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At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 80085 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 10
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

Chapter List
- 11
- 12
- 13
A/N: Sorry for the wait again and thank you for your patience. If only RL didn’t exist :) DSx
Mistress – So pleased that you enjoyed it. ‘he is not a cold-hearted bastard as he seems in the first chapters’ – yes, we are very gradually realising that there might actually be a bit of warmth in there somewhere :).
OO – ‘You'd better not be wasting your time at work this week; fanfiction is your job now’ – unfortunately I was wasting my time at work and I so wish fanfiction was my job . . . maybe if I’m really well behaved . . . nah, that’s not going to happen. ‘Answer ME! (In story form.)’ – hahah, would a beat poem do? (check out ‘Storm’ by Tim Minchin if you haven’t already). ‘But it also makes me wonder if this is what he really believes or if it's what he wants her to believe about what he believes’ – well this is it, he is so protective of his true motivations, it’s difficult to tell as you suggest. ‘Quit trying to pitch me in the middle of orgasm’ – bahahah, that is such a good line :) ‘That's because his gargantuan cock is pulling off his center of gravity’ – I love your Nessie jokes, and your Nessie awards even more :) xx
Kvarta – ‘so if you or OO had hiccups...I discussed your stories with few of my friends’ – so hiccups means you are being talked about? Over here I think it is ears burning. ‘mapping local BDSM community’ – doh, you get all the interesting jobs, shame it wasn’t completed. ‘and where is that infamous Gryffindor courage now’ – spoken like a true Slytherin J ‘She is like a raw nerve, exposed and all too sensitive, and she needs something equally raw and primal to connect to.’ – Ooh, I love this. ‘aww, he's jealous! Did I mention something about nitro before? :)’ – tee hee, totally! ‘Btw, thank you for the cock introduction to your story, you certainly made my day :*’ – I couldn’t leave you with an impotent Snape, it just wouldn’t be fair :) xx
Marionne – ‘I hope my rant made some sense to you’ – absolutely . . . you want her to play hard to get. Hmmm, now that would be interesting :)

Chapter 12 – Beast Master
Hermione’s eyes sprang open, a gasping breath fluttering through her parted lips as she surfaced from the dream. The distant rumble—like thunder but not—continued. Battle. That’s what she heard. So strange after all this time that it should strike her so immediately, so viscerally, as though it had never ended.
Her fingers sought out the dull throb between her legs. It wasn’t painful, just another memory, a physical reminder of another battle of sorts.
Had there been a victor? If so, it wasn’t clear to her . . . at least not anymore. She’d expected to feel more satisfied about the outcome. After all, it was what she had planned. It had all happened as she’d intended. But—
Boom.
The windows shuddered in their frames.
Hermione frowned. It wasn’t the usual quiet Sunday morning. A hangover from the ball perhaps? The last hurrah of a few wayward guests? Harry?
She hadn’t gone back . . . for obvious reasons. Her dress had been reduced to tattered shreds, as had her knickers and stockings, and although she had managed to recover her wand and restore the fabric sufficiently to see her back to her room—clutching her heeled shoes to her stomach—upon entering she had immediately discarded it all . . . every shred . . . sitting naked on the bed, feeling her mood sinking with the sensation of him slowly leaking out of her.
It had struck her as oddly profound at the time—the loss, but also the progressive reveal of that which had been hidden within . . . slipping out despite itself, despite himself—she was seeing him . . . more of him all the time . . . the riddle of his personality gradually drawn out, ousted . . . reluctantly exposed.
In fact, she was increasingly of the opinion that the double agent was still very much present—a man of two masters, both now operating internally . . . one cool, confident, and comfortably dominant, the other far more wary, distrustful, even fearful but paradoxically, she suspected, desperately craving acceptance . . . affection even. Admittedly, that was the part that had intrigued her the most—the way he had fucked her—as though he couldn’t drive himself deeply enough, squeeze her tightly enough into his body.
But then there had been the release. It had sounded anguished . . . painful.
Is that why he’d avoided it? Did it hurt to have intercourse—to come? Had fucking her been satisfying for him in the end or would he be angry again . . . would he try to blame her?
Boom.
This one was louder.
Pushing back the bedclothes, she swung her legs out of bed and padded over to the window. The morning was clear and bright but the view beyond the panes—rising parapets and distant trees—gave no indication as to where the sound had come from.
Dressing quickly in jeans and a shirt, she snatched up her wand and cast a charm over the madness of her hair before stepping out of her room.
Excited chattering bubbled up from around the corner. Following the sound, she discovered a group of students crowded around a row of corridor windows, jostling for position.
“I told you he was still lethal,” a tall boy crowed, elbowing the stocky redhead beside him.
“Lethal?” the redhead snorted, his breath fogging the window. “Mental, more like. What’s he think he’s playing at?”
Hermione moved up behind them, peering over their shoulders at a sight that immediately stopped her in her tracks.
A black form stood alone on the grassy slope facing the forest. Two huge trees lay on the ground to his left. They had landed, one on top of the other, and were now blocking the path to the lake.
As she watched, the figure raised one hand and released a ball of fire, striking another towering tree at the base, causing it to shudder violently. Then a purple bolt discharged from the tip of his wand, striking the tree again and throwing up an explosion of woodchips. Alternating hands, he cast spell after spell, complex and deadly combinations—or at least they would have been if the target had been alive.
“What’s he trying to do? Top himself?”
It was a legitimate question. Even though the tree couldn’t fight back in the traditional sense, it could certainly do some damage, and the way that it was swaying, leaning dangerously toward him, suggested that he would be in trouble if he didn’t move very soon.
“Hey!” The redhead suddenly turned to her. “I bet you hope he does n’ all. Get you out of a lifetime of detention.”
Hermione ignored him.
“Here he goes!” The tall boy elbowed his friend again.
There was a collective shriek from the crowd as the tree lurched forward. Snape held his ground, looking up at the towering column with an air of defiance.
No! The word lodged in Hermione’s throat.
It fell.
At the last moment Snape stepped sideways, his hair and coat blown back by the impact as the tree came crashing to the ground with another resonant boom.
“Pity,” the stocky boy guffawed, looking around at the others. “Might’ve been rid of the git.”
It was the sort of thing Ron would have said but it incensed her all the same.
“He happens to be your Headmaster.” Hermione spoke quietly but firmly. “It will do you good to remember that.”
“So?” The boy turned to face her, chin jutting out defiantly.
“As a student of Hogwarts you’re expected to show more respect. Ten points from your house.”
“You what?” His face creased angrily. “I’m in Gryffindor!”
She was well aware. He’d been a pain in the arse for years.
“That has no bearing on the matter.”
“No joke,” he sneered. “You’d be happy to lose the lot, wouldn’t you?” Then he leaned in close. “And you’re hardly one to talk about respect, love.”
She knew perfectly well that he was referring to the ball.
“Twenty points from Gryffindor,” she responded evenly, fixing him with a contemptuous glare.
“Shut it!” the boy’s friend hissed, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him away before he could do any more damage.
Gradually the others drifted off too, uncomfortably, wordlessly, until she was left alone, watching Snape hurling more explosive fury and believing with increasing certainly that he genuinely did harbour a death wish.
“Looks like the perfect stress relief.”
Hermione jerked around at the voice.
Luna smiled as she approached.
“I could definitely do with a bit of—what would you call it? . . . Combat therapy? Couldn’t you?”
Hermione sighed. “Do you really think that’s what this is?”
Luna shrugged. “Either that or he’s looking to face a thorny demon or two.”
Hermione’s gaze returned to the window. “Perhaps.”
“Like the rest of us,” Luna continued with her characteristic lightness.
Hermione looked sideways at her. “Some do it more privately than others.”
“That’s true.” Luna nodded. “But maybe some don’t want to do it alone.”
Hermione stared at Snape.
What was he really doing? Just blowing off some steam? Demonstrating that he hadn’t lost his potency? Issuing a warning . . . to her perhaps? Or was this actually an attempt, in his own fucked up way, to communicate? Was this, in fact, his cry for help?
***
Hermione stole quietly through the dungeon corridors. Seeking Snape out after such a disturbing display probably wasn’t the best idea in the world but being seen doing so would likely be even worse for both of them, especially after their very public performance at the ball.
She had tried to study. And then to read. But Luna’s words had kept coming back to her . . . and the image of him so uncharacteristically exposed, fierce but vulnerable, was just too troubling for her to ignore.
She had spent the last half hour daydreaming, running her fingertips absently over and over the scars on her forearm, thinking about his actions the previous evening . . . the way he’d forced her to confront her shame, pushing it protectively into her chest. It had felt significant at the time but she had been left, as usual, with more questions than answers.
And then there was the other matter that she wished to discuss with him.
In the end her journey into the subterranean chill had been inevitable, despite the fact that she was shivering more with fear and anticipation than cold by the time she arrived.
Pausing outside his door, she nervously clenched and unclenched her fists, attempting to regulate her breathing. There was always the possibility that he wouldn’t be there. But somehow she knew that he would. She had little doubt that after his reign of destruction he would have retreated to this dark, dank sanctuary . . . to hide behind his battlements of books.
She knocked.
Silence.
She waited.
Silence.
Should she knock again?
Possibly.
Or she could simply . . .
The handle turned, unimpeded. It was unlocked. With a tentative push, she peered inside the room.
His back was to her and his long arms were propped, outstretched against the mantelpiece. Hanging between his sagging shoulders was his dark head, bowed in what looked like exhaustion.
“Do you respect me so little?” His words held more weary resignation than bitterness.
“I do apologise, Headmaster.” Hermione quickly stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. “I simply wished to ensure that you were . . . safe.”
He snorted, hair swaying slightly with the subtle shake of his head.
“And of course I should be humbled by your intrusion.”
“I . . . No . . . Not at all,” Hermione fumbled. “I hoped that you would take me . . . I mean permit me . . . my presence in your . . . in your chambers in the spirit of . . . friendship.”
He lifted his head then but didn’t turn.
“Friendship? Is this how you engage with your ‘friends’?” His fingers tightened on the mantelpiece. “Is there anything about our interactions to date that would suggest that we are engaged in a friendship?”
Hermione was quite unprepared for the question. It took her a moment to gather her thoughts.
“I honestly don’t know what we’re engaged in. And I’m not sure I wish to venture a characterisation at this point. But I feel that your objective has been to help me. And you have. I feel better . . . stronger than I have since . . . well, for a considerable time.” She paused for him to respond but he remained silent. “I happen to wish to return the favour. I . . . I want to help you. And I think I can.”
“I don’t require your assistance . . . in any form . . . and certainly not to service of any of your, no doubt, charmingly altruistic motives,” he muttered snidely. “What I need most from you in this moment is a hasty withdrawal . . . Leave.”
Hermione didn’t move.
“I’ll leave if you grant me my freedom.” Her hands found one another, folding into a nervous knot. This was the other matter that she’d wanted to discuss with him.
“No.”
Despite her apprehension at making the request, she was taken aback by his flat-out refusal.
“You can’t keep me locked up here forever!” She suddenly lunged forward, grabbing him by the arm.
“Can’t I?” He turned on her with a snarl.
Gasping with shock, she instantly lifted her hand to him. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing,” he snapped, swatting her away from the bloody gash on his forehead.
“Let me heal you.”
“Leave it!” he ordered, grabbing her by the wrist as she attempted to raise her wand.
“Why? Why won’t you let me help you?” Her voice rose. “Don’t you trust me? I’ve told no one about what you’ve done to me . . . what you’ve made me do. And I won’t. I just needed to know that there was more. That you weren’t just a dark hearted bastard. That you weren’t simply motivated by spite . . . by the desire for retribution. I wanted to know that I could . . . affect you . . . as you’ve affected me. That I don’t . . . disgust you.”
She was surprised by how much this final admission hurt. She hadn’t even articulated it fully to herself. And yet it was the truth.
He gazed at her intently and she felt the tears spill from her brimming eyes.
“Disgust?” His pale features showed genuine shock. “You consider that I would be disgusted by you?”
She nodded hesitantly, drawing a shaky breath.
Releasing her wrist, he brought his hand to his face, placing two fingertips upon the bridge of his nose, ring finger resting upon his lips, little finger against the curve of his chin. Hermione frowned. What was he—
Suddenly he drew his hand sideways, across his face, reversing what was an extremely convincing and apparently long-standing Glamour.
The scar was deep. And long. A clean line, slicing from the corner of his mouth, all the way to his earlobe.
She choked, remembering his words . . . Weren’t the scars enough?
But then he moved his hand to his throat, watching her as he drew his index finger slowly down his front. The buttons released one by one until his coat was hanging open. Then he started on the shirt beneath. By the time he reached the final button, she was breathing audibly, her breaths rasping out for what she knew was coming.
Grasping a fistful of coat and shirt in each hand, he pulled them apart.
This time she couldn’t stop herself, a sorrowful moan seeping from between her lips.
If he had been an animal she would have cried. But he was a human being. And the level of suffering etched upon his skin, carved into it, was beyond anything she had ever seen. Tears weren’t nearly enough.
As it was, she was struggling to breathe.
She wanted to run but she couldn’t—not after he'd trusted her with his secret shame. She couldn’t touch him either—not as she would want to . . . he wouldn’t tolerate it. Instead she stood numbly, dumbly, feeling as impotent as she had pegged him to be.
Then she was struck by a sudden thought, possessed by an impulse, a desperate need for answers, despite the risk. Reaching forward with trembling fingers, she touched him, brushing his milky abdomen lightly as she attempted to undo the button on his trousers. His dark eyes flickered warily between her face and her hands but he didn’t stop her.
Finally releasing the button, she grasped the zipper and quickly yanked it down before she lost her nerve completely. She bit her lip hard . . . for courage, then pushed his trousers over his hips before curling her fingers into the waistband of his black boxer shorts.
Venturing a look at his face and seeing his mounting apprehension, she swallowed hard. Then pulled the elastic forward.
The fabric immediately flicked back, her shocked fingers unable to hold on. But she’d seen enough. Enough to understand the unfamiliar sensation when he’d penetrated her. Enough to explain him . . . and why he was the way he was. Enough to want to cradle him against her chest until the pain had gone . . . but it was, of course, too late.
“Who did this to you?” she whispered.
His gaze shifted downward, roving slowly over the torrid landscape of his body.
“Whomever valued their lives.”
“They were forced?”
“I was a defector . . . a turncoat . . . from the enemy. They were ordered to test my loyalty . . . to see how far they could take me before I would refuse to return.”
“But you did return.” She looked agonizingly at him. “You had to go back . . . for us . . . for . . . Harry.”
He simply stared, the weight of it crushing her.
It was too much—the thought of what he had been through. She cried quietly, head bowed, pausing occasionally to sniff or wipe her eyes on the back of her hand.
He didn’t move, remaining silent throughout.
When she finally managed to compose herself enough to face him, his features had settled into a visage of desolation, a type of stale shock . . . the face of someone who would have wept except that they’d run out of tears. As thought the last one had dried up years before . . . perhaps when he’d realised that no one was coming to help him. That he was on his own. Alone.
Reaching a hand upward, she touched the corner of his mouth . . . the scar there. His face spasmed, his lips drawing back as though in pain. It was clearly difficult, but she continued to trace the line, ghosting gently over its contours.
“What can I do for you?” she murmured. “What do you need? What relief can I bring you?”
The muscles of his jaw clenched under her fingertips.
“I can help you,” she crooned softly, continuing to caress him. “As you have helped me. I want to. Just tell me . . . Anything.”
Suddenly he snatched her hand away.
She looked up at him beseechingly, then dejectedly, realising that she would never be allowed to touch him . . . not where he needed it.
“Accio!”
Suddenly something came flying from across the room and landed with a stinging smack against her palm before he closed his own hand around hers. She stared in shock at what appeared to be a leather whip of some sort, long tails trailing down over their fists. As she peered closer, she noticed tiny glints of metal and realised that each strap was studded. This was designed to inflict pain. It would hurt.
Her heart was racing. Her throat was so parched that she couldn’t even swallow.
But if that’s what he needed. She would allow him to do it.
“I’ll take it,” she murmured, lifting her chin with as much bravery as she could muster.
He stared at her as he rolled his thumb gently over her knuckles.
“No you won’t,” he responded. “You’ll give it.”
Her stomach dropped.
Fuck.
- 11
- 12
- 13
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At the Headmaster’s Discretion *Complete*

At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete