Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns them. I am only playing in her sandbox.
Author's Note: There are probably a thousand fics with this name, but it caught me and refused to let go. The story itself was inspired lovely artwork by Syrena Doné at this address:
http://jareth.com/goblet.html.
This is my first Potterfic, I hope you enjoy.
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To Ensnare the Senses
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Cold here tonight, even if June is warming the air.
It is always cold down here in the deepest part of the school. Old earth, ancient rock and history insulate me, isolate me.
Are you feasting above with your friends? Swearing that you will forever keep in touch and that you will not forget one another?
It is possible, but not likely. You must know that, being sensible.
Yes, sensible, and practical, oh so very intellectual. That is you to the essence.
When you were younger that you are now - though to me you are still so very young – I told your class that potions were the very distillation of magical skill. A science, exacting and precise that could do anything that one might stretch the brain to believe.
The words are rote by now, but no less true.
To stopper death.
To brew glory and fame.
To bewitch the mind.
To ensnare the senses.
However, death comes to all. Indeed, I have dealt it and have earned my own.
Fame and glory? Fleeting and illusory.
However, the last two.
To bewitch.
To ensnare.
Yes. Those.
Tonight, I find those thoughts much on my mind.
The potion is sly, my girl, not wand-waving puffery.
It might be a draught in the goblet you lift to your lips or an innocent sweet on the tip of your finger. Perhaps nothing more than a drop of moisture against your skin. The potion would filter into you, traveling in your blood, weaving my enchantment into your brain.
Or might I make it even more subtle?
Scent.
So many memories are triggered by scent.
Comfort. Unease. Joy. Sadness. Anger. Hunger.
Desire.
I need no potions to rouse me. You have done that simply by breathing.
Walking in your cool beauty, bounded by books and scrolls, you are inaccessible to me as a maiden in a legendary tower.
I could end that. I could rouse your senses, play them like a harp for my pleasure. I could take your mind - your keen, trained and exacting mind – and turn it to my purpose?
I could bring you to me, and I could do it easily.
No need for the cauldron, my goblet is more than suitable and has a pleasing symbolism.
The ingredients are common. Even Muggles use them, aware only in the most peripheral manner of their magical qualities. In the midst of the more exotic accoutrements of the potion master's trade, these might go unnoticed.
Warm spices, rich resins, exotic flowers, and rare woods. A little of one, a pinch of the other, a stir of this and a shot of that. I could do this in my sleep.
See? Simple. Warm, sultry scents to embrace you, to stimulate you. You would delight in this alone, the intricate complexities of the scent.
Yet it is not done.
I must personalize this potion. Otherwise, I have made nothing more than a bit of perfume. Without the extra effort, this is an engaging frippery for you to dab behind your ears, or over the pulse points of your neck and wrists.
To truly bewitch you, to ensnare you and bring you to me, I must add something of myself.
A drop of my sweat to carry my essence.
And a drop of my blood to carry my desire.
Ripples emanate from the center of the liquid as I draw my wand, knowing I have gone too far, but unable to turn my mind back to reason.
You consume me.
"Capto aestus"
A puff of smoke and it is done and ready.
A drop of this on you pillow and sleep will come, but give you no rest. Your dreams will make you blush in the light of day and you will yearn for the fulfillment of them. Though you may resist, your most excellent mind rationalizing why you should not, must not and would never – in your dreams I will haunt you.
Asleep or awake you will yearn for me. Each night the vapors of my little spell with become more a part of you, attuning you to the sound of my voice, my scent. You will even come to feel my gaze upon you like my hands moving over your skin.
In time, you will seek me out, and I will be waiting.
Even now, pouring the distillation of my intent into a crystal vial, I can wonder. I can wonder what it is like to see your lower lip curve, inviting my kiss. I can imagine your mouth seeking mine. I can dream of your warmth – cool alabaster no longer, but warm, living, needing, silken flesh under my hands.
Your undoing hangs on my conscience, girl, and that is a chancy thing at best.
But
The sound of laughter of young who face the world as if it were a living storybook of adventure and romance, that is what saves you from my passion.
"However fragrant the tender bud, the bloom is sweeter still.
In time the blossom will come to fruit, and I'll eat my fill."
The vial goes into a lock box and the fires in my blood are banked. I can let you ripen on the branch until you are sweet, heavy and dropping into my hands. Then I will feast upon you as you offer yourself to my appetite.
After all, my tender one, the sweetest flesh is nearest the heart.
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