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Chapter 9: Little Blue Vials

It started to snow for the first time that winter. The snowflakes falling against the night's sky outside Dumbledore's office window looked like tiny shooting stars plummeting to the ground. No one had said anything since Róisín had finished reading the passage on sióga.

Snape finally decided to stop looming over them like an elongated bat and sat down in an armchair beside the fireplace. Dumbledore broke the silence,

"It's natural to feel overwhelmed, so first why don't you ask some questions."

A tear trickled down Róisín's cheek and splashed onto the drawing of the sióg, morphing its curvy body into a shapeless blob.

"You're sure I'm a fairy?" she asked.

"There are a lot of signs which would lead us to that conclusion, yes."

"What does it mean?"

"Well, your magical wellbeing will continue to deteriorate until we find you a mature wizard or witch."

"Wizard or witch?" Róisín repeated dumbly.

"Whichever you'd prefer."

"Miss Feral would prefer a wizard," Snape said, "judging from how she discreetly eyes her male peers."

Dumbledore's eyes crinkled with playfulness at Snape's remark.

"Severus, now isn't the time for flippancy, and we shouldn't presume," he scolded light-heartedly.

Róisín wondered if Snape was thinking of the time he caught her checking out Zoltan Kun, or whether her other teachers had been discussing how distracted she'd been recently. She knew she should feel humiliated, but all she could concentrate on was the painful throbbing above her eyes.

"Snape's right," Róisín said.

"Professor Snape," Snape growled.

"I think we can forgive Miss Feral a bit of insolence, given the circumstance." Dumbledore smiled at her.

Róisín glanced at the potions master, he did not look like he agreed.

"Can I continue my studies at Hogwarts?" Róisín hoped they couldn't hear the desperation in her voice.

"Of course you can. I would not expel a student for something she cannot control," the headmaster said reassuringly.

"But if I were a squib or-"

"-But you're not. You're an exceedingly powerful magical being," Snape spat the compliment as if it were an insult. He seemed irritated that she could be so ignorant about what she was.

"It's just I read somewhere that ages ago a veela was kicked out of the school-"

"Ah, you refer to Miss Lilyana Valentinieva Draganova." Sorrow tugged at the lines of the headmaster's face. "Alas, at the start of the nineteenth century many of the young men at this school did not uphold the strong moral codes that your colleagues do today-" Snape let out a low snort. Dumbledore continued as if he hadn't heard, "-and Miss Draganova left for her own safety."

"These days veela don't attend the same school as witches, mainly because their magic works in a profoundly different way, hence, they cannot be taught with the same techniques," Snape lectured, his sterile tone contrasting with Dumbledore's compassionate words, "and obviously, their presence can be very… disruptive. However, veela and sióga are quite different-"

Of course they are. Róisín's brain snapped at her. I'm too plain to be a veela.

"-a veela is considered the quintessential object of male desire, whereas a sióg is said to personify… active female desire."

Great, so I don't get to be pretty, just annoyingly horny.

Róisín noticed that Snape's ordinarily unwavering eyes darted away from her at the end of his sentence. She was glad that the topic was making him uncomfortable too.

"I don't understand, the passage said a sióg can… be with a mature wizard." Róisín paused, uncertain. "But when Eóghan and I… were together, it made me feel unwell, even though he's eighteen. Doesn't he qualify as a mature wizard?"

"He's an adult in the eyes of the Ministry of Magic, but that does not mean he has reached magical maturity," Dumbledore replied.

"When will he?"

"McCormack is unlikely to ever reach magical maturity, given the amount of time he spends showing off on his broom," Snape answered. His tone implied Róisín's question was stupid and naïve. Or was that just his default voice?

"Only especially capable and talented wizards can hope to reach magical maturity," Dumbledore explained. "A mature wizard is an old-fashioned phrase meaning a wizard who has reached the apex of wizarding potential and mastered many forms of magic."

"Oh… so I suppose there aren't many floatin' around," Róisín remarked awkwardly.

"No, there certainly aren't." The gravity in Dumbledore's tone struck Róisín.

Her muscles tensed against the silence in the room. I can't believe I'm discussing my future sex life with the two most intimidating men I've ever met. She imagined the look on Anna's face when she told her about this meeting and her lips quirked upwards despite everything. Then the memory of her best friend's mangled body on the classroom floor hit her like a violent wave and dragged her under. Her face scrunched, and hot, fat tears swam down her cheeks.

Snape sighed loudly over her sobs as if he were suffering a mild inconvenience. Dumbledore leaned forward and gave her shoulder a comforting pat.

"I brought a calming draught in case of such a reaction," Snape said evenly, as if she were a broken device he was suggesting how to fix.

"I think it would be unwise to rob Miss Feral of her emotions now, at the moment she discovers the nature of herself," Dumbledore replied.

Róisín's hair fell and hid her face like curtains as she hung her head and blubbered. Through her tears and curls she saw Snape's jaw clench. Presumably he didn't find the headmaster's snippets of wisdom endearing after hearing them for over a decade.

The minutes dragged by. Róisín continued crying. Dumbledore cleared his throat.

"Perhaps now it would be reasonable…" Snape had already gotten up to place the vial of sky blue calming draught on the desk in front of Róisín.

Róisín swallowed it greedily, hoping it would wash away the guilt that was relentlessly squeezing tears from her. The potion left a pleasant drowsiness in her stomach, as though she had indulged in a hearty homemade meal, but she still felt numb and weak.

"I think you've made a mistake," Róisín began softly, "you mentioned sióga are powerful, so I couldn't be-"

"-We do not have time to debate. You are a sióg," Snape snapped, Róisín opened her mouth to protest, but he continued, "your effunde brew was ruby, a colour so rare that it has not been seen in thousands of students for thousands of years, a colour signifying lust; two nights ago I saw you writhe in pain from menstrual cramping, indicating that your magic has begun to wreak havoc on your hormones; you have the physical characteristics of a sióg, you're barely five foot, with overtly feminine proportions and permanently dishevelled hair;" The tirade flew from his lips, as if convincing her was barely worth his time, "you have shown powerful magical potential, but your dangerous lack of control almost killed a student; you turn ill whenever you try to engage with mediocre wizards, and, correct me if I'm wrong, you have felt unbearably wanton since the start of term-."

"-Severus, that will do," Dumbledore said softly.

Róisín's face blossomed red as an uncomfortable realisation crept through her: Snape had suspected she was a sióg for a while. She tried to think of something to say so his last statement wouldn't be left echoing in the air.

"I'm so confused, why can I only be with wizards who are magically mature?" she directed the question at Dumbledore, avoiding Snape's gaze.

"Professor Snape will explain, he is more knowledgeable than I am on this matter."

Snape's face darkened as though Dumbledore had insulted him. Then he began in a bored tone,

"No one knows how a sióg's magic functions, there's been so few specimens in recent years that it's not a convenient subject to study, but the following is my understanding; As I'm sure you're aware, women tend to be, in general, more particular than men when choosing their sexual partners. Some people think that sióga can only sleep with a very limited range of wizards because their magic encapsulates and exaggerates this feminine trait."

Róisín felt her skin tingle. She had started to perspire. Oh Gods, Snape is talking to me about sex. Her giddy gaze dashed around his person, flicking past his angled jaw, long torso, crooked nose, prominent Adam's apple, lengthy fingers; never letting her eyes meet his. They finally rested on his thin lips as she willed herself to concentrate.

"It may be a coincidence that the sióga we know of could only lie with magically mature wizards. Perhaps a sióg can only lie with men who represent the epitome of some aspect of her desire, and it just so happens that historically these tended to be very dominant, powerful wizards, who were considered magically mature."

Róisín gulped. Snape's detached academic manner regarding her situation was unnerving.

"However, as all the sióga we know of have only been able to be with magically mature wizards, it'll most likely be the case for you too," Dumbledore said. Snape looked like he disliked this conclusion, but he did not argue. "Before we tackle the problem of finding a mature wizard, there is something we need to discuss. I will ask for your honesty and in return I promise to not hold your opinions against you."

Róisín held the headmaster's gaze, but she heard Snape shift in his seat and felt his eyes puncturing her skull.

"Do you believe Lord Voldemort has returned?"

Before she could stop herself, Róisín reflexively peaked at Snape, recalling the varied rumours she had heard that he had been a You-Know-Who supporter. Her eyes met his briefly before she shot her head back in Dumbledore's direction. She wondered why being a sióg had anything to do with You-Know-Who.

"Emm, I don't know, sir," she answered. Her two professors looked at her expectantly, both silent and still. Róisín rushed to explain herself, "I don't know Potter, but I know from Anna, who's cousins with Alicia Spinnet, who plays Quidditch with him, that he's really sound-not an attention seeking prat at all, and em, well I don't believe that you're the power grabbing lunatic the Prophet paints you to be, but at the same time, well not a lot has happened since… Diggory died, and I've read that students have died in that competition before… I honestly don't know." Róisín inhaled and continued in a small voice, "I suppose I don't want to believe he's back, especially because I'm muggle-born."

In the silence that followed Róisín inwardly groaned at the contrast between her professors' elegant articulations and her own jabbering.

"All perfectly reasonable thoughts, Miss Feral," Dumbledore said. "However, for our purposes, you must believe me when I say that, unfortunately, Lord Voldemort has returned."

Róisín nodded slowly and tried to return the headmaster's steady gaze. Dumbledore gestured to the book open on the "Sióga" page.

"That book claims that dark wizards have sought to exploit sióga. Do you understand why?"

Róisín felt the colour drain from her.

"Because by sleeping with them, they gain some kind of power?" she asked uncertainly.

"That is the general belief." Dumbledore paused. "Therefore, you can understand why the return of Lord Voldemort is pertinent to this discussion."

The headmaster's words caused fear to rise in Róisín like a serpent winding itself around her body, squeezing the breath from her. She did not know what to say.

"As long as… He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, is unaware of what you are, you will be safe," Snape commented. Róisín noted that he had paused as if reluctant to mention the infamous wizard.

"That is why we must ensure that the knowledge of you being a sióg does not leave this room," the headmaster said, his expression more serious than Róisín had ever seen. Her chest clenched as if the serpent of fear encircling her had pulsated viciously. You-Know-Who really is back. And if He discovers what you are He will find you and He will…

Róisín grasped her face in her hands and pushed her eyes back into her skull, sickened by her own thoughts.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God…" she repeated through clenched teeth.

Snape placed another blue vial on the desk in front of her. Róisín threw the milky concoction down her throat. She breathed out slowly, shuddering, as a familiar calming warmth spread through her. Exhale, inhale, exhale. She gave her head a tiny shake to dislodge the milky clouds obscuring her thoughts.

"But if He does find out?" Róisín asked.

Both men stilled, hesitating. Their eyes flicked to each other.

"He won't," Dumbledore stated firmly. "You can have complete faith in Severus and myself." He paused. "However, I believe that it may be difficult for you to not inadvertently let it slip to your friends."

"But I can tell my closest friends, like Anna, right? She'd never betray me."

"The problem with teenage girls," Snape drawled, "is that they each have a close friend who would never tell a soul their secret, who in turn has another close friend who would never tell, until the whole world knows." He glanced at Dumbledore, who gave a slight nod.

"Stand," Snape ordered as he rose from his seat. Róisín stood on shaky feet a pace from him. He stepped closer and raised his unusually long, black wand, so that it pressed against her bottom lip in a "shush" gesture. Róisín eyes rounded like an owl's as she craned her neck up to look at him. She promptly blushed at the eye contact and lowered her head to stare at his chest. What is going on?

"Lingua ligatum"

Róisín bit her lip as her mouth and tongue vibrated strangely in response to Snape's incantation. Then he stated in an oddly formal tone,

"You may speak about the matter to Albus Dumbledore."

Snape returned to his seat. Róisín remained standing for a moment, completely baffled, before she sat back down.

"That was a tongue-tying spell, Miss Feral," Dumbledore explained. "You will lose your voice if you try to discuss anything related to being a sióg to someone other than Professor Snape and myself."

Róisín gritted her teeth. There's no need to treat me like a child, she thought moodily.

"Simply a precaution, Miss Feral, to ensure your safety," Dumbledore said as if he could hear her thoughts. "Now, back to the matter of finding you a partner. Unfortunately, there are only a handful of wizards who I know to be magically mature, and less still who we can trust."

Róisín shivered. A bolt of fire shot from Snape's wand into the fireplace, which flared and began to hiss and crackle playfully, jarring with the ominous tone of Dumbledore's words. Snape's knuckles went white as he grasped the wings of his armchair, as if bracing himself for an impact, although the rest of him did not betray his cool demeanour. He stared at the fire as if it were slightly more interesting than his present company. Róisín felt her shirt cling to her sweaty back as she straightened in her seat.

"Of course, as it takes many years to become skilful enough to be considered magically mature, most of these wizards are considerably older than yourself. However, I do know an exceptionally young wizard who is widely considered to be magically mature."

"Oh" Róisín felt her spirits lift slightly, "What age is he, sir?

"Thirty-five."

"Oh, that's not old," Róisín exclaimed, relieved. She had been imagining wizards similar in age to the headmaster. I've fancied loads of thirty-something-year-olds. A shirtless, sweaty Brad Pitt from the film fight club stalked across her imagination. He was mid-thirties then...

Róisín shook her head hastily and continued, "So I'll be ok, my magic will stop going haywire if I... sleep with this mature wizard?" Although still mortified at the topic of conversation, she felt reassured that she might be able to continue practicing magic without being a threat to those around her.

Dumbledore smiled. "That's the theory."

"Is there any chance he would be, em, willing?" Róisín asked, blushing.

Dumbledore didn't answer, but turned to look at Snape. Róisín, confused, reluctantly looked at the potions masters too. The man in question was still as a statue, glaring at the flickering flames, although Róisín sensed that under his heavy black robes his muscles were tense like an elastic band pulled too far and she felt the need to look away as if he might snap.

Why does Dumbledore think Snape would know if the wizard would… Then the realisation hit her; Snape is the magically mature thirty-five-year-old.

She turned away to face the window. The blurry white shapes swirling in the wind outside mirrored her frenzied thoughts. Dumbledore thinks Snape should be the one to... but he doesn't want to, he's furious about it. It felt like she were slipping into the icy waters of the black lake. That's why he's been acting so sullen with Dumbledore! Before this meeting Róisín had never seen the potions master be anything less than respectful towards the headmaster. She suddenly felt more afraid than when she had heard of You-Know-Who's possible interest in her. At least that had felt far away, like a spooky fairy tale no one truly believes. The surly man sitting in front of the fire was undeniably real.

Then, without turning from the flames, Snape released his death grip on the poor armchair, reached into his robes and pulled out yet another blue vial and held it out to Róisín.

"Is a third dose necessary Severus?" the headmaster questioned.

"Oh, it is," Snape replied tersely.

Róisín realised that the air was shivering with her fear and that her chair had been twitching with every violent beat of her heart. She took the vial from Snape gingerly, neither of them looking at the other's face. This time the potion had a powerful effect on her, and she suddenly felt very calm and sleepy. She slowly realised that Dumbledore and Snape were talking and strained to listen, like an exhausted child fighting to stay awake at a sleepover.

"Well I think that's enough information for Miss Feral to absorb in one night, considering her mental faculties are at this stage severely befuddled," Dumbledore was saying.

"Better befuddled than running from the room screaming, Albus," Snape snapped. "My presence was wholly unnecessary, if we had asked Minerva or Poppy-"

"-It is vital that no one can know, you of all people should understand."

Róisín was vaguely aware of her professors arguing in front of her. She knew she must have the dazed look of a happy drunk, but she still had questions she wanted to ask. Now that the potion was flowing merrily through her veins, she didn't feel like the situation was all that bad. Yes, she'd have to sleep with Snape, but it was kind of exciting, wasn't it? The prospect of sex with an older man. And he has such… presence. It would really help my sexual frustration. And if I squint my eyes and tilt my head just right, he doesn't look so bad.

Róisín noted that her professors had stopped quarrelling under their breaths and were now looking at her, Snape with his trademark scowl of condescension, Dumbledore with a look of slight concern. She realised she had been staring and straightened up.

"I'm not at all b-befubbled," she began, "I feel-" but she stopped as she heard how peculiar her voice sounded.

Snape's raised an eyebrow at her. The tiny part of her brain which remained lucid railed against the unfairness of his derision, seeing as he was the one to give her the potions. The last potion must have been amplified by the previous two; she felt bizarrely uninhibited.

"So, the plan is for me to sleep with Professor Snape?" she asked brazenly.

Snape's eyebrows flickered with disbelief and he looked away from her, pinching the bridge of his hooked nose. Róisín could tell he was straining against the instinct to reprimand her.

"Well, we'll have to test whether that will work," Dumbledore answered.

"There's still hope that I'm not to your magic's taste," Snape sneered.

"Oh," Róisín breathed, confused as to what they meant. "When will we do that?"

"If you could come again tomorrow at seven in the evening," the headmaster replied. Snape shot him an unrestrained filthy look, but Dumbledore's smile didn't falter.

"Will do, sir"

"Well, that's all for tonight, Miss Feral, we'll see you tomorrow."

"OK, good night professors"

Róisín trotted merrily down the Headmaster's spiral staircase. However, as she neared the west side of the castle unpleasant thoughts broke through the mist of the potion and her footsteps began to pound the brickwork moodily. If only I were normal and could kiss Eóghan. The Scottish boy's youthful grin morphed into Snape's sullen sneer in her head. My first time should be with someone I feel close to - not the most intimidating professor at Hogwarts. She groaned out loud. A group of important looking wizards in an adjacent painting turned to stare, shocked that a young woman could make such an indecent noise. Although, A sly voice inside her began, intimidation and power can be kind of sexy... Róisín felt her face glow red in the darkness. That's just the potion talking, she thought dismissively.

By the time she was dragging herself up the staircase to Ravenclaw tower she was entirely sober. And mortified. Her head relentlessly replayed the most embarrassing bits of the meeting, especially the look on Snape's face when she had asked shamelessly about sleeping with him. She realised now that the last potion was more than a simple calming draught, Snape must have added something to relieve her embarrassment. She didn't know whether that was creepy or strangely sweet.

She managed to solve the riddle (what breaks when you say its name? – silence) and slip up to her room without having to chat to anyone. Despite her exhaustion, she lay awake for a long time worrying what Dumbledore meant by "testing" whether Snape would work out and dreading her potions class the next day.