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In Their Hands Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 19649 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
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
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A/N: Lovey_Reader – You are an amazing cheerleader and I’m very happy to receive other comments and suggestions. I’ve changed the ‘abeyance’ to ‘reprieve’ – I agree that it wasn’t right. I’ve left ‘chequered’ as it has the same meaning but don’t stop alerting me. It helps a lot. Thanks also for your lovely final review for Grape Juice – it was amazing :)

Rainbow_Goblin – lovely to hear from you. I have never worked out the Rec. Authors thing so kudos to you. It’s so great to know people are keeping track of my writing. Thanks for reviewing :)

Chapter 2 – Opening their hands

“Take a seat, Mr Jaeger.” Hermione gestured to the pair of chairs in the corner of her office. She didn’t like sitting behind a desk when speaking with clients.

The well-built man sauntered over and flopped down on one of the seats, immediately crossing his ankle over his opposite knee and propping his hands behind his head.

Expansive posturing.

Hermione decided it was too early to challenge him and so responded by sitting opposite, crossing her legs and turning slightly toward him.

He wore a bored expression as he scratched at the thick stubble under his chin.

“Is it alright if I call you Robert?” She smiled.

“Call me whatever you like,” he huffed, before looking at his expensive watch as if he had somewhere else to be.

“So, Robert, you’re a Magical Engineer?”

“It’s all in my file. Haven’t you read it?”

Hermione ignored his question.

“Can you tell me why you’ve been referred to us?”

She knew he had anger issues and had broken someone’s nose on a building site but wanted to hear it from him.

“I don’t know why I’m here.” He shook his head. “I have no idea. I’m absolutely fine.”

Denial.

“Well you’re very lucky,” Hermione replied. “Most of the people who come here have some sort of difficulty that they want help with.”

He pursed his lips, looking nonplussed.

“Well, not me.” His biceps jerked a couple of times behind his head. “I’m doing really well. Things are great at home. I have a lot of responsibility at work but I like that. I’m totally confused about why they wanted me to come here.”

Hermione nodded and wrote something on her pad. “It sounds like you’re happy with how you feel at the moment. Maybe they made a mistake by sending you here?”

He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Aren’t you supposed to be finding out if there’s something wrong with me?”

“Well, only you know that,” Hermione replied. “If you tell me you’re fine, then all I can say is that’s fantastic news.”

He flapped his elbows a couple of times and wiggled in his chair. “Well, they must have thought there was something I needed help with to send me here.”

“But you say there’s not?”

He shook his head but looked less sure of himself. There was a long pause as Hermione waited for him to speak. She was very practised at waiting. Not filling in the gaps. The awkwardness was a big part of the process.

His knee started jiggling as he watched her watching him.

“So you’re not going to test me or anything?”

“Not if you say there’s nothing wrong. There would be no point. I wouldn’t want to waste your time.”

His breathing deepened and he jerked his chin to the side.

“You have a pretty cushy job then don’t you,” he commented, his lip curling.

“Do I?”

“You just sit there and get me to do all the work.”

“I can’t do anything unless you have a problem. I need your permission to investigate what’s happening inside your head and if there’s nothing wrong, I can’t go in there.”

He looked around the office with a critical eye. “You’re a sex therapist are you?”

“My specialisation is psycho-sexual dysfunction.”

“Do you want to know about my sex life?”

“Do you have a problem with it?”

“Shouldn’t you be the judge of that?”

“Only you know if you have a problem.”

His jaw muscles bulged. “You’re being condescending.”

Projection.

“What does that feel like?”

“It feels annoying. You’re being annoying.”

Further projection.

“How does that feel inside you?”

“It’s not a problem. It’s just annoying.”

Minimising.

“I want to know how it feels, physically, inside you.”

He crossed his arms over his heaving chest, his jiggling knee became more erratic. He was clearly trying to avoid connecting with his anger. She wondered if it only came out at work. He had a wife and three children. Were they ever on the receiving end?

“It feels . . . annoying.”

Avoidance.

“You’re naming an emotion, not the physical sensations.”

“Is that your bedroom next door?” He lifted his chin to peer down his nose at her.

Attempted dominance.

She didn’t reply, holding his gaze.

He rubbed a hand over his stubble and blinked a few times rapidly before letting out a long breath.

“It’s . . . maybe I don’t feel comfortable. All of the time.”

Now they were getting somewhere.

“Tell me about it . . .”

***

Hermione yawned into her palm. It was 11pm. They were only just getting around to the day’s debrief after the residents had retired to their shared rooms.

“You look like crap,” George remarked as he sat down at the table with his notes and a cup of tea.

She was too tired to respond. The others joined them—Simone Ellory with a glass of red wine and Lynch with a bottle of water.

“You start.” Lynch nodded to her before chugging down the water.

“Um . . . she glanced at her notes . . . Robert Jaeger—narcissistic personality disorder, some response to therapy. Likely sexual aggression. Will investigate further. Pomona Sprout— her compulsions seem to have been exacerbated by an accident in her greenhouse. I want to work with her further on connecting with her anxiety. George, if you could help her to represent it creatively it might help.”

George nodded and wrote something on his paper.

“Dennis Creevey—complicated presentation. Obviously still traumatised by the loss of his older brother, Colin, but I suspect some early attachment disorder. Infantile sexual fantasies. Breast fixation.”

“You need to protect yourself against attachment,” Lynch warned.

She nodded. “I’m aware of it. He’s extremely vulnerable. I might need you or George to sit in on some sessions.”

They both nodded.

“I think Mollison is full physical therapy unless you advise otherwise?” She glanced at Lynch and he nodded.

“And I’ll see Emily, Sarah and Katherine tomorrow.”

“And Snape?” Simone twisted to face her, balancing the wine glass on the tips of her fingers.

“I don’t believe it’s in his best interests to see me at this point in time,” Hermione replied, folding her notes.

“I disagree.” Simone took another mouthful of wine.

“What do you have on Snape?” Lynch flicked his hand toward the older woman, wanting to wrap up proceedings as quickly as possible.

“Well . . .” she drawled before drawing in a deep breath.

Hermione rolled her eyes at George. She wasn’t in the mood for another self-indulgent, wine-fuelled analysis of anyone, even if it was Snape.

“I found him to be . . . enigmatic is probably the best word.”

Hermione barely suppressed a sigh.

“And I would argue that, according to his performance on all of the psychiatric tests, it may not be necessary to keep him here for the full six weeks.”

Hermione blinked, quite unable to comprehend what she was saying. “Of course he performed well on the tests.”

Simone frowned over her glasses, clearly unimpressed with being interrupted. “You obviously feel that you have some sort of superior knowledge. Please share it with us.”

Hermione was too tired to appease her. “He’s too smart for the usual tests. He knows exactly what to say. There’s no point administering any of them.”

Lynch raised an eyebrow at Simone and she sighed, sliding her glass onto the table. “He’s certainly not stupid. She might be right. But I did get some interesting results with his hypnotherapy.”

Hermione shook her head.

“What now?” Simone growled, turning on her.

“He can’t be hypnotised,” she said.

Simone barked out a derisive laugh. “And since when were you the expert in hypnotherapy?”

Hermione closed her eyes and rubbed them with her fingertips. “I don’t need to be an expert. I know Snape. He’s a Legilimens and an Occlumens. He can’t be hypnotised.”

“He has no wand you stupid girl,” Simone sneered, showing her teeth which were no longer pearly white but wine-stained and trollish.

“His wandless magic is more powerful than most people’s wand magic,” Hermione ground out in response.

The older woman gave a dismissive wave before throwing back another gulp of wine. “I know why you’re saying that.”

Hermione was about to ask her what the hell she meant but, unfortunately, she soon found out.

“When Snape was under hypnosis.” She directed her statement to Lynch and George. “We delved into a few . . . memories. And one happened to be of Dr Granger here.” She threw her a snide sideways look before continuing. “He told me about catching Miss Granger masturbating inside one of the classrooms.”

“What!” Hermione leapt up so fast that her chair crashed to the ground behind her.

Simone shrugged. “He was very specific. I believe it to be a true recollection.”

Hermione was flushed and shaking with fury. “It’s a lie! A complete fabrication!”

Lynch stood and put a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “What are you so worked up about? How many times have you been falsely accused of engaging in sexual acts?”

It was true. She’d lost count of the number of times she’d been implicated in sex scandals by projecting clients. But somehow this was different. She felt an overwhelming sense of unfairness. Perhaps it was young Hermione, the misunderstood child, returning to haunt her.

Catching the satisfied smirk on Simone’s face, Hermione turned on her heel before storming out the door. “I’m going to bed.”

She lay awake wondering what he was playing at. Furious at herself for being furious. She never let herself get worked up like this. All she could think about was swearing. She desperately needed sleep. But when it finally came, her dreams were far from peaceful.

***

“Who do you have first?” George took a large mouthful of muesli, allowing milk to dribble down his chin.

“Katherine Calder. You?” Hermione was finishing a small tub of yoghurt. It was all she could stomach.

“I’m thinking of trying Sprout and Creevey together with some laughter therapy,” George spoke thickly, spraying bits of oat on the table. “They know each other.”

Hermione nodded. It was a good idea.

George watched her fastidiously scraping the final remnants from the ridges of her yoghurt container.

“You could pensieve him,” he said.

Hermione looked up. “Who?”

“Snape. You could force him to the pensieve if you want to confirm his memories.”

Hermione shook her head. “He’s trying it on. I don’t want to give him any credence at all.”

George considered her words. “Are you going to see him?”

“This afternoon.” Hermione dropped her spoon into the tub and stood. “And I’m expecting it to be a truly joyful experience.”

***

Severus Snape sat with his arms crossed, regarding her from across the desk. He’d ignored the offer of the comfortable chairs in the corner, immediately sitting so that she was forced to take up the swivel chair opposite.

The role exchange, exemplified by their relative positions to the desk, felt decidedly unnatural but she was determined not to be thrown.

“Why did you lie about your memories?” she asked immediately, clasping her hands on the desk in front of her.

He stared at her for a long moment, his shining black eyes shifting about her face, both examining her and prying her apart.

Hermione was an expert in silence, but with him it was excruciating.

He breathed in suddenly. “How did it make you feel?”

His dark timbre lingered on the air. The dissonance of having his classroom voice in her office was both surreal and unpleasant.

She ignored the question. “I would like to know why you lied to Dr Ellory under hypnosis.”

His eyebrow twitched up slightly. “Hypnosis?”

Hermione felt herself wanting to blink in acknowledgement of the unlikelihood that he had actually been under hypnosis, but she couldn’t afford to be siding with him. Not yet.

“You lied and told her that you had caught me masturbating in a classroom.”

He watched her again. Even more closely. Scrutinising her expression. Her colour. Her breathing.

She had never been so schooled in her physical response as she was right now. She felt like she’d developed locked-in syndrome.

He slowly raised his chin. “I asked you . . . how it made you feel.”

Hermione noticed her clasped knuckles turning white and tried to relax them. “That is none of your concern, Professor.”

“Oh, but it is . . . Dr . . . Granger.”

Hermione could feel herself wanting to suck in more air but she couldn’t afford to. Not with him practically counting the molecules—analysing her inhalations and exhalations for discrepancies.

“If,” he continued, “you happened to laugh the suggestion off or dismiss it outright, I would determine that you have the maturity to claim expertise in this field. If, on the other hand, you flew into an indignant rage, which is what I suspect occurred judging by the pulse fluttering at your throat and the blush tinting your cheekbones, then . . . perhaps . . . we have something to work with.”

Hermione let herself breathe freely. He already knew she was outraged. Fainting would be even less appropriate.

“So you did it for a response,” she replied tersely.

“Of course.”

“You haven’t spoken to me in eight years and you considered this to be the most appropriate way to initiate communication?”

“If I wanted to avoid superficialities. Yes.”

“You assumed that any interaction with me would be superficial?”

“No, I assumed that it would be guarded.”

“Guarded? As in conducted within appropriate professional boundaries?”

“No, guarded as in masked by the thoroughly asexual demeanour that you seem to have adopted.”

Hermione could feel her colour rising. The room was suddenly hot.

“I’m sorry, Professor, if you imagined that the therapists at this retreat would be wearing French Maid’s outfits and handing out sexual favours.”

He snorted quietly and leaned back in his seat, appraising her for more agonising moments before he spoke. “You dress like a farm hand. You hold your shoulders unnaturally high and forward, to avoid exposing your breasts. Even your gait is truncated to prevent a natural hip swing. To qualify as a sex therapist, one would expect you to have to actually qualify as a sexual being.”

Hermione’s mouth actually did hang open then. It was one of the most personally and professionally devastating comments anyone had ever made to her. Wasn’t it enough to care until your heart ached? To give so much of yourself to a cause that eventually you did dress for practicality alone? To constantly neglect your needs for the sake of others?

On the verge of tears, she knew that the only thing she could do was to dig into the depths of her compassion for this man. His fixation upon her shortcomings could only come from a place of deep insecurity within himself. He’d been to hell and back, literally. He required the one thing that was most difficult to give, the one thing he was doing his best to reject.

She swallowed hard. “Professor.” Her voice was soft and raspy but she cleared her throat and continued. “I’d like to tell you a story.”

He lifted his chin to peer down his significant nose at her.

“There was once an old man walking along a beach,” she began, “and the sand was covered with starfish. As he walked, he soon encountered a young boy who was picking up the starfish and throwing them back into the water. The old man said to the boy, ‘Why are you bothering? There are so many of them, you can’t possibly make a difference. With that, the boy bent down, picked up another starfish and threw it into the water. ‘I bet I made a difference to that one,’ he said.”

Snape’s frown deepened. “And you think you can make a difference to me? To throw me back into the murky mire that I’ve just crawled out from?” he scoffed. “Do I look like I need saving, Dr Granger?”

She looked into his eyes. “I think you are the boy, Professor Snape,” she said quietly.

He was up in a flash, leaning so far over her desk that his contorted face was only inches from hers. “Don’t . . . presume to know me . . . Dr . . . Granger,” he growled.
Then he was gone.
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In Their Hands *Complete*

In Their Hands Complete