Set me free *Complete*

BY : SnapeLove
Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione
Dragon prints: 8184
Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. Harry Potter is owned by J.K. Rowling. This story is purely for entertainment purposes, no money is being made from it.

A/N: Written for a monthly challenge.

650 word count for each chapter
March- Tears&Fears

Huge, huge thank you to my beta - Loki God of Evil
You may also blame her why this story will have 5 chapters instead being a one-shot as originally planned ^_^

Letting go 

She shivers. Small tremors are tugging on her muscles. Forcing those tremors to subside, she breathes.

In and out.

Deep calming breaths.

Why did I ever listen to Luna of all people?

She'sasking herself that same question each time she comes here. But, she knows why. She needs this, desires it. This is her last hope, because - nothing else is working. Therefore, this is her last straw before she drowns. And even if it is shocking to her, not just what, but also whom Luna suggested, - she still signed up for it.

So, here she is.


Shivering, while the cold hand of fear squeezes her brain.

But, she is tired, so very tired. She can not handle this anymore, and if this doesn't work...then, she will be lost. She cant handle it - the stress, the constant control, the responsibility. She helps, she does all she can, she's supposed to be the responsible one. She thinks she still is, or at least she hopes.

She can't take it anymore! She is hurting, she is tired, and she can't stop, can't let it go.

Twisting her wrists nervously, the coarse rope begins to bite at her skin.

It's not like she is tied up for the first time. Still...

Panic! Paranoia! She finds that she can't breathe. Feeling like the air that surrounds her is in short supply, she gasps for it, in short, hungry gulps.

"Relax. Breathe. You are safe." A rough, gravelly voice washes over her. A calming balm for her fried nerves.

Her brain and her body are at odds with one another. Her brain, still active, panicked, devising an escape route. Signalling to her that she is in danger. Telling her that she can't let go and rest. That she can't trust anyone. Her body tells a different story. She feels her muscles relax at the sound of the masculine voice.

Don't raise your eyes. You don't have permission. Just let it go, you are not the one in control. Embrace it.

All she can see is the small patch of the floorboard. These are the same boards that cause pain in her knees every time she visits. It is an odd sensation, it almost feels like the floor is pressuring her from beneath. It is unfamiliar and yet familiar bite, but not unwelcome. As long as she can feel it - she is alive.

Her brain feels frozen from fear on the surface, but deep inside it is like a lava grotto. Still planning on ways of escape, or to turn the situation to her advantage, to take back control.

No, no more control. I-I don't want it!

In and out.


Her muscles flex, going taut and then relax. Her whole body twitches.


She listens to the slow grind of leather soled boots on the floor.

A whoosh of fabric as he walks by. Purposefully making slow circles around her, yet just out of her peripheral. Not getting close to her, not touching her. She can feel his presence, it fills the room, as always, domineering. 

This is not their first session, and she knows he won't touch her - he never does. At least not skin on skin.

Not unless… but today...

She is naked, and still, this is not sexual, at least not in a conventional way. Her brain knows this has nothing to do with sex. Not for him, not for her,... well, it wasn't - before. She is surprised to feel the slow trickle of moist from her core.

Will he be angry if he finds out? What if he refuses to…?

The breath hitching in her throat.

Gods! She feels suffocation looming. Fear and arousal, they mix together, blending in effortlessly. She must let go, needs to let it go or find herself invariably doomed to suffer longer. Her muscles flex, going rigid the longer she remains.

Relax! He told you, whatever happens just embrace it, don't fight it.

She takes a long breath and releases it slowly.

Her muscles relax.

"That's it. Don't fight it." That voice is her life-line, her salvation and also her doom.  How can all three be so right and yet so wrong?

Over the weeks she had learned to trust him. It is almost like the Pavlov reflex - Operant conditioning - each command pushes her body to follow for some small reward, a voice. Her body, but not her mind - not yet.

"What do you need, Miss Granger?"

He is circling around her, like a vulture. Predatory in style and stance. But she is safe, feels safe. Her body knows, even her brain is comprehending. She knows - today he'll push her to let go. They talked about it.

She knows what she has to do. Though, she is not sure if she can, just yet.

She knows what the answer is that he wants to hear. She is not ready.

But then, she is as ready as she can be.


In and out...

"I need for my brain to stand still, Sir," her words slide over her pursed lips, shaky, voice thin.


The grind of the leather soled boots twisting on the aged wood grain of the floorboards.

"How do you think that can happen?" His voice is deep and sharp.

That is not what she expects. He should have all the answers. He should offer the solution. But this puts her in control and she doesn't want that.

"I know what you need. I just want to hear you say it. To understand it."

Yes, that makes more sense.

"Take your time - think about it." His voice soothing, yet stern.

She needs that push - desperately. He will help her, but to let go - that's all on her. The connection is pre-established, she trusts him implicitly. Today is the day.

It is a scary prospect.

Scary to know that today she has to ask for the pain.

A scary prospect that today she is determined to embrace it.

Then, again, also scary to know that today she will do her best to surrender - completely and irrevocably to it.


In and out...

"I… I need flogging, Sir."

"Very well. Are you going to fight me today Miss Granger?"

"No, Sir."

"You know what I want to hear then." His voice is calm, controlled and she relaxes at his demanding tone. "Position yourself and say the words."

She lowers her body until her forehead touches the floor. She arranges her bound arms to clear the path on her back, resting the wrists on the small of her back. This is not a most common position for what she is about to ask - in fact, it's most uncommon. She studies the books so she knows.

Why is he allowing it then?


She feels safe in this position. She needs that, so he adjusted to her needs. Sudden realisation further melts the tension from her body.

I'm safe...

It is much easier to say the words now. "I need you to use the flogger on my back, Sir. Please, Sir."

She knows what she asks for. That would put pressure on him, not just because of the uncommon position but also because the skin on the back is much easier to break and welt. He has to be careful, to give her what she needs but also not to harm her in any way that will cause undue damage.

Both of them are aware of that fact.

And that is why he allowed this position, gave her the choice.

She is scared again...

And she needs to let go of the fear that seems to want to hold her back, let go of the control.

Now, he has all the control. Her well being, as well as her peace of mind, both are in his hands.

"You know the drill, Miss Granger. Yellow if we get too close, Red for stop?"

"Yes, Sir."

A soft whistle of leather rips through the air.




I need to escape. To defend myself. No! Trust. Let go. Relax.

Another whistle and sting.

The skin on her back warms up. She focuses her attention on that warmth.


In and out...

Her insides clench and unclench with each strike.

The warmth dissipates and her back arches.

"Please, Sir, more." Is this me?

Stinging pain again. Her brain is a manic hamster in the wheel, looking for a way out. Her body is almost completely boneless.

Focus on your body, it knows.

A keen sting...

The warmth is back. She breathes in relief. Her knees slide more apart, her body sinks lower to the ground. She has not felt this relaxed for an age, so it would seem.


The voices in her head are becoming quiet. She doesn't want to defend herself anymore. She trusts him.

"Please, Sir, more."

"The number of lashes is my decision Miss Granger, not yours." He says it so calmy. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."

His tone relaxes her.


She doesn't have to make the decision. She trusts him. She believes that he will take care of her, he will take care of everything.


She doesn't have to worry anymore.


She can relax. She is relaxed.



Tears start to flow down her cheeks. No, not from pain. She doesn't feel pain.

She is relaxed.

She doesn't need to take care of anyone, of anything. She is taken care of.

Quiet sobs shake her body.

She is lifted into a sitting position. The ropes are gone. Skin! He is rubbing her shoulders, careful not to touch the part where a stray strand of flogger caught her.

He never touched her before. He never used the flogger on her before. He never used anything but his words on her before. Now, he is kneeling next to her. His hands grip her in a loose embrace, fingers clasp the small of her back. Her back is raw and he avoids touching them.

He will heal her back later if she allows it.

Her skin is warm from the sweat and repeated strikes from the flogger. Her front is warm, flushed. His body heat seeps through the scratchy material. Sobs wrack her body. She hugs him! How surreal is this?

Tears are soaking through the collar of his dark robe. Her cheek pressed on the rough and uneven skin on his neck. Sharp stubble is scratching her neck. Greasy strands of hair tickle her cheek.

She isn't bothered by it.

She is safe.

Taken care off.

She is relaxed.

She doesn't worry anymore.

"That's it. Just let it go. I've got you." He murmurs into her ear.

She is safe.

Tears streak down her face with the force of letting it all go. Tears are good, cleansing.

There is no more fear, no more anxiety just tears - and she relishes in the feel of them as they continue to trail her flushed cheeks.

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