This chapter took its time to evolve. It had been drafted, re-drafted, written, re-written, read, re-read and revised so many times that I am frankly sick of it and would rather never see it again in my life. I really struggled this one, but I hope you'll enjoy it. Yep, there's more door-slamming, more temper and more arguments here, but I promise that it won't be like that forever.
Initially, I was going to include smut in this chapter, but ended up deleting it as I felt that, at this point, it wouldn't add much to the story and would in fact weaken it. Still, I have to say that this fic WILL contain smut, and I won't always fade to black as I did here - you'll just have to wait a little longer for it.
A thousand thanks to my beta, FawkesyLady, who had put up with my constant revisions with no complaints, and must have read and re-read this chapter enough times to be as tired of it as I am. I even ended up asking her to hex me if I tried to make any more changes. FawkesyLady - you are a treasure, and I can't thank you enough for your help!
The bright red door of Madam Clementine's gleamed brightly in the afternoon sun, a splash of lurid colour that stood out like a sore thumb against the overwhelming soot and grime of the neighbouring establishments, hidden in the far end of Knockturn Alley. Severus stood, concealed in a gap between a pub called The Headless Wizard and a boarded up shop whose owner used to deal with Dark artifacts before getting himself fatally cursed by a curio of unknown origin, carefully scanning the area for any errant students who might have followed him with the intention of sticking their nose in his business.
Determining the coast was clear, Severus stepped out of the shadows and confidently walked up the three stone steps that led to the brothel. He knew he wouldn't be spoilt for choice - technically, the ladies would not entertain clients until the evening, but Madam Clementine had always made an exception for Severus. He was a regular, valued customer who expected to be served efficiently and adequately, and was happy to pay extra for discretion.
The red door swung open as he tapped it with his wand. Inside, he was immediately assaulted by the smell of stale booze, skanky perfume and dirty underwear, mingled with the unmistakable scent of human sweat. Last night must have been busy.
Looking around, he noticed a sparse cluster of worn-out whores around a low table in the far corner, some napping on velveteen sofas after a long night of pleasuring wizards, others tightening their corsets and covering their faces in thick layers of vulgar makeup in preparation for the next shift. Another group of haggard-looking witches, far too old and unsightly to sell themselves anymore, bustled around in an attempt to clean up the place. Severus' lips tightened in distaste. Their efforts were a hopeless endeavour. This filthy slum was beyond help.
The patterned carpet crunched under Severus' feet as he navigated the front room, avoiding the many stains splattered across its threadbare fibres. He made a conscious effort to ignore them, preferring not to know what they were, although the sour stench gave him a fair idea.
A lone woman sat at a table, counting up last night's revenue. She must have heard his footsteps, and shouted, 'We're not open, bugger off!' before looking up sharply to chase the intruder away. Severus watched her eyes widen in recognition, and the next angry rebuke died in her mouth, transforming into a piercing squeal of delight. She stood up quickly, and knocked over the stacks of coins she had on the table as she rushed to greet Severus with a wide smile that revealed her crooked, yellow teeth and rotting gums. 'Ooooh! Mr Snape!'
Madam Clementine was a witch well past her prime, short and stocky, with garish orange hair and a face so caked with makeup that one could scratch her cheek and never touch the skin. Severus always thought that she looked like a painted nag with a curly wig, and the strong floral perfume she favoured always made him queasy.
'What a lovely surprise!' She beamed, and batted her heavily made-up lashes at him in a pathetic parody of girly flirtatiousness. Severus cringed inwardly - those thick, clumpy lashes reminded him of big, fluffy acromantulas that wouldn't entice any sane or sober wizard. Except perhaps Hagrid.
'Madam Clementine.' Severus nodded his head in a curt greeting. Really, he despised the woman. She was loud and greedy, but she was exceedingly hospitable and considerate, and her whores were the cheapest in all of Knockturn Alley.
'It has been too long, hasn't it? Oh, but we're so glad to see you!' Clementine's eyes glittered, undoubtedly at the thought of the Galleons in his purse. 'You have caught us indisposed, but for you, my dear sir, I am certain we will rise to the occasion!' She bit her lip and made a throaty, suggestive noise before turning to apply motivation to her tired cast of expert prostitutes. They were a motley bunch, largely preferring to work under a witch and a roof over gutter-crawling. Many had the suggestion of worn-out prettiness, and all wore the burden of soul-deep exhaustion. Severus understood that, as he often felt that way himself.
She turned around to the witches lounging in the corner. 'LADIES!' She bellowed, clapping her thick, manly hands, making them jump. A worn-looking brunette in a cabaret dress and a feather headpiece woke abruptly, and shrieked, 'Who's died?!' Before rolling onto the floor with a loud thump. The loud snoring that followed a few seconds later indicated that she was still drunk, and had gone back to sleep.
Clementine thinned her lips in disapproval, and shouted, 'Come on, ladies! Up, up! Mr Snape requires attention!'
The 'ladies' groaned in unison, but collected themselves promptly and sauntered over to where Severus stood. It was obvious that all they wanted to do was to get some rest before the next influx of wizards came looking for entertainment, but word in the brothel was that Mr Snape always paid and usually tipped for a job done tolerably well. This bolstered the flagging morale and a few of the women mustered an effort at enthusiasm and charm. It was repulsive at best.
Severus perused the harlots presented to him carefully, and a younger woman caught his eye. He guessed that she was probably in her late twenties to early thirties, and was considerably cleaner-looking than her co-workers. She stood off to the side with a thin cigarette pinched between her teeth, picking at her nails, her whole posture screaming boredom. She had a pointy chin, blonde hair that reminded Severus of tangled straw, and green eyes adorned with smudged black liner. She was dressed in an eye-catching set of burgundy robes, sleeveless, with a black underbust corset cinched around her waist. Severus thought that she would have looked quite pretty had she brushed her hair and removed most of that makeup.
He must have been staring too intently, and Madam Clementine raised a questioning eyebrow. 'Ah, Sylvia? She's new, you know. A good choice if you ask me, Mr Snape. She may not be as experienced as the other girls, but she's certainly fresher... ' The woman chuckled - and ugly, gurgling sound which turned into a wheezy smoker's cough, and shooed the remaining whores away with a wave of her fat hand. 'You lot, go away! Bedroom Six had just been cleaned, Mr Snape.' She turned to face Sylvia, and wiggled a bejewelled finger at the younger woman in a clear warning. 'Mr Snape is one of our best customers, girl. Show him every courtesy!'
Sylvia turned her back to Severus, and sent him a sultry look over her shoulder, saying, 'Follow me.' Her voluminous skirts swayed from side to side as she glided away towards the dark wooden staircase.
Severus' face was an expressionless mask, concealing the tingle of anticipation that rose in his chest with each step as he trailed after the woman up the stairs. He kept his eyes fixed on Sylvia's swinging hips throughout the ascent, knowing that this was what he wanted and needed. A woman of flesh and blood, who would soon cure him of this strange, unwanted obsession with one stormy-eyed witch. Not long now.
Upstairs, Severus took a quick inventory of Bedroom Six, a habit developed over the years of playing his role as a spy. The Specialis Revelio he had cast on the doorstep revealed no hidden hexes or cursed objects, and he stepped inside, ignoring Sylvia for the time being as he did a quick visual inspection of the small room. It looked similar to all the other bedrooms in the brothel, with dark, patterned carpets and walls lined with thick oxblood wallpaper, deeply embossed and peeling around the edges. A mock-Baroque dresser stood in one corner, its countertop filled with numerous massage oils and pleasure-enhancing potions of dubious quality, and a massive bed made of battered wood dominated the cramped space, with a vast headboard decorated with coarsely carved scenes that once were lewd, and now had blurred and chipped with decades of clumsy neglect. Above the bed, a replica of Botticelli's 'The Birth of Venus' hung in an ornate plaster frame, painted gold. Severus suppressed a snort at the idea of discussing Renaissance art with one of Clementine's whores. How absurd.
Housekeeping had made a satisfactory effort at cleaning - the bedding appeared hastily straightened, and the edge of a thin mattress peeked out from underneath the purple bedding. The room still had the faint tang of sex, but overall, it was sufficient. There were no suspicious stains, the furniture was dusted, and there was no obvious grime in sight, save for the single cobweb that hung from the chandelier overhead. They had even opened the windows to let in some fresh air.
The sound of rustling skirts reminded Severus of Sylvia's presence. He turned around, and his heartbeat quickened as he slowly looked her up and down, his stony gaze softening a little at the sight of the woman who would bring him the much-needed relief. She was standing with one hand placed on the bed's tall footboard, the other resting on the curve of her hip in a seductive pose that made his heartbeat quicken. He would soon have her naked, and the thought caused his cock to twitch in his trousers, eager to get on with it.
Severus beckoned for her to come closer, his long, elegant finger curling ever so slowly. She tipped her chin down slightly, and looked at him through her eyelashes as she crossed the room. She took her time, swinging her hips in broad circles to allow him to get a good look, the corner of her full lips quirking upwards in a coquettish smile.
His eyes never left hers as he buried his hand in her hair, tousled and curled into tight ringlets that fell past her shoulders and down her back. He began undoing his belt with one hand, and with the other, he gathered her hair in a loose fist at the nape of her neck, dipping his head to whisper in her ear.
'Disrobe,' He ordered in a low, silky purr. 'No kissing. No chit-chat. If you must speak at any time, you will address me as ''Sir.'' '
Madam Clementine had sat herself down behind the front desk and was reviewing her books over a lovely cup of tea doctored with a splash of fortifying rum when she heard the heavy thumping of Mr Snape's boots descending from the upper floor. Hardly half an hour had passed since he had disappeared upstairs with Sylvia. His usual sojourn with the girls was considerably longer, and a few of his prior picks had asked after him, seeming interested in his habits. Just last month, Susan had cornered her after he left, 'Aw Clemmy, he was a sweet one, when's he expected back? I'd like to be here!'
One look at his closed expression caused a mingled rush of anxiety and anger to rise like a gorge of bile in Clementine's throat, constrictive and bitter. Pushing her books to the side, she stood and fixed an ingratiating smile on her face. 'Why, going so soon, Mr Snape? May I offer you a glass of wine, or perhaps a shot of Firewhiskey? If Sylvia had somehow displeased you, I am sure we can find someone more agreeable to amuse you…'
She was still working out what to say to try and mend the gap as the tall and dark customer dropped a neat stack of coins in front of her on the desk before turning his back to her and stalking out the door. She called after him, 'Call anytime, sir! Always welcome, right you are!'
A raised hand flicked careless acknowledgement as he opened the front door a crack, just enough to slip back out into daylight. She added a hopeful lilt to her tone, 'Come back soon!'
As soon as the door closed with an audible click, she turned to address the stairs, her voice modulating from her previous carefully crafted Cockney accent to her native one, full of harsh edges and cannibalised consonants. 'SYLVIA! You have explaining to do, you day-old tart! If you spoiled him for the rest of us, you will be serving the lateshift every night for the next month! Mark my words, I'll have you crawling the gutters, I will!"
Silence was her only answer, punctuated with a bitter cackle from a sleepy girl who stood leaning on the banister upstairs, smoking. With a huff, Madam Clementine mounted the stairs, preparing to divine the reasons for what she believed to be a dissatisfied customer.
Alice woke up in the early afternoon with a raging headache. As soon as she opened her eyes, she wished she hadn't. A throng of elephants was tap-dancing on top of her brain, the thunderous rhythm reminiscent of a hammer, pounding at the base of her skull with a steady thump, thump, thump.
This raging headache was nothing compared to the nausea that hit her immediately as she sat up, cradling her head in her hands and wishing fervently that she would make it to her bathroom before throwing up.
She clumsily pulled herself upwards, groaning, 'Fuuuuck!', her back creaking in protest as she stood and stretched in an attempt to alleviate the strange aches and pains in nearly all of her muscles - even ones of whose existence she was previously blissfully unaware. It was no good, and only made her head spin faster. She felt at least as old as Methuselah himself.
The trip to the bathroom was slow and torturous. She had to shield her throbbing eyes against the blinding assault of a single narrow sunbeam coming in from between the curtains. Even the smallest amount of natural light inflicted unbearable pain as she slowly waddled across the first floor corridor, swaying on her feet like a newborn fawn, struggling to hold on to the contents of her stomach.
The bathroom was annoyingly bright and smelled strongly of citrus cleaning spray. Alice turned her back to the window like a vampire repulsed by natural light, and her eye caught a glimpse of her own face in the mirror, staring at her with blood-shot, puffy eyes. Alice gasped, her various aches momentarily forgotten as she stepped closer to inspect her appearance more closely. The mirror was unforgiving, and confirmed her worst suspicions - she had gone to bed unwashed, in her day clothes, and with a face full of makeup that had now oozed all around her cheeks. 'I look as rough as a bear's arse!' Covering her mouth with one hand, she lamented the heavy blow to her vanity.
She turned her back to the mirror, preferring to face the blinding light of day over her own appearance, which in her opinion was bad enough to scare a Boggart. She undressed as quickly as her stiff body allowed, and wrinkled her nose at her own smell. 'Ugh. Minging.' Cursing her own physiology, she tossed her stale clothes into the washing basket and shut the lid firmly before stepping under the shower. To Alice, habitually groomed to within an inch of her life, the sensation of being grubby and sticky was almost as unpleasant as all the other signs of a hangover combined.
'I'm never drinking again. Ever.' She moaned as she stood under the steaming water, taking time to scrub herself even more thoroughly than usual, starting with her hair. Massaging her scalp with her fingertips in light, circular motions, the witch wondered how her own mother managed to cope with this on a daily basis. She snorted bitterly as she tipped her head back to rinse her hair. 'Well, she barely functions, doesn't she. Always bloody pissed, her and her mates.'
She picked up her shower gel, and her eyes darted to the strange marks and bruises peppered all over her arms. Alarmed, she immediately began searching her body for any other injuries. Her wrists were black and blue, and she could feel that the skin on her back was tender and hot under her fingers. An ugly bruise was starting to appear just below her right knee, and her neck was so stiff she could hardly turn it to the side, having to resort to acrobatics that caused her pounding headache to triple in force. She strained her leaden brain as she tried to remember - she knew she had drank one full bottle of Happy Harpy, bemoaning the day she received her acceptance letter from Hogwarts, but beyond that, she could not remember a thing.
Stepping out of the shower, Alice proclaimed, 'There. Fresh like a fucking daisy.' The idea of anointing her body with anything with a fragrance was repulsive, and her stomach tensed with warning at the very thought. Choosing to put up with non-silky skin for a day, she towelled herself off, huffing and puffing with the effort. She felt marginally better now that she was clean, but her body still felt like a sack of stones.
'Let's see the damage.' She wiped the steam off the mirror, hoping that the long session with soap and water would have improved her appearance. Alas, no such luck. The dark streaks of smudged makeup were gone, but her skin was patchy and as dry as parchment, and the dark shadows under her eyes made her look like a victim of a brawl. Even her lips were dry and cracked, and stung like buggery at the corners as she opened her mouth to brush her teeth meticulously. She brushed twice for good measure, and gulped down four glasses of cold tap water before venturing out of the bathroom in search of some fresh clothes to wear. The water did nothing to alleviate the nausea - if anything, it made it even worse, and her stomach protested vocally with a shockingly low belch.
Fighting lightheadedness, Alice stepped into her bedroom and immediately wished she hadn't. The stench of digested alcohol mixed with perfume and her own body odour assaulted her senses, and the girl heaved, covering her mouth in another desperate attempt to stop herself from soiling the carpet. She held her breath as she rummaged in her wardrobe, grabbing the first things that fell into her hands - an old, faded football shirt she liked to sleep in and a pair of white cotton shorts that had frayed at the hem and were only worn for doing chores. Hardly the most sophisticated outfit, but Alice felt only vaguely human, and the shabby clothes would simply have to do.
She fled the bedroom, balancing with one hand against the wall on the landing as she pulled on the clothes, sans underwear. The girl attempted to collect herself as she descended her creaking staircase, expecting to find a battlefield in the kitchen. Every noise was amplified tenfold in her ears, and with each step down her temples throbbed, every squeak and groan resonating around her skull in a torturous ripple. Anxiety rose in her chest as she dragged herself down the darkened hallway, her mind's eye presenting gloomy visions of chaos and destruction.
Surprisingly enough, the kitchen was in pretty good shape. One of the chairs was overturned, and one bottle had spilled, leaving a red, sticky trail of wine and tobacco on the tabletop. Easy enough to clean up, although the Argos catalogue she had picked up in town was now a sodden mess, only suitable for throwing away. The very sight of the three empty bottles made the witch shudder, her body reflexively responding to their presence with a clear warning of strong revulsion, reinforcing her resolve to never touch alcohol again. She made quick work of putting the empties in the bin under the sink. Out of sight, out of mind.
'You'd think there was a bloody fight in 'ere judging by the state I'm in,' She mused, glancing at her bruised wrists as she lit a roll-up and took a drag. 'Stranger things have happened…' Alice's thoughts ground to a halt, and the witch froze, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. The floor was covered in muddy footprints.
All blood drained from her face, only to return seconds later in a flush of bright red as a rush of shock washed over her like a wave of horror. She would recognise these prints anywhere - the memory of scrubbing them on her hands and knees less than a week ago was still fresh and vivid in her mind.
'Snape!' She gasped, her eyes darting around the room in panic, as though expecting the man himself to jump out of one of the cupboards. 'Snape was here!'
She stood, glued to the spot and frozen in time, gawking at the evidence of the Professor's presence in her home with one hand planted firmly across her mouth. As much as she tried, she could not remember anything. 'He must have put me to bed... ' She finally whispered, her brain slowly processing the ramifications. He had seen her drunk. What happened? Did he… no, he would never, would he? Her distressed mind reeled with questions she did not want to be answered as the witch abandoned her half-smoked cigarette and mechanically filled a bucket with soapy water. Muttering hateful invectives under her breath, she fell to her knees once more.
Alice scrubbed, rubbed and scoured. She rinsed, wiped and dried with abandon, and so absorbed in the task was she, her nose almost touching the patterned lino, that she never heard the door open, nor did she see the wizard who stood on the doorstep, watching as she channeled her frustrations and fears into her work.
She had closed her eyes, reaching out in front of her to wipe the floor in broad semi-circles. She soldiered on through the throbbing pain in her head and the burning in her throat exacerbated by the continuous back-and-forth motion. Even in her miserable state, her brain could not stifle the compulsive urge to purify her surroundings of the smallest specks of dirt.
Her hand bumped against an obstacle, and she opened her eyes to inspect it. A mighty shriek escaped her mouth as she saw a pair of black boots mere inches below her face, one of them glistening where she had wiped it with her cloth. The unexpected appearance scared the living ghost out of the witch, and she jolted into a squatting position, losing her balance in the process. Waving her arms helplessly, she fell backwards, and ended up sprawled flat on her back in a particularly wet and sudsy spot on the floor.
The witch groaned, and struggled to sit up, her hands sliding in the slippery suds and failing to support her. Her cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment as she looked up to see Professor Snape, looming over her with a sardonic sneer which only added insult to injury.
'Good afternoon, Miss Crowley.' His words were polite, but his tone was ice-cold as he uttered the greeting in clipped words. He added, 'My my, I see you are tidying up after last night's… misadventure.' His eyes had darted to the side as he uttered the last word, enunciating the syllables as they rolled off his tongue in a low, quiet drawl.
'Misa-what? Um…' Alice rubbed her temple awkwardly, shielding her eyes against the onslaught of daylight coming from behind the door. 'Afternoon, Professor…' Her voice came out raspy and harsh, and she cleared her throat before continuing, 'Ang on, it was you that were 'ere last night, weren't you? These are your muddy footprints all over me clean floor. Again.'
Snape didn't reply immediately, and Alice felt it necessary to stand. The wizard made no move to assist her as she scrambled to her feet, her legs shaking as though she had been hit with the Jelly-Legs Jinx. The look on his face was one of evident contempt, and she wondered if she had vomited on his boots last night. After another moment's silence, she rather hoped she had.
The idea would amuse her later, but right then she was too befuddled by her headache and the infernal Professor's altered manners. Why couldn't he revert to the nicer version just for this occasion?
'Unfortunately.' He finally replied, and widened his stance, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He looked her up and down, his upper lip curling in distaste, the crooked, tea stained teeth adding to the impression of a snarling alley rat.
Alice hugged herself, feeling any confidence she might have had fly out of the window. She knew she looked terrible - Snape didn't have to make it any clearer. He might as well have been a scarecrow for all of the humanity he possessed. The pain of abasement sparked a flame of rebellious indignation, and under the power of this new negative energy, she straightened her spine, raised her chin, and met his glare with one of her own.
'If my company is so unpalatable to you, then I do not understand why you bother to come back.' Alice stared him straight in the eye, her anger threatening to erupt any second now as her hand darted to her side, reflexively seeking out her wand. It wasn't there.
The ornery wizard was unperturbed by her glare. He relaxed his shoulders and held her gaze with appalling aplomb, the corner of his mouth stretching in condescending amusement, as though to say, 'And what do you think you are going to do?'
Alice's lip began to tremble. She held up her bruised wrists, her voice rising to a near-shrill pitch as she squealed, 'What have you done to me? What are these? I should like some answers!'
Professor Snape's expression darkened. Lifting one eyebrow, he spoke blandly, enunciating each syllable with painful accuracy as one might use to address a deaf person, or a particularly dim-witted child. 'These, Miss Crowley, are the result of your childish and frankly unbecoming behaviour last night. Let me assure you that you have brought them upon yourself, and that I merely assisted you in getting to bed safely. Unless of course you would have rather spent the night sleeping on the floor - and considering the undignified and entirely distasteful way in which you had conducted yourself, I should have left you to it.'
Alice gritted her teeth. She was exhausted, and wanted to toss him out on his arse, him and his smug attitude. He needed a bit of dirt on that nose, bit of honest earth. She pointedly looked away, digging deep for calm.
At length, Snape tilted his head to the side as he drawled on further in his usual stern tone, reserved for the most obtuse dunderheads, 'I have noticed that you haven't seen fit to take advantage of the Hangover Potion I left at your bedside.'
This made her look up sharply, sending another blinding flash of pain through her skull. 'What potion at my… you've been in my room?!' She squealed accusingly as a parade of mortifying possibilities swam across her mind's eye. This was bad, this was really bad. What else had he seen?!
Snape narrowed his eyes with irritation, and stepped forward, his shape blotting out the light behind his back, darkening the room. Alice recoiled reflexively, an instinctive voice reminding her of a very important fact she had forgotten. Professor Snape was a very dangerous man who probably didn't give a shite if her knickers were left out on the floor.
She continued her retreat until her back brushed against the wall. Somehow, he had rewound time, and she was a first year again, cowering under the stern Professor's unforgiving chastisement. She flinched as he waved his hand sharply, and moments later, the dusty bottle whisked through the air and slapped firmly into his palm with unnerving precision. The show of power alone was staggering. She almost missed it as he carelessly tossed it at her chest.
He snarled, 'Ungrateful and goat-brained, just like the rest of House Gryffindor. Take that, silly girl. And while you're at it,' He paused, his lip curling up in derision once more before he continued, 'Do something about your stench. Unless you prefer to reek like a human distillery.'
Alice could only gape, her voice and will chased away by the low blow. Professor Flitwick was the champion duelist at Hogwarts, but Professor Snape was the a master of verbal fisticuffs. He could not have hurt her with more precision if he had taken a week to study the problem and laid out a strategy using top experts from around the globe. He shot her one last contemptuous scowl before turning neatly on his heel and walking away, leaving Alice to watch his retreating form. The sound of the gate slamming shut with enough force to rattle its hinges brought home the finality of the wizard's absenting his presence.
'Well fuck you!' She called into the empty space where he stood not a minute ago. 'Back like a stray, with paws just as muddy!'
She stood, struggling to pick up the shattered pieces of her feminine dignity. It was a fruitless endeavour, as nothing seemed to fit, the sharp edges too jagged to handle without cutting herself with her own recriminations. Her confidence was excessively fragile, its shaky framework likely to crumble to dust with each renewed effort at reinforcement. When her brain registered a whiff of the Professor's lingering scent - a mixture of his own aftershave, laced with cheap, feminine perfume and fresh sweat, her stomach finally gave up and turned itself inside out in a neat flip. She staggered over to the sink and was violently sick, cursing Severus Snape to the deepest, darkest pits of hell.
'I swear, I don't know what happened!' Sylvia wailed, wringing her hands, for the seventh time by now.
She had barely managed to put on her brassiere and her petticoat before Madam Clementine burst into the room not five minutes after Mr Snape took his leave, with a mighty screech loud enough to wake the dead. Immediately, Clementine launched into a vitriolic tirade, bellowing a hailstorm of insults that grew in pitch and savagery by the second. The sobbing witch cowered under the never-ending trail of questions, her attempts at describing what had happened drowned out by Clementine's lament.
'... my best customer! None of the other girls had ever given him any reason to complain, and then you turned up and did what?! Ruined everything! You have ruined everything, you stupid, cretinous cow! I knew you were bad news when you turned up looking for work, and I knew I should have left you to rot on the streets, but my heart was too soft, too kind, and that's how you repay me for it?! Mr Snape has standards, girl, STANDARDS! And you, you useless, good-for-nothing halfwit... strutting around and offending respectable wizards, thinking you're something special just because your cunt is tighter…! '
At length, Clementine paused for breath. She began pacing around Bedroom Six, fanning herself with her fat hand as sweat soaked her brow, her face as red as a ripe tomato after a long time of screaming. 'What am I going to do now, what am I going to do?!' She whined dramatically at nobody in particular, her hoarse voice breaking in a mixture of worry and rage. Attracted by the commotion, a couple of sleepy whores appeared in the doorway, tutting in sympathy at the Madam's troubles.
Seizing the opportunity, Sylvia spoke up, her pathetic explanations punctuated with miserable sniffs and sobs, 'I swear on my dear mother's ashes, Madam, he seemed happy, until…'
'Until WHAT?' Clementine interjected, turning sharply to face the disgraced witch and whipping her wand out of her pocket. She pointed it at Sylvia's chest and stepped towards her menacingly, like a Black Mamba closing in on its prey. The girls in the doorway gasped at this turn of events. Madam Clementine rarely punished her girls in this way, but when she did, she was exceptionally heavy handed.
Sylvia recoiled and ducked her head, fresh tears pooling in her eyes as she stuttered, 'He… he t-told me to undress, Madam, so I did,'
Clementine gave a curt nod, tapping her foot impatiently. Sylvia, grateful for the chance to speak, took a deep breath and continued, stumbling over her words, 'Then he twiddled me fanny. W-with his fingers, that is, and I did all the t-things you t-taught me to do, I faked an orgasm and all, and I faked it really well, made sure to flutter my...'
'Very well, girl, but why did he run out like he was being chased by the devil himself?!' Clementine trotted over to where Sylvia stood, their heads nearly touching as the Madam leaned closer to look her employee in the eye. She was so close that Sylvia could smell her breath, sour and sharp, laced with whisky and cheap cigarettes, causing bile to rise in her throat.
'WHAT the hell went wrong? TELL ME NOW!' Clementine hissed hatefully, her heavily made-up eyes bulging in irritation, her nostrils flaring uncontrollably. The point of her short, stubby wand hovered in the air like an executioner's axe, itching to fall on its victim's neck.
Sylvia eyed it with apprehension, teeth chattering as she rushed into another round of explanations, the small flicker of hope that she could talk herself out of this situation diminishing at a rapid pace. 'Hand on heart, I don't know! He told me to suck him, but then stopped me halfway through - I didn't bite him, I promise!' Sylvia's eyes widened in fear as she spotted the small vein that appeared, throbbing on Clementine's temple. She now knew that her fate was sealed regardless of what she said or did, but ploughed on in a last desperate attempt to reduce the severity of the punishment for the terrible crime she had unintentionally committed, 'He told me to lie down, shagged me, spurted inside me, then got dressed and left without a word! That's all that happened, but I swear I did nothing wrong, he seemed pleased when…'
'YOU OBVIOUSLY DID SOMETHING WRONG!' Clementine erupted. Her outburst prompted a collective groan from the audience that had gathered around the doorway to observe the proceedings.
'HE SURE DIDN'T LOOK PLEASED WHEN HE LEFT! NOW OUT! OUT! GO BACK DOWNSTAIRS AND GET YOURSELF READY FOR THE NIGHT SHIFT! IF I CAN'T TEACH YOU HOW TO DO YOUR JOB, I'M SURE THE CUSTOMERS WILL!'
Stepping back, the unforgiving procuress slashed her wand through the air sharply, baring her teeth as the Stinging Hex collided with Sylvia's shoulder. She yelped, and hugged herself in a protective gesture that only fanned the flame of Clementine's fury. The Madam chased the harassed, shrieking witch out of the bedroom and down the stairs, casting one ferocious hex after another in rapid succession, unmindful of Sylvia's pleas and desperate apologies. As their voices faded away in the distance, the little company gathered in the corridor disbanded, shaking their heads as they left the scene of the crime to go back to their own duties, their mutterings barely audible among the sounds of rustling skirts and clicking heels, 'There's nothing worse than best customers who leave with a scowl.'