Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Massage	By : CryingCinderella Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 52203 -:- Recommendations : 3 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor do I make any money from writing these stories.

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A/N: Thank you for the reviews! Please keep them coming! I love to hear critiques!

She hadn’t given herself long to prepare, assuming the man would promptly leave the Headmistress’s office and adjourn straight to the hospital win. Fortunately her days running rampant through Hogwarts with her friends had taught her a trick or two about navigating the castle with expedience and ease. Hermione had arrived in the hospital wing only a few moments after departing the Headmistress’s office thanks to a hidden passageway along the long corridor and a winding staircase hidden behind a portrait two floors above the wing. The wing was quiet, most patients preferred not to be bound to the hospital wing for the duration of the weekend, and providing their injuries were not too serious, she dismissed them to their houses to rest comfortably among their friends.

            Hermione stepped into the private patient room she had prepared for his treatment. It was similar to the other private rooms, a proper enclosed space with a door that locked and no windows. She had banished the bed from the room and in its place set up the massage table she had found in the closet in Poppy’s office. The file folder on his treatment had not been as extensive as she had hoped; however it had given enough detail for her to find the implements with which to properly administer the treatment. The wall to the far edge of the room was lined with a counter and wash sink; as were all the patient rooms. She had laid out several pots of the salve listed in the folder. They were potent healing salves, numbing creams, mixed with volatile ingredients designed to treat nerve disorders. She hadn’t had much exposure to them in her time at Mungo’s but was familiar with their various properties.

            It wasn’t the notion of treating the man that made her nervous; she was an accomplished healer for her age and she knew that they would not have recommended the position at Hogwarts if her skills had not proved worthy. Injuries in children and young adults were often more difficult to treat and required a great deal more concentration and clever thinking on one’s feet than injuries in full-grown witches and wizards. She felt certain of her ability. It wasn’t even the nature of the treatment that had her rattled. A full bodied massage would be a bit embarrassing, though the topic had been covered in her patient sensitivity classes; how to treat the patient as professionally as possible and do everything to create a comforting atmosphere to allow the patient to feel more at ease. The problem was the patient.

            She was certain that nothing would put Severus Snape at ease given the current situation and aside from the utter humiliation and degradation in the treatment itself, it would present countless ways for the man to lash out and humiliate her to ease his own sense of discomfort. Hermione found her throat to be very dry and that her hands had taken on a slight tremble. She cursed herself and shook her hands violently; as one does when trying to shake the tingling feeling of pins and needles after a limb has fallen asleep; and after a moment her hands had stilled. She was not inept. And despite the absurdity of the situation she was determined to help the man.

            Even if he had made her time at Hogwarts more difficult than was necessary; and led to large amounts of torment that kept her awake at night trying to improve upon herself; she would treat him as any other patient in need. During her apprenticeship at Mungo’s she’d healed former death eaters who had come in with injuries so foul it was beyond her ability to describe them. And despite her trepidation to treat such foul men; guilty of heinous crimes against mankind, she had treated them, healed them. And he would be no different. He had, after all been an instrumental part of winning the war against Voldemort.

            Hermione found herself pacing around the tiny patient room. It was a habit she adapted when nervous or anxious, one that she detested almost as much as chewing on her lower lip. She’d tried very hard to not fall victim to old habits, but as the minutes ticked away she found herself unable to stop pacing. Why hadn’t he arrived? Perhaps he had disobeyed the Headmistress and limped back to his chambers. The notion of having to go and retrieve him from the dungeons was almost more nerve-wracking than waiting for him to arrive in the Hospital Wing. Her eyes watched the door to the private room. She’d left it open, presenting her with a clear view of the main entrance to the ward; but it was vacant, and quiet.

            The Hospital Wing was eerily quiet. Normally she found herself preoccupied with reading, or making new potions, but as the storeroom was quite full and the patients all dismissed it present Hermione with the silence that she was unaccustomed to. Every rustle of the wind outside the windows, the sounds of the pipes running through the wall as students used the plumbing both above and below her; she heard every sound. The way the candles flickered ever so slightly in the stillness of the rooms, the shadows they created on the darkened walls; it seemed foreign and haunting rather than familiar and sterile. It set her nerves on edge even more than before.

            She silently hoped that he would not arrive as her hands had begun to tremble once more. And if she didn’t know better she would have sworn his condition to be contagious. A spot of tea would calm her nerves and so she set to gathering herbs and spices; chamomile and arrowroot, with lavender and sage. It would make a strong scented calming brew that would help put her mind at ease while she waited. The tea did help; the notion that it was intended to soothe tricking her hands into stilling their clattering dance as she held the warm cup in her palms. Although her body had calmed, her mind was still racing at a heightened level; running through the procedures and how she would proceed if he arrived. The file had stated that it was a full body treatment; and from her examinations during her apprenticeship she had recalled the procedure being performed on a naked model patient.

            A frown creased her lips. Seeing the man naked was not high on her priority list. It was not in fact anywhere on her priority list; though the notion did not repulse her nearly as much as she had thought it would. He was not a repulsive man; not like Filch, the mere thought of the castle caretaker made her shudder. Though he was hardly what she considered to be handsome. He was simply unkempt; but not in such a way that made him dirty. It was evident that the man took little care in his hair and skin, though he was not blemish-ridden or pock-marked, though she was certain he was not applying beauty creams and oils before bedtime. His figure was lean, in so much as she could tell from the way he carried his robes; swishing about behind him when he walked. And although his nose was large, hooked at the end, and crooked in places, perhaps from breaks through the years, his face was not of poor continence. His features were well defined if nothing else, high cheek bones, sculpted jaw, smooth forehead; all of these things compose the image of Severus Snape in her mind. But he was certainly not what he would deem attractive, and he was certainly not someone she desired to see naked. Though she imaged it would be quite difficult to administer the salves and creams to his skin otherwise.

            It was later than she had realized when she heard the clock striking eleven. How long had it been since she’d departed the Headmistress’s office? Hermione couldn’t be sure. At least a few hours had managed to pass while she waited. She was torn. A part of her yearned to floo Minerva and query over his absence. A part of her was swept up with relief that he had not yet shown his person in the Hospital Wing. And a part of her was tugged with guilt and concern. Clearly the man was in pain; limited in his movements, and she longed to seek him out and insist that she be allowed to administer the treatment. Not because she had a fond desire to rub her hands over the man’s naked skin, but because as a healer it was her duty, her oath, to see to it that the patient received proper treatment and care when in need. And he was a man who was visibly; despite his denial; in need.

            Her eyelids were drooping when the main door to the Hospital Wing swung inward with a loud creak. She jumped up from where she had been leaning against the counter in the private patient room. The candles had all but melted, the nubs burning a dim glow so faint it was hardly detectable from the main entrance. She could just make out his figure; the tall thin shadow, with his weight shifted forward against the cane. Hermione released a breath that she hadn’t meant to hold and then she smoothed her hands down the front of her robes. With slow and careful steps she exited the patient room and moved to greet him. “Good evening,” she said softly.

            He noted the distinct lack of cheery smile that had plagued her face upon his first visit to the hospital wing. She was not seated at the main desk but rather hovering in an open doorway of a patient room toward the back of the main wing. Perhaps she was too preoccupied with other patients, which was just as fine in his opinion. But the tremors and the shooting pains along with the inability to stand straight and the throbbing ache was getting the better of him. He would often wait as long as he could between treatments and he had already delayed himself by two days, trying to be more resistant. Had he known that his care nurse would be taking unwarranted leave he would have arrived sooner. His scowl was sealed in place against his lips as he moved forward, leaning heavily once more upon the cane. It only served to anger him further; dependency was not a pleasant feeling.

            She watched him with rapt attention as he approached. He had not responded to or acknowledged her greeting; though she hadn’t expected much more than a nod. His shoulders were hunched as he leaned against the cane, though she noted no twisted expressions of anguish upon his face. He managed to look the same as he always did save for the limp and the distorted posture. Hermione kept her arms straight at her sides; it was like observing wild creatures the slightest of movements would startle them. The thought caused her mental hilarity for a moment and she tilted her head to the side as if allowing the notion to slide out of her head so that she wouldn’t burst into giggles at the idea of Severus Snape as a wild magical creature. With her mind cleared she blinked and then gazed at the approaching man once more.

            She waited until he was only a few steps from the door before she spoke again. “I have prepared this room for your treatment,” she said. She could not catch his eye, though she wasn’t sure if it was because he refused to meet her gaze or if it was because she had looked away before he’d had the chance. With two tiny steps Hermione moved out of the doorway and waited for him to enter the patient room. He did so without words and although his steps were weighted, the cane echoing against the stone floor, he did so with relative grace. Once inside the room she stepped in after him and slowly closed the door. The room had been warmed with a simple enchantment, the hospital wing was often drafty especially during the night hours, but as she stood there with her back facing the man, she felt flushed and uncomfortably warm; her robes itching her arms. It wasn’t the room that was making her uncomfortable; once again it was the patient. But she held her tongue and waited, not really knowing how to proceed.

            Her lack of words was not for lack of knowing how to proceed with a patient it was for lack of knowing how least to irritate her current patient. She figured that simply instructing the man on how to proceed would only serve to flare his temper and to have him agitated before they began would do no good for either of them. So she waited. Hermione was certain that he would speak; perhaps attempt to instruct her on how Poppy had gone about his treatment, though she doubted the Mediwitch deviated from the textbook outline of the procedure. Or perhaps he would berate her with warnings and issue her commands to not screw up, or other words of malice. But he remained silent. After a moment Hermione turned to face him.

            Their eyes met and for the longest time he appeared to study her as if she were the creature on observation, as if she were the patient waiting assessment. Hermione remained still, trying to keep her face as neutral as he kept his own expressions. He was still leaning heavily on the cane, his weight supported mostly by it; and even with his tight grip she noted the tremble in his fingers. His face seemed weary then, after she noted the frailty of his frame, the way he slouched, the way his knuckled were as pale as alabaster gripping the head of the cane. She nodded her head once and stepped forward. “It is my understanding that you require a full-body treatment,” she said. Still he remained silent. “You should undress,” she said and then quickly turned her back to him, her hand reaching for the door. “I will wait outside for a few moments, if you require assistance…” she let her voice trail off. “I will be outside the door.”

            Hermione excused herself from the room, closing the door behind her. She dared not sigh aloud so instead she softly hissed a strained breath, feeling her chest loosen as she did. It was a difficult situation to say the least. Clearly he did not want the treatment to be administered by her, no more than she wished to administer the treatment, but as a healer it was her duty. Perhaps if she tried to just imagine the man as any other patient assigned to her duties it would make the dilemma somewhat easier. But trying to imagine Severus Snape anyone other than Severus Snape was impossible. The man had too profound an impact on her childhood; growing up in his tutelage, tormenting her, regardless his intentions of protection and perseverance, she could not see him for anyone other than who he was. He was a dark man, surly and bitter, but despite his unpleasantness he was a man in need of assistance, however much he would deny it. And if Poppy Pomphrey could handle his care then she would be able to manage.

            Despite being Severus Snape, he was only a man. Hermione smoothed her hands down her robes again. Minutes had passed, though how many she wasn’t certain as she had stood outside the door debating her ability to treat the man within. She supposed enough time had passed to allow him to undress and set himself on the table, even in his current hindered state. She turned to face the closed door. With a solid sounding knock, Hermione rapped her fist against the door thrice, waiting for his protest of her entry. When she was met with silence Hermione reached for the handle and turned it slowly.

            She entered the room and then closed the door behind her. He was seated with his back to her; his long slender legs; pale and covered sparsely with wiry black hair, dangled from the edge of the table. His robes were folded neatly in a chair that was placed against the wall, his cane resting across the pile of clothing. With a soft clicking sound she locked the door and moved swiftly over to the counter where she had laid out the salve and cream that she would apply to his body. One a strong nerve agent, a blue salve to penetrate deep into the skin, which would render him numb as it repaired damaged nerve tissues, the other a thick pink cream to be applied over his skin to help soothe the surface nerves, ease the tremors and twitching. It was a simple procedure, if time consuming, as there was no quick way to massage the man’s entire body in both the salve and the cream. Hermione despised haste; it left more margin for error and was often the mark of a careless healer. Hermione was not a careless healer.

            “I am going to start with the front of your torso, neck and shoulders and work my way down your body before moving on to your backside, as noted in your previous treatment record,” she said. She waited. She did not inhale, her palms resting flat on the counter. He gave no indication of having heard her, though she supposed silence was preferred to violent verbal protest. The jar of the blue salve reminded her of jelly; it jiggled when she touched it and felt cool against her fingers. Her eyelids closed for a moment. It was only prolonging the inevitable as she waited. She refused to acknowledge her pause as hesitation, but the man behind her was naked. The man behind her was Severus Snape. Naked Severus Snape, and vulnerable, bared before her to see due to a curse long suffered in his life as a double agent for the greater good. She allowed herself the moment to regain her composure. It would do no good to proceed in her task with sympathy or pity in her eyes. But to be stripped of his dignity by a curse he’d been forced to endure and then to be stripped of his modesty to correct the effects of said curse, at the hands of a former student. She tried desperately not to enjoy the moment that should have been smug and rewarding, because it was not her place to do so. He had suffered enough and she would do her best to prevent further suffering.

            As Hermione slowly turned around with the blue salve coated thickly on each hand, she stepped around to the side of the table and stood in front of him. “I’m going to start with your neck, Severus,” she said, for the first time using his given name. It felt strange to say and she imagined it was even stranger for him to hear, but he gave no indication one way or the other. His eyes were fixed, staring blankly forward if slightly down toward a low point on the wall. She stiffened and tried not to look into his blank stare as she placed both hands on either side of his neck. He tensed at her touch, his muscles tightening as she slowly began to rub the sides of his neck, using gentle circular motions, pressing her fingers gently into his flesh as she moved to his throat. The salve felt cooler than it had in the jar, tingling slightly against her fingers as she moved her hands over his throat, slowly spreading her palms along his collarbone. His skin was stretched tight in places, his bones prominent. She tried hard not to notice; the way his collarbone protruded as if he were malnourished; she had seen the man attend meals though she could not recall him ever actually eating.

            Slow circular motions over his collarbone until she’d spread her palms to reach his shoulders. She stepped back and scooped more salve from the jar, once more coating her hands. First his left shoulder; rotating it as she massaged the salve over the top and along the side. Her touch was firm but not painful as she worked slowly down his left arm, each of her fingers kneading against his flesh as she moved until she was massaging his fingers. She was more gentle as she turned his hand over and over in hers; coating his skin with the salve, massaging it until it had seeped into his flesh. Her fingers pressed at the back of his hand, her thumb pressing and rubbing against his palm; her hand slowly circling over his wrist, up the gentle length of his forearm. She did not allow her eyes to linger on his mark; though it was a good deal more faded than when she’d seen it so many years ago. It caused her a slight shiver to see it on his arm, but she did not show it. Hermione rotated his elbow and pressed her fingers firmly into the bend of his arm, working the salve against his skin all the while.

            She was met with slight physical resistance when she began to massage his right shoulder; as if her touch pained him. With caution she lifted his arm and extended it; gently rubbing the salve over his upper arm. The scar was cruel; still silver bright as if it were new, rather than faded like the others she had absently noted on his other arm. It crossed his shoulder from front to back as if someone had tried to sever his arm from his torso. Muscle damage had occurred, of that she was certain. Her brow furrowed and she was grateful that his gaze was still fixated on the wall. She scooped more salve from the jar and worked over the scar on his shoulder, kneading her knuckles into it, rotating his arm as she did. His soft whimper caused her to still her motions completely for a moment. Her eyes darted to his face only to find his eyes had closed. His mouth was parted slightly and she watched as his chest rose and fell, uneven as if he were straining to hold back the pain. Hermione frowned.

            “You have sustained muscular damage,” she said, her voice a ghost of a whisper. She released his arm and retreated from the table. The clinking of bottles and cabinet doors filled the room and a moment later she was standing once more before him, a tiny tube filled with green liquid clutched in her hand. “A muscle relaxant…to enable the nerve agents to work more freely…it should ease the pain somewhat,” she offered.

            He said nothing, keeping his eyes shut. She silently thanked Merlin that he could not look upon her and see the tears threatening to well up in her eyes. And that he had chosen silence as his weapon rather than his biting tongue that would so easily shred her to ribbons with the simplest of comments. Hermione uncorked the vial and poured it over the scar on his shoulder. His sharp intake of breath washed concern over her face and for a moment she regretted her decision to deviate from the routine of his treatment. He winced; forcing his eyes open for a moment and in that moment she saw him. Severus Snape, humiliated, denuded, humbled, and broken; a man in need, in pain, unable to help himself. As quickly as he had opened his eyes was as quickly as he forced them closed. Hermione was careful as she began to rub her fingers over the scar, the green liquid dancing on his skin in little bubbles. “It will help,” she whispered, and then continued to massage his shoulder with the salve.

            As she finished his shoulders she took a step back from the table. “I need you to lie back,” she said. Her words were mocking at best through she tried to keep her tone low and neutral meaning to imply nothing more than a simple instruction. In order to properly work his torso and abdomen she would need him to be splayed supine to her hands. It was humiliating for the man as he moved slowly, gingerly bringing his legs up on the table, curling them slowly to his chest. He sat for a moment with his knees tucked up to his chest, his arms trembling as they wrapped around his shins. She felt her face flush red for a moment and then reached behind her for a cloth. Hermione moved to the head of the table and turned her back to him, reaching the cloth over his shoulder. No words were spoke as he took it from her and after a moment of silence; challenged only by his shifting body upon the table, she turned around to face him once more. Severus Snape was laid flat on his back, eyes gazing blankly up at the ceiling, the cloth covering his most private area.

            She nodded slowly as if to signal that she would begin her work once more. The salve coated his chest and she was slow and deliberate with her motions; pressing firmly and fluidly against his ribs, massaging his pectorals, flexing her fingers with great energy over the muscles in his abdomen. The man reflected tension unlike she had ever felt; the taught sinewy feeling of his muscles beneath her fingers was beginning to make her whole hand ache as she continued to apply pressure around his ribs, massaging him thoroughly across his torso. As her palms flattened against his abdomen she heard his soft whimper again and once again found her eyes drawn to his face. His eyes were closed though he did not appear pained as before. A physical release sound, so often accompanied by the release of physical tension. Hermione bit her lower lip, unable to help herself. How on earth would she explain to him that fighting the urges to release the sounds he had been so desperately been holding back was doing him more harm than good?

            “Don’t fight me,” she said simply after several moments debate. Her hands pressed hard once more on the taught straining muscles of his abdomen, working her fingers harder than before against his flesh. Severus’s lips parted and a low whimper escaped him. The sound was strange, though not so strange as the situation in which she currently found herself, but it brought to her the tiniest notion of relief, at least he was no longer fighting her. Her fingers were sore when the muscles in his torso finally felt loose and free of tension. Hermione longed to sigh, longed to stop for a moment and have someone massage her hands. But instead she stepped away from the table and grabbed another jar of the salve.

            “Your legs…” she said, before standing at the foot of the table. She thought it best to work up from his ankle. Not for any medical reason in particular but because it put her farther away from his more intimate area. It was only prolonging the inevitable once more, but Hermione could not bring herself to be so bold with the man. He had spent years being her professor and the notion of the man naked was hard enough to swallow. The notion of having to massage her hands against his thighs where she would inevitably come into contact with the man’s most private parts made her nearly faint. He was a man and she had dealt with male anatomy, both in a sexual setting, and with patients in a non-sexual manner, but this was entirely different. So for the moment she chose to focus on his ankles.

            As she worked her way up his calves, massaging them a bit more roughly than she had his torso; his muffled whimpers grew into louder groans; aching cries as the tension was forced from his muscles at the force of her hand. Her fingers were relentless despite how bad they burned with the ache of exhaustion. His legs were long and slender; though his calves were well toned, and she couldn’t help but appreciate how finely sculpted his body seemed to be, despite his rough lifestyle. She worked her fingers over his kneecap, gently pushing it back and forth to ensure it was still in place; and then her fingers kneaded the soft flesh at the back of his knee; working and pressing as he practically moaned. Hermione kept her gaze focused on his leg. It would do no good to have her eyes advert to his face and see the strange twisted expression of release painted upon his features.

            His skin was deathly pale and in the dim candlelight of the room he seemed to glow an unearthly white; offset by the dark wiry hairs that covered his flesh. Unlike most male patients she encountered his hair; though wiry; was not coarse to the touch, but rather fine. It matted to his flesh with ease as she massaged the salve over his skin. But his leg hair served as a distraction for only so long as her fingers crept slower and slower up the top of his thigh. She hesitated for a moment before gently pulling his thigh to the side of the table; forcing him into a spread-eagled position. Hermione closed her eyes and lifted his leg slightly; working her hand under and around the sides of thigh muscles. They too were taught with tension; and as she began to work her fingers against his fleshier inner thigh she found herself biting hard on her lower lip as he groaned.

            The cloth had fallen a bit to the side though she did her best not to look; though it hardly mattered. She could feel his manhood; slightly stirred with pulsing blood as she moved her hands against his inner thigh; the back of her hand brushing slightly against his length. Hermione felt a shiver run through her body. She had brushed against male genitalia before; during routine examinations of patients, even once or twice during procedures directly related to the penis; but this was different. He was different. She found her eyes drawn to what she had so inadvertently brushed, praying to sweet Circe that his eyes were still closed. She felt shameful, almost as if she were sneaking a look on an unsuspecting victim, but could not help herself. She continued to massage his leg, eyes fixated upon him. He was not completely flaccid, though hardly erect; longer than most and thick; covered at his base with thick black hair. Again she brushed her hand against him as she worked her fingers against his thighs and watched as his member twitched slightly, responding to the heat of her touch.

            Hermione looked away, focusing once more on the top of his thigh. The room was stifling; she hadn’t had the forethought to remove her robes and suddenly wished that she were wearing far less than her current state of dress. Closing her eyes she moved her hands slowly back down his thigh until she had reached his kneecap once more. She removed her hands from his leg and walked to the counter. Her head was spinning and she’d only applied the salve to the most of the front of his body. She still needed to finish his other leg, coat his front with the pink cream and then have him turn over. She chewed on her bottom lip again; it was swollen and hurt as she did. Hermione steeled her nerves and carefully shed her robes, letting them flutter to the floor; she could retrieve them later.

            Donned now in a white singlet and trousers she returned to the foot of the table and worked the salve up his other leg. Again she found her eyes fixated on his member as she worked at his inner thigh; the moans and whimpers of her patient only serving to stimulate his manhood further. She closed her eyes trying to think of anything else as she worked the salve into his skin. It seemed an eternity before she had finished; but still there was work to be done. Her hands moved quicker; but not so quick as to warrant a hasty pace; for she still wished to be thorough, regardless of how very awkward the situation was becoming; and she was careful to apply the cream evenly, spending more time pressing and kneading the flesh where he moaned, pushing harder on places that were scarred. The cream was warm and tingled against her fingers in a different manner than the salve had. As she worked back up his torso, she touched his hand and whispered, her throat dry as she spoke. “I need you to sit up so I can finish your front.”

            He was slow to move, the cloth falling completely from his lap as he did, his legs sliding down the front of the table. Hermione watched his face carefully; his eyes remaining closed as he sat up. She worked the cream over his shoulders as she had done before; watching as he was once more straining against the whimpers and moans that escaped his lips. Her eyes wandered, and she cursed herself for allowing them to do so; but once again she was fixated on his manhood, no longer flaccid but mostly erect, bobbing straight up in his lap. Her face flushed scarlet, but she did not still her motions as she rubbed his throat and finally the sides of his neck with the cream. “Ok…” her voice cracked as she spoke. “I need you to lie on your stomach…so that I can treat your back…”



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The Massage