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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
- 23
- 24
- 25
A/N: As this fic draws to a close, I’d like to thank you all once again for your thoughts, ideas and support. This has not been an easy story to write and I know it hasn’t necessarily been particularly easy to read. But those who have persisted have given me such a rich tapestry of positivity and discussion to consider, I couldn’t be more grateful. Thank you, DSxx
OO: 1. So I have to start by thanking you for your thoughts on this chapter. You ended up answering some of your own questions in the second run so I won’t go there but you helped me to ensure that I covered over any gaps. I was hoping to build up the paranoia in this chapter – both from Hermione and the reader. The hope was that the moment with her mother would end up being a shock to both. But I think it ended up being too much of a shock in some ways. Although the suspicion is not entirely unwarranted (more this chapter). ‘Snape doing a complete 180 on the matter feels incongruent with everything he’s taught her thus far.’ – possibly . . . let me know what you think after this chapter. ‘If I saw an unexpected book on my desk with a bookmark in it, I’d start reading the pages it was stuck between for clues.’ – Ooh, good idea! ;)
2. This was great. You did me a huge favour. I’ve re-read parts but I haven’t re-read the whole thing so your take at this point was invaluable. I’m glad the parental return wasn’t strangely abrupt in the end and the library bit does get a bit of explanation this chapter. I’m so glad you noticed all the clues throughout that probably only make sense on the second read, or when the chapters are read in relatively quick succession. Your questions were excellent and helped me to shape this chapter. I think I’ve answered quite a few. ‘We came so close to finding out what Snape’s real motives were, and since we have almost no information on what the Ministry asked of him (or what he’s been telling them), that seems pretty important’ – more on that this chapter. Thanks again for your analysis – it was perfect xx
Kvarta: Lovely to hear from you. Don’t worry at all. I am at least 5 chapters behind for OO and she still loves me (I hope!). Hope you had a great time xx

Chapter 24 - Pastmaster

They were happy.
Both of them.
Really happy. Obliviously happy.
It was wonderful.
But it wasn’t right.
Hermione hovered on the doorstep in the waning light of dusk, hand pressed against the frosted glass panelling, undecided about whether she should go back inside. She’d left her father whistling in the lounge room as he sorted through a pile of old journal articles. Her mother had been cleaning—humming away contentedly as she’d slithered the duster over surfaces that Hermione had missed on the few occasions she’d returned to clean—when she’d desperately hoped that the simple act of creating a welcoming home would be enough to bring them back.
Hermione was happy too. Of course she was. She finally had what she’d been pining for all along—her family reunited. But there was something . . . missing. The angst. The hurt. The difficult conversations. The complicated explanations. The disbelief. The gradual acceptance . . . and forgiveness.
It seemed there was nothing to accept. Nothing to forgive. Nothing to even question.
When her mother had opened the fridge to see it practically bare, all she’d said was, ‘Looks like I need to do a spot of shopping’.
Neither of her parents had brought up their time away. They spoke to her as though no time had passed at all. But of course it had. They had missed a lot. And there was evidence of it everywhere. The lawn had grown. Pot plants had died. The newspapers had piled up since Hermione’s last visit.
But their response to each anomaly was quite unremarkable, setting about tidying up as they chatted away about paying the late telephone bill and working out what they could cobble together for dinner from the tins in the pantry. Clearly they didn’t remember everything but, worse than that, they didn’t seem to care.
Hermione hadn’t asked in the end. She’d played along. After all, just being with them, talking to them, hugging them, occupying her childhood home with them, together, as a family, was a dream she had almost given up on.
But it still wasn’t right.
She felt ungrateful. And selfish. Especially considering the risks he had taken to bring them back, and the fact that he might be in imminent danger himself. But her overwhelming concern at that moment was finding out what he had done to them . . . and why.
She took a last wistful look at the shadows moving beyond the glass, then turned, and walked away.
***
It was dark by the time she reached Hogwarts. Throwing flames into the torches around her room, she dropped her satchel onto her chair and looked down at the lone book, his book, on her desk. The brass snake head flickered in the light, undulating as though alive. She noticed then that the stem was no longer situated just inside the front cover as she’d delivered it to him. It was now slotted between pages, about a third of the way through. Sliding her fingers into the gap, she opened it and recoiled faintly in confusion. Blank. She flipped the page over. Nothing.
Dropping the snake with a clatter, she picked up the book and began flicking through the pages. It wasn’t until she passed the middle that words appeared. Her eyes tracked over the familiar sentences. This is what she had read. But what had happened to the rest?
Delving into her satchel, she brought out her copy, the one she had retrieved earlier from the desk in the library. Flipping over the cover, she glanced at her name written inside, reassured that she hadn’t been wrong about that too. She scanned page after page. They were full of words. It seemed strange, then, that the other book was mostly blank. But then the tight script suddenly stopped. A bit over half way through, the words disappeared. The pages were blank.
Hermione frowned between the two open books. It was as though they were a match. His book seemed to begin where hers ended. She had read hers up to the point that it was confiscated. Then she’d finished his, mistakenly assuming it was hers when she’d found it in his cupboard. But she’d not noticed the missing words then. It must have happened afterwards, when she’d finished.
Slowly closing both books, Hermione rested a palm on each identical cover as she considered what it might mean. Maybe he hadn’t simply left them as calling cards. Or gifts—symbols of what he intended to return to her . . . of his plan to repatriate her parents. Perhaps he had wanted her to discover this . . . this discrepancy. But why?
Scooping up both books with one arm, she snatched up her wand and strode out the door. She couldn’t wait and wonder any longer. She needed to find him.
***
Motes of burnt oak, the woody and mildly herbaceous aroma of his cigarettes met her nostrils before she had even reached his door. It seemed like an age since she’d last smelled it—as an audacious, drunken girl, pretending to be more. She was different now. In fact, she could barely identify with that person of only a month or two before—in the desperate throes of transition without having the capacity to understand what was happening. But she understood now. She had grown. And he had helped her. Whatever else happened, she needed to remember that he had helped her.
She knocked.
The door opened almost immediately.
Was he expecting her? Or had he been waiting for someone else?
She entered.
Snape’s large, lean frame occupied the chair by the fire, a half-smoked cigarette nestling between the vee at his knuckles, the fingers of his other hand curling around a glass of amber fluid. His coat and boots lay discarded in an untidy heap on the floor; the top buttons of his shirt were undone. It was as though, upon returning, he had immediately divested himself of his trappings, as though he had desperately needed to free himself but could only do so in the modest and meagre surroundings of his dungeon refuge.
“Severus?”
He turned his head slowly, with considerable effort. When he faced her fully, her heart sank. His entire countenance was one of exhaustion, his face having practically collapsed into a heavy, blank mask. Whatever he had done, it had taken its toll.
Hermione approached. His eyes were the only parts of him that moved, tracking her progress until she stopped, directing her wand to the second armchair and moving it out from the wall. She positioned it opposite him, close enough for her to sit, with her knees touching his. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move at all.
She wanted to touch him more. In fact she would have preferred to be sitting on him for this conversation, feeling his bodily responses against her, in lieu of the expressions that he seemed incapable of giving. But she forced herself to sit back in the chair, to give him space. After all, the last time she’d seen him she had thrown some rather nasty accusations at him. She wasn’t proud of it. And despite it all, he had done what he had said he would do . . . he had helped her. Now she needed to know why.
“I can never thank you enough,” she murmured, her hand creeping forward to rest upon his knee despite herself.
He stared at her, the weight of so much, all of the words unsaid, behind his eyes. She might have considered him drunk if not for the sharpness and clarity there. Eventually he gave a small, singular nod of acknowledgment before lifting the glass to his lips, taking a long gulp of what smelled like firewhisky.
“Can I ask why?” Hermione leaned towards him. “Why did you do it?”
He exhaled through his nose before turning his face to the fire.
“Because I realised that you wouldn’t stop.”
Hermione’s bottom lip slipped between her teeth as she contemplated him. He had done it because he knew she wouldn’t give up on the reversal . . . despite his efforts. It was her fault.
“You could have let me go,” she murmured earnestly. “After the book group, I could have gone into hiding. No one would have known until it was too late.”
He sat in silence, the firelight playing upon his stoic features.
“You should have let me do it,” she insisted, her hand tightening on his leg.
“I was responsible for you.”
Hermione’s breath caught. Had he taken some sort of vow?
“What do you mean?” She strained forward, encroaching further upon his chair. “I thought you were there to spy on me?”
He didn’t respond.
“Severus?”
He shook his head wearily. “It doesn’t matter.”
Hermione was at a loss. What had he done?
Then she remembered the books still tucked under her arm. Taking one in each hand, she set them gently on the tops of this thighs.
“What are these?”
He managed a slightly sardonic eyebrow lift. “Books?”
She ignored it.
“What magic are they imbued with? Why have the words disappeared?”
“They were never written.”
She froze. Despite the instant acceleration of her heart, she attempted to remain calm.
“Never written? But there are words there.” She flicked open some of the pages to indicate. “Who wrote those?”
“You.”
She almost choked.
“How could I have written this?” she asked incredulously, pulling back from him. “I didn’t. These aren’t my words.”
He simply looked at her, as though waiting for her to understand.
Her gaze dropped down to the books. She stared hard at them, trying to remember.
“The story was . . . familiar,” she admitted distractedly. “The girl’s trauma. Her guilt. Their relationship . . . the sex. That was how I worked out that you were there—at the book group.” She looked up but his expression hadn’t changed. This wasn’t news to him. “Then I figured you’d chosen the book deliberately, and had engaged with me as a trigger . . . to bring me out—to see how much I would tell the others.” She returned her fists to the books. “I thought it was a test . . . I thought that I had failed.”
“You chose the story. You chose every word,” he said calmly. “The book was an illusion. You created the words as you read. From your subconscious. This was the story you wanted.”
Hermione shook her head faintly as her gaze jagged over his face, dipping from his eyes to his mouth, trying to comprehend his words.
“But everyone in the group was reading the same book. We were all reading the same story.”
“Were you? Or did you all create your own stories—the stories you wanted? Did you appropriate the words as you saw fit? Was it meaningful? Was it profound?”
Hermione was starting to slide again, disassociating. She blinked furiously, trying to rein herself back in.
“But she . . . her relationship, the sex, started before . . . before we . . .”
He nodded slowly.
Her face contorted. “What are you saying? That you were only doing what I wanted—that I asked for all this, without knowing it?”
“You spoke about the need for domination early. And the guilt—the possibility of releasing it with orgasm.”
Hermione felt herself flushing. If she’d known that the story was about herself, she would never have discussed that with him . . . despite the fact she hadn’t known it was him.
He lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug, dismissing her embarrassment. “We know how to heal ourselves. We know what we need. Not always consciously, but intuitively. However, we don’t always recognise our own wisdom, or accept it, damming it up with misinterpretations and false logic. And it can be complicated, especially when others are involved.”
Hermione raked her eyes over him. There was something about his tone, the sudden tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes flickered away from hers, that made the statement seem like an admission of sorts.
“Were you using me too, Severus? Did you use me . . . to heal yourself?”
His gaze returned to the fire. It seemed to be his safe place.
"I told myself it wasn’t the case. But trust, even in myself, my own feelings, is not something I can always lay claim to. As you indicated, I was far from ready to accept that role again. Too damaged, as it turned out, to do either job properly.”
He paused, staring intently into the flames, but she didn’t interrupt, sensing that there was more.
“I foolishly thought that I could gain your trust for the Ministry, but remain otherwise detached. The feelings I had weren’t new. I’d experienced them before, but I considered that they would abate if I maintained some distance from you in the interim. It became more and more difficult. Then there was the fact that Ministry had my balls in a vice. They had secured my position at Hogwarts against medical recommendations, and I owed them. Their man, Samuel, was watching me too closely. You were clearly unstable, and a serious risk. I couldn’t keep covering up the fact without them growing suspicious. So I took you away . . . before they could take matters into their own hands.”
Hermione felt a chill crawl up her spine. She knew exactly what that meant.
“I knew what you needed. The Ministry basically wanted the same—for you to be rendered safe. So I gave you the bastard that could help you . . . And I enjoyed it.”
He finally looked at her.
“I did what I wanted, but justified it as necessary . . . for progress. I took potions in an attempt to control my response.” He lifted an eyebrow as if remembering. “Indeed, being able to feel each interaction from both perspectives, simultaneously, was nothing short of . . . extraordinary.” He shifted a little in his chair, exhaling audibly. “Until I was caught . . . off guard.”
The ball. That was when she had finally managed to arouse him. It had been the turning point—the beginning of him opening up to her.
“After that, I finally had to admit to myself that I wasn’t simply doing it to help you. Or the Ministry. I was doing it for myself—as I had been the entire time. I was grooming you to be what I needed. But you turned out to be more. Far more. And I didn’t realise until it was too late.”
Too late? Hermione didn’t like the finality with which he delivered those words. She gazed at him as he took another swallow of whisky, wishing she had known his mind from the start—wishing she had known that he was the quiet, gentle, considerate man she had already fallen for. And that he had similar feelings for her. She couldn’t help thinking that they wouldn’t be in such a mess if he’d been more up front with her. But, then again, her opinion of him as Headmaster had been so tarnished from the beginning, she wondered how he might have engaged her otherwise.
Her gaze trailed down to the books, still resting where she had placed them on his thighs.
“What about your book?” She picked up the one on her left, the one that was blank for the entire first half. “What happened to your story?”
Rather than answering, he took a long, slow drag on his cigarette, appraising her with a look so complex that she wondered exactly what he was going to say.
“You finished it.”
“What?”
He exhaled a thin cloud, his lips coming together to make a soft hissing sound like he was deflating before her.
“I’m tired,” he said finally, letting the rest escape in a puff of resignation.
Hermione stared at him, quite unable to believe that he would give that as some sort of explanation. Tired? Is that why he had sacrificed himself? Is that why he was giving up?
Angry tears welled in her eyes. “Don’t put that responsibility on me. It is not too late. Your story is not over.”
He sighed, blinking slowly. “I have nothing more to give. You do.”
She tried to interrupt but he raised a hand.
“The Ministry will come. I covered my tracks as completely as I could. The library would have muddied the waters but it’s impossible to cover the spell trace completely. I may have bought a small amount of time. But little more.”
Hermione could restrain herself no longer. Letting the books drop to the floor, she lunged onto his lap, burying her face in the warm nook under his chin.
“Why not just let them Obliviate me?” she whispered, blinking hot tears onto his neck.
His strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her into his chest. She melted into him so naturally, it was like coming home. Even more so than when she’d returned with her parents. The irony made her sob. All this time she had imagined herself to be Dorothy, pleading with the Wizard to help her return home, only to find that she was already there. With him.
“The body remembers,” he murmured plaintively. “Even if the mind doesn’t.”
Through the haze of her sadness, his words took a few moments to coalesce into meaning. Was he saying what she thought he was saying? Had she understood him correctly?
Lifting her head, she could tell immediately that she wasn’t mistaken. Her hand trembled slightly as she placed it on his cheek, her thumb gently caressing the scar she knew to be there.
“You were Obliviated?”
He didn’t look away this time, lifting his troubled gaze to hers.
“Yes . . . at St Mungos. It was deemed that I would be unable to recover without it. I was too traumatised by what had happened. They told me afterwards that it had been a choice between Obliviation or institutionalisation. In the end, all memory of what I had perpetrated was removed. But . . . I can still feel it. And much of it is . . . intolerable.” His voice had tightened to a painful rasp.
Hermione’s heart ached. She couldn’t imagine how much he must have suffered—enough to cut himself because of the pain, but unaware of the cause—just knowing that he was in some way responsible. Being a Motulomens, the intensity would be extreme. It made her feel sick.
“Have you considered reversing the Obliviation?” she asked tentatively. After all, the spell wasn’t banned for witches and wizards.
“Do you believe that knowing the details of my actions would make it any less painful?”
Fuck. It had been a stupid suggestion. She could barely stand the agony that swam in his eyes, the internal battle that had clearly plagued him mercilessly since.
She ducked back down, nestling into his neck, caressing him gently. It explained why he had reacted so badly when she’d put her wand to his temple. Both Obliviation and its reversal would be equally traumatic for him. Had that also shaped his actions around her parents’ return?
“Is that why you didn’t complete the Obliviation reversal on my parents?” she asked quietly. “Did you consider the past too painful for them too?”
He shook his head.
“I inserted a block. But it’s only temporary. It will all come back but you need to prepare them. You need to talk to them about what happened so that when everything returns, they are ready. Otherwise they will suffer the same trauma . . . the same guilt.”
Hermione’s love for him became too much then.
“You are a brilliant and beautiful man, Severus,” she whispered, kissing him gently on the corner of the mouth and then fully on the lips.
When he responded, it was clear that his feelings for her had not abated.
They kissed deeply, passionately, both acutely aware that their time together was coming to an end.
But this knowledge, together with their mounting need, only made Hermione feel all the more helpless. Finally she broke down.
“You don’t deserve this,” she murmured tearfully against his lips. “You did this for me, because of me, after all . . . Isn’t there another way?”
He pushed her gently back until his intense gaze met hers, the shimmer glazing his dark irises unmistakable. “I told you, ‘deserve’ can infer both a reward and a punishment.”
Her face crumpled. “I don’t understand.”
He sighed, using one long finger to fold a stray tendril of hair back from her face. “Sometimes it is just easier to hand over the punishment to someone else.”
Then she understood.
So much of his life had been dedicated to paying for the past, that he no longer knew how to stop.
By ‘someone else’, she suspected he was referring to the Ministry . . . and the possibility of Azkaban.
But he was also talking about her.
And about himself.
About them both.
Perpetrators.
And victims.
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At the Headmaster’s Discretion *Complete*

At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete