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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.

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A/N: LeWyKi – lovely to see you back. How’s the study going? You obviously remember more of your school psychology than I do. I just read a bit and some of it links in with my work. ‘That's another reason I love to read stories (as opposed to scientific writings, it turns out): You read and learn something new with each and every tale and it is comparatively effortless.’ – I love that, totally agree. That’s why I’d rather communicate by story. ‘I've also wanted to read the Count of Monte Christo in French forever’ – wow, now I’m impressed :) I’m pretty sure this is going to be a longer fic than the recent ones. I’ve certainly given myself some work to do with so many new characters but I’m enjoying the challenge. Please don’t stop rambling. I look forward to it.

Oracle – I love how you’ve gone for the different review. You’re probably better equipped than I am to point out the stylistic differences, I’m just going with where it takes me at the moment. ‘…career where her brain is her greatest asset’ – I have a particular interest in that did you know? ;) ‘Is Galladon just a word you liked’ – well sort of. It is the name of a mythical Wizard but it also has a Scottish/Irish feel and is a bit masculine to perhaps link in with some of Lynch’s history. ‘Is Ellory just a bitchy quack? I kind of want to spit in her coffee’ – bahahahah – or her red wine? She might notice that more. ‘Helium gum. You've been watching AR YouTube clips again, haven't you?’ – you better believe it, sister! ‘It's also setting the tone of her work before you introduce Severus. Clever girl.’ – I like that you got the importance of establishing her credentials before her less satisfying professional interaction with Snape (and I like you calling me clever ;)) ‘Doesn't she know that Snape and Hermione belong together? :D’ – this cracked me up – love it! ‘By using her own psych-speak against her’ – he’s a crafty Sev this one, a lot of intellectual sparring on the cards I think. ‘Just the mention of her sexuality is suggestive when they're in such a dynamic situation.’ – you’ve said this much better than I could. ‘I don't want to ruin any storytelling by stating my suspicions here’ – thanks, I appreciate it. Xx

Robin – I hope I can keep surprising. I hate the idea of becoming predictable (although people would probably like to know what they’re in for when they drop in for a read). ‘This story has a complete different tone and structure ... melody ... to it than your other stories’ – I love your ‘melody’ – absolutely! Thanks for reviewing this one too.

Chapter 3 – A Helping Hand

When she entered the dining room the following morning, Snape was sitting with a cup of black coffee and buttered toast, reading the Daily Prophet like a hotel guest. Now that she had insight into how composed he was capable of appearing and how volatile his inner world was, she was already prepared to relegate any attempt to achieve successful rehabilitation to the ‘not likely unless you’re a complete masochist’ basket.

Trying to open up someone who could expertly thrust and parry, before stabbing you between the ribs with your own argument, required both the mental agility to tap-dance along that sword edge—and the resilience to not go insane whilst doing it. Hermione didn’t know if she was willing or even capable of putting herself through it.

And what of their history together? If she’d only met him for the first time yesterday, would he have been so familiar with her? As she watched him, wandlessly flipping the pages of the Prophet, deliberately flouting the ‘no magic’ rules, she decided that the answer might actually be ‘yes’.

Scooping fruit salad from the communal bowl just across from him, she watched as Lynch walked out of his office and handed Snape a sheet of paper. He scanned the words for all of two seconds before discarding it. Lynch noticed.

“That’s your exercise program for the next six weeks, Professor.” His soft Irish brogue carried to her.

“My muscle mass is more than sufficient for my purposes,” Snape replied without looking up from the Prophet.

Lynch stepped closer, hands on hips. “I’m sure it is, Professor. But we don’t want you losing condition while you’re here.”

Snape ignored him.

“Maybe you could come into my office and we could discuss it?”

Snape didn’t respond, wandlessly turning another page.

It happened so quickly that Hermione couldn’t quite work out was happening. Lynch reached out to remove the Prophet from Snape’s hands when suddenly his own hand was pinned to the table under Snape’s grasp. Snape was speaking low and quickly into the older man’s flushed neck as he grimaced down at the table, trying to pull his hand away.

Just as quickly, he was released. It was done so efficiently and quietly that the only tension in the room seemed to be that jumping frantically between the two men. Lynch drew in a deep breath, the red slowly draining from his face. Hermione knew him well enough to know that a challenge like that would usually result in immediate suspension from the program. But for some reason Lynch simply locked his blue eyes on Snape’s black ones before backing away, turning and disappearing into his office, closing the door with a bang.

Then, with a sinking heart, she watched it happen. The altercation hadn’t escaped everyone’s attention. Like a moth to a flame, Katherine Calder, apple in hand, eyes fixed on Snape, approached him.

“Do you mind if I sit, Professor?” she asked in a soft, husky voice.

Snape looked up, surprised. Then his coal black eyes drifted slowly over her—enough to send most people scuttling. But she stood, head tilted slightly toward one shoulder and fruit-laden hands partially obscured by her oversized sleeves, a picture of innocent vulnerability. Absolutely contrived, thought Hermione but, evidently, effective.

He responded with a small shake of his head and a flick of his wrist toward the seat, watching her with interest as she lowered herself down.

“How’s the coffee here?” she asked, smiling as she bit into the apple.

Hermione could feel her eyes wanting to roll. But she was too concerned by what this interaction might mean. She’d met with the woman only the morning before but was already confident she had her figured out.

Mid-30’s, attractive, single, sexually submissive, attracted to dominant, physically and sexually aggressive males. She’d claimed that such relationships were destroying her self-esteem but, Hermione suspected, and the current behaviour did nothing to negate it, that she’d entered Galladdon with an alternative agenda—to find an individual with matching pathology. Where better to locate someone with the capacity to fulfil her fetishes for sexual degradation than a retreat specialising in psycho-sexual disorders?

It was all there, the not-so-casual lean toward him, sheer material of her shirt gaping a little at the breastbone, the gentle bite of the lower lip, see-sawing of the eyelashes to emphasise her words, soft laughter, not over-zealous, she couldn’t afford to force anything but her transient presence at the precarious first confluence of dominant and submissive energies, then—and this was the clincher—the heel sliding onto the seat, tucked against her, knee pressing into her chest, classic child posturing, fingers pulling at the hair, not curling, that would be too suggestive, just tugging it gently in mock distraction, it was oh so practised. She’d clearly read, or perhaps even written, the book on submissive flirtation.

He must be able to see it. As Hermione regarded him, she was dismayed to see him engaging with the blatant display—responding in a casual, offhand manner, maintaining dominance and pacing it sufficiently to keep her there.

Hermione could feel something welling inside her. It was that same caustic trickle that had seared her insides only days before, the aching unfairness of it. He had been so utterly hyper-critical of her when she was just trying to conduct her daily business, her work. He’d accused her of having a truncated gait for Merlin’s sake! And yet here he was, perpetuating the most stereotyped of behaviours without question.

It was ridiculous of her to care—after her years of experience. She’d seen so much. Encountered nearly every extreme imaginable. But this absolutely pissed her off! And it made her worry that, with Calder seeking him out, he may indeed be the pathological match for her. Keeping them apart was going to be a priority.

Without even sampling it, she tipped the fruit salad in the bin before discarding the bowl for the House Elves to clear. She had other clients to see.

She didn’t notice his eyes following her as she left the room.

***

“How’s Mollison going?” Hermione murmured, leaning against the activity room wall.

George nodded toward the table where the thin man continued to jerk and twitch. “If you ever wanted to see the Cruciatus in clay. There it is.”

Hermione was fascinated by what she saw. As Shaun Mollison placed his clawed hands at various positions on the lump of clay before him, the curse would seize his body, causing the thick brown pulp to squeeze between his shuddering fingers, extruding a torturous sculpture of the force that had captured his body. It was a clever approach. George might provide some welcome levity for both the staff and clients but he was also extremely intuitive and brilliant to work with.

“And Pomona?” she whispered, not wanting to disturb the woman scrawling furiously with coloured pastels in front of them.

“Her anxiety seems to be darker this time.”

Hermione could see broad overlapping sheaves of greens on the paper—she seemed to have used every shade available. But spiralling up the centre was a dark, swirling mass—thick scouring strokes of blacks and greys.

“It’s controlling her and she’s afraid of it,” said Hermione.

“Fear of fear.” George shook his head as he dug his toe into carpet. “It’s a bugger to kick.”

Pomona was tracing and retracing the dark swirls with blackened fingers, a tangible externalisation of her inner world.

“Now that she’s drawn her anxiety, it might be worthwhile giving it a voice,” suggested Hermione. “Perhaps try her with some writing. Or poetry?”

George shrugged. He was willing to give anything a go.

“She needs to ask her anxiety why it’s here, what it’s afraid of and what it’s protecting her from. She also needs to ask it for alternatives.”

“Will it provide any?” George looked at her.

“No. Fear only knows what it doesn’t want, not what it does want. When you force it to look for options, and it provides none, then you have permission to move on. It can break down the rigidity of her compulsions. Allow her more freedom.”

“I’ve always said it.” George looked at her appreciatively. “That you’re not even a pretty face.”

She only just suppressed a snort. “With those sorts of lines, it really is a wonder the women aren’t flocking.”

“Who says they’re not flocking?” George crossed his arms in mock seriousness.

“Well, whoever’s flocking has got a flocking screw loose,” muttered Hermione.

“That reminds me.” George clicked his fingers. “I’ve got a new one for you.”

Hermione’s lips quirked up in anticipation.

“Two friends are walking down the street and pass a flower shop where one happens to see her boyfriend buying flowers. She sighs and says, ‘Oh, crap, my boyfriend’s buying me flowers again.’ Her friend looks quizzically at her and says, ‘What's the big deal, don't you like getting flowers?’ She says, ‘Oh sure, but he always has expectations after giving me flowers, and I just don't feel like spending the next three days on my back with my legs in the air.’ Her friend says, ‘Don't you have a vase?’

This time Hermione did snort out loud, clamping her hand over her mouth and holding her nose to stop herself from laughing.

George’s eyes were shining. “Sprout liked that one too. Anything with plants in it.”

She hit him lightly on the shoulder before moving off, glad she’d come to see him. He always made her feel better.

In the corner of the room, Dennis Creevey was seated at the old piano, thumbing through a worn book of piano music.

“Do you play?”

He looked up as she spoke, then shook his head. “Colin played. I never learned.” His voice came in short, apologetic bursts.

“Would you like to learn?”

“M . . . Maybe.”

“If you pick out a song, I can teach you to play it,” she said. “As long as it’s easy. I only did up to grade three.”

Dennis ventured a shy smile and nodded hesitantly. “I . . . I think there was a duet. Colin played it. My . . . My mother would accompany. Sometimes. I’ll see if it’s here.”

Hermione nodded encouragingly. She knew she had to be careful with him, his fragile ego was prone to dependency but it also needed to be nurtured. And then there was the loss of Colin. Although it had occurred eight years before, it was still too raw for him. He’d adopted a state of emotional stasis to cope and she wouldn’t be able to go there for a while. The song would be a good bridge when they needed it.

“Dr Granger,” a voice rasped from behind her. Hermione turned to see Sarah wheeling Emily Lenna toward her.

“Is now a good time?” The woman in the wheelchair, her face covered in a thick cloth pressure garment, blonde hair sprouting in sporadic tufts, raised a gloved hand. Her vocal cords had also suffered damage in the fire. Speech rehabilitation would be part of her therapy at Galladdon.

Hermione smiled. “Perfect timing. Will we all go together?”

They both nodded.

***

The path to the river was muddy and strewn with sticks and leaves from the recent winds, making it difficult to push the wheelchair, so Hermione removed the wand from her coat pocket and cast Leviosa, floating both the chair and its cargo just above the ground as they walked. While she carefully picked her way between the minefield of puddles, Hermione noticed that Sarah simply stepped into them, soaking her sandals, seemingly oblivious.

Unlike most people with congenital mutism, who often developed expressive facial features and gesticulations as a means of communication, Sarah’s pale face was impassive, emotionless, pointing to selective mutism as the cause of her silence, a desire to minimise communication. Despite that, Hermione could tell that a strong bond had already developed between the two women. Sarah had taken on the role of caring for Emily’s physical needs, administering her burn salves and assisting her around the Retreat, whilst Emily seemed to be able to understand and communicate on Sarah’s behalf with an impressive level of intuition.

“I sometimes feel like a bubble,” Emily croaked through her scarred vocal cords, gazing up at the vast expanse of milky grey above them. “Floating along on the whim of a breeze. Perhaps one day I’ll just pop and disappear.”

“Is that what you want?” Hermione asked.

“I sometimes wonder if it would be a relief,” Emily replied as the wheels of her chair brushed along tufts of dewy grass. “Not because I want to go. Just that I’m wound so tightly inside. I would be boundless then. Non-existent, but no longer contained.”

“Have you always felt like that?”

Emily shook her head. “Only since the fire.”

“You understand that it’s the post-traumatic stress?” Hermione ducked under a tree branch on the side of the path.

Emily nodded. “Knowing doesn’t always help feeling though. They don’t always connect.”

It was true.

“How are you sleeping?”

“I try not to,” Emily’s sad smile curved within the open circle left by her head garment. “The nightmares are just the worst. The smell. I never ate much meat but the smell of cooking is just too much for me now.”

Hermione drew in a deep breath. She was with her in that moment, imagining the acrid aroma of cooking flesh, her own, lingering in her nostrils.

“I have something that I would like to try with you over the coming weeks,” she said as they rounded a bend, the sound of rushing water becoming instantly louder. “It’s a series of trauma release exercises. They involve inducing a tremor to allow your body to deal with and remove the tension inside you—like a pressure release valve.

“That’s exactly what I need,” nodded Emily. “And a good fucking wouldn’t go astray.”

Hermione burst out laughing and Sarah suddenly turned and smiled at her too.

“I can’t help you with that one,” Hermione said.

“No,” Emily’s voice dropped. “Unfortunately, I don’t think anyone is going to want to help me with that anymore.”

Hermione’s chest tightened. It struck her that even if Emily’s body was healed to the point of use, she may not get to use it for the things she wanted to, needed to. It suddenly felt like a cruelty.

Before she could reply, Sarah suddenly ran forward, stepping off the bank into the river. Hermione lurched after her but Emily grabbed her arm with a gloved fist.

“Leave her. She needs this.”

Despite the doubtless chill, Sarah sank further into the depths of the swirling water, her white dress blooming around her like the translucent bell of a jellyfish. Hermione couldn’t remember beholding a woman so beautiful. Long dark hair cascaded down her shoulders and her red lips parted as she gazed at the sky with eyes of the same pale grey.

“Sometimes you don’t need words,” murmured Emily.

***

Hermione was exhausted. She couldn’t remember such an emotionally harrowing start to a program. Was it the clients? Or had she just been doing this for too long?

Picking up a buttered dinner roll, she placed it on the edge of her plate. She should be hungry but she was almost too tired to eat. Scanning the rest of the spread for something that wouldn’t sit like a stone in her stomach, she stepped forward and knocked into someone. Before she’d even registered who it was, he had caught the bread roll that toppled from her plate and delicately placed it back on the edge before sucking butter from his finger. It wasn’t suggestive. Just normal. Unassuming.

Hermione stared at the back of his black coat as it stretched and then wrinkled with his lean to scoop carrots onto his plate. For some reason the ordinariness of his actions jolted her. She’d only ever registered his extremes. He’d become almost a caricature within her mind, the stylised black accoutrements adding to the illusion. Yet here he was, close enough to touch. Just a person. A man. Trying to live. She knew then that she would help him. At least she would have a bloody good go.
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In Their Hands *Complete*

In Their Hands Complete