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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: In case you're wondering about the quick posting, work is busy so I'm finding weekdays difficult but having a red hot go on the weekends. Long weekend here so even better :)

Hermione’s hair wouldn’t behave itself. After not sleeping well, it had decided to degenerate into a frizzy nuisance as she tried to secure it into a, no doubt sexless, ponytail. Huffing, she hurriedly rubbed moisturiser into her face. She found him creeping into her thoughts more and more. Last night he’d haunted her dreams, melding with the Dementor mask in a debauched psycho-sexual encounter that she had no intention of trying to interpret.

The knots in her stomach hadn’t subsided. Had she made a mistake? Why had she insisted upon the departure of Jaeger and Calder? Why hadn’t she considered other options? She no longer understood her own actions, her own motivations. It was like she didn’t know herself from one day to the next. The Hermione of yesterday was a stranger to her. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so disconnected.

George’s suggestion of a walk had been a good one and she wished she’d taken up his offer earlier instead of presenting Lynch with an ultimatum. It was ridiculous. Immature. Even if it had worked. Ellory was right, she had been throwing a tantrum. Where was the considered, level-headed, dependable Hermione of only weeks before? She needed to make a concerted effort to reconnect with her—for the sake of her clients if nothing else.

***

The activities room was abuzz when she entered. Dennis had made a huge leap in his piano playing and it was actually almost pleasant to listen to. Mollison was lying on a pair of bright blue mats and Lynch was leaning over him, helping him to stretch. Sprout and Ellory were playing cards, while George and Emily sat at a table in the corner of the room. It was as if both staff and clients were determined not to let the departure of a quarter of their number dampen their enthusiasm.

Hermione made her way over to where Emily seemed to be convulsing with wheezy laughter.

“You’re dangerous,” Emily croaked to George. “If I laugh any more I might just keel over.”

“I promise you this is the best speech rehabilitation material I have.” He raised both hands innocently.

Hermione smiled down at them. “What does he have you saying?” she asked Emily.

“Well,” she took a deep breath and spoke slowly. “The first one is ‘I'm not a pheasant plucker, I'm a pheasant pluckers son. And I'm only plucking pheasants 'till the pheasant plucker comes.’

George nodded. “Dr Granger will verify that there is nothing better than a ‘pheasant plucker’ for therapy.”

“Don’t trust him,” Hermione said.

“True,” George admitted. “I have been accused on more than one occasion of being a cunning linguist.”

Emily burst into laughter again and Hermione grinned.

“I just wanted to apologise for yesterday.” Hermione leaned toward him slightly. “I wasn’t feeling myself.”

“You don’t have to apologise to me for not feeling yourself, Dr Granger,” he said affably. “Sometimes I go for a whole day without feeling myself.”

Emily was wheezing again and Hermione nodded her appreciation that he’d forgiven her.

Pulling on her coat, she stepped out into the chill autumn air. The clean, fresh bite of it instantly lifted her spirits. Sucking in deep lungfuls, she strode through crunchy drifts of leaves toward the forest.

The air amongst the bare trunks was quiet and still, her footsteps the only sound apart from the occasional rustle of birds and small animals in the undergrowth. Now that her head was clearer, she allowed herself to think about something that she’d been avoiding.

She’d naturally assumed, the previous day, that Jaeger was Snape. Even when she’d discovered that he wasn’t, had her thoughts already been tainted? Was that one of the reasons she’d wanted, particularly Calder, gone?

If it were true, the question was ‘Why?’ She had no responsibility for, or ownership over, what Snape did.

Her breath puffed out in short bursts as she climbed the slippery path to the crest of a small hill. Here the view encompassed an undulating tapestry of trees stretching down to the river. She could either continue up the hill to the rocky lookout or head down a second path, deeper into the forest. The sun had cracked through the clouds, turning the mountains of leaves around her golden. The forest wouldn’t be too dark. She decided to continue down the lower track.

The trees here were more densely packed and the sounds seemed increasingly muffled, like she were moving through some sort of vacuum. There were fewer birds flitting around but she could hear one calling up ahead. This part of the forest was mainly pine trees and the needles felt soft and spongy underfoot. The fresh pine scent reamed her nasal passages. It was delicious. Like a gift she didn’t quite deserve.

The calls became louder. But they had changed into more of a high-pitched mewling. Peering ahead through the gloom, she caught sight of something white amongst the trees. Bigger than a bird. As she approached, she realised that it was a person. No, two people.

Oh fuck!

With a gasp she ducked behind a nearby tree. Heart thudding in her chest, she peeked out to check that she had seen correctly.

The person was Sarah—wearing the same white dress from the river but this time she was leaning with her back against a tree, her face tilted up toward the branches. And kneeling in front of her, between her legs, was a figure dressed all in black. This time there was no mistake. It was Snape.

Sarah was clutching at the trunk of the tree with both small hands and her mouth was hanging open, the keening noise was coming from her. Snape had the skirt of her dress balled in one fist, pinned above her waist. One of her creamy thighs was hooked over his shoulder, contrasting starkly against the black of his coat. And his face was buried in her pussy.

Hermione watched as his head moved rhythmically, like a cat grooming. Sarah’s breaths were growing ragged and Hermione saw Snape’s free hand delve up under her skirt. As Sarah suddenly arched against the tree, it was clear where his fingers had been inserted. Then his shoulder began to pump in time with his head movements. Sarah’s breasts were heaving as she reached forward to clutch at his hair, pulling him into her.

Instead, he released her skirt from his fist and grabbed her hand, pushing it back to the rough bark of the tree, holding her palm against it.

His movements began to speed up and her moaning rose in pitch. He pushed his face into her and started shaking his head from side to side as his shoulder thrust in with greater force.

“Uunnnhhhh,” she cried, rolling her head against the tree. “Uhhhhh Gods!”

Then she convulsed and shrieked and arched into him, his face riding the waves of her orgasm. His head and hand followed the bucking of her pussy, sustaining her with his tongue and fingers.

“Oh . . . oh . . . oh.” She panted. Vocalising with each breath. As if, now that she had found her voice, she didn’t want to let it go.

Hermione was breathing in time with her. She’d waited too long. She should have stopped them. Why? Because it was the same wasn’t it? The same as Jaeger and Calder. Wasn’t it all . . . the same? Hermione squeezed her eyes closed. She couldn’t think straight. She was so tired and so . . . she realised then that her crotch was sopping. What was wrong with her?

Snape was withdrawing. Pulling back from his feasting. She didn’t want to see him, his face wet with her juices like some sort of sexual vampire.

Instead she turned. And ran.

***

“You wanted to see me?”

His deep voice jolted her even though she’d been expecting him.

She didn’t turn from her position at the window. “Yes, close the door.”

Not ready to look at him, she remained at the window.

“Can you give me one good reason why you shouldn’t be sent from this place right now?” Her voice was quiet.

He didn’t answer.

Her arms locked across her chest as she stared beyond the glass. If she looked hard enough she could even see the trees. The pine trees where they . . .

Whirling around, she glared at him. “Answer me.”

He lifted an eyebrow in response. “I can’t even give you a good reason why I was sent here in the first place.”

Hermione’s finger tapped against her arm as she tried to maintain control.

“I . . . saw . . . you.”

“I know.”

The finger tapped more furiously.

“What were you doing?”

“I thought that would have been quite obvious,” he responded drily.

Hermione could feel the air sticking to her lungs. She was having to push it out.

“Why were you having sex with a mute woman? A woman sent here to overcome what is likely to have been severe psychological trauma?”

“She’s not a mute woman. That’s the point I was making.”

“The point?” Hermione’s face contorted with incredulity. “You were making a point?”

Severus sighed and leaned back in his seat. “I knew what she needed.”

“Oral sex?”

He shook his head in annoyance. “She needed grounding. And hence the tree. She needed to connect to it. The cunnilingus was to help her reconnect with her body.”

Hermione was having trouble processing what he was saying.

“And how could you be so confident you knew ‘what she needed’?” Hermione demanded.

“Because I’m not like you.”

“What?” Hermione almost choked, taking a step toward him.

“I have a wealth of sexual experience to draw from,” he said.

“And how do you know I don’t?” Hermione could feel the flush rolling across her skin like a fever.

“You sent Calder and Jaeger away. You didn’t understand them. You might be sympathetic toward your clients but you can’t be empathetic. Not completely. Because you have absolutely no idea what it feels like to be them.”

Hermione’s throat was closing over. She was going to be sick.

“You’re angry at me because you wished it was you against that tree.”

The unwelcome sensation of him shaking his tongue inside her pussy made her core spasm.

“But you don’t need that. You need something . . . very . . . different.”

His words hung in the air between them like the dark mark after Morsmordre.

Chest heaving, she clenched her teeth before hissing, “Get . . . out.”

***

As soon as he’d gone, she ran into her adjoining bedroom, threw open the ensuite door and leaned over the toilet bowl, dry retching. The convulsions wracked her for minutes before they turned into sobs. He was right. She had sent Calder away because she didn’t understand her. Worse than that, she despised her submissive behaviour. How could she successfully rehabilitate people that she had no way of relating to? She had all the theoretical knowledge but virtually no experiential understanding—not for the issues she was trying to treat.

Sliding down the tiles, she leaned against the bathroom wall, her cheek welcoming the bite of the cool surface. He might see a lot, he might even have more knowledge about therapy than the rest of them put together, but he had also broken the rules. It was only fair to Calder and Jaeger that Snape and Sarah be sent home too. For some reason that thought brought a fresh wave of sobs. When she’d run out of tears, she made the decision to inform Lynch about what had happened. And to do it quickly, before she changed her mind.

On shaky legs, she scooped water from the basin onto her blotchy face. She looked like hell, but dressing like a farm hand probably meant there weren’t particularly high expectations of her appearance.

Towelling her face, she took a final look in the mirror and let out a long breath. Who was that woman glaring back at her? Where had the competent professional gone? Did she ever exist? Would she ever return?

Snatching open the door, she left her office looking for Lynch. The distant sound of Dennis still playing the piano reached her ears. A duet. George must be playing the other part. She would ask him were Lynch was. When she opened the door, she halted. Seated next to Colin on the piano stool wasn’t George, it was Snape—he was playing the other part to the duet. One-handed, she could tell he was utterly proficient but holding back to keep in time with Dennis. He was watching the young man’s hands carefully to make sure he kept a steady rhythm that wouldn’t shake his confidence.

When Dennis looked up at Snape with his boyish grin, Snape smiled back—open, encouraging. Hermione shook her head and clamped her hand over her mouth. It was too much. If Snape was so desperate to be the ‘Starfish Boy’ then she would damn well let him. And he could start with her.
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In Their Hands *Complete*

In Their Hands Complete