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The Unbroken	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 22797 -:- 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.

Chapter List
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- 5
A/N: A bit of a longer chapter for those of you who needed more :) Thank you again for your enthusiasm and encouragement. It really does make all the difference. DSxx
Thank you again to Ailosacath for the chapter title x
OO – ‘Living in a world of Death Eaters would turn me into a deranged psycho too. I can’t really blame him for being so volatile’ – true but, as you suggest, there might be something more going on with him too ;) ‘She should tell him about flip-flops. Just as loud but without the horse clopping of clogs’ – the ‘horse clopping’ cracked me up. Someone else suggested bells too! I didn’t feel that this Snape was a particularly ‘tinkly’ person. And the flip-flops might have been a bit ‘beachy’ :) I really don’t know why he chose clogs, maybe there is a Dutch link there? Or maybe that’s just me ;) Yes, droll made perfect sense, I wrote that sentence with you in mind, hoping that it would make you smile. Xx
WireWoolly – Lovely to hear your thoughts. It makes a big difference to how I structure my next chapters :) ‘I'm so confused, as I'm sure is Hermione!’ – hopefully this next chapter will shed a bit of light on what is going on with him. ‘nice image of Rickman's SS from the film dropped into this chapter, btw :D’ – Ooh, I’m glad you picked that one up. I only just resisted the urge to write ob-viously! ‘and all was seemingly on the winding road to fluff until now!’ – hahah, there are quite a few twists and turns planned so hopefully you can hang on for the ride :) x

Chapter 4 – Untoward
“Severusss,” Voldemort’s quiet acknowledgement was sufficient to send a warning prickle through Snape’s scalp, even before he’d managed to close the door to the meeting room.
He was the last to arrive. The rest of the Death Eaters regarded him with a mixture of interest and snidery, while the dark lord’s hands rose to clamp expectantly on either side of the table, as though he were preparing to pick it up and throw it.
“So kind of you to join ussss.” The serpentine hiss that issued from Voldemort’s mouth chilled and mocked in equal measure. Clearly his surprisingly reasonable mood from the day before had all but evaporated.
Snape knew then that he had judged the circumstances correctly.
“Pleassse, take a ssseat.”
Snape’s gaze flickered around the few empty chairs at the table.
“Beside me.” Voldemort tapped his index finger in a slow, deliberate rhythm as he ran his pale tongue with excruciating languor along the cracked ridge of his bottom lip.
“Yes, my lord.” Snape nodded but his movements remained unhurried. It would not pay to appear anxious.
He took his seat.
The room was as quiet as a church, all eyes upon him.
“It has come to my attention,” Voldemort’s gaze roamed over those seated on either side of him, settling upon the faces of those who had obviously been responsible for divulging whatever information he was about to reveal, “that the Mudblood slave did not spend the evening in the dungeons. It seems that you have taken it upon yourself to provide private accommodation. Is that the case?”
“My lord.” Snape’s eyes jagged to Lucius who smirked and crossed his arms as though enjoying the prospect of seeing how he could possibly talk his way out of this. “I considered it an effective means of ensuring that the considerable potion-brewing workload could be covered without having to adhere to the schedule of the dungeon keeper who, in my opinion, is little more than an indolent lout.”
Snape had found that attack was often the best defence in such situations.
“I am not interested in your views on the work ethic of the dungeon keeper.” Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. He was not buying it. “You will agree that this appears to be very much a case of preferential treatment.”
“I can assure you, my lord, that this represents nothing of the—”
“Silence.” The dangerously restrained delivery, the subtle rise of one finger, held more gravity than if he had shouted. “You will now show me . . . the truth.”
Inclining his head, Voldemort focused his scarlet gaze on the dark wizard. Snape’s hand curled into a tight fist in his lap but he kept his mind open, allowing his master to delve inside.
Even though he was prepared, Voldemort moved through the labyrinth of his mind at such high velocity that Snape often found it difficult to keep up. However, there was also an advantage to the speed with which the dark lord searched, in that he was effectively forced to apply a filter to separate out the significant events from the multitude of other thoughts, images, sensations and emotions that existed. Voldemort’s preference was for occasions with the highest frequency of angst, tension and turmoil and, since he was moving chronologically, he found the episode from the previous day first.
Snape experienced exactly what Voldemort saw.
She looks at the white dress that he has thrown her, allowing it to dangle with disdain from her fingertips.
“I hate you.” She scowls.
Then he rushes at her, clamping his hand around her throat. The blood pools in her face. She shudders, on the verge of collapse.
Voldemort grinned. “Perhaps I have underestimated you, Severussss.”
Snape inclined his head stiffly. He couldn’t afford to appear too relieved that the manipulation had worked. It had taken hours of intensive focus to subtly change the original memory. Her ‘thank you’ no longer existed. Nor did the look of genuine gratitude that had accompanied it.
Snape had developed the technique over the course of years, working on the principle that memories are never static, that they change each time that they are remembered. By continuously recalling and subtly changing the way his memories were represented, he was able to make permanent alterations to them that were small enough to defy detection.
Voldemort had moved on. He was again soaring through Snape’s mind, ruffling through the insignificant and mundane before happening upon the event that had occurred earlier, just prior to his departure from the laboratory. There had been insufficient time after the incident for further manipulation, but mercifully it required none. It was perfect.
Voldemort’s grin broadened, and then a rare chuckle emerged. “You really have committed fully to this, haven’t you?”
“My Lord.” Snape delivered another subtle bow. “I will see to it that the Mudblood fully understands the magnitude and consequences of her indiscretions. She will learn to serve us well.”
Voldemort’s grin dropped away. “We shall see.”
Snape inclined his head again, wishing he hadn’t pushed quite so hard. “Indeed. When my lord deems it so.”
“Won’t you tell us, my lord?” Bellatrix’s whine pierced the silence. “Has he done her yet or not?”
Voldemort’s lip curled a little. “Not.”
“Amateur,” Lucius muttered from across the table. “My Lord, perhaps if I could—”
Voldemort raised a hand to silence Lucius.
“I have confidence, after viewing the events of the past day, that Severus is more than capable of making the Mudblood submit.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Severus murmured, his icy gaze not deviating from Lucius, who was glaring just as coldly at him. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must see to your other requirements.”
“Of course.” Voldemort gestured urbanely toward the door. “Do not let us keep you.”
There was a barb there. Another one. But Severus had no intention of subjecting himself to any further scrutiny.
With a courteous bow, he pushed his chair back and exited.
***
Hermione jumped when he entered, spilling a little of the draught mixture onto the bench. She had filled twenty-three bottles with the contents of the five remaining cauldrons so far, and considered that she should have enough to fill another seven—if she could avoid spilling any more.
He was moving quietly, shifting objects around behind her. There was the scrape of a stool. The clink of metal.
“Perhaps you would like to take your meal now?”
Hermione turned, still holding the handles of a hot cauldron with two small cloths.
He had laid a place with food, drink and cutlery at the end of a bench.
Was that where he had gone? The kitchens?
His exit had certainly been more dramatic than such an errand warranted. Half of her face was still hot and aching from the blow. It had been totally unprovoked. As had the previous. Clearly he was trying to confuse and overwhelm her, lashing out in an attempt to keep her off-kilter. However, she had lived with extreme uncertainty for many months. And had encountered evil in a multitude of shocking forms.
Her main concern at that point was survival. And keeping out of his way seemed like the best way of ensuring that.
“I’d like to finish here first, Master, if you will allow me?”
Snape paused, appraising her for a moment before nodding. “As you wish.”
Then he headed into his chambers, closing the door more gently than on previous occasions.
Hermione proceeded to fill the remaining potion bottles before placing the dirty cauldrons in a sink. There was no running water, so Snape would either need to Scourgify them or cast a spell to enable the taps to run. Either way, she was done for now. And she was starving.
Propping herself on the stool, she picked up her fork and speared a piece of carrot. There were also several slices of some sort of roasted meat, probably lamb, a cluster of baked potatoes and green beans with gravy. Her mouth was watering so much that she was practically dribbling each time she shovelled in another forkful. It was all so delicious that she was soon moaning with appreciation, sipping from a tall glass of water only when she could tear herself away from the food.
Then, just before she’d finished, she heard his door open again and he came out with a cup and saucer, placing it on the bench in front of her before dipping into his pocket and retrieving what turned out to be a pair of sweet biscuits. He placed these delicately on the edge of the saucer.
She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. Not after what had happened the last time she’d faced him.
After a moment, he turned and retreated to his chambers.
Hermione sipped the tea. It was exactly as she liked it. Then she nibbled a biscuit and closed her eyes to savour the wonderful taste.
It was so tempting to relax, to simply be grateful to have received a meal, a delicious one, and a cup of tea. But who knew if this was simply another way to entice her to let her guard down, to soften her up before the next attack.
The knot in her stomach was a permanent fixture. And it reminded her to be vigilant. She could never trust this man, and he’d made it easy for her to realise that. For that, at least, she was grateful.
***
The following few days were a blur.
Hermione quickly developed a routine that had her rising early, before Snape was even up, washing herself, freshening up her dress which basically involved rubbing a solvent on the stains and some lavender and lemongrass oils into the seams to combat odours, and preparing the laboratory for brewing. Then she would work till late, labelling bottles, polishing glassware and sorting ingredients so that she could locate them at a moment’s notice.
She received two meals a day, which was plenty, and he provided a jug of fresh water so she didn’t have to drink from the pitcher that she used for cleaning. After three days, he set the taps to run so she could clean the cauldrons and glassware as needed. And on the fifth day she even managed to wash her dress late at night in one of the sinks, drying it overnight on a stool.
The long hours of work meant that her days passed quickly and the fact that she always had a task to focus on meant that she didn’t have to interact with him any more than necessary. They spoke rarely. The silence started off roaring with discomfort, mainly because she was so wary of him. But soon it began to feel surprisingly natural. He made some early demands of her, but since she was proactive and able to pre-empt much of what was required, he eventually seemed to relax a fraction. At least he didn’t hurt her again.
On the morning of the seventh day, Snape left early and returned a couple of hours later, visibly agitated, stating that they required a triple batch of the healing potion, Skele-grow. Hermione knew that there were at least thirty bottles in the storage cupboard so she could only guess that there had been significant casualties somewhere, most likely involving the loss of limbs.
She wasn’t a violent person—at least not unless it was absolutely necessary. But this news made her heart soar. Despite Voldemort declaring victory at the end of the Battle of Hogwarts, the fight against evil had never stopped. The Resistance had been training volunteers and stockpiling weapons the entire time.
Hermione knew because she had been working with them in remote recruitment right up to the time that she was captured, managing to make all links with them disappear just in time. The fact that they had struck some sort of significant blow against Voldemort’s forces, meant that they were still strong. The thought made her smile.
“Now!” Snape’s commanding voice bellowed just behind her.
She jumped in fright, before scurrying off to collect the ingredients.
When she returned to the laboratory, he was gone, but he had left eighteen cauldrons lit and was clearly expecting her to coordinate the lot by herself. It was a vote of confidence if nothing else. Working methodically, Hermione managed to keep all of them on the go, plucking and grinding, sprinkling and stirring, timing everything to perfection.
It was only when she was about half way through that she became aware of her dress sticking uncomfortably to her back. The heat generated by so many cauldrons cooking at once, and without the natural chill of the dungeons, meant that the room was like an oven, and she was sweltering like a beef wellington in her ridiculously impenetrable dress. On top of that, each time she bent down to smell or investigate a potion, she found herself treading of the front of it.
In frustration, and seeking some small amount of relief, she tucked the front of it up, folding the hem into her knickers. It was so long that it still hung to her knees but at least allowed a small amount of freedom. Then she pulled up both sleeves and undid the top four buttons at the front until she felt she could breathe. Finally, she pinned her hair up as well as she possibly could considering its state, spearing a pair of glass stirring rods into it to keep it in place. Even then, she was so hot that she had to wipe herself with a damp cloth, hoping that the evaporation would cool her enough to keep her going.
After continuing to the next break in the recipe, she poured herself two glasses of water and downed them in quick succession before returning. She wanted to sit for a moment but there weren’t any more gaps, and so she forged on.
About three quarters of the way through, she heard the door open, but was in the middle of timing four revolutions anti-clockwise for each, and so kept her focus on the cauldron before her.
His footsteps approached and then stopped.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m about . . . three . . . four,” she counted under her breath before continuing, “I’m about three quarters of the way through these. They should only be twenty minutes longer and then I can—”
“What have you done to your clothing?”
“Oh I . . .” She glanced down then before shaking her head dismissively. “I was too hot. This place is like a furnace.”
“Fix them.”
Hermione threw a look at him before moving on to the next cauldron. “I have to do these.”
“Now.”
In irritation, she flicked her skirt out of her knickers, feeling it waft down to cling to her damp legs. Then she started turning the next one.
“And the rest.”
Hermione noisily blew a stray tendril of hair out of her face but continued to turn the cauldron.
He advanced a pace.
“Are you deaf?” he growled angrily.
Glaring at him, she shoved her sleeves back down, before bowing her head to focus on finishing the turns with absolute precision.
“And . . . the . . . buttons.” He let each word hang for dramatic effect.
It worked. She was suitably disconcerted. But she was also pissed off. If he wanted these potions done, she would have to be upright and conscious to do it.
“I would prefer to leave them,” she said, “just until I’m finished.”
“You will do them up immediately.”
“Why give me a dress with buttons if I am unable to undo them?” she cried as she turned on him. “Why not provide one without buttons at all?”
This time she didn’t even see him move. One moment she was glaring at him, the next she was spun around and propelled like a battering ram into the nearest bookshelf. Her ribs cracked against one of the shelves and she let out a gasp of pain.
Then his breath was against her neck, sliding down her skin it in hot bursts.
“Why must you question . . . everything?” he growled, his voice a throaty rasp as though wrenched from somewhere deep within.
Even as she struggled to draw breath, Hermione found herself incensed by the suggestion. Of course she questioned everything. She always had. But she had barely voiced a hint of what had passed through her head this past week. She had spared him practically all of it . . . to avoid just this.
Holding her breath, fingers curling around the shelf that bridged her nose, she felt his large hands close around her waist.
“Do not assume that your lack of understanding is due to an absence of reason.” Hermione’s scalp prickled as his words insinuated themselves into her ears and his fingers, pressing into the soft flesh of her belly, rolled downward toward her pelvis.
“I have warned you in the past against the unfounded regard you have for the superiority of your own intellect.”
His hands stopped their descent, flexing against her pelvic bone as though undecided whether to proceed.
Hermione gripped the shelf tighter, her knuckles popping with the effort.
Then he suddenly began a gliding ascent, hands riding the curves of her body through her dress until the pain in her ribs caused her to mewl with barely-concealed agony. He stopped just below the curve of her breasts, pressing inward, trembling. What was it . . . effort, anger, restraint?
“If you wish to survive . . . do not . . . assume . . . anything.”
His voice was so tight, so full of emotion, that at first she didn’t notice it—something hard, pressed into the small of her back like the barrel of a gun.
She knew exactly what that was.
Was this what turned him on? Pain?
Suddenly he released her, backing away.
She took the opportunity to draw some deep, desperate breaths.
Flexing his jaw, Snape quickly flicked his robes across his front before pausing to regard her.
One of her arms was wrapped around her ribs. Her forehead rested against the book spines.
One might have read it as defeat, but he knew her better than that.
She wasn’t broken.
Far from it.
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The Unbroken