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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
- 12
- 13
- 14
A/N: So, so sorry for the extended break between chapters. However, I did appreciate the queries and demands ;). I have been working on my SS/HG smutfest submission which is finally done so I can dedicate my time to this story. Thank you to those of you who continue to motivate me with your thoughts and feedback. Love to you all, DSx
Chapter alert – flogging.
SickPuppy – Yes, they’re both suffering – but at least they’re suffering together. x
Mistress – ‘Please, just heal with some love’ – it does seem like the solution . . . just difficult to achieve at the moment. <3
Kvarta – Oops I think I knew you were a Ravenclaw, but you are a definite Slytherin sympathiser ;) ‘They are way beyond even friends with benefits! And I see that he agrees with me’ – hahaha, I’d have to agree with you too. ‘This is maybe one of the weirdest and best declarations of love’ – ooh, so you think she’s fallen for him? :) ‘Btw, still not dark Snape, maybe the story line went darker by the notch, this is just badly tormented Snape, you make us feel for him even more’ – yes, I have a lot of difficulty characterising him as he is multi-dimensional (as we all are) but there are aspects of him that are certainly challenging. ‘Now, there is a point where one can argue whether he needs extreme pain to feel, at all!, or is he just acting out of the self-destructive motives, or he does need a physical pain to shut down the emotional one’ – well, now we have a bit more insight from this chapter. And I’ve already read your review over in AO3 – and I loved it. You can review wherever you like – just know that I will always love it. DSxx
OO – ‘Should I be getting a wetty from a character analysis?’ – hahah, probably not, I don’t know how good it was in the end. ‘disgust for kindness is a tough hurdle to leap’ – mmmm, lovely insight. ‘This is definitely your darkest Snape’ – yes, he’s got all the layers, this one. ‘Of course I think there might be more effective ways of handling his alienation now that he has someone who understands what he's going through, but who am I to deny a man such a cathartic outlet after he went to so much trouble to "assist" Hermione?’ – very true, and something Hermione tries to address in this chappie xx
KittyFiveTatts – I love your feedback. Thank you x
CheiChei87 – Lovely to hear from you. ‘Severus is forever evolving and the layers gradually exposing themselves, right before our eyes’ – I’m so pleased that you are enjoying the slow reveal of our favourite man. :) x
RynStar15 – Wow, I loved your comments so much! I’m glad this dark, complex version of Snape is to your liking. I’ve been wanting to write him for a while but considered he might be a bit much for many. Still, there are plenty on for the ride and I love it. Thanks again xx
BlackMaiden – Oh yes, the tables have turned ;)
Clem – Wow! Thank you! xx
Farfalle – I know, I do apologise. I loved your turn of phrase by the way xx
JadedFate – Thanks for checking up JF. Just a combination of RL and my smutfest submission which took way longer than expected. But I’m back now! xx

Chapter 13 – Whipmaster

“Will it . . . Is it intended to be . . . sexual?” Hermione stammered.
“Yes.”
Her eyes dropped from his, back to the leather flogger now growing damp in her anxious grip.
Her question sounded naïve but she had been compelled to ask. Things had suddenly escalated between them, and she certainly didn’t intend to make assumptions about what he expected to gain from the experience. With a past like his, it could serve any number of needs. And perhaps it would. It might hit the spot, so to speak, in complicated ways, inarticulable ways, ways that she was only just beginning to understand—sexual gratification a mere thread in what she was increasingly recognising as the tangled knot of one’s desires.
But acknowledging the complexity of his intentions didn’t necessarily mean that she was comfortable with them. Just because he wanted to be flogged didn’t mean that it would be ‘good’ for him—or for her. After all, she only needed to look at him to see the damage, to know that this hadn’t come to him by choice.
How much had his torrid past shaped him? And did it continue to feed him now? Sex . . . pain . . . torture . . . abuse . . . Should she even be fuelling it? Would she only be adding to the confusion?
Or was the confusion only hers? Did he understand himself and his motivations perfectly well? She looked at him again—the penetrating darkness of his eyes. He certainly seemed to understand hers.
He had alluded to it earlier—the perpetrator and the victim, suggesting that she had taken the role of the latter, in an effort to avoid confronting the former. He’d accused her of being passive—a recipient rather than a participant. Was this as much about her as about him? Was he trying to draw her out of herself again?
She chewed her lip. It was a risk. He was taking a risk with her, trusting her with something deeply personal—this man who trusted no one.
And she had promised to help. She’d begged to do it. Anything. She’d even been willing to offer herself in his place—again the ready victim, but the reluctant other.
And so there was really no argument. She had to do it. There was no other choice.
Despite reaching a decision, the dry lump in her throat was still there. She swallowed in an unsuccessful attempt to dislodge it.
“Do you wish to start now?”
He nodded. Short. Singular. No hesitation. The need must be high.
She stared at the bloody gash on his forehead. Had the trees had been another attempt to tap into it—to relieve that tension? Like trying to scratch an inaccessible itch . . . or lance some deeply buried boil, some elusive emotional abscess?
Or was she simply overthinking it—again. Could this genuinely be about sex alone? Getting off? And letting her help with the kink . . . because she’d asked to?
It wasn’t a satisfying explanation. But it never was. He’d explained everything and nothing to her so far. There had been many words uttered during their encounters but his meaning was rarely direct, forcing her to draw her own conclusions—inferences that were inevitably circular or convoluted, weaving themselves into more complicated knots . . . as was happening now.
Knots.
“Will I need to restrain you?” she asked.
He paused, appraising her with sharp, measured saccades, before delivering another nod. “I believe that would be appropriate.”
Appropriate? What about this was appropriate? What about anything they had done would be considered by an objective observer to be appropriate?
“Then you will need to teach me the rope incantation,” she stated, her eyes flicking briefly to the ceiling to gauge what might be required.
“Magical restraint?” He arched one dark eyebrow inquiringly.
“I believe that would be appropriate,” she responded with only a touch of sarcasm, before turning away from him so that he couldn’t see the apprehension on her face.
Let’s see how much he really did trust her.
***
Hermione’s blood was literally thundering in her ears. Whatever she had expected to feel, it wasn’t this.
They were in Snape’s bedroom—equally as bland as the remainder of his quarters—except that it now harboured the startlingly imposing figure of naked Snape. He stood in the middle of the room, wrists bound together by a rope from the ceiling such that his arms were held above his head, elbows bent. His legs were parted, his stance casual but solid, a rope around each ankle fixing him to the floor.
As Hermione stood before him, arms hanging loosely by her sides, wand trailing from one hand, the leather flogger from the other, she found herself captivated by him. The evidence of devastation was considerable but between the scars were swathes of satiny skin of such a fine, translucent quality that—with his lean muscularity—he gave the distractingly realistic impression of being carved from marble. He was like a chipped and hacked statue of David—desecrated . . . by jealous rivals perhaps, which brought with it an intense sadness for the beauty that had been defiled, but also an odd yearning to protect him from further harm—not a particularly helpful mindset considering what she was about to do.
His hair was dark and fine. Apart from that falling to his shoulders there was little else until one reached his pubic area, standing in stark contrast to the rest, pitch on snow, drawing the eyes there . . . and there happened to be plenty to see.
She looked there now, roving over his impressive dimensions, understanding why she could still feel the aftermath pulsing away between her legs. The scarring was considerable—horizontal lines on the shaft. Rather neat compared to the rest. She only just managed to stop herself from imagining the pain, focussing instead upon the not-so-casual hang, the smooth curve jutting out, brushing the inside of his thigh, betraying the beginnings of arousal. He was turned on. But which part appealed to him most? The whip? The binds? Or could it even be her?
She supposed she would find out.
Her eyes travelled back up to his, glinting like polished onyx behind a loose lock of hair. He might be firmly bound, but he was far from helpless. She doubted he would be able to free himself, not with the nature of the incantation, but he still possessed a formidable weapon, one that he could spar and strike with so very easily . . . his voice.
And that’s how he started.
“How did it feel to punch Draco?”
It caught her off guard. How did he know?
Her mind instantly began to churn through the years, peeling them back . . . wondering at exactly what . . . he . . . knew.
“I asked you how it felt,” he repeated more insistently—as though he weren’t the vulnerable one, as though he could still demand such things of her.
Apparently he could.
She answered.
“It was satisfying . . . I felt . . . powerful.” She lifted her wand slightly. “He deserved it.”
The corner of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly. It seemed to be the right answer—for him at least.
“‘Deserve’ is an interesting term, wouldn’t you agree?” He tilted his head slightly, drawing her in. “Both a reward and punishment . . . depending upon your perspective—your relative . . . position.”
She inhaled sharply before blinking away his hold on her. He seemed to do it so easily, often without her even being aware of the fine web that was being spun.
“You asked . . . I answered honestly.” She lifted her chin in mild rebuke. “Your interpretations and inferences are your own.”
One dark eyebrow flexed upward.
“Indeed. And yet here you are . . . about to give another what he ‘deserves’.”
She shook her head a little. “This is not about ‘deserving’. It is simply an offer to assist—to fulfil a request. Your request. This is not about me.”
“Isn’t it?”
Her finger tapped on the flogger. Perhaps she had been right. He might be revealing a great deal. But maybe he would be asking her to reveal more.
“And what if you had had this opportunity a matter of weeks ago. What would I have ‘deserved’ then?”
She studied his face. The frown had lifted slightly—he wasn’t accusing her. Clearly he knew that she’d hated him but seemed quite comfortable with the fact, as though it was expected. Did he set out to be hated? Was that a more secure position to occupy? Did it fit better with his own self-image? Certainly he seemed more capable of accepting the hatred of others than the opposite—kindness, affection . . . love.
It was true. She might have welcomed the opportunity to punish him only a few weeks prior but now she knew him better. Or perhaps she didn’t. Perhaps she understood him but still knew as little of him as she had at the outset. Regardless, she was reluctant to engage in any further analysis of her own motivations. This was difficult enough as it was.
Taking a step toward him, she addressed him directly. “What do you wish me to do to you?”
“Whatever is required.”
More fucking cryptic intimations.
“By whom?” Her voice was tight.
“By the hand that controls . . . the body that responds . . . the perpetrator . . . the victim . . . the provider . . . the recipient. The whip is merely an interface after all . . . a point of contact.”
His eyes didn’t leave hers. She felt them sucking her in. She only just managed to tear herself away, stepping aside and around him, moving quickly until she was behind him. Safe.
But from behind he was equally as striking, impossibly sculpted, lean and muscular, but damaged. He was damaged—she needed to remember that. But the way he spoke, the power he had over her, seemed to naturally strip away both her understanding and compassion.
He was goading her. It was clear. But she would have preferred for him to be honest. Or at least more helpful. She wanted to feel like she was helping him in return. Not hurting him. And certainly not punishing him.
“Where should I start?”
“Wherever strikes you.”
‘Just fucking tell me,’ she muttered under her breath, jiggling the flogger in agitation.
“You’re afraid.” He turned his head slightly, directing his voice over one bare shoulder. “You’re afraid of yourself—afraid to discover your true motivations. You are afraid of the damage you can do—of seeing it manifested on the flesh of another.”
Hermione shook her head in mute denial. She understood perfectly well the damage she could do. She’d already done it. To many. To people she loved.
“People get what they deserve . . . in the end. Isn’t that what you intimated?” he continued. “And if that is the case—if life is fair, then so is the torture, the scars—all of it. All of it is simply meant . . . to . . . be.”
Hermione’s breathing quickened. Her hand tightened around the handle of the flogger.
“I didn’t suggest that life was fair,” she responded evenly. “It isn’t. What happened to you . . . what happened to both of us wasn’t fair. I don’t assume that people deserve what they get. And I don’t believe that you deserve this. But I’m going to give it to you, as requested, because I agreed to help. And because you refuse to give me direction, I apologise in advance.”
Stepping to the side, she readied herself, eyeing the contours of his back. It was the largest and easiest target to begin with. Who knew if it was what he wanted.
Gritting her teeth, she brought her arm back before flinging it forward, lashing the tails across his skin with a loud slap.
He hissed, his muscles tensing, appearing sharply defined as though engraved into his skin. She followed with another solid smack and a third lower down in the small of his back which caused him to jerk and grunt. She continued lower, lashing his buttocks, whipping the tails around his hips and then the backs of his thighs. His muscles twitched and popped as each blow landed, his biceps straining against the binds but he said not a word. The next flurry was aimed at his buttocks, stinging blows that left thatches of scarlet over the pearly lustre of his skin.
Hermione was already breathing heavily, a combination of exertion and the sudden surge of adrenaline. Propping the flogger on her hip, she stepped back to take stock. Then she saw it—his erection—now jutting straight out, bobbing keenly. He was obviously getting something out of it.
Watching him closely, she moved sideways until she was standing before him. Even though his body was etched with tension, his face was surprisingly calm. Is that what she had done to him? Or was her role of little importance? Was he simply responding indiscriminately to the pain?
“Tell me,” she said, eyes roving over his face, taking in the fine sheen of perspiration. “What are you after? The pain? Or me?”
He gazed at her intently for a long moment—long enough for her to wish that she hadn’t asked . . . and that she hadn’t been stupid enough to venture back into view. “Both,” he stated finally. “You are the pain . . . the pain is you.”
Her eyes shuttered slightly at yet another obscure claim. Such a statement could be taken a number of ways. Certainly he’d made it clear that he’d found her insufferable right from the beginning. She had pained him. And it appeared that she was paining him still.
But she didn’t want to. She didn’t want that responsibility. His pain wasn’t hers to own—he’d asked for it after all. And it wasn’t as though she didn’t have enough of her own to deal with.
“And what if I’m not comfortable with that notion?”
“Perhaps being aroused is more important than being comfortable?”
Aroused? Was he attempting to peg her as a willing participant . . . again? She realised then that she did feel rather flushed, her mouth was dry and the throb between her thighs had deepened. But what did he expect? It wasn’t the fact that she was hurting him, it was the fact that he stood before her naked, muscular, glistening, with a substantial erection. Of course she was aroused. But it was extremely unfair to conflate the two.
“It was you who wanted this.”
“And I still want it,” he responded darkly, fixing her with a scorching look that went straight to her pussy, making any attempt to deny her arousal impossible.
“Let us discuss pleasure instead,” he continued. “Describe it . . . tell me how it felt when I . . . did things to you.” His voice drizzled over her, coating her, filling her crevices like dark treacle. She couldn’t deny its effect upon her. Even when she hated what he was saying, she was captivated by his delivery, just the mellifluous syllables dripping from his lips.
“You brought me . . . relief.”
“When my hands were inside you, my tongue, my . . . cock . . . drawing out deluge after dripping deluge of your earnest essences, your hips writhing and pumping, the air filled with your wordless, grunting pleas for more . . . they were all in aid of relief?”
She swung the flogger lightly against her palm. Of course he’d gratified her—in the most extreme manner she could ever have imagined. But it wasn’t calm and comfortable, as she considered pleasure to be, it was intense, urgent, fierce and sometimes violent. It was sensation concentrated to the point of explosion. ‘Pleasure’ didn’t quite capture it.
“What point are you trying to make?”
“Pleasure . . . even arousal is not always what we expect it to be. Indeed, the very opposite—pain—can bring it into existence, casting it . . . like a shadow.”
She peered at him, trying to understand.
He sighed impatiently. “Do I need to spell it out? You are in no position to determine the nature of pleasure for another.”
“And yet you chose to do so for me.”
“I know what you need. You don’t,” he stated bluntly. “And I also happen to know what I need.”
She looked at him. All of him. Raking her eyes down his body, lingering on his protruding cock, before returning to rest upon his face.
“What exactly do you need, Headmaster?” She stepped up close, trailing the flogger lightly down his abdomen.
His face twitched a little in response to her touch. “I need you to finish what you started.”
His body was responding to her, his muscles hitching under her light caress. It didn’t need to be like this. Harsh. Brutal. She could take him another way. And he would respond.
“I promised to help you. I didn’t say how I would do it.”
Tossing the flogger onto a nearby chair, she moved behind him, opening the large wardrobe beside his bed.
“Must I remind you that you are in my private chambers? My invitation does not allow you carte blanche over my personal property.”
She ignored him, trailing her hand over the neat rows of clothing hanging inside.
“I demand that you desist . . . immediately.” The warning was unmistakable.
She continued to search. Behind his robes she discovered a belt hanging from a hook. It might be awkward but it would do in a pinch. Then she pulled the next door open and found another hook with a hanger, draped over which were two dress ties. Black. No surprises. She’d never seen him in a tie before but perhaps he only wore them for special occasions—for court perhaps? Or funerals? It struck her then that he always seemed to be dressed for a funeral, as though perpetually in mourning.
But not now. Now he wasn’t dressed at all. And she found that she preferred it. In fact, there was only one thing that she considered could improve his current attire. Sliding one of the ties from the hanger, she tested it for strength. It would do perfectly.
She could have easily cast a silencing incantation on him but she didn’t want him silent; she still wanted to hear him—the noises that he would make. But she didn’t want the words. She couldn’t deal with them anymore. And they would only get worse as things . . . progressed.
His face had darkened, thunderous shadows continuing to descend over his features as he noted the tie grasped in both of her fists.
He lifted his chin uneasily. “Think very carefully about what you are planning to do.”
“You consider that I don’t spend enough of my time thinking already, Headmaster?” she responded without even attempting to sound innocent. There was no point in trying to play games with him. Lifting the tie, she pressed it insistently against his lips until it was wedged into his mouth, trapping his tongue and covering over his scar. Then she tied it tightly behind his head.
He looked displeased. Intensely. But there was something else—a tiny spark glimmering in the recesses of those impossibly black globes—enough, at least, for her to continue.
Moving behind him, she leaned in close, releasing a long breath as she trailed both hands down the collage of destruction from his shoulders to his buttocks—new welts upon old. She rubbed his buttocks gently, the places that she had concentrated her efforts, trying to soothe the burn.
Closing her eyes, she rested her forehead lightly against him. Laying down further layers, scars upon scars, wasn’t the answer. She knew that. She knew that now—he had shown her.
Now she would have to show him.
If she was the pain, then she could also be the pleasure—the pleasure she wanted to be.
- 12
- 13
- 14
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At the Headmaster’s Discretion *Complete*

At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete