The Unbroken | By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 22805 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 1 |
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. |
A/N: I’m making the most of a bit of extra writing time lately. It has been lovely hearing everyone’s thoughts. Hope you are still enjoying. DSxx
OO – Yes, my muse has been very excited about suddenly having a bit of free time :) ‘I loved despicable Lucius’ – hahah, I loved that you hated him :) ‘maybe I need to let out my dark side more often’ – ooh, yes, I’d love to see that! I’m so glad you enjoyed this mysterious Severus and tough Hermione too. ‘And of course I’m wondering what Snape’s really up to’ – hmmm, more clues on the way! xx
OO – ‘Snape is all hardcore and closed off’ – yeah . . . he’s certainly intense. ‘As a person, however, I wouldn’t go anywhere near him. I like saying thank you, and I prefer my throat remain unbruised – I happen to enjoy the same :). ‘You’ve sucked me into her misery and confusion—and I love it’ – I totally get loving misery and confusion, especially when it’s someone else trying to work through it. ‘But also creepy and sad. (But I can’t stop laughing.)’ – I love how similar our senses of humour are :D. ‘He never does what’s expected, so this could go in lots of different directions.’ – he always manages to surprise me! <3
Chapter 3 – Unmentionable
Hermione sat on her bed, letting her eyes rove over the landscape of laboratory equipment, burnished by the warm glow of the magical lanterns fluttering around the room. She found the clutter comforting—like her father’s study when she was a child. She could never allow her eyes to roam too quickly when she had managed to creep in there unnoticed, lest she missed something important amongst the mountains of books and papers—a clue to his past, to his work, to who the real man was.
Like the small, pewter cannon perched atop his latest manuscript. The letter opener with the carved ivory handle, worn smooth with age and use. A pipe she had never seen him smoke but that she always had to touch, to smell, even though she had to climb up the bookshelves to reach it. A set of framed prints, teapots in whimsical pastels, like those from a Mad Hatter’s tea party. A poem, embroidered—she would trace her fingertips around the intricate floral border as she recited the words.
Hark, I hear a robin calling!
List, the wind is from the south!
And the orchard-bloom is falling
Sweet as kisses on the mouth.
In the dreamy vale of beeches
Fair and faint is woven mist,
And the river's orient reaches
Are the palest amethyst.
Every limpid brook is singing
Of the lure of April days;
Every piney glen is ringing
With the maddest roundelays.
Come and let us seek together
Springtime lore of daffodils,
Giving to the golden weather
Greeting on the sun-warm hills.
Her lips moved soundlessly now around the warmth and optimism of each phrase. Because they were her father. His hopeful outlook had gently guided her, his only daughter, prone to catastrophizing and maddening perfectionism, to let go, to simply accept. And his memory had remained with her throughout this past year, tucked into the lining of her threadbare jacket.
Slipping her fingers inside now, dipping into the hidden pocket pressed against her heart, she removed it, the frayed slip of paper, worn thin, trembling like a trapped butterfly between her fingertips.
Carefully unfolding it, she gazed at the faded, grey strokes of his handwriting.
‘You can’t have the rainbow, little bear, without the rain.’
And a love heart.
The smile quivered on her lips.
She still remembered when she’d found it as a child, secreted between the pages of ‘The Wind in the Willows’. It was after a bout of sadness from which she thought she’d never recover. She’d moped about for days before curling up to escape with Ratty and Mole. There she’d found it and, wishing to keep that burst of love alive forever, kept it.
She had protected herself with these and others of his words, feverish recitations staving off the cold terror of being hunted, chipping away at the futility that threatened to bind her thoughts, shedding warm light on the bitter loneliness that pooled in her chest.
Even in his absence, he had saved her. And he was saving her still, that man of perpetual Spring.
Except that he now had some serious competition. The man of perpetual winter. As cold and bleak as a snowstorm inside an ice cave.
Where was he?
She could hear nothing from behind the door to what she assumed were his chambers.
Had he left altogether?
Her eyes flickered to the exit. She was tempted to try the handle but the memory of his hair-trigger temper was just too vivid.
Then her gaze settled upon the pair of healing remedies where he’d placed them on the bench. She rolled off the bed and padded over, gingerly tugging up her jacket sleeve to expose the angry red burn, blistered and weeping. It hurt. But so many things did that she now felt quite separate from it, and could look at it with a curious detachment that seemed like it might, in the long-term, be both helpful and harmful to her.
Drawing up a small amount of viscous green liquid from the vial, she dropped it in long, shimmering threads onto the burn. The relief was profound and almost instantaneous, a creeping coolness that numbed and soothed, percolating into the depths of her flesh as though she were porous.
And then she scooped her fingers into the milky balm of the second jar and applied it to the bracelets of raw skin encircling her wrists and ankles where the shackles had mercilessly abraded. The mushrooming relief built into a wave of soothing warmth that seemed to spread even further, easing the tension all of the way into the weary muscles of her neck and shoulders, and relieving the tightness that had commandeered her hamstrings and buttocks as she’d squatted uncomfortably, breathless, desperately hoping to remain undiscovered.
As she shook herself, testing the newfound looseness of her joints, she lifted the jar to the light to examine its contents more closely. Taking a sniff, she raised an eyebrow, impressed. It really was an exceptional preparation. It must be his own. No one else produced potions of this standard, and it suggested that he still had access to quality ingredients. Her eyes jagged over to the door on the far side of the room. Was that where he stored them? Hermione found herself suddenly warming a little to the idea of providing assistance.
Replacing the lids on both jars, she returned to her modest corner and set them on top of the chest of drawers. It was only then that she realised that the water pitcher there was actually full. She dipped her fingers into it. Warm. He must have seen to that too.
As she poured the water into the large bowl, she found that the level in the pitcher didn’t change. More magic.
Chewing her bottom lip thoughtfully, she continued pouring until the bowl was full. All of these little contradictions were becoming increasingly difficult to reconcile but she decided that she would have to let them go until she understood him better.
In the absence of another cloth, she took the corner of the towel and dipped it into the bowl before starting on her face. She was dirty. She could feel the grime caked on her skin but slowly, methodically, she managed to wipe it away, rinsing often. With a quick glance over her shoulder at the door to his chambers, she peeled off her jacket and top, wiping down her arms, neck, chest and stomach before moving on to her lower half. Torn and filthy, she found that removing her jeans provided considerable relief. Her legs weren’t too bad but her feet were a mess. She spent a significant amount of time trying to remove half of the road to Hogwarts from between her toes before patting them dry, planning to apply some of the healing balm to the cuts there.
Finally, casting another fearful glance over her shoulder, she quickly removed her bra and knickers. She didn’t give those parts of her body as long as they needed, but she was far more concerned with ensuring that she wasn’t caught cowering naked in the corner of his laboratory. Snatching the dress from her bed, she slipped it on without undoing the buttons. It proved to be surprisingly warm and comfortable but the fit was less than flattering. Tent-like would be a generous description. In fact, when she tugged at the front, it became clear that she could fit nearly two of herself in there. Still, it could be worse.
Hermione proceeded to wash her underwear in the bowl before hanging them over the horizontal bar that ran beneath the nearest bench. Then she emptied the dirty water into the toilet bucket and was relieved to see it instantly disappear.
Good. One less thing to worry about.
Finally, she washed out the soup mug and filled it with warm water from the pitcher, slaking her thirst before returning it to the drawers with a deep sigh. It was not quite a breath of contentment—she couldn’t possibly go there. But, despite her ordeal, she found that she was starting to feel surprisingly human again—certainly better than she had in the dirty, dark cells of the dungeon.
Opening the top drawer to put away the mug, she found another surprise. Shoes. Actually clogs. They were carved from wood but each contained a cushioned inner sole. Placing them on the ground, she slipped her feet in. It was a relief to finally have something to buffer her against the bitter cold of the floor, but when she took several steps, she was perturbed by how noisily they clacked against the flags. She suspected that it was deliberate, enabling him to keep track her.
Nevertheless, she considered it better than other potential methods. Certainly his mark on her arm could serve as an effective summons, and she would prefer to avoid the use of that if at all possible.
The main issue that she was left with now were the matted tresses that she could feel tangled into skeins of lumpy knots under her fingers. Her hair was horrible. And whilst it was a problem that she could easily fix, in fact she could have cleaned herself and her clothes without any difficulty at all, she never would. Indeed, as soon as she had been captured, she had vowed to do nothing that might arouse suspicion about just how much wandless magic she could perform. It was her wild card. And she would be holding it very close to her chest until the very last.
So her hair remained a mess. Her underwear remained wet. Her clogs remained cloggy. But she treated herself to a leisurely tour of the bookshelves that lifted her in a way that nothing else could. His collection was mind-boggling. There were so many that she wanted to peruse, and many that she did, just fleeting snippets in case he were to suddenly arrive. Would he allow her read them? Even just one?
She supposed that he might be more willing to acquiesce on something less important than the old and rare texts that adorned the vast majority of his shelves—a work of fiction perhaps. But there were none. At least not until she arrived at the small shelf that sat by his desk. Her index finger halted upon a cracked, black spine. Edgar Allan Poe. No real surprise. Then Robert Louis Stevenson's, ‘The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde’. Hermione smirked to herself. That was hardly a work of fiction in Snape’s case. As she congratulated herself on the clever jibe, even if it was only in her own head, her hand froze.
Then she slowly plucked it out.
Well worn. Well loved.
‘The Wind in the Willows’.
Fingertips tracing over the cheerful cover, her eyes returned to the door to his chambers.
She stared hard at it. As though she could somehow see through to the man within.
Then she murmured. As though he could somehow hear.
“Who are you?”
***
“I do not recall offering the use of my laboratory as a drying station for . . . .”
Hermione opened her eyes in time to see the dark wizard give an angry swipe of his hand, sending her underwear sailing over to land on her bed. She quickly snatched both items up and shoved them under the blanket.
He started banging things around, refusing to look at her.
“Get up.”
Wriggling furiously, Hermione managed to pull on her knickers which were thankfully dry, although she was unsure of exactly how long she had been asleep. Her bra would have to wait but it wasn’t like its absence would cause a problem. The dress left practically everything to the imagination except, perhaps, for the tell-tale signs that she did, in fact, possess a body of indeterminate shape and size.
He glared at her then, making her worry that he was reading her thoughts.
He wasn’t.
She would have felt it.
Sliding quickly out of bed, she slipped on her clogs, thankful for the fact that she’d used the toilet in the night and her bladder was feeling reasonably intact.
She was thirsty, and hungry, but decided it would be better to stay on his good side. Or his less bad side. Whatever it was that he really possessed.
“Yes, Professor.” She nodded, indicating that she was ready.
He stopped mid-clang, holding a small cauldron in his hand.
“You will call me Master. Is that clear?”
“Yes . . . Master.”
His gaze lingered upon her as though he had something more to say. Instead he banged the cauldron on the bench before summoning another. There were now six lined up in a row.
“What is it that you would have me do?” she asked, then added, ‘Master’, in case it was required.
He glanced at her again, as though detecting a hint of derision. She lowered her head, attempting to look suitably unassuming.
“I will be brewing a batch of sleeping draught. Collect the appropriate ingredients from the storeroom.”
She took a tentative step forward before pointing to the far door. “In there?”
“Obviously.”
Without further hesitation, she clopped her way across the room, finding the storeroom door unlocked.
The room’s interior was far bigger than she had expected, and extremely well organised. Storage jars and baskets for dried ingredients were on the left, in front of which were hanging a large set of brass scales. Vats and dispensers of various coloured solutions were at the far end. The right held pickled ingredients and those stored in oil, as well as a transparent humid-chamber for fresh ingredients. There was also a large chest on the floor that she pulled open to reveal neatly stacked containers of frozen ingredients. Spare jars, bottles and vials were up high on the right.
Aware that the sleeping draught required lavender, Hermione immediately went in search of it, finding the flower in both dry and fresh varieties. She selected the fresh lavender from the humid-chamber, and also pulled out a number of sprigs of valerian. It took a little longer to find the jar of Flobberworm mucus, as it was hidden behind a number of other ‘creature extractions’. Then she carried all three back into the laboratory, setting them at the end of the bench where Snape stood.
He didn’t look up.
“I’d like you to take an inventory of what we currently have and what must be ordered.”
“For the whole storeroom?” She balked. Surely it would be easier for him to do such a thing. He was familiar with all of the ingredients and how they had been arranged. And he would have records of everything that had been ordered to date.
“Are you incapable of counting?”
“No, but I—”
“Do you have more important matters to attend to?”
The fierce furrow of his brow and the subtle flexion of his long fingers made her take notice.
“No . . . Master.”
“Then I suggest that you make a start . . . immediately.”
She placed a hand upon the bench directly before him. “I will need parchment . . . and a quill.”
He stared at her hand but didn’t look any further. “On my desk.”
Dragging her hand away, she left, collecting both from the desk before returning to the storeroom.
It was difficult to know where to start.
Scanning the shelves, she decided that the dry ingredients were probably easiest. They were clearly labelled and she could weigh them using the scales.
Scribing neat lines on the parchment, she wrote the names of the first few ingredients and then set about weighing them.
It wasn’t long before Hermione found herself totally engrossed in the process, each basket and jar providing a new visual, tactile and olfactory thrill. She had always enjoyed poking through the ingredients but she could now paw at them to her heart’s content, allowing each to trickle deliciously through her fingers.
When she’d finished those in front of her, she kicked off her clogs and climbed onto the bottom shelf to reach the baskets at the top. There were some really interesting items up there. She found bundles of dried cuttlefish, seahorses and sea urchins that she was delighted to find smelled less of decay and more of the sea. Then there was a basket filled with sets of desiccated wings—bats and gargoyles, even dragon whelps. The next basket she pulled down was filled with shiny beetle carapaces. They were most unusual. Some were blood-red and others a burnt orange colour. Were they the same species? Or had they been accidentally mixed together?
She decided to check.
With the basket tucked under one arm, staring thoughtfully at the contents, she approached Snape from behind, touching him lightly on the back of the elbow. “Professor . . .”
He stiffened. Then growled, “What?!”
“Sorry.” She suddenly remembered herself. “I mean, Master.”
Then she stepped around him, placing the basket on the bench. “I just thought I’d check what the situation is with these beetles. It looks like they might be—”
She stopped.
Her gaze had drifted to his hands. It seemed that he had been chopping ingredients with a sharp scalpel. Now there was blood welling out of what appeared to be a deep cut in his thumb.
“I’m so sorry!” she gasped, immediately reaching out to touch the wrist of his injured hand. “I didn’t mean—”
“Leave . . . it,” he snarled through clenched teeth, jerking his arm away before tucking his thumb into his palm as though it weren’t injured. “Where are your shoes?”
“They’re . . . I took them off to—”
“Leave them on . . . at all times.”
Hermione stepped back a pace. “I’m sorry, I really didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
“Stop . . . apologising.” His dark eyes flashed as he turned his back on her and strode away.
She returned to the storeroom with the basket. Staring at the bloody carapaces she wondered at how a man like Snape, the ultimate spy, could be so terribly jumpy. Perhaps he wasn’t used to having another person in his space. Regardless, it seemed that she had been right about the purpose of the clogs. Slipping them back on, she proceeded to work her way through the rest of the dried ingredients.
Sometime later she heard him cry out. “Come here!”
It sounded urgent, strained.
She rushed out with parchment and quill in hand.
His fist, the one that had been injured, was curled into a painful knot. But that didn’t seem to be the root of his problem. He grasped his forearm with his other hand, hissing as though in pain.
“I must go. You will need to complete the draught.”
“Of course,” she responded earnestly. “I have almost finished itemising the dried ingredients.” She placed the parchment in front of him.
Snape stared at it. She’d done a good job. Exceptional, in fact.
She looked up at him, her eyes full of hope, even concern, clearly desperate to please him.
As his Dark Mark screamed again, he lifted his hand and hit her hard across the face. She toppled over, sending a cauldron flying, contents splattering across the floor.
When she looked back at him, blood trickling from her nose, he took in the shock, the hurt, the fear and betrayal, committing it to memory.
He had seen the likes of it before. He’d ruminated over that expression so often that he thought he’d be immune to it by now.
Who knew if she understood?
It was of little consequence anyway.
“Clean it up,” he ordered, before pushing himself upright and heading for the door.
A/N: I want to acknowledge the author of the poem in this chapter - ‘Spring Song' by Lucy Maud Montgomery.
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