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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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A/N: Loving your thoughts on this one. Please keep them coming, DSxx
OO – I love that this chapter tapped into your wisdom on a range of interesting matters.
‘Like 90% dark chocolate—it’s got bite, but you want to eat it anyway. And I can’t get enough :)’ – Ooh, me too! My latest favourite is dark chocolate with chilli. I guess there is a bit of that here too ;) ‘Your anagrams are showing, Dr. Lecter’ – hahah! I still haven’t forgiven you for working out my cunning anagram so early in ‘The Book that Binds’. ‘I doubt he trusts anyone but himself’ – hmmm, sounds just like our Severus ;). ‘Is there a part of us that retains the original memory, unaltered? Or are our individual perceptions what create a memory? Would they cease to exist without our unique perspective? Are we remembering events or the way that event made us feel? Is anyone ever seeing the “truth?”’ – so many excellent questions that I could try to answer but don’t think I would do them justice. It’s such an elusive topic, the distributed networks that store them are far more expansive than originally thought. Then there is the question of whether it is synaptic connections or dendritic spines that are the key. And then we have long term potentiation. Anyway, enough of all that. I quite liked the idea and I’m sticking to it whether it is technically possible or not :) And please keep pondering, you know how much I love it! ‘But I also love what the rest of this says—he’s warning her to stay on her toes.’ – you’re right, he’s been warning her all along. ‘Only in a culture where aggression and dominance are lauded as virtues would it seem totally natural to equate an organ dedicated to pleasure and virility with something violent.’ – I certainly think that could be true in some contexts, but in others it can be quite sexy for someone to be intimidated by a cock, rather than fearful. In this situation, it wasn’t supposed to be sexy, more threatening. But I do think porn is probably responsible for a lot of it. Saw this interesting documentary on Netflix that showed some awful things that the girls are forced to do – blagghhh. Anyway, we should probably take this conversation elsewhere but I do love your thoughts here. I could chat away like this all day :D

Chapter 5 - Unaccountable

Hermione listened to the sound of his footsteps as he moved quietly across the floor to her right. There were a series of shuffles and scrapes as she imagined him turning the remaining cauldrons. Then there were more footsteps, receding, followed by the hollow thud of a door closing. Either he had returned to his chambers or he’d left the laboratory for good.
Either way, Hermione finally felt safe to turn around, wincing as another shot of pain jagged through her side. She must have fractured a rib. Perhaps more than one. Still, she thought, bracing her arm against her side as she ventured toward the cauldrons, she’d suffered worse. Although at that time she had possessed a wand to be able to do something about it. Alas, no more.
It seemed that the Skele-grow preparations had not yet spoiled. And whilst she was sweating even more profusely than before, and the pain hadn’t abated in the slightest, she couldn’t let all of her hard work go to waste. So she continued. Her feet were leaden and her head felt like it was filled with helium as she slowly proceeded from one cauldron to the next, stirring, sniffing, adding pinches of calcium carbonate and charcoal. She seemed to lose track of time as she drifted around the room, but eventually she registered that the potions were complete, removing them from the magical heat sources, which instantly dissipated.
Feeling incredibly faint, Hermione leaned on each bench, in turn, as she made her way over to her corner. She drank straight from the water jug, letting it trickle in cool runnels down her chin and neck, welcoming the blossoming damp that crept down her chest as the heat trapped in the room continued to remain as stagnant and stifling as ever.
Swaying a little as she stood beside her bed, Hermione proceeded to unbutton her dress, her fingers trembling with the effort. She pulled the material down over one shoulder, and then the other, struggling to extract her arm from the sleeve on her injured side. When she finally had both arms clear and the dress was pooled like a deflated circus tent around her waist, she unclasped her bra with one hand and slipped it off her shoulders, sighing with relief as the pressure on her ribs lifted a little.
The bruising was already extensive. Gingerly, she ran her fingertips over the angry purple marks wondering whether she should attempt to heal the bone with wandless magic. It was a reasonably difficult spell. And she wasn’t in peak mental condition. But, most importantly, she had promised herself that she wouldn’t. Not unless it was a matter of life or death. This wasn’t.
Reaching for the jar of healing potion that had worked wonderfully well on her wrists and ankles, but was unlikely to penetrate much further than skin-deep, she unscrewed the lid, but then stopped, frozen.
He was standing right there.
Watching her.
She had no idea how long he’d been there, standing still as a statue, or from where he might have materialised, but it no longer became important when she saw him give a casual swipe of his hand, instantly plunging the entire room into darkness.
It was the first time that the torches had been fully extinguished since she had arrived. He tended, instead, to turn them down low so that they filled the room with the warm glow of a campfire throughout the night. But now, even though it was day time, the blockout of the windows was so complete that the entire room was pitch black.
The shifting darkness made her feel completely disoriented, the mounting fear sticking in her throat such that it seemed to crackle as she swallowed.
What the hell was he going to do?
She felt him even before he touched her, just his presence behind her, like static electricity but not. Magical energy. Potent. Deadly.
She stiffened, bracing herself for the attack.
But the arrival of his hands on her bare shoulders, easily spanning the curve of each, holding them, exuding a welcome coolness against the oppressive warmth, made her tightly wound muscles instantly slip a fraction despite herself.
Then, as he slowly slid down her arms to her elbows, she felt the tension recede even further until suddenly she found her head trying to rock back. She immediately snapped it upright, determined not to succumb. Lifting her elbow, he exposed her throbbing ribs. Then he brought his other hand around, encircling her with his arm to lay his palm over the entire expanse of her damaged ribcage.
She bit her bottom lip, unwilling to make a sound. But the way he now drew the hurt from deep inside her, like a poultice on an abscess, felt so raw—like he wasn’t applying healing so much as absorbing her pain—that she couldn’t manage to trap the breathy sob before it slipped past her defences.
It felt particularly infuriating because it was he who was responsible for what had happened. This was his fault. He had no right to her gratitude. But there it was, blossoming like the first buds of Spring within and through her. She had her father to thank for her resilience and her, albeit exasperating on occasions like this, tenacious optimism. She would just have to accept that it was innate, and that it was meant for her, not for the man holding her in a way she had never invited or desired.
But that resolve lasted only a few moments more as the warmth continued to flood her insides, while a fresh wave of cool relief simultaneously rolled across her skin, making her shudder with reluctant pleasure.
He might own her, her body, due to some fucked up universal disaster, but her inner world was entirely her own, impenetrable, always.
Her hair suddenly prickled. He was touching her there, tugging at it. Then she realised that she still had the stirring rods embedded in what could only be described as an untidy lump of knots. He slid one rod out. And then the other. Her hair didn’t cascade to her shoulders as it would if it had been normal hair. It simply sagged, her obstinate curls trying desperately to hold their unseemly form.
She was suddenly embarrassed by how awful it was. And how itchy and revolting it felt.
“I don’t have a hairbrush,” she muttered bitterly.
It was such a silly thing to complain about. Especially considering the sum total of horror and injustice she had been witness to, and that she had experienced firsthand.
But sometimes it was the small things that one could be undone by.
He didn’t respond but she suddenly felt his fingers trawling gently through her tresses, gradually tunnelling down to the twisted roots until her intractable crab of hair began to release its pincer-like grip on her scalp. She felt each section slowly unfurling, languorously lolling in supremely soft curls that brushed pleasantly against her neck, a sensation that she hadn’t felt in too long.
Another involuntary shiver rippled through her.
Then his fingertips burrowed back to the source and began to massage with startling precision into the lines of stress that traversed her poor, perpetually-burdened cranium. It was as though he understood how viscerally she would feel it, how deeply it would tap into her, exhuming what she had thought were irretrievably buried emotions.
That’s when she felt the hot prickle behind her eyes. It happened so rarely now that she was genuinely shocked when the tears began to fall.
She closed her eyes, each shaky exhalation seeming to drain her further until she had nothing left, not even the strength to stand. But when her legs gave way, she didn’t fall, his arm wrapped around her middle holding firm.
In one fluid movement, he lowered her gently onto the bed before tucking her limbs in one by one.
The last thing she remembered was the blanket being drawn up to her chin.
A cool palm briefly on her forehead.
Then nothing.
***
“The shielding potions are ineffective. They must be improved, Severusss.” Voldemort held his wand casually enough between his fingertips, but the fact that it was drawn at all was sufficient for Severus to be on guard. “The damage was far greater than it should have been. Either this ‘Resistance’ is becoming more powerful. Or we are becoming weak. Which is it?”
“There are a number of possibilities,” Severus replied, keeping his voice neutral.
“Yessss,” Voldemort hissed, tapping the tip of his wand with slow deliberation against his thumb. “And how do you intend to improve our situation considering the existence of such . . . possibilities?”
“I will review the ingredients—seek to test some alternative combinations to determine if the efficacy can be improved.”
Voldemort leaned back in his chair, his slitted eyes scanning the rest of those at the table who were keeping very quiet, clearly hoping that they wouldn’t be the next to incur his wrath. “Perhaps you should have considered such alternatives beforehand? Before this incident? After all, that is your job, is it not? Or are you too busy managing the benevolence society for Mudbloods?”
Severus could see the Dark Lord’s anger building. He said nothing.
“I do not trust her,” Voldemort spat, leaning forward menacingly. “I do not trust her filthy hand in the brewing.”
Snape remained silent.
Suddenly the pale wizard seized his forearm, grinding his thumb into the spot where his Dark Mark throbbed from just being this close to him, making it flare with fire.
Snape gritted his teeth. Then the Dark Lord was inside his mind again, soaring with determination, seeking evidence.
The memories had been churning through his own mind for half the night. He now desperately hoped that they would hold.
Voldemort located the incident quickly. Her brewing. He interrupting. It probably wasn’t ideal to highlight potential brewing infractions considering the current issues. Still, it showed how quickly her transgressions were dealt with. How forcefully he was willing to impose himself.
Then it continued on to his view from the shadowed corner, watching her from under the cover of the Disillusionment spell. The deep bruising to her ribs. The fear in her eyes. Then darkness.
Voldemort snatched his hand away, regarding him with suspicion. “A blackout?”
Snape relocated his trembling fist under the table as casually as he could. “The lights are extinguished to ensure that the girl is unable to meddle with the books and equipment. The ingredients storeroom is also locked.”
“Indeed.” Voldemort’s lip curled derisively. “However, I would suggest that this could have been taken further. Your torment was petty, a ‘dry run’ at best, wouldn’t you agree?” He flexed his wand. “Perhaps you require a touch more . . . encouragement?”
Suddenly, he jabbed the tip at Severus, a blue bolt shooting out and striking the dark wizard in the chest, sending him flying backwards, chair toppling over with a crash. Even on the ground, the spell continued to wrack his body, causing him to seize and contort uncontrollably, making it almost impossible to draw breath.
As he lay ticking and twitching, painful shocks zapping through his limbs, he vaguely registered Voldemort’s growl, “Dismissed,” followed by the scrape of chairs as the other Death Eaters rose and exited the room.
The bleary image of Lucius’ smiling face came into view above him. The blond wizard leaned down and slapped him lightly on the cheek with his hand. “I hope she’s worth it, old chap.” He smirked before stepping over him and heading for the door.
The room was almost empty when Severus felt hands grasping his arm, pulling him upright.
Draco.
Severus couldn’t even speak to thank him, still reeling from the force of the spell.
“I want to see her,” Draco murmured quietly, glancing at the door to ensure that no one was listening. “Alone.”
Severus drew himself up to his full height, glowering menacingly despite the pain.
“I won’t touch her,” Draco assured him quickly. “I promise. I just need her . . . assistance.”
Severus regarded him warily, his black eyes seeming to scope every millimetre of the younger man’s features.
It was a full minute before he delivered a reluctant nod and, turning with difficulty, staggered away.
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The Unbroken