What's that?"

Madam Pomfrey took a dramatic intake of breath. "You mean," she breathed, "you don't know?!"

"Poppy, I don't think they have it in the states. It's very old, you see."

Madam Pomfrey shook her head gravely and gave Rose a pitying look.

"Poppy and I are here to explain the curse to you… delicately. Professor Snape will clarify the details. He is an expert in curses," said Professor McGonagall. Did you know that?" she asked, lilting her voice. Madam Pomfrey gave Professor McGonagall a look that clearly said she was wasting time.

Rose shook her head.

"The curse is simple," blurted Madam Pomfrey, "You must have sexual intercourse with the one person you desire the most – and when I say 'desire' I mean lust, not love. You must do this in the next 12 hours or you will die. The name of this person has been permanently carved into your stomach."

Rose looked at Madam Pomfrey, disbelief etched in her face, her mouth agape.

"And when I say sexual intercourse, what I really mean to say is every which way that is humanly possible between two people. Things have gone wrong with just missionary style," said Madam Pomfrey with a sniff.

Rose laughed. "Is this a joke?" she asked. Maybe Hogwarts had a really, really sick and twisted hazing ritual.

"The more quickly you can tell us who the chap is, the more quickly we can transport him here from the states, because you are in no shape to travel," she paused and looked at Rose sympathetically. "He's not married, is he love?"

"I don't know…" began Rose, her eyebrows drawn in frustration. Her stomach was starting to hurt – not the wound, but inside her stomach. It was a sick feeling – not quite nausea, but close, like a bundle of nerves gripping her gut. She was beginning to believe them.

"Well," Madam Pomfrey continued, eyebrows raised. "We'll know soon enough who the culprit is. The name will be clear in just under an hour. By the way," she added, "make sure you give Professor Snape a timeline of events. Usually, once this curse has been bestowed, a person has only 24 hours total to fornicate with the object of desire. The first part of the time frame can be flexible if a qualified witch or wizard slows the curse: the moment of being cursed up to the time the name is carved into the stomach. The second part of the curse, however, has never altered – once the name appears, the cursed person has only 12 hours to locate the object of desire and consummate. Your case is moving more slowly. Someone must have slowed the curse. Must have gotten hold of you and slowed it down somehow," she said emphatically. "Make sure you give Severus a complete timeline of events – leave out nothing!"

Rose shook her head worriedly. Once she had become ill, she had no memory of anyone nearby but the house elves.

Professor McGonagall laid her hand on Rose's arm sympathetically.

"Soon you'll be ready – about half an hour! I'll fetch Severus." Madam Pomfrey walked across the room.

Rose began to panic. She felt naked. She was naked. She wished she had a mirror just to see herself, a silly reassurance that she was still alive. Still on the planet earth.

"What is it, dear?" asked Professor McGonagall.

"Can I see myself – just for a few seconds. I need it," blundered Rose. She felt so vulnerable.

Professor McGonagall removed her wand and gave it a graceful wave. An elegant Victorian hand mirror appeared in mid-air and floated slowly down to settle in Rose's outstretched hand. Professor McGonagall drew the curtain shut and waited by her side.

Rose peered in. Her face looked the same, but somehow more alive. She did not look tired. The pores of her skin seemed smaller and a blush colored her cheeks. Her eyes had a watery sheen that made them sparkle. Her hair, which she expected to look hideous, was wavy and slightly disheveled. She set down the looking glass and nodded.

Professor McGonagall pulled aside the curtain and Rose watched Professor Snape walk towards her, his eyes so dark they looked black, the light in them narrowed to tremendous focus. She felt a chill up her spine as she realized all of his powers were focused upon her.

Chapter 17

"Ms. LeRoy," spoke Professor Snape, gravely. "Tell me everything that happened yesterday after I last spoke to you." He stared at her face intently. He had never held her gaze like that before. She felt herself blushing with pleasure at the undivided attention. But to what avail? So he could tell her she needed to have sex with Dr. Gregory Ehross? She rolled her eyes internally, imagining his keen acceptance of the task. How depressing. She had been jilted by her lover only for him to have the last "laugh" yet again.

She told Professor Snape about going to Hogsmeade.

"Didn't you," he interrupted her as she reported her findings at "The Gardener's Friend," "didn't you ask me to accompany you to Hogsmeade?"

She felt her blush darken. This was a lesson in humiliation. This whole thing was a humiliating disaster. "Yes," she stuttered, "I was going to ask you…"

His face suddenly changed, softened. Then he froze and shifted his features. "I apologize for not attending," he interrupted, "please continue. At this point you had exchanges with Mrs. Rhonda Tindle and Ms. Viola Fitzsimmons."

Rose nodded.

"Did you eat or drink anything in the shop?"

"No," answered Rose.

"What did you purchase?"

"The Staff of Circes seeds, Ms. Fitzsimmons's Moly honey and apples."

"Yes, we found an empty bottle of honey in your flat and we've already taken the liberty of testing it. It's quite safe and ultimately it slowed the curse. Not as effectively as Tractim would have, but it's given us the few precious hours we needed. How did you know to drink the Moly honey?"

"I didn't know. I just… did it automatically."

"Ah, yes, the Felix Felicitus."

"Is that what was in the B.B. cure?" exclaimed Rose. So they had searched her flat quite expansively. She had tossed the bottle in the waste bin that was in the bathroom. She did not feel embarrassed, though. She felt emboldened that they were taking her attack seriously.

"Oh yes. Quite a large dose, in fact."

Rose shook her head angrily. Then a horrifying thought occurred to her. "Do you think… do you think, that's why I've been cursed? The Felix made me… reckless?!"

Professor Snape stared at her for a moment. His dark eyes penetrating hers. "That depends. Why don't we continue the timeline and see."

She told him about going into The Hog's Head.

"Good gracious!" sputtered Madam Pomfrey. "Why ever would you want to go there?"

"There were a lot of children at The Three Broomsticks Inn," replied Rose, again feeling like her ridiculous aversion to children contributed to this all-time humiliation.

"And what happened there?" asked Professor Snape sharply.

She told him about running into Timothy from the Hogwarts train, how he invited her to sit next to him, the awkward run-in with the man she sat next to, her interactions with the barkeep, and the brief exchange with the woman, Lydia.

"Did you drink anything?" asked Professor Snape.

"Yes, I had a sip of wine, but it tasted horrible."

At this point Professor Snape rushed over to Professor Dumbledore and spoke to him briefly, then returned to her side.

"Professor Dumbledore will have a few words with Argus, the barkeep. He has vast knowledge of his customers." He looked at her keenly. "Did you know," he said, quite spontaneously, "that The Curse of Acrasia can only be bestowed by a female?"

Rose's eyes widened in surprise. "No, but that means…" her mind rushed back to the black shawl that Timothy had balled up and placed under his stool, the same shawl he placed around Lydia's shoulders… "But Lydia? Because… I took her seat? Over jealousy? How could that merit a curse? I just don't…"

Professor Snape shrugged. "It is pointless to ask why. Professor Dumbledore has alerted the Ministry and they are bringing in Mr. Timothy Hale for questioning. No doubt Ms. Lydia will be apprehended soon enough," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "What do you know of Acrasia?"

"Nothing… I've never heard of this curse. Minerva said it was too old to exist in the states."

"Oh, I doubt that very much," replied Professor Snape in a low voice. "The Curse of Acrasia is old, but that simply means it's had time to spread and take root, like the muggle virus. Except of course," he added with a tight smile, "there is no inoculation against a curse."

"The tale has even surfaced in a muggle text, an epic poem, not in its true form of course, no doubt riddled with an unrelenting message of morality," sniffed Professor Snape derisively, "but there's a shadow of truth hidden between the lines."

"Who was Acrasia?" asked Rose.

"The tale is long and the details are numerous, but I will give you the gist," he replied, smoothing down the front of his robes. "Acrasia was a witch, of course. She lived in this country during a time when there was a loose alliance, or rather an affiliation between muggles and the wizarding world. During this time witches and wizards would offer their services in exchange for goods: food, money, land, a spouse."

"Muggle wives hired Acrasia to test the fidelity of their husbands. She would tempt them, perhaps slip them a truth potion. She went too far with one man and he died. It is not clear how – perhaps a potion was too strong, or perhaps he refused Acrasia's advances and she murdered him. The muggle community hired a band of wizards, thugs really, that dealt with problems with a suspected magical origin. They captured Acrasia, took her wand, stripped her of her powers, then banished her. But not before she passed on the knowledge of her curse. Perhaps the man was her first experiment with the curse. Acrasia's curse requires a witch's fertility and other sacrifices essential to the dark arts – that is what makes a curse so potent, but at the same time utterly unpredictable. Dark magic has its own agenda." He finished speaking and studied her, as if evaluating her predicament.

Rose felt confused and guilty. Incredibly guilty. Could it be she had been reckless and caused this awful drama? Resorting to drunkenness, leading to illegal quantities of Felix Felicitus - all because she didn't have the guts to ask someone out for a drink?!

"I think I can speak quite confidently, however," added Professor Snape, snapping Rose out of her reverie, "that Felix Felicitus did not cause this debacle. If anything, it slowed the curse. No doubt it encouraged you to consume the Moly honey, effectively delaying the curse in enough time for us to identify it and provide a window of opportunity."

"But how can you be sure? Why on earth would I go into The Hog's Head?"

Professor Snape smirked. "Ms. LeRoy, I haven't had the pleasure of knowing you for long, but I can say one thing with absolute surety: you would desperately avoid any establishment that had an abundance of children. In addition, you expressed serious apprehension of Hog's Head, but entered anyway because you knew someone inside, or rather, someone specifically hailed you as you opened the door. Is this not true?"

Rose nodded. "I wouldn't have entered if Timothy hadn't called out my name."

"But we are not here to assuage your conscience, Ms. LeRoy," continued Professor Snape, his voice carrying an edge to it. "We are here to break the curse and ultimately save your life. You must put this emotional self-indulgence aside."

Rose took a deep breath, dismissing her feelings of guilt and responsibility. "Quite right," she replied and looked him steadily in the eye.

His face, stern and irritated, grew tender. He placed his hand on hers.

His abrupt change in mood threw Rose off completely. She felt her body react to his touch and her eyes grow hot with the beginnings of tears.

"Am I correct in thinking that we should contact Dr. Ehross?" he asked delicately.

She was shocked. So, apparently word does get around. How awful. How perfectly awful. Maybe he thought she didn't deserve the grant either and that she just slept around to get ahead in her job.

"I guess," she grunted, unexpectedly angry, seething with the urge to hit something. Suddenly the thought occurred to her that she'd rather die than sleep with him again. Professor McGonnagal was studying her face closely.

"Try to put your pride aside," said Professor Snape, looking at her with concern.

"Let's not be hasty," said Professor McGonnagal suddenly. "Rose, do you have any… desire for Dr. Ehross," she asked delicately.

"No," she muttered defiantly.

"Well, than how can he be the one?"

"Perhaps she doesn't know how she feels about it," argued Professor Snape.

"Doesn't know she feels a tremendous desire, an almost obsessive lust for another," demanded Professor McGonagall's, nostrils flared in defiance.

"I certainly don't feel like that about Gregory!" exclaimed Rose.

"Then you would be dead by now," retorted Professor Snape sharply.

"What do you mean?" insisted Rose.

"If one has no desire for another and the curse is bestowed," began Professor McGonnagal…

"You die. Immediately," snapped Professor Snape. "No doubt this was Ms. Lydia's primary goal. And if her worst fear was confirmed, if you did desire her lover, she would stop at nothing to keep him from curing your condition."

Rose was aghast. She hadn't imagined the curse could affect a person who had no desire. Then again, she thought of Acrasia, wondering whether she did curse the muggle husband, who, having no desire himself, promptly died. She certainly hadn't imagined herself having no desire, but of course that wasn't true. Plenty of times in her life she had no romantic interest in those around her.

"Alright everyone!" interrupted Madam Pomfrey, pushing her way to Rose's bedside. "We'll find this lad's identity soon enough. It's time." She shooed everyone away and drew the curtains.

She lifted Rose's gown, discreetly pulling the bed sheet up to her waist. Rose held the bundle of gown just below her breasts as Madam Pomfrey carefully removed the bandage.

"There's a lot of blood here. I'm going to have to swab off the excess. This will smart a bit, but not for long. Once the name forms, the pain and bleeding should diminish quickly."

Rose took in a sharp breath as she dabbed the area with something icy cold that left a dreadful sting.

Madam Pomfrey gasped. "It can't be!" she whispered, dramatically.

Rose looked down, but couldn't read the tight, elaborately looped script. "Shit! I can't read it! Tell me, Poppy, tell me what it says!" demanded Rose, angrily. But a part of her knew. As soon as Madam Pomfrey had that reaction – she knew.

"But… but… it's Severus. How can…?" she looked at Rose in disbelief, searching her features for some kind of explanation. "Do you want me to tell him?" she finally asked.

Rose sighed. "No. Just let him see. Don't explain. He wouldn't believe you, anyway."

She suddenly knew she was going to cry. All her life she had believed her deepest feelings, whether they were disgust, rage or love, had always been private, deeply private and therefore safe. How wrong she had been. She was humiliated by what she thought was a crush on a human being she barely knew. Apparently, it was not just a crush, but a tremendously powerful lust, like a vicious feral animal. Christ. She shook her head, tears of humiliation sliding down her face and plopping onto her white gown. She heard raised voices.

Professor Snape drew the curtain and walked in. He looked firstly at her face, trying to decipher what the problem was. What he saw there filled his face with concern. His brow furrowed and he turned his gaze to her stomach. He narrowed his eyes to study the ornate script. She watched his face as it hit him. His eyes widened and he straightened up quickly and stepped back. She quickly looked away. Oh god, it had never occurred to her to think this one through. She was sure it had to be Dr. Ehross. He was the only man she had had a somewhat passionate relationship with. What if she repulsed Professor Snape. Good god! Was she to be a pity fuck?! She kept her face averted, staring at the bedsheets. Neither of them spoke. She felt her face go red. He was surely looking at her. The seconds ticked by.

Rose took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice wavering. "I thought… I thought it was just a crush." What an idiotic thing to say, she thought.

She cleared her throat, better do this properly, she thought, salvage some pride!

"I realized I had a crush on you but I didn't imagine something like this would happen," she explained, her voice was shaky but it sounded rational. And she had stopped crying.

Still, he didn't speak. Oh god, she thought. He's horrified. He's trying to find a legitimate way to get out of it! Or, he's racking his brains for a way to make it easier on himself.

She thought she'd chance a look. To see whether he looked mortified or full of pity. Pity was better, she decided. A smaller level of humiliation.

He was staring at her. His mouth looked pinched and his eyes were lighter – they'd lost the serious edge they'd had earlier. Then it hit her – he was trying not to smile. He was pinching his mouth together to stop himself from smiling. Rose giggled with relief and wiped her nose. She brushed away a few leftover tears.

"Obviously, you have a choice here," she said, even though it sounded stupid – even to her. Not many people would just let someone die if a little sex could save them. At least he wasn't repulsed by the idea of having sex with her.

He made a small noise – an exhalation of air through his mouth. He stepped closer to her and took the gown out of her hands and rolled it back down over her stomach. All the while looking at her face.

"I believe I'm up to the task," he murmured.

Chapter 18

And with that parting statement, he turned around and left the room, drawing the curtains behind him. She heard him speak to Poppy on the way out. "Bring her to my chambers immediately."

She smiled as she heard Madame Pomfrey sputtering in contest, "Surely she'd be more comfortable in her own room? And…," her voice rose, and she could only guess he hadn't stopped but continued towards the door. "Isn't there anything you need?" called out madam Pomfrey.

Like what? thought Rose A long-lasting lubricant? She began to giggle again, feeling slightly hysterical.

Professor McGonnagal swept aside the curtains and walked in. She was smiling, clearly relieved. "Rose, my dear, what do you need? I'm afraid we can't dawdle. These things take time and you have only 12 hours left."

"Only twelve hours?" laughed Rose.

"Yes," answered Professor McGonnagal in a business-like tone, all smiles gone. "I believe Poppy informed you that this task requires a rather thorough cure. She'll give you the details. I am here to provide you with any small comforts you might need."

"Oh," answered Rose, feeling a little stunned. She hesitated, wondering what in the world to ask for.

"Maybe some, you know, long-wear lubric…" began Rose, feeling embarrassed.

"Poppy is dealing with all of that," she cut in, putting an end to that conversation. "I mean is there anything you need to feel comfortable."

"I'd like my hair settled a bit and my fragrance – could you have someone fetch my bag? It's in my room somewhere..."

"Yes we have that already," she replied, producing a bag from the floor next to the bed.

"This hospital gown," said Rose looking down at herself. It was scratchy and ugly and stained with blood. "Could it be a bit more sheer? I'd like a white muslin nightgown with a looser and lower collar with lace at the neck and wrists." Rose was shocked by her own request, but realized immediately that she was describing the nightgown from the dream she had on the train.

Professor McGonnagal smiled and raised her wand and with very intricate and oddly beautiful movements, Rose felt the material shift and change against her naked body. When she had finished, Rose felt warm and energized from the magic, she looked down with pleasure at the beautifully sheer and soft gown.

"Thank you," murmured Rose.

"Not at all," answered Professor McGonnagal proudly. "Now, if you have no other requests, I must let Poppy speak with you."

Rose nodded and again murmured her thanks.

Madam Pomfrey bustled in immediately and began giving her an earful as Rose rummaged through her bag applying just a touch of makeup and her fragrance.

"Now. This is not the time for any puritanical protestations," said Madam Pomfrey gruffly. "This curse, in order to be lifted, requires just about every sexual position possible, so I've brought you 'Everly's Everlasting Lubricant' – the best on the market. Apply this to all of your orifices," said Madam Pomfrey with her eyebrows lifted.

Rose looked up, perplexed. Just how many orifices does the human body have?

Madam Pomfrey wasn't pleased with Rose's lack of response. "I mean your anus, Ms. LeRoy, your vagina and your anus."

"Oh," answered Rose, surprised. Of course she knew about anal sex, but she'd never had it before. At least the flu had cleaned that area out. "Can I have a bath before all of this?"

"No time," snapped Madam Pomfrey. "I have perfected the bodily Scourgify charm and that will do." She whipped out her wand and, staring at Rose with a look of irritated consternation, she barked, "Scourgify!" Rose felt a rough scratching feeling all over her body that hurt a little and when it was over, her skin was pink and tender.

"Christ," she muttered.

"Now put this in your orifices, now," she ordered and shoved a tube in Rose's hand and whisked the curtain shut behind her.

Rose had just removed the cap and squeezed out a quarter size amount in her palm when Poppy shouted, "Finished yet?"

"Inserting," called out Rose with a laugh and, smearing the amount on two fingers, placed them gingerly inside her vagina. It felt uncomfortable and cold. She wiped her fingers on the sheet then sat up, anticipating pain but feeling none, squeezed out a little bit more lubricant and using only one finger, she put as much lubricant as possible in that tiny hole. When she had finished, she felt a bit sore down there.

"All done!" announced Rose. She was looking in the mirror.

"He's not going to be so interested in your face," commented Madam Pomfrey as she removed the bandage on Rose's wound. "It's not bleeding anymore and the pain should be completely gone by now." She grabbed the mirror out of Rose's hand and helped her out of the bed. Rose stood on the cold floor, her feet were bare and her legs felt terribly weak.

"I feel shaky," said Rose.

"You would," answered Madam Pomfrey. "You've just experienced the equivalent of a flu and you cannot eat or drink until this is finished. You've got a curse on you."

"Why aren't I thirsty?"

"The curse," answered Madam Pomfrey simply. "When it's broken you'll need liquids immediately."

"Do you have any breath freshener?" asked Rose.

Madam Pomfrey rolled her eyes, but took out her wand. Rose looked wary.

"You can't eat or drink anything so the best I can do is a Scourgify charm for your mouth. Now, open up!"

Rose squinted her eyes and opened her mouth. She heard Madam Pomfrey mutter the charm and experienced a pleasant tingly sensation in her mouth, as if a thousand tiny organisms were racing around and bouncing off each other. When the motion had ceased she was left with a strong taste of menthol that perked her up and cleared her sinuses. Her eyes watered.

"That should perk you up a bit," said Madam Pomfrey casually. "You can't be asleep for this."

"Indeed," answered Rose, giggling a bit.

Chapter 19

Professor Snape's chambers were dimly lit. He led her past the outer chamber into a second room. In the far corner was a small bed, near the door was a round wooden bathtub full of hot steaming water. In the center of the room a floating canopy bed hovered about two feet off the ground – perfectly round with sheer red curtains. The sheets were red and silky-looking, and red pillows of various sizes and shapes lay haphazardly. The most notable thing about the bed, however, was the oriental design on the sheer red curtain - that of a large fire-breathing dragon.

"Professor Dumbledore provided my chambers with a few, eh, courtesies."

"Yes, well, it's very…exotic," stammered Rose, still looking around the room wide-eyed.

"I believe he rather enjoyed himself," muttered Professor Snape, strolling towards the bath and dipping his hand casually in the hot water.

As her sight readjusted to the darkness, more details emerged. Large soft rugs were scattered everywhere, all sporting an oriental design. Incense was burning on a low table near the canopy bed, casting the room in a smoky haze. And on the far wall, above Professor Snape's comparatively small double bed a series of matching prints spread across the stone wall, each illustrating a different sexual position.

"I guess that's in case we forget something?" Rose joked, nodding towards the prints.

"Hmm?" said Severus, following her gaze. "Oh, those are mine. Charming aren't they?"

"What?" said Rose, giving him a double take.

She looked at him in surprise. He was smirking - joking, of course. She laughed.

He walked slowly towards her, his hand still dripping from the warm water. She felt embarrassed, suddenly. He was no longer smiling, or rather no longer smirking. His face was blank and serious - his eyes bright and focused. He showed no signs of slowing down as he approached, and she backed away instinctively, until she bumped into a desk set against the far wall.

He approached closer and closer until he stood pressed against her – she could feel the line of his body and had to look away from his face, the blood rushing to her head so fast, she actually felt her head pound in time with her heart. Rose thought she could actually hear the blood rushing as it burned everything it touched, her neck, her ears, her face and scalp.

"What have we here?" he murmured taking the lacy collar of her nightdress in his fingers and rubbing the fabric. She suddenly felt a draft on her thighs and realized he had been drawing up her nightgown. If anything her face burned even brighter – she felt a slight wave of dizziness and the room darkened at the edges just a bit. She wondered if she would faint. His hand slid up her thigh, and she gasped in surprise.

"Breath," commanded Professor Snape, his breath hot against her neck. Waves of pleasure drew a shiver from her that made her back spasm and her arms break out with goosebumps. She breathed in audible gasps of air as his hand went higher, in between her legs now – his fingers were warm and wet, but left a trail of iciness behind them. He paused, and then in one swift movement he had two, rigid fingers deep inside her.

She called out with shock and pleasure, feeling her own warm wetness flood from her opening. Unnecessarily, as the everlasting lubricant was certainly doing its job.

His face buried in her neck, his hot panting breath in her ear, he plunged his fingers in again and again, keeping them straight and rigid. She gasped with pleasure each time, longing for something more to fill her.

Without any warning he spun her around and pressed her down onto the desk. She heard him fumble with his robes and then he pushed the nightgown up past her waist. He reached down between his legs and just like that he pushed himself inside her with a groan.

He was so hot and ready and it filled her, stretched her painfully. She whimpered a bit from the pain. Only the pleasure counteracted the pain until they were one and the same.

He put his hand on her head, pushing her face against the desk and raised himself up on the other hand, shifting his weight. He withdrew himself a bit, then pushed into her roughly. He did this slowly, and each time he pushed into her he moaned a bit. After a while, he forced his finger into her mouth, and not knowing exactly what to do Rose pursed her lips and found herself sucking his finger. At that point he bucked himself against her with a loud grunt then collapsed on top of her, crushing the breath out of her.

They lay there like that for several minutes. Her breathing shallowly and him rasping audibly. After a while, his breathing slowed and she felt the heat slowly leave his member and liquid begin to drip down her leg. In a deep state of tranquility, she closed her eyes.

Rose was being carried by the tide – on large, dark, undulating waves. The sky was a deep purple slashed with orange and red. She felt so calm and safe being carried by the tide out to sea.

"Rose," commanded a loud voice. Her eyes flew open. She was laying on a small bed, Professor Snape's bed. Her nightgown was up around her waist and her legs were apart. Snape was lounging casually at the foot of the bed in a long, plain white nightgown. It was low and open at the neck, revealing a sprinkle of dark chest hair and she could see one of his nipples. He seemed utterly comfortable. She had never seen a man wear a nightgown before she never imagined it would look so masculine.

He was inspecting her. He had his hands between her legs, and he opened her and drew her gently apart. She felt the heat surge to her face in a blush as the parts he touched grew puffy and firm beneath his fingers.

"Well, no damage done," he said looking up at her face. "Quite responsive," he added, with a smirk. He watched her face and slowly pushed a finger inside of her. Her breath quickened and her hips moved in response.

"You've been out for nearly two hours," he said, "I thought I might need a bit more time myself," he added, sounding a little breathless himself. She looked down and sure enough a large tent gathered around his advanced erection. She could see the bulbous outline at the protruding tip, where liquid had produced a growing dampness through the white material of his nightgown.

He reached over the side of the bed and pulled something out of a bag.

"While you were sleeping I found a chest of… shall we say… interesting apparel. Undoubtedly supplied by our thoughtful staff here at Hogwarts," he said dryly. "Honestly I don't even want to imagine who provided this material," he muttered as he held up what looked like someone's rubber band collection.

"I quite like this, though. Let's put it on."

"What… is it?" asked Rose.

"A corset, I assume," replied Professor Snape. "See, here are the clasps at the back." Snape held up the rubber band corset for her inspection.

It appeared that someone had connected hundreds of rubber bands and then attached a few clasps at the back of it. It was indeed a corset of sorts. He helped her sit up and he drew the nightgown over her head and tossed it on the floor. She kneeled in front of him. He stared for a moment at her breasts and reached out and gave one of her nipples a twist.

"Ouch!" said Rose, blushing and giggling.

"Turn around," ordered Professor Snape with a faint smirk.

She turned and he reached around her and placed the corset over her and then began attaching the many clasps in back. "Now, let's see."

She turned to face him and he made some minor adjustments, including pulling her nipples out from between the rubber bands.

"How does it fit?"

"Tight, but I can breathe," answered Rose.

"Shall we have a look?" he asked. He withdrew his wand from his robe and silently waved it in the air. A large mirror that was propped against the wall facing the floating bed glided towards them. It settled with a slight bump at the foot of the bed facing them.

"What do you think," he asked, twisting her around to look in the mirror. He grabbed hold of her arms and didn't let go.

Chapter 20

She looked as if she'd been having sex. Her hair was mussed, her cheeks red and her eyes bright with excitement. He had her arms pinned behind her back in a way that made her back arch and her chest stick out. The corset was indeed tight – it pushed against her small breasts so that bits of flesh popped out between the thin bands of rubber. Her nipples protruded, rosy and erect, by about half an inch.

"That's quite a memento," he murmured in her ear, his eyes lowered towards the tiny script, angry and red like a new tattoo, scrawled across her abdomen. She studied it in the mirror – it was simply his name, no titles, just a tight, neat cursive: Severus Snape. It didn't hurt anymore. Soon, the redness would fade and she would just have his name, a permanent reminder of her lunatic passion.

He stared hungrily at her face through the mirror. His face was darkening and she could feel his breath against her neck as he stared at her image. He turned her around to face him, pinning her arms back behind her again. He bent her backwards a little until she felt she might lose her balance. Then, transferring his hold to one hand he brought his other hand forward and began to finger her roughly – shoving his two fingers in, keeping them straight and rigid until her breath came in gasps.

He let go of her arms and pulled her towards him. He propped himself upright with his back leaning against the headboard and pulled his nightshirt over his erection. She looked down. It rose large and bulbous – impossibly stiff. He pulled her on top of him until she was straddling him.

"Sit on it," he ordered. She kneeled over the protrusion and positioned herself over him. She slowly lowered herself onto him and gasped as the large bulbous head pushed her open. He grabbed her waist and bucked himself the rest of the way in.

"Now, ride it. Go on," he whispered, his face flushed. She began to move, bringing herself back and forth, building a rhythm. It fit so tightly that at first she was afraid to move, but the more she did, the more she could feel something building inside her – an incredible tightness followed by an itch that was almost painful. She continued to move.

"That's right," he coaxed and reached up to pinch and twist the nipples that poke out of the rubber bands.

She moved a little faster, eager to satisfy the itch that burned inside, ready for it to surface. Something was about to happen - she felt him grow even larger inside of her and she squeezed it with her muscles as she moved. He reached up and pulled a rubber band, stretching it to its limit and then let it snap over her nipple. She yelped – the stinging pain immediately sending her over the edge. She dragged herself across him faster and with more force and just as he bucked against her with a loud grunt, she felt her pleasure break and she convulsed against him violently with a chorus of moans.

The waves had stopped and the dark sea was incredibly calm. To her right, the water went on and on, imperceptibly blended with the deep blue sky. To her left she perceived a shoreline where the horizon was obscured by tall, dark pines. Faint glimpses of lighter blue could be seen in between the pines, as if the sun had only recently set. She looked down, realizing she was treading water and could see faint glimpses of her pale flesh through the dark depths.

"Rose."

Her eyes flew open. She was in warm water. Professor Snape was sitting next to her, holding her torso upright.

"Just over an hour this time. Better. How do you feel?"

Rose thought for a minute. She felt weak, light-headed a little sore. "The same," she answered sadly.

"Do you have the strength to sit up on your own?"

"Oh, yes," replied Rose, scooting her bottom further up on the seat that edged the round tub. She could see him better now. He was sitting close to her, his knees touching her – naked of course. She looked hungrily at his body, saving his face for last. His hair was damp from the hot water, his face flushed and his eyes dark and inquisitive. The pit of her stomach surged with excitement and between her legs a flood of warmth.

"And you? How are you… taking all of this?" she asked, shyly.

"Me?" He raised an eyebrow mockingly. "It's been difficult," he sighed, resting an arm along the back of the tub, "what with having my way with a beautiful girl and saving the day and all that."

She giggled, blushing deeply. He thought she was beautiful.

He removed himself from her side and kneeled in front of her – the water up to his chest. He placed his hands on her thighs then around her waist. He pulled her towards him. The center of the tub was quite a bit deeper, probably about three feet deep. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the delicious sensation of being pulled through the hot water. When he had secured her against him, she shivered at the prickly itch the hair from his legs and chest caused against her soft breasts and thighs. She wiggled slightly, the friction creating a deeper itch between her legs. She felt him grow erect, and as she had her legs slightly apart, it rose and pressed itself against her – she could feel the long, hot line of it along her opening.

He withdrew and settled himself up on the seat, dragging her towards him by the hands. When she was positioned in front of him, he pushed her down until she was kneeling in the center of the tub, the water lapping at her shoulders.

He reached his hand down over the edge of the tub and produced his wand. He pointed it at the water, and Rose felt herself shiver and prickle as the magic emanated through the atmosphere. The water in the bathtub was receding bit by bit. She looked down and watched it drain from her chest and stop just below her breasts. He stowed the wand and the water left only his legs covered – the tops of his thighs broke the surface. It also left his erection uncovered. He beckoned her closer.

He grabbed her face with his hand, running his thumb along her lips. Then, grasping the back of her neck, he held her head while he pressed his erection against her face, rubbing it back and forth along her mouth.

"You're not supposed to eat or drink anything," he breathed, "but I don't think this will count."

He squeezed the sides of her cheeks, forcing her mouth open and pushed his erection into her mouth and down her throat.

She struggled against it for second, thinking she might gag. He grabbed her throat and squeezed it gently. "Relax your throat," he commanded. "Swallow it."

She closed her eyes and made her throat relax. He began to move himself against her face. She concentrated on creating suction with her lips and feeling him with her tongue as he withdrew himself out a little and then pushed into her face. It was a slow rhythm.

"That's right," he whispered. She ached with arousal and every thrust and grunt he made felt like a cruel torture.

Finally, he wrapped his hand around her throat and squeezed.

"You little tart," he whispered, then forced himself all the way down her throat with a loud grunt. She felt his erection throb a few times and then with a rattling sigh he drew himself out and she tasted him a little. It was salty and bitter but he had deposited most of it directly down her throat.

He drew her up onto the seat beside him and leaned her against him. He wrapped one arm around her and with the other reached over for his wand. The magic sent shivers down her back and goosebumps broke out on her arms. She felt the hot water rise, alleviating the chill and enveloping them in a halo of comfort.

She was no longer treading water. She stood in the shallow tide, her feet caressed by the sandy sea floor. The warm water lapped at her naked bottom, but the air was cold and a light breeze blew against her naked torso. She shivered, longing to be immersed in the warm sea. Directly ahead, the sun broke through the pines that lined the shore. The light was blinding and hurt her eyes. She closed them instinctively.

Rose opened her eyes. She was laying on her stomach staring at a red, tasseled cushion. She raised up her head a bit - everything was red. She wondered if something had been done to her vision before registering that Professor Snape had placed her inside the gigantic bed with its fiery red sheets, pillows and gauzy sheer curtains. A figure emerged through a slit in the curtains.

"You're awake," said Professor Snape, a note of pleasant surprise in his voice. "I just finished taking a bath after I laid you here, in this obscene construction," he waved his hand vaguely. "How are you feeling?"

"My throat is dry," answered Rose, hoarsely, "I think I could be thirsty."

"Excellent, but I think we should hold off on liquids for a bit longer."

Rose propped herself up on her elbows so she could get a better look. His face was red from the bath, and his hair was wet and combed straight back from his face. He wore a dark red robe, extravagantly embroidered. He seemed cheerful, more cheerful than she had ever seen him. He had almost smiled when he saw that she had awaken on her own.

"Are you looking at this obsurdity? Just another one of Dumbledore's fancies," said Professor Snape fingering the satin cuff of the robe.

"I like it," rasped Rose, "it's sexy." He had positioned himself at the foot of the bed, with his legs extended, bare beneath the knee. She stared at his calves and their dark sprinkling of hair. She looked at his hands, casually resting on the bed – his fingers were long and finely shaped and the top of his hand had some dark hair, which grew thicker past his wrist. She looked back into his face, noting the faint stubble of black beard beginning to push through. His mouth was relaxed into the familiar smirk, curled up at the edges. He was so clean and freshly scrubbed and almost sparkly looking. She wanted him so viciously and so suddenly it took her breath. It was a violent thing – this lust. She wanted to attack him - to pin him down and bite and scratch and devour him. It was also a painful and sometimes humiliating thing – this lustful need, it carved her out and laid her bare and open. But through this tumult of feeling she felt insecure, how did she look now? Surely she needed to bathe herself?

"I must look a bit rough," she croaked.

He rolled his eyes and crawled towards her. Her stomach flipped as he approached. She could detect the barest hint of soap on his skin and the subtlest scent of some sort of sweet cologne, probably also supplied by Dumbledore. She rolled onto her side as he approached. He grabbed her face, pressing his fingers into her cheeks. She could feel her heart beat faster at his touch. He looked hungrily at her face then leaned in, kissing her roughly on the mouth, scratching her with his stubble. She moaned into his mouth, feeling hot moistness dampen her inner thigh. He reached down, running his fingers between her legs. His hands still grabbing her face he reached into his robe to remove a tube of lubricant.

"We're going to turn you around." He let go of her face and pushed her onto her stomach. He pinched her bottom, or so she thought, but it felt warmer somehow. She glanced behind and saw he was biting her bottom and squeezing it with his hands. She quickly turned back around, lest she begin to feel embarrassed and simply enjoyed the sensation. He stopped and she was vaguely aware he had disrobed. He crouched over her and slipped two lubricated fingers inside her anus. She whimpered with surprise and pain.

"Shh, shh," he laid down beside her, whispering in her ear, "You must relax. I can feel it if you aren't trying," he added, emphasizing the fact by pushing his fingers in a bit more. He drew his fingers out and pushed them in again, creating a rhythm. All the while he watched her face. Rose closed her eyes and let herself go. She focused on the rhythm he created and felt the tension fade from her body: her shoulders released their tense posture, her belly softened, and her bottom unclenched.

"That's much better he whispered," his breath hot in her ear. She shivered uncontrollably. He pulled out his fingers and laid down on top of her. "Now," he said, his breathing heavy and uneven, "take a deep breath."

Rose inhaled. Before she could breath out, he pushed part of his erection inside of her. She gasped with pain, feeling panic. It was too big. It couldn't fit. How could it possibly fit?

He groaned and placed one hand on her head, pushing it into the mattress. His breath hot in her ear, he pulled himself out a little, but not all the way, and then pushed in a little bit further.

Each time he pushed in, he would moan or whisper in her ear. His voice helped her relax and the pain quickly receded to a vague soreness. As he pushed himself deeper inside her, however, she began to feel a peculiar pleasure, unlike any she had experienced. She still felt sore, but the deeper he delved, the nearer he came to unveiling some magic spot.

Soon, she found herself opening up to him completely, even pushing into him a little, eager to gratify herself. He responded to her change in mood, and thrust himself further in. She inhaled sharply, rolling her eyes back in ecstasy. He was in her all the way now and a peculiar darkness clouded her vision. He thrust again and stars burst in her vision – he had penetrated the veil. Her climax came in slow, dream-like bursts of stars that elevated her body, so she felt buoyant and spirit-like.

Through her own veil of pleasure she was vaguely aware that Professor Snape had pulled her head back by her hair and bit down on the tender nape of her neck. With one last thrust, he yelled out before collapsing on top of her.

She was walking down a sandy beach towards a figure in the distance. The sun was shining brightly and it warmed her naked body. The tide lapped at her feet, the water cool and refreshing. As she drew closer, the figure resolved. Professor Snape was seated at a small, wooden table. He was staring intently at her. On the table, were various silver platters laden with food and ornate pitchers of drink. Rose seated herself. Professor Snape leaned across the table and took her hand. "Eat," he commanded. "Drink."

Rose opened her eyes. She was still lying on her stomach in the red, ornate bed. Her stomach clenched and rumbled with pain. She squeezed her eyes shut against it and tried to swallow, but her throat choked and seized. She launched upright in panic.

"Here, here," said Professor Snape. He had been sitting on the bedside with a tray. He brought a goblet to her lips. "Try to drink slowly, Rose."

She grasped at the cup, and drank. Then coughed, sputtering water over herself and the bed. Professor Snape wiped her mouth. "Again," he ordered.

She drank in tiny sips this time. Coughing intermittently. She scooted herself up into a sitting position taking deep breaths.

"Now, have some broth. Just drink from the bowl," directed Professor Snape. Rose took the small bowl in her hands, hot but not scolding and slowly drank the warm broth. Taking little breaks in between. When she had finished he took the bowl from her and offered the goblet of water again.

When she had finished he wiped her mouth again. He set the tray aside and slid himself next to her in the bed. "How do you feel?" he asked, face full of concern.

"Better," she breathed, smiling with relief.

"Excellent," he sighed and gathered her in his arms. They lay quietly together for a few minutes.

"Severus?" she asked, scooting herself up into a sitting position. It was the first time she had spoken his Christian name.

"Yes," he replied, mouth twitching.

"Do you think we could… continue this?"

He turned his head away, but she could see the rise of his cheek into a smirk.

"I don't see why not," he answered casually. "We'd have to be discreet, of course."

"Of course," answered Rose.

"I have a reputation to keep, or rather I should say we have a reputation to keep. We have a duty after all, as Masters in our field of study. The life of a Master is not a family life."

"No," agreed Rose, solemnly.

"Still," he continued, turning to face her, expressionless, "we've got to keep tight among our own." Rose nodded, silently. "We can't have Masters of Transfiguration and Charms getting an upper hand, now can we," he added, face still dispassionate as he slipped his arm around her naked waist.

"No, indeed," answered Rose. She looked into the unfathomable depths of his dark eyes, shivering slightly.

"Above all," he whispered in her ear, "we must keep up good relations with our Magical Neighbors Across the Water." He slipped his hand between her legs.

"Absolutely," gasped Rose. He slowly leaned her back onto the bed.

"Once more for good measure," he murmured.