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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
- 18
- 19
- 20
A/N: Hope you enjoy, DSxx
OO – Hey there, I hope you get some answers soon but I’m glad you are still able to write. I actually got a decent night of writing in myself, although I probably should be asleep now :) ‘And now I want to be his official cod piece’ – hahaha, I imagine you would make a very good cod piece :) ‘What the hell is going on with the book?’ – good questions, all (or some) will be revealed in this chapter. ‘WTF is going on? I'm so confused’ – hopefully this chapter will help clarify that too. ‘I need more! You're killing me (and I'm already halfway there, so it won't take much to finish me off)’ – sorry but this made me LOL. ‘BTW, is Montulomens derived from something else?’ – Motulomens is derived from the Latin ‘motus’ for emotion. xx
Kvarta – ‘I love their interaction, how he is surrendering to her seduction and participating actively in it’ – thank you, I enjoyed writing this part. ‘WHO was he in the group as well’ – good question, more in this chapter. ‘she really likes to ask the right question at the worse possible time, does she?’ – ummmm, yes. ;) ‘my brain is on vacation and refuses to think’ – your brain is more than entitled to a break (and a few cocktails ;)). Lovely to hear from you x
Chapter 19 – Spymaster
Discovering the truth turned out to be less surprising, and considerably less satisfying, than Hermione might have expected. After all, his back was now to her, his broad shoulders moving in swift jerks, as he attempted to tidy himself in the wake of what had turned out to be an intense confrontation in every sense.
Sitting up, Hermione winced as the tenderness of her backside made itself fully apparent. Skin still tacky from being smeared in his essence, she looked around despondently, wondering if she should, like him, be removing all evidence of the encounter or settling in to demand more answers.
He moved away, thrusting himself back into his coat like an accoutrement that he should never have cast aside before setting about securing the buttons, head bowed, hands moving with speed and determination. She didn’t move. All she could do was watch the rhythmic roll of his fingers until he finally reached the bottom and slipped them away, out of sight, into his pockets. Pausing for a brief moment, he lifted his head without looking at her. Hermione wondered if he was going to speak but instead he turned toward the pale light of the window, covering the distance with long strides before halting too close to the panes, his face rendered little more than a ghostly reflection.
At least he hadn’t left.
“Why did the Ministry ask you to spy on your students?” Hermione spoke to his rigid back as she gradually worked her buttocks to the edge of the desk, using her hands to reduce the pressure on her sphincter.
“They didn’t,” he replied.
She frowned in confusion. Then who was he working for?
“They asked me to spy on you.” He suddenly turned to face her. His demeanour seemed to instantly change—he was her Headmaster again—formidable, unperturbable.
Her eyes widened in surpise. “Why?”
His own face remained emotionless. “You can’t . . . posit a reason?”
Hermione was taken aback. She had assumed that he had been appointed by the Ministry to watch everybody, staff and students alike, and that Professor McGonagall had found out and wanted him removed because of it.
“I don’t understand,” she responded, pushing herself off the desk to stand on the cold floor. “Does the Ministry consider me to be some sort of threat?”
“Yes.”
She almost laughed.
“For what reason? Skipping classes? Over-consumption of books?”
He clearly didn’t share her amusement, his deep frown remaining steadfastly in place as she bent down to retrieve her shirt and underwear.
“So, after Voldemort, the biggest threat to the Wizarding world is Hermione Granger, is it?” she continued sarcastically as she dragged her knickers up and slung her bra over one shoulder and then the next. “You’re telling me that a school girl who can’t even manage to tame her own hair in the mornings is deemed a threat worthy of perhaps the greatest spy to ever live?”
He lifted his nose to peer at her. “Why did you insist upon attending the book group?”
Hermione stared at him before flicking her shirt to straighten it. “Because I enjoy reading books . . . as do you.” She swept her gaze pointedly around the packed shelves. “And I wished to share the experience with others.”
“With Muggles.”
She shrugged. “What does that matter?”
“What did you talk about?”
As his careful tone and insinuating frown seeped into her, a sense of unease began to worm its way into her stomach.
“Maybe you should tell me? You were there, weren’t you?” she responded tersely. Then a bolt of realisation struck her. “You . . . You were Samuel, weren’t you? In the book group?”
He arched an eyebrow.
It was quite obvious now that she thought about it. His hair had been quite a bit shorter and his eyes a disconcertingly vivid green but he was the same height, same surly countenance, in fact she couldn’t ever remember hearing him speak, rather spending the evening in a dark corner watching everything very closely . . . including her.
Buttoning up her shirt she continued. “As you know, we talked about books—plots . . . characters . . . how we felt about them . . . the author’s intention.” She gave a dismissive shake of her head. “The usual things a book group would talk about.”
“And yet some found your comments most intriguing . . . your various insights . . . inferences . . . suggestions of something . . . more.”
She stopped buttoning and looked at him. “I didn’t . . .” His intense gaze made her falter. “They didn’t understand it all . . . I made sure.”
“Really?” he drawled disbelievingly. “You spoke of losing people . . . friends, many at once, you referred to fighting—battles, you even mentioned magic, if only obliquely, diminishing its potential usefulness to ‘chores and killing’.”
“It was . . .” Hermione was having trouble recalling her exact words. Had she said those things? “It was only in the spirit of sharing our thoughts . . . our . . . imaginings . . . I didn’t ever suggest that they were facts.”
“You became very emotional. You were comforted by one in particular. You shared more with him than with the rest.”
Hermione stared. So he knew. He knew she had developed feelings for someone and yet he had done what he had done to her—he had forced her to engage with him sexually despite knowing that there was someone else. Crossing the room, she snatched up the clothes she had discarded on her earlier quest to seduce him.
“Is that when you became jealous?” she snarled.
“No, that’s when I sought to intervene.”
She dragged up her skirt and buttoned it, her movements fuelled by hot surges of anger, before shoving her feet into her shoes.
“Why? Because I’m not allowed to have a life? I’m not allowed to interact with anyone who isn’t already fucked up?”
He remained impassive.
“Who do I have? Who does any of us have?” Her voice came out in a strangled cry as the emotion welled up, stoppering her throat. “Who wants to talk about what happened? No one! Everyone is trying to move on—as though the others would have wanted it. But they wouldn’t—they would have wanted to be alive, or at least fiercely remembered—felt with some intensity. Not this . . . nothingness . . . this pathetic attempt to make meaning out of their blood, their . . . ashes,” she choked. The tears were flowing freely now. “Why wouldn’t I seek understanding? Why wouldn’t I look for someone open enough, far enough away from this stifling mess, to listen?”
His brow creased momentarily. She saw something of her Severus before he quickly disappeared.
“A Muggle?” he muttered accusingly.
“Why does that matter?” she cried in exasperation.
“Because . . . the book group wasn’t the only place that you frequented.”
She wiped a hand across her damp face, looking warily at him.
“Voldemort was never the greatest threat to the Wizarding world.” Snape regarded her with a crushing intensity. “It was always the others—the non-magics, the Muggles. They might have been recruited to assist us against him but the preference was always to conceal, to attempt to hide even his destruction from them. Didn’t you ever wonder why?”
Hermione didn’t respond.
“Because it is the nature of humankind to destroy what they do not understand. Non-magics would tear us apart in an effort to learn our secrets, to harness our powers. One need only look to how witches were fated in the past to understand what would happen if our world were fully revealed. And whilst we possess a number of defences, by far the most important is Obliviation. It is really the last frontier between our two streams of existence.”
Hermione reached over and picked up her wand from the desk, gripping it tightly in her fist.
Snape noticed. But he continued.
“Which is why the Obliviation Reversal spell or, more precisely, the Muggle Obliviation Reversal spell has been outlawed since the earliest days. It does not exist and has never been allowed to exist. In fact, anyone known to be seeking to develop it has been delivered the harshest of sanctions . . . Azkaban . . . or worse.”
Hermione’s heart lurched as Snape took a step towards her.
“And yet, until very recently, a bright, young witch was looking to do just that. She had been scouring the Muggle libraries, the Muggle book shops, the Hogwarts restricted section, using her status and privileges as Head Girl, in an attempt to discover the elements required to construct the Muggle Obliviation Reversal spell.”
Hermione’s lips began to quiver. “You know why,” she responded hoarsely. “You know why I’m doing it . . . I want them back. I . . . need them.”
“You do not . . . need . . . anyone.”
His words from the previous evening shook her to the core. All of it. All of it had been for this.
Raking a trembling hand into her hair, she grasped the roots painfully, trying to process his words.
“I wouldn’t have taken it any further,” she pleaded. “I would have stopped at them. I just want them to see me again . . . to recognise me—their daughter. There would be no one else.”
“No other Muggles that you would want to reveal to?” He took another step. “No one else that you would want to ‘understand you’, that you would seek to show the ‘truth’?”
She shook her head despairingly.
“And what if they wanted it of you? What if they had a taste of what existed and knew that you could reveal every encounter they’d ever witnessed, restore all of the memories of our world that had been covered over?”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Could you have resisted? A naïve girl claiming to be an adult? Traumatised, guilt-ridden and acutely unaware of herself?”
Her shaking grew more pronounced.
“Imagine a sexually-experienced Muggle male showing you what I have. With your propensity to project, to fixate, to attach. Imagine his power over you.” His voice was tight. “You have become disillusioned with this world. And you are seeking to relinquish its hold on you. You are a threat . . . you are, in fact, one of the greatest threats there has ever been. Once an Obliviation has been removed, it can never be reinstated, or another one cast. You can render Muggles immune to us . . . and I believe that eventually you would have, either deliberately or by inducement.”
“Would have?” She attempted a sneer but it turned into a grimace of pain. “Before you rendered me safe? Before you acted with impunity to fuck me into submission.”
“Submission?” His frown deepened. “You suppose that that was my purpose?”
Her jaw muscles clenched fitfully. “Your purpose was the same as mine . . . you wanted what I wanted . . . to soothe the hurt. But I sought it honestly. I didn’t attempt to steal it under the guise of ‘therapy’ . . . or ‘neutralisation’ . . . or ‘doing the fucking Ministry’s dirty work’.”
His face hardened.
“Didn’t they know how fucked up you really were?” she pressed on, lifting her chin with increasing conviction. “Didn’t they realise that you were too damaged to do the job properly? That you would fall for me just as I have fallen for you?”
His breathing suddenly faltered.
“You tried to keep your distance, didn’t you?” Hermione’s voice was steeped in bitterness. “You played the cold, callous bastard so well—you made me feel like the worst kind of person so I would come to you, desperate for redemption, to relieve the guilt.” The last word caught in her throat and she practically had to swallow it down before continuing. “But there were cracks. You were too easily hurt . . . by just a few words—the suggestion that no one would want you.” Something flickered across his features, the shadow of old pain. “You obviously crave acceptance and I wanted to give it to you.” She gestured helplessly with her wand. “I had. I had forgiven you everything. But now this—now I discover that all of it has been one continuous manipulation, orchestrated by a man whose ‘purpose’ is riddled with ulterior motives that even he cannot admit to.”
The rigid rods of his arms thrust deeper into his pockets, but still he didn’t speak.
Digging into her skirt pocket, Hermione pulled out the book and placed it on his desk. Touching her wand to the surface, she restored it to its original size before fingering the bronze snake head.
“This book was your choice, wasn’t it? A test . . . a story close enough to me, to my trauma, to draw me out—to share . . . And it worked . . . I failed.”
She could feel his dark eyes boring into her as she smoothed her palm over the cover, the truth manifesting in his silence.
“So what now?” She turned to him, feeling the pain of rejection welling within her.
“The Ministry will be informed.”
Her face contorted, straining with the flood of words that wanted to pour out. But there ended up being only four, “And what about us?”
She tried to be strong but her lips trembled as though she were, once again, in the grips of her worst fear . . . that of being alone.
His nostrils flared as his chest filled over and over. It was clear that he wanted to say something, or do something . . . to her . . . with her, but he did neither . . . turning away, returning to the window, back firming into a protective wall.
Numb with shock and fighting back tears, she stumbled toward the door. As she grasped the handle, she glanced back once last time, seeing his cold, bleak reflection and knowing that it was he whom she had pursued in her dream—the one always just out of reach, the one she had been compelled to follow despite her fear, the one she had desperately wanted . . . but never found.
The blur of stairs and passages barely registered as, head down, Hermione rushed back to her room. She was almost there when she heard the voice.
“Hermione!”
Turning, she saw a young girl running towards her.
“Hey, congratulations! I just saw it!” The girl beamed. “It was like a waterfall of rubies!”
Hermione shook her head in confusion. “Sorry . . . I don’t—”
“The house points. They’re all back!” the girl crowed. “No more detention!”
Hermione’s hand went to her mouth. Turning, she ran blindly through her bedroom door.
“I thought you’d be pleased!” the girl called after her.
Hermione threw herself onto the bed, burying her face in her pillow.
And screamed.
- 18
- 19
- 20
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At the Headmaster’s Discretion *Complete*

At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete