Chapter 18: Dragon Saliva
"The bewitched sleep you cast on that mouse was the best in class, Róisín," Ida said. "It could've rivalled the one Salazar himself put on his pet." Róisín half-jogged to keep up with Ida's long legs as they rushed out of Charms.
"Thanks, I'm delighted with it because Flitwick said you should roll the last 'r' in profundors but I managed without," Róisín said breathlessly.
They reached the top of Penchant Tower's spiral staircase.
"Hogwarts let me slide,
Or prof'll have my hide," Ida muttered. The stairs rippled into a smooth surface. The two Ravenclaws sat and pushed off. Five seconds and five floors later, they landed in a heap of disheveled and confused first years. "Apologies," Ida said as they jumped to their feet and headed towards Potions. Róisín, remembering her shock the first time a staircase at Hogwarts had broken her trust, turned back and stated,
"Hogwarts let me climb,
Or tardiness will be my crime."
She ran to catch up with Ida as the stones jutted back into steps. By now, three months into their final year, they'd perfected the dangerously long journey between Charms and Potions so as to arrive at the latter on time, which had included charming the castle and consulting its most ancient blueprints to find hidden shortcuts. They'd been the second students in a century to check the blueprints out of the library, the only name above Ida's on the check-out list being the notorious, recently-escaped-from-Azkaban Sirius Black.
"Yeah, I wasn't doing so well at Charms for a while there, or Transfiguration ...or Defence," Róisín said, continuing their conversation as they jogged through the Dungeons. "But I'm back on track to ace those NEWTs like the true Ravenclaw I am."
"Ace?"
"Sorry, muggle expression, I mean get outstandings. Well, I'm joking, obviously not all outstandings, but hopefully a couple.."
When they reached the Potions Corridor it was already full of their fellow seventh years. Anthony Atkinson held "A History of Mysteries" so close to his face it was as though he were trying to climb into its pages, Lee Jordan appeared to be highlighting every line in "NEWTS Potions for Dummies" and Zoltan Kun's eyes darted back and forth across a piece of paper which had been crumpled and flattened so many times it looked like leather. Those who weren't studying were gossiping about last weekend's quidditch match and Slytherin's point loss or moaning about the mountains of NEWTs homework they were buried under.
The potions class felt a thousand years long and Róisín hand began to cramp. She dropped her quill and stretched her fingers. The four feet of notes she had written on the mechanisms of magical enzymes in antidotes had unfurled off the workbench and hung an inch above the floor. Around her, nibs scratched furiously like a swarm of rats clawing through the woodwork.
She jotted down another line on the differences between griffin and phoenix enzymes as she tried to focus on the lecture from the man who had taken her virginity, while also trying to forget that fact.
Such a misogynistic phrase, Róisín thought. Nothing's been taken from me.
Like a spider darting across the paper, spiky lettering appeared beneath hers. Startled, Róisín snatched her hands away. The parchment slipped to the floor.
For a moment she let it lie beneath her workbench as though she'd let it fall on purpose. Then she surreptitiously climbed down to retrieve it while avoiding eye-contact with her neighbours.
The trespassing words read,
Stay behind after class, be discreet, in Snape's unmistakable penmanship.
Róisín glanced at her professor. He had not paused in his lecturing.
"I wanna make sure I get the rest of these notes, you go ahead," Róisín said to Ida as her classmates filed out of the room. She kept her head down scribbling bullet points on the properties of dragon saliva until everyone had left. Then she approached Snape at his desk.
The potions master was correcting essays and Róisín's heart sank for whomever Dennis Creevey was. Snape put Creevey's flayed red essay to the side and flicked his wrist. A stool scraped into place behind her. He gestured for Róisín to sit.
"It's been a week," Snape stated. "How do you feel?"
A week since they'd had sex. She felt dizzy.
"Fine, sir."
"Your magic is under control?"
"Yes." She clenched her hands, praying her magic wouldn't choose that moment to explode a random object.
"And your other symptoms?"
"Em, I feel normal."
Snape looked tense, as though he were sitting on nails.
"Professor McGonagall suggested we meet to discuss how it went last week, to make it more comfortable in the future."
His words squeezed Róisín's heart.
"In the future?" she repeated.
For a moment Snape didn't reply.
"You didn't know," he said finally, his voice unnervingly quiet. She didn't say anything; it felt as though he'd stolen her tongue. "When you met with the headmaster and myself two weeks ago, did you not understand what we discussed, the reason you began to lose control of your magic?"
"Em, I thought I did." Her voice was a whisper. She forced it out a bit louder, "It happened because I'm a sióg."
"Which means if left unfulfilled, your lust will infect your magic." He spoke slowly, in that way he had perfected which told his listener exactly what he thought of their intelligence. "The majority of people wouldn't consider a single sexual encounter fulfilling."
Her thoughts scurried like ants. She'd have to sleep with him again. She'd have to sleep with him for the rest of her life. Her skin itched as her pores opened up to perspire and her bare calves stuck to the metal legs of the stool.
Snape leaned heavily on his elbows and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I realise that you find this revelation unpalatable, however I prefer when my classroom is cool, not tropical, as I find the dunderheads of this school are less inclined to doze off at lower temperatures," he remarked.
Fuck. She had been heating the air around her. She bit her lip and imagined standing beneath a cool waterfall, but the air kept getting hotter, like the inside of a car parked in the sun.
Snape twitched his wand and muttered, "fridigulus". Róisín almost moaned in relief as the temperature dropped. He spoke again,
"Further relations with myself are not unavoidable. This is your choice, Miss Feral. We have the option to postpone your studies and place you in a secure environment until we find another solution."
"Like St. Mungos?"
"There are other places."
"Are there other solutions?"
For a moment he didn't reply, as if he didn't have an answer. Then he said,
"We could find a more suitable mature wizard, or perhaps just another wizard, seeing as it's not clear exactly what a sióg needs in her partner. That course of action has risks, however, as it means telling someone else about you. "
"Would you prefer that, sir?"
Snape's brow creased. "My preferences are irrelevant."
"Of course they're relevant!" Róisín exclaimed, her tears swelling. "There are TWO people here, there are TWO people making this decision. I don't want to force you to if you don't want to."
"Stop being ridiculous," Snape ordered. Róisín's hands flexed, aching for something to grab and throw at him. "Sit down, Miss Feral." When had she gotten to her feet? She sat like a scolded dog. Oddly, Snape didn't look furious but mildly amused. "I'm a grown man and your superior, I have no fear that I will be taken advantage of, " he drawled. Róisín blushed. She could feel her nose running but refused to sniffle.
"Em, so what should I do?" she asked, an octave lower than her previous outburst.
Snape arched an eyebrow.
"I cannot decide for you, Miss Feral, I'm not what one would describe as an unbiased observer." His eyes were so dark she thought she'd never find her way back from them.
"I want to stay in the castle and complete my NEWTS," she stated, attempting to sound self-assured.
A muscle in Snape's jaw twitched and he said,
"In that case, come to me when your symptoms return."
Róisín thanked him and left the room. As soon as the door closed behind her, she remembered her satchel at her workbench. Her face now fiery red, she re-entered the room and retrieved it.
For Defence the final year Ravenclaws had to write an essay arguing for or against the utilization of dementors as law enforcement tools. They sat around the central fireplace working on it together and by the time Róisín came back from her evening Astronomy class everyone in the common room had joined the debate. Anthony stated facts and statistics as if he had a binder on the subject lodged in his frontal lobe and the youngest Ravenclaws tried to impress the older ones with their intellect. Ida stressed the sanctity of human rights for all and Anna snapped at her exactly where she thought the Death Eaters could shove their rights.
Before Anna had been born, her aunt, an auror, had been killed by Voldemort's crew on Christmas day protecting a muggle village from their attack. Almost two decades later, Anna's mum still couldn't get through the 25th without breaking into tears. The Battworth family suspected Gregor Crabbe had cast the killing blow, a known Death Eater who had managed to escape Azkaban due to lack of evidence. Five years ago when his son, Vincent Crabbe, came to Hogwarts, Anna lost Ravenclaw fifty points when she cursed his family name and spat on the ground in front of him.
Currently Richard had the floor, insisting that those arguing against dementors had yet to suggest feasible alternatives. Róisin sat and listened without commenting. She had points she'd like to make, but in discussions like these she felt an outsider for being raised a muggle, especially as there were few muggleborns in Ravenclaw house. She looked over at Eóghan, who was trying to convince Angus that raising dragons for law enforcement purposes was inhumane.
After a yawn forced Róisín's jaws wide open in front of a poor third year passionately stating his opinion Róisín decided to retreat to her room with only the skeleton of her essay written, promising herself that she would finish it between classes tomorrow. Brushing her teeth lazily, she groaned as she noticed a blemish on her chin. Great. Just what she needed for the party Anna had planned for her that weekend.
Her actual birthday had been yesterday. She had given two whole rashers to the owl who had valiantly delivered five hard-backed books from her father and a huge chocolate cake baked by her mother. The cake had since disappeared down the throats of Ravenclaw house but the books were stacked on her nightside table, eager to be read. Although tonight Róisín ignored them, another yawn attacking her mouth as she wriggled out of her clothes and climbed into bed.
She closed her eyes and that night began to replay itself. Again. Like it had every night since she had slept with her professor, as though her eyelids were film that had absorbed and stored it all perfectly. She felt the familiar flood of emotions as she relived crying on his bathroom floor, lighting his bed on fire, touching herself between his sheets, the sight, sound and smell of him moving above her. The feeling of him inside her. In between her legs ached. A memory of the pain lingered there and so did something else. Something that projected the whole mortifying episode onto the inside of her eyelids each night so she could bask in it.
She shoved her hands beneath her underwear and began to touch herself. Her hand moved quickly. She remembered him seconds before he had finished, buckled above her, thrusting harder and faster.
What would he think, if he knew that she was doing this thinking of him?
She was so close.
This must be how he felt, right before he came inside me.
The thought made her climax, the sensation gripping her lower abdomen like she'd fallen off a cliff.
She was panting. Her hand was stiff from repeating the same motion and the muscles around her eyes were sore from being squeezed shut. She climbed out of bed, her hot skin prickling against the cool winter air of her room, and went to her bathroom to wash her hands. An ashamed young woman looked back at her from the mirror.
"Is it normal to masturbate every night?", she whispered to her reflection, the ugly word awkward on her lips. It sounded criminal.
She went back to bed. She hadn't been looking forward to the party that weekend, but as she lay there, exhausted and limp from her orgasm, the idea of partying away all her worries didn't sound so bad. Maybe she could even forget about her bloody professor for a few hours.