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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
- 20
- 21
- 22
A/N: I have been completely overwhelmed and humbled by your messages of love and support. They made me cry. I feel for those of you who have been kind enough to share similar stories with me. What an amazing bunch of people you are. It has really helped me this week and I’ve been writing as a result. I’m not particularly good at expressing how I feel so I will leave it to these two to speak for me. DSxx
CheiChei87 – Thank you for your kind words. I’m so pleased that you continue to enjoy this one. Inspiration received! xx
OO – ‘Except I'm already so fucked up that I found her suicide attempt rather calming’ – unfortunately I did too. Maybe that’s just your empathetic nature? xxooxx ‘How is the book club going to help her?’ well I’m glad you asked. Coming up in this chapter :) Thanks for the fix . . . that was a bad one *sigh* Happy birthday to you, my friend x
TateBlythe – I’m pleased to be back in the groove again. Thank you for your support :) xx
Norla – Thank you <3 I have been giving myself a bit of time but I feel ready to get back into it with everyone’s kindness. xx
Miss-Astralaria – Wow. What a lovely thing to do. I so appreciate your words. xx

Chapter 21 – Scaremaster
Hermione ran. Ferns reared up, whipping her bare legs as she plunged off the path. She needed the forest—both the intimidating grandeur of its towering trees, as well as the oppressive tranquillity that they invoked. And then there was the dark unknown. Death dwelled here in many forms after all, and yet all of it would force calmness upon her, as it could hardly compete with the destructive chaos inside her—her mind—a wild dragon, thrashing about, refusing to be tamed.
She’d woken not long before, still dressed in her school uniform, with no sense of how she had come to be in her bedroom since collapsing in the tower. Magic was the most likely explanation, a sleeping spell or similar from Severus’ wand but of course she had no evidence for it. The alternative was that she had blacked out. It was possible. Anything was possible. At least anything bad was possible.
Nevertheless she’d woken with the need to run. And she considered that a significant improvement from the previous compulsion that had captured her only hours before . . . the all-encompassing need to no longer be. So despite the sharp prompts for food that twisted her stomach, she had quickly changed . . . and escaped.
Thick matting, needles and moss, cushioned her footfalls, so the see-sawing of air through parchment-dry lips was the soundtrack that she focused on, beginning the process of self-soothing, of hypnosis, as trees blurred past, but still stretched as an endless tunnel ahead.
She was a train. Chuffing along. No passengers, no destination. Just moving relentlessly forward. Because that’s what trains do. That’s what people do. Even the people who want to go back because everything good is behind them . . . even they keep moving forward . . . perhaps hoping to arrive back at the start.
Its futility is lost (if one doesn’t look too closely) in the rhythm of movement, of life. But that’s what self-preservation is all about. Sometimes it’s about buying the delusion long enough for something . . . or someone . . . to finally dismantle it—safely. To open your eyes to the existence of both real and good, even in the places you’d searched before . . . but weren’t ready to find it.
Hermione wondered if that possibility still existed for her. Whether, if she looked for it, or even if she didn’t, it might be waiting there, somewhere . . . even right around the—
Crash!
Hermione fell heavily, her entire body slamming into the ground as a spear of pain rammed through her skull. It felt like her head had split open. Reaching up, she expected to feel the slop of brains but was surprised to discover that everything was relatively intact.
The same couldn’t be said for the body beside her. Blood. Lots of it. Oozing down a face that she barely recognised.
Neither of them had made a sound. Perhaps it was the shock. But now they did.
“Fuck . . . uhhh . . . fuck.” Ginny stared at her hands, soaked in blood from her gushing nose.
Hermione simply groaned, cradling her head.
They lay there together, dazed, confused, hurting, until Hermione managed to push herself onto her knees and crawl the short distance to the base of a tree, leaning gingerly back so her head didn’t touch it. She didn’t need her head to touch anything . . . not when it was only just holding together.
One of Ginny’s congealed hands clamped around the messy lump of her nose, snuffling sobs escaping her as further spots of blood spattered her previously-white T-shirt.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Ginny?” Hermione finally rasped, holding her forehead carefully with both hands like an unexploded bomb.
“What does it look like? I’m running . . . like you,” came the muffled reply.
Hermione leaned forward as the pain crested, speaking to the gap between her bent knees. “You don’t run, Gin.”
“And now I know why,” Ginny groaned, crawling closer.
Laughter surged up but came out as a sob as Hermione’s head began pounding even more viciously.
With a lot of snuffling and grunting, Ginny managed to slowly turn, then gingerly lean back against the tree beside her. Hermione winced as she glanced sideways. The redhead was an absolute mess, and not particularly red—much of her hair was now dark with congealed blood.
“What’s your wandless magic like?” Hermione asked.
Ginny shook her head a tiny bit. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Your nose is broken.”
“I’ll see Poppy later. You probably should too.”
Hermione fell silent. There were many reasons why she wouldn’t be seeing Madam Pomfrey. She preferred to keep those secrets to herself.
“I probably . . . I think I probably deserved it anyway,” Ginny muttered.
Hermione tilted her head, attempting to read the younger girl’s expression.
“You know.” Ginny gestured lamely with her other blood-encrusted hand. “For being a bitch.”
Hermione paused, trying to work out what she was referring to. It was strange how something that had seemed so significant only days before had managed to be almost completely obliterated by another truckload of shit.
“Yeah . . . well.” Hermione finally agreed but couldn’t really say much when she’d been responsible for breaking someone’s nose—even if it had been accidental.
“I came to see you yesterday. I brought you something to eat but I couldn’t wake you. You were completely out of it.”
Hermione nodded a little. At least that explained her few of her vague memories from the day before.
“I came to apologise, ‘Mione. I felt really bad about what I did. I couldn’t sleep.”
Hermione sighed. She knew that too well . . . guilt-ridden ruminations . . . insomnia . . . the worst. Releasing her throbbing head, she reached across and grabbed Ginny’s hand, their locked fists dropping down to rest on the cushion of moss between them.
“It’s okay,” she whispered. She could manage no more.
“It’s not though,” Ginny croaked desperately. “It’s not okay. We’re not okay. None of us.”
Hermione’s eyes prickled as she stared at the ground. She tightened her grip on Ginny’s hand.
“This all feels wrong, don’t you think?” Ginny continued, her voice tight and not just from the clamp on her ruined nose. “Like we’re all pretending . . . like we’re expected to act as though we’re fine because we won. But not everyone won, ‘Mione . . . Fred didn’t, did he?”
Hermione shook her head, a swollen tear tumbling over her eyelashes and sliding down the side of her nose.
“I sometimes wonder if it’s only me—because I was spoiled. You know, the baby of the family, the only girl.” Ginny’s snuffling grew louder as she succumbed to her own tears. “But I just can’t seem to cope with having none of them here. I just keep expecting to see Ron or hear one of the twins. It’s not like we don’t stand out—we’re Weasleys! We have red hair! We’re noisy!” Quaking laughter bubbled up before giving way to further sobs.
“It’s not just you.” Hermione’s gaze turned inward, seeing the same as Ginny—the faces gone, not all dead but nonetheless, not there as they desperately needed them to be.
Ginny coughed then, the wet sound of blood in her throat. Hermione rubbed her thumb over Ginny’s knuckles, letting her know she was all right.
“And Harry . . .” Ginny’s face suddenly contorted in pain. “He’s just so . . . normal. He cares but . . . he’s had to cope with so much . . . he’s more used to dealing with it than I am. And I just . . .” She shook her head, clearly struggling to find the words. “I just think we got together when things were so strange. So . . . abnormal. The feelings we had for each other were wrapped up with everything else. And when it all changed after the war ended . . . I think we might have too. I really look forward to his visits but as soon as he gets here I remember that things aren’t the same. I think he finds me boring . . . and insecure. I don’t know how to get it back . . . how to go back to the way we were.”
“You can’t.”
Ginny peered at her through bloodshot eyes.
“You can only go forward. And hope that he comes with you.” Hermione looked at her intently. “But if he doesn’t . . .”
Ginny’s eyes closed then as if she couldn’t bear to hear the words.
“Gin, you’ll be okay. No one can give you anything that isn’t already inside you.” They were Severus’ words . . . maybe she did believe them after all. “And you’ll never be alone . . . because you’re surrounded by people who understand what it’s like to have lost friends, family—people they love. Give yourself permission to grieve—and to ask for help. Don’t rely upon magic. Magic doesn’t fix everything. In fact, it can often make things worse.”
Ginny nodded, apprehensive eyes probing Hermione’s, before lunging forward to embrace her.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured in her ear. “I know you’ve been unhappy too. I could sense it. But you always seemed so distant. I didn’t feel I could talk to you, but I should have. I should have asked and listened, like you have . . . here.” She squeezed her tighter. “And I was jealous . . . I couldn’t help it. All I see in you is everything I want to be. I can’t even go for a run without breaking my nose.”
Hermione laughed then. And so did Ginny. It was raw, broken laughter. But it felt warm and good—exactly what they both needed.
Finally she sat back.
“Are you all right, ‘Mione?”
Hermione gazed at her, taking in the genuine concern in her friend’s brown eyes. Then she nodded, managing a small smile. “I think I will be.”
***
The steps to the basement were dimly lit but someone was definitely there—she could hear the voices—earnest discussion drifting up from behind the closed door. Would they be surprised to see her? She’d missed two sessions in a row. Would they have noticed? Or cared? Possibly not. It was only a book group after all.
As she slowly descended, her heart seemed to simultaneously ascend until it was thrashing about like a Boggart inside her throat. Who would she encounter on the other side?
Professor McGonagall had given her permission to continue attending; more willingly than Hermione had expected—no doubt swayed by the fact that the Gryffindor point deficit had finally been rectified, and perhaps fuelled, in part, by an opportunity to supersede Snape’s authority.
And what of Snape, himself? Hermione had seen little of him. Did he know that she would be attending? Would he be here? Or did he think he’d warned her off sufficiently with the Ministry’s threats?
Thrusting her hands into her pockets, she felt the soft lump filling the insides of one—a bag of clothes, shrunken . . . enough to last two weeks. Would it be long enough? The note she’d left said that she was going to stay with her grandmother. That part she hadn’t gained permission for but she hoped it would muddy the waters if anyone came looking for her. Certainly her grandmother wouldn’t be giving her plans away . . . or even confirming Hermione’s existence. The irony was that she had been rendered as ‘safe’ as her parents without requiring Hermione’s ‘help’ at all . . . the ravages of dementia having seen to that.
Hermione squeezed the bag for courage and drew in a long, slow breath. She was finally taking her own advice . . . and seeking help. It just wasn’t quite the sort of help she’d recommended to Ginny. The particular assistance she required was extremely risky—both for herself and the person she was preparing to implicate. It was really far too much for her to ask of anyone, particularly someone she barely knew, but she couldn’t do this alone. And she had the strong sense that he cared for her. He’d listened to her for hours . . . patiently . . . non-judgmentally. He’d held her hand and rubbed her shoulder when she’d cried. She had felt close to him—not as close as she had to Severus, but she doubted she would ever feel that way about anyone again . . . the circumstances were just too extraordinary. And she couldn’t go there anymore anyway, mentally or physically.
If she could convince him to help her, to hide her, for the next two weeks . . . she was hopeful it would be long enough for her to work it out. Her other pocket held her note books, and the texts she’d stolen from the Hogwarts library—pages and pages of information and research. It was a lot of work to decipher a single incantation but it was necessarily complex as the knowledge was scant and scattered. Many attempts, it seemed, had been made to encrypt or magically alter the information over time. But she was getting close . . . she could feel it.
Hermione reached for the door handle. If he said no, she would find a hotel room to work from. It would be less secure and more demanding than hiding behind a barrier of sympathetic Muggles—or even just one—where she could feel safe and supported, but she had little choice . . . it was literally now or never.
Cracking the door open, she scanned the room quickly. He was there. And around ten others. Severus wasn’t. She breathed. Then stepped inside.
The warmth of their welcome, men and women alike hugging her, had tears instantly seeking to spring from her eyes. She might be resolved to her new course of action but she was still fragile. After all, she had almost not been there at all.
Her gaze finally settled upon him and he nodded in acknowledgement. He didn’t smile . . . although he rarely did. But he held her there, in that intense way that made her feel that he saw her. She breathed.
She pulled up a chair beside him. And sat. Listening. Breathing. Contributing little. After all, they’d moved on. A new book. A new story. Profound . . . frivolous . . . juvenile . . . insightful . . . their opinions and critiques rolled over her in a warm, fuzzy wave of familiarity. Her fingers brushed his forearm, and then his wrist, casually, before seeking out his hand. He didn’t withdraw. She closed her eyes.
The door opened.
“And Sam’s back too,” a voice piped up.
Hermione froze.
He was there—in the doorway—dark gaze sliding around the room until it settled upon her . . . and stopped. He didn’t speak, simply striding to the far side of the room, taking his usual seat in the shadows. Watching everyone . . . watching her.
What was he thinking . . . right then? Was he jealous? She was holding another man’s hand after all. Or didn’t he care? Had he ever cared? Was this simply another shitty job? Had she been just another shitty fuck? Why, then, had he saved her in the tower? Why hadn’t he let her go? It would have solved a lot of his problems after all.
Perhaps he would soon wish that he had.
Smaller conversations started breaking out around the room. It seemed that the appearance of ‘Samuel’ had somehow disturbed the dynamic, not only for herself.
Hermione took her chance.
“Can I talk to you?” She leaned forward, whispering into the brown curls around the ear beside her.
He tilted his head a fraction. Her lips momentarily brushed his warm skin and she licked them . . . automatically . . . as though she might be able to taste him.
Had Snape been right all along? Was she destined to fall too easily? Had that wellspring of sensual need, that carnal appetite, been inside her all along, waiting to be tapped by someone like him? There was no doubt that she felt it right now. Desire. Arousal. Her body had grown accustomed to the attention, to the intensity of Snape’s advances, and his sudden withdrawal had filled her with an acute yearning. She was consumed by what felt like a dangerous level of need, and one that she would need to suppress if she was going to focus on the seriousness of the task at hand.
He nodded. She could have kissed him. But she resisted.
Tugging gently on his hand, she stood and led him over to a couch in the far corner, as far away from ‘Samuel’ as possible. It would be impossible for them to be heard but she was so afraid that she pressed herself close, keeping the same muted tone as she spoke directly into his ear.
It was an urgent stream of words that she knew could easily be interpreted as the ramblings of a mad woman. But she couldn’t afford to stop. The entire story needed to come out—her magical status, her history, her predicament, her plea for help . . . and her promise to him . . . to reveal herself fully, to show him things that would blow his mind. She felt confident enough to do that . . . in so many ways.
He stiffened when those words came out. They’d never interacted on that level before. But it was powerful. She knew it. She now understood just how powerful that was.
And whilst she’d felt his tension, he hadn’t offered any response the entire time she was speaking. Similarly, she hadn’t dared look at him throughout, afraid of what she might see. But now she did, leaning back with trepidation before focusing on his features. He was not traditionally handsome. He wasn’t even her ‘type’ physically. But there was something about him, something that drew her so strongly that she suddenly felt like a charlatan . . . or even a slut. How could she flip so easily? From one man to another and back? How could she claim to be in love and yet be perfectly ready to cast him aside?
But she had little time to dwell, as his response suddenly caught her in the throat.
“I will help you.”
No questions. No disparaging remarks. Not even a hint of uncertainty.
And then she did kiss him. She had to. The relief was just too great. And his lips were so soft, almost impossibly so for a man, and his taste was . . . sweet . . . familiar. Her fingers trailed up his neck . . . over his jawline . . . across his cheek . . . and stopped . . .
The realisation hit her like that train—the one that never stops, even when it should. Leaping backwards, a muted shriek burst from her lips as she stumbled, knocking over a small table and the lamp on it. The light fell across his features but she saw nothing of what her hand had felt . . . a scar . . . a fine horizontal line scoring across his flesh.
And then his finger lifted almost imperceptibly and his eyes instantly changed, the clear blue draining to tunnels of black.
“Fucking . . . hell,” she choked. “It’s you.”
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At the Headmaster’s Discretion *Complete*

At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete