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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
- 19
- 20
- 21
A/N: So the reason for this latest delay is that my 25 year relationship came to an end. I don’t wish to dwell up on it as I prefer to focus on what I can continue to enjoy. One thing is (hopefully) writing. If you are still enjoying this story, let me know and I’ll ensure that I do my best to create a worthwhile ending. RL isn’t always easy but I have had some wonderful support from friends in RL and fanficland and I love you all for it. DSxx
Kvarta – ‘I should have seen it, he was always too close if she would be late’ – yes, when he told her that he ‘knew everything’, he was being quite literal. ‘Not a recipe for a healthy society, especially post-war.’ – not at all, and yet when there is a culture of fear, it is difficult to shake. ‘ouch, now he's done it!’ – he sure has! ‘“No more detention!” - this is the worst possible news she could hear :/’ – yes, ‘detention’ of course had come to mean something very different for her. I didn’t have the chapter ready fast . . . but it’s here :) x
OO – I loved your spastic review :D ‘Except I’d have to scream “It’s so PLOTTY!” Or whatever it is literary types scream when overwrought by excitement’ – This phrase has gone through my head more times than you would believe over this past two weeks, it’s just too funny. Thank you for the love. Xx
CheiChei87 – ‘I wanted her to be angry and seek answers and figure out what the hell was happening’ – I agree she could go either way since she’s not as robust as she has been in the past but there is still quite a bit of Gryffindor pride ticking around there, at least for now. ‘because that was a mindfuck of a plot right there’ – LOL. This fic was always set to be a mindfuck for all concerned. I’m so pleased that it delivered :) x
TateBlythe – Thank you so much. Sorry that it was delayed but I hope you continue to enjoy xx

Chapter 20 – Painmaster
She was so fucking stupid. So naïve. The question all along should have been ‘Why?’ Why was he doing it?
Hermione thumped her face into her pillow, muted shrieks of agony and frustration bursting through the injured seam of her lips.
How could she be so dense? From her earliest understandings of Snape, she’d never known him to be prone to arbitrary behaviours—everything was measured, purposeful. And yet she’d stupidly assumed that his current actions were due to some sort of spontaneous benevolence. She’d been deluded enough to imagine that he was investing so much time and effort in her because she was eminently worthy . . . because he cared that much for her. It was utterly ridiculous now that she contemplated it, face grinding with resentment and mortification into the soggy depths of her pillow.
At the same time she could forgive herself just a little. After all, he was absolutely not the man she thought he was . . . not the man he’d presented himself to be—particularly last night in her bedroom, when he’d provided what could only be described as an ‘explosive’ level of comfort and reassurance. The lessons had been there of course—they had continued, the subtle and not-so-subtle reconfiguring of her, but she had seen more . . . she had felt him, his seething intensity, his vulnerable depths . . . and yet it had all been a deception.
How could a man invest so much in deceit? Why would he go to such extremes?
On the surface, he seemed to care very little for his own existence. And yet spying for the Ministry—compromising himself all over again—would suggest that he did have something important to gain. There was little doubt that his appointment to the Headmaster position had been part of the arrangement so it was no wonder, then, that Professor McGonagall and the other staff were untrusting of him. But for a man who so desperately craved acceptance, he had managed to successfully establish the conditions under which he was assured of never getting it. And perhaps that was the ultimate intention—self-flagellation, self-loathing, deprivation as a form of punishment.
But why subject himself in this way? Why hadn’t he just crawled under a rock after the war to suffer in private?
Or had he, like her, perpetrated actions that he found so unforgiveable that the contempt of others was the bitter validation that he now required? As a Slytherin, a Death Eater, debilitating morality wasn’t something she would expect him to struggle with. But as a Motulomens . . . as a man who had loved . . . and lost . . . maybe he could never be free of it.
But still he was prepared to betray her. She loved him. He would have felt it . . . with both his body and mind insinuated deeply inside her, her feelings for him would have been more than evident. And yet he was now ready to inform on her—to report on behaviours that amounted to little more than a desperate attempt to undo her past wrongs.
How much did the Ministry already know of her actions? How often did he report back?
She wondered then if she had only come under their scrutiny because of Snape. Was he the reason she had been targeted in the first place?
Her groan was deep, fuelled by pain. The fact that her suffering and resultant behaviours had attracted cold suspicion and condemnation rather than empathy, made her feel excruciatingly hollow. It was the way of the Ministry . . . but perhaps it was also the way of Severus Snape.
His treatment of her since the moment he’d caught her attempting to sneak back to her room had been extremely harsh. And yet it was hardly unexpected. His bitter accusations had been hurtful but they were in keeping with the brittle, cantankerous man she knew him to be. In fact, if he had behaved any differently towards her she would have been immediately suspicious.
As it was, he had played her perfectly. He’d known exactly how she would respond. And she had hardly disappointed.
The only problem was it seemed he hadn’t been ready for how he would respond.
And so she was left with this . . . this desperate dichotomy . . . this infuriating illogicality . . . this walking contradiction in black and white who had managed to mind-fuck and body-fuck her to what felt like new heights and depths—confusion and despair.
He’d returned the points. He’d set her free just when she’d come to crave the opposite. She had given herself willingly in the end, allowing herself to tangle up in his enigmatic threads, welcoming what had felt like an irretrievable incarceration within him, and him within her. But no more.
And thus each Gryffindor ruby, each sparkling symbol of rejection, now mocked her, a glittering river of reality winding through her frivolous depths, blood red where he’d cut her loose and tossed her away.
But worse was the fact that it was ultimately a fabrication, a false liberation. She wasn’t free. She would never be free to pursue that which had sustained her since the end of the war; the one source of hope that had made it worthwhile clinging on to her pathetic life—the possibility of one day restoring her parents’ memories.
He had taken that from her.
Face and body crumpling as the last dregs of hope drained from her, she drew a shuddering breath.
Of course she had known the risks. They had studied the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy for months in Muggle Studies. The dangers of Obliviation reversal had been drummed into them. However, she was also very much aware that there were plenty of Muggles who knew about the wizarding world and posed no threat at all—her parents for instance . . . even Harry’s awful relatives who had presented no serious risk beyond despising everything about the world of magic.
But the truth was that they were monitored. Every Muggle was carefully assessed for signs that their interest went beyond, for example, parental pride, or mindless fear and resentment. The Ministry’s Obliviators worked round the clock to ensure that the knowledge and understanding of even the most highly initiated remained relatively superficial. And this was the primary issue with Obliviation reversal. As Snape had pointed out, the spell would render Muggle targets immune, preventing any further manipulation.
It was dangerous. But Hermione had been genuine when she’d stated her purpose for it. She had always intended for the application to go no further than her parents. And whilst she had let slip more to the book group than she should have, she still considered herself safe.
At least she had been.
Maybe not anymore.
Would she ever be safe again?
Crushing loneliness suddenly overwhelmed her, swamping her so completely that she felt herself sinking, as though she were no longer solid but some sort of ethereal being, soaking like water through her bed into the cold stone floor beneath. She felt herself withdrawing from her body, shutting down until she was entirely numb, barely present.
He had snuffed out the last of her light, the last of her warmth, just like that. To save his own hide; to retain his position on the take of the Ministry. Right then she couldn’t imagine any worse betrayal.
All the time she had thought he was building her up, he was plotting her downfall.
And he’d succeeded.
She’d fallen.
Insubstantial . . . little more than dust . . . Hermione drifted away.
***
The day disappeared in blurry chunks. She smelled food. Heard footsteps. A hand on her shoulder. Then nothing.
Just dreams. Vivid . . . as though they had been planted. Sinister seeds scattered and now germinating in her mind. Were these bleak, shadowy scenes just that—further manipulations? More machiavellian taints set to exploit her sleep state as well?
It was whilst being mercilessly manhandled, unseen forces tearing at her clothes, clawing at her body, that she suddenly decided that they had taken enough from her. She had given enough. Too much as it turned out. And so she left.
But it wasn’t until the crisp night air cut through the flimsy weft of her consciousness that she realised she was no longer dreaming. In the complete absence of a light source, unlit wand gripped tightly in her fist, she had somehow ascended a multitude of staircases and arrived at her destination unharmed. A swathe of starry pinpricks in the fabric of an otherwise complete night sky drew her forward until her fingers curled around the frigid railing. The bite was not unwelcome. Looking down, she discovered that the plunging view, which had turned her stomach since Dumbledore’s demise, no longer stirred the same feelings. In fact, the deadly drop in that moment seemed comfortably final.
Had the great wizard felt the same? Had he reached a similar point of acceptance before Snape had killed him?
This wasn’t the first time Hermione had ventured to the top of the Astronomy Tower with this intent. However, it was the first time without an anchor back to something that mattered. And so it was quite straight forward. The end was clear. The railing would be her last hurdle, her last obstacle in this unforgiving life.
Flexing her fingers around the metal, she tested it for strength. Its rigidity was reassuring. It would hold. It would take her weight as she took her final—
“Hermione.”
His voice wasn’t loud but it shook her deeply, like a clapper resonating within a bell.
Releasing her painfully tight grip, she slowly turned. He was standing on the opposite side of the room, arms by his sides, lips parted as he dragged in deep breaths. He’d clearly exerted himself to get there.
“Leave.” Her command might have been little more than a croak, but her meaning was more than clear.
He took a step towards her.
She raised her wand. The tip trembled before her eyes.
“Leave . . . now.”
He took another step.
The first bolt flew before she’d even realised she’d released it. His reflexes were like lightning, deflecting the electric blue dart with his own wand before it could pierce his chest. He took another step closer.
She cried out as she threw the next. Purposeful. Fast. But he met it again, allowing it to ricochet harmlessly away. And still he kept coming.
By then she’d stopped thinking. She simply wanted him gone. And she was happy to hurt him in the process. Each bolt required quicker actions as he approached, his wand playing them away with deft ease. Her cries had become howls of rage. It wasn’t fucking fair that she couldn’t even be allowed to do this for herself. That she didn’t even own her own existence sufficiently to end it.
What the fuck did he want anyway?
She hurled bolt after bolt, aiming directly for his chest, shooting for what would be his heart if he had one.
He was so close now. Surely one would make it through. Surely she could strike him where it hurt her most. She loved him. Even as she released time and again, she felt each bolt as a deep pain stabbing into her own breast. She was sobbing now. Wanting him and hurting him were one and the same. As was hurting herself.
And then a thought suddenly struck her—she knew exactly what she must do. Turning her wand back on herself, she pushed the tip into her chest as she retreated, the railing pressing into the small of her back.
Only then did he stop.
She glared defiantly at him, but his appearance was not that of a man who had been outmanoeuvred. He simply looked bereft. She realised then that he wasn’t there to win.
“What do you want?” she whimpered, grasping the railing with her free hand to stop herself from collapsing under the strain.
“You don’t need to do this.” His pale hand extended towards her but she shook her head vigorously against it.
“Never assume to tell me what I do and don’t need anymore,” she spat. “Not when you are little more than a fucking mouthpiece for the Ministry.”
His lips drew back with the stinging accusation before he slowly withdrew.
“I’m sorry, Hermione.”
She continued to shake her head but felt it faltering as she took in the glisten of his dark eyes, the faint tremble of his lips.
“Why?” she suddenly screamed at him. “Why did you do it? Why did you do so much . . . to me?” The last words crumbled away into sobs.
He didn’t respond for a long time—no doubt poring through a selection of damning explanations. Finally he chose one. “Because it was preferable.”
Preferable? What the fuck was that supposed to mean?
“To the alternative,” he continued, his hands curling into restless fists.
“Alternative?” Hermione’s face contorted. She didn’t need any more cryptic bullshit from him. And yet she had the sense that she actually understood his meaning this time. “What alternative? What were they going to do to me?”
He was still breathing heavily. She listened to each weary exhalation wondering which would hold the answer.
“Full Obliviation,” he muttered quietly. “Removal of your wand. You would never again know magic. Nor anyone within this world.”
Her entire body crumpled. Wand dropping from her hand, she clutched her chest as though his words had caused her to spontaneously rupture.
He had saved her . . . from that.
His arms were suddenly around her, squeezing her so tightly that she could hardly breathe. But it was what she needed. It was always what she needed. The pain had to be crushed from her, forced from her like an infection from a festering wound. And that’s what he did.
But all of it just made her life seem more unbearable, more unliveable. After all, nothing had changed. She couldn’t have him. And she couldn’t have her parents.
What else was there?
Nothing.
Except . . . perhaps . . . the book group.
- 19
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- 21
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At the Headmaster’s Discretion *Complete*

At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete