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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.

Chapter List
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A/N: Oracle Obscured: Once again big thanks for your postulations and thoughts. You know how much it helps. ‘irreverent and difficult rather than totally helpful’ – excellent summary of his persona. ‘he also goes along with Calder's flirting’ – it’s also reflects his intention to retain his independence from any type of stereotyped behaviour. He has no intention of making life easy by being predictable or doing what is wanted or expected (come to think of it, sounds like someone I know). I love all of your questions about his attitude toward returning to Hogwarts, all valid and all helpful. I had an idea but you’ve given me another. The Lynch mystery will be revealed in this chapter and you were getting pretty close. ‘throwing the therapy back at her so she'll analyze her own sexuality?’ – bang on! ‘If I have to go by what I've seen so far, he is the starfish boy but in the most irreverent way possible.’ – another excellent oracle moment. ‘I don't want Ellory massaging Snape (that's Hermione's job)’ – hahaha, I can’t promise it will be satisfying. ‘Finally Ellory says something I can agree with.’ – believe it or not, I agreed with her too.

Oracle 2 – ‘I felt no indignant fury that Snape wasn't with Hermione’ – I absolutely hoped that was the case. What you described as your reaction was perfect. She isn’t a threat. ‘And was I the only one answering Hermione's "isn't this the same as Calder and Jaeger" question with a loud no?’ – nope I was with you J ‘She obviously has some serious sexual repression’ – indeed and perhaps that is the catalyst for change? ‘red flag for a sex therapist since they're taught to not judge anyone's kink’ – absolutely, it’s difficult being faced with your flaws as a perfectionist (hmmm, perfectionism . . . that sounds like someone I know too :))

Lovey_Reader – ‘Hermione is the stoic one rigid, unfeeling while Severus is the one going around and helping everyone the only way he knows how’ – I loved that summary. There is a reversal of roles although the core of their personas are still essentially intact. ‘If I stop talking for a while, can he do therapy for me too?’ – OMG that cracked me up!

TenderQuaintWitch – Congratulations on being finally bestowed with a name! I’m so glad you like this story. It is, as you say, very different from the others and I wonder if people want/expect the same as previous. Anyway, they’re not getting it so there’s no point even discussing it! ‘The set up is great here--impersonal, inexperienced sex therapist gets thrown in the deep end and is (presumably going to be) rescued by a patient that is better at her job than she is’ – very insightful summary – I’m impressed. ‘One expects she'd have grown up a bit more than that’ – True – I wonder what’s holding her back? ‘I somehow think she doesn't know as much as she thinks she does.’ – loved this :) ‘"I found him to be... enigmatic." You don't say.’ – you know I’m a huge fan of sarcasm – beautiful!

Bell – glad you are enjoying. Thanks for the review!

Chapter 6 – Right Hand Man

“I have to tell you something.” Hermione was jolted from her thoughts by the light touch on her arm.

Looking up, she saw Emily, her scarred lips curled into a beautiful smile. “Dr Granger. You won’t believe this. It’s Sarah. I don’t know what happened to her but, this morning, she actually said something. She spoke!” She shook her head in wonder. “She said ‘good morning’, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Just like that. Totally, out of the blue. I just couldn’t believe it!”

"That is fantastic news!" Hermione gently grasped her gloved hand.

She was genuinely moved by the joy on Emily’s face and the fact that Sarah seemed to have made a sustained improvement. She didn’t want to think any more of the ‘miraculous’ methods behind her recovery but the good news was welcome considering the turmoil of the previous days.

But then she noticed Emily’s eyes, sunken and bloodshot.

“Are you sleeping?” she asked quietly, leaning toward her wheelchair.

Emily shook her head. “I just can’t.”

“We’re going to start your trauma release therapy tomorrow,” Hermione stated firmly. “You need to sleep, otherwise it’s going to impact both your physical and mental recovery.”

Emily nodded. “I know. I just can’t let sleep take me. Not until I’m safe. But at least my voice seems to be getting stronger. I never knew laughing could help so much.”

“Owls!” One of the house elves called and suddenly a cacophony of flapping filled the dining room as feathered creatures entered through every open door and window, raining envelopes, packages and parchments down onto laps and plates.

A small parcel landed in Emily’s hands and her face broke into a smile. “My father,” she exclaimed excitedly as she tore off the paper to reveal the large golden face of a sunflower. “This is a good day,” she smiled at Hermione, before wheeling herself away.

Hermione noticed that Lynch had also received some packages and was carefully tearing them open.

“Someone’s popular,” she remarked, leaning over her tea cup to see what he’d received.

“Birthday presents.” He gave a rare grin. Inside one was a photograph of a woman who was waving and blowing kisses. Hermione recognised it to be his wife who had visited the Retreat on a few occasions. The other gift was a thick knitted hat.

“You’re going to need that now you’re getting a bit thin on top,” remarked Hermione.

“You’ll keep!” he growled, swiping at her with it.

She grinned and stood up, glad that he finally seemed to be in a better mood.

***

Hermione met Snape in a clearing called ‘the bath’, a short walk from the Retreat. It was so named because of the ornate bird bath situated on a stone mandala in the centre and the fact that, in the summer, it was often bathed in warm pools of sunlight. Today, however, weary leaves drifted like snowflakes from the surrounding trees, spotting the ground around the dark form of Snape who sat, head bowed, on one of the wooden benches.

He looked up as she sloshed through the puddles of leaves. She hadn’t wanted to interrupt him in deep contemplation but was surprised, herself, to see that he held a small lump of wood in his hands and appeared to be carving it, wandlessly, with small strokes of his fingers.

“Professor,” she nodded, taking a seat beside him.

He nodded in return before continuing to flick his fingers this way and that, shaving thin curling strips from the surface.

“Thank you for meeting with me.” She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck. “I didn’t realise it was so cold.”

“One gets used to the cold after decades of living in a Dungeon.”

Hermione was surprised by his reference to Hogwarts. It wasn’t a particularly happy memory of the place but perhaps it was positive that he was even willing to broach the subject.

Hermione smiled, knowing that it wasn’t time to push that conversation any further.

“I actually wanted to talk to you about the research I’ve been conducting on the Cruciatus. I’m now confident that your appraisal of Mr Mollison’s condition is accurate. But there was an additional element that I wanted your opinion on.”

Snape looked up from his carving. “Do you usually consult patients on matters relating to other patients?”

Hermione blinked, it was a valid question.

“Not normally, no. But since you were the one to put forward this hypothesis, I considered it might be appropriate to gauge whether you had any further thoughts on my latest reading.”

Snape sighed. “This isn’t a psychotherapists conference. Please stop talking to me like it is,” he snapped. “Ask your question.”

Hermione paused, allowing his words to wash over, and not into, her. She was determined not to be riled up by him again.

She drew a deep breath. “It’s been suggested that chronic Cruciatus may be caused by abnormal wiring of the brain—errant circuits that perpetuate curse conduction through the muscles. What do you think?”

Snape’s hands had stopped moving and he was staring at the ground a couple of feet in front of him, obviously thinking.

She noticed that his lips and eyebrows twitched a little as he focused. She waited for him to respond.

After a number of minutes he sat up straight and turned towards her. “It’s a valid hypothesis. The question is how to treat it? I would consider employing something equivalent to a mirror-box.”

Hermione frowned. She was familiar with the mirror-box that was sometimes used for stroke rehabilitation. The patient’s affected arm would be placed behind a mirror. When they moved their uninjured arm, the reflection in the mirror made the brain think that the affected arm could move freely. Multiple sessions would enable the brain to rewire, improving movement in the injured limb. But she was struggling to apply this concept to Mollison.

“Can you explain further?”

He nodded quickly, placing the piece of wood in his lap. “I would envisage a full length mirror.” He used his hands to demonstrate. “An image of Mollison, unaffected by the curse, perhaps an earlier photograph, could be superimposed upon it. When he stands in front of the mirror and the Cruciatus hits him, he will see his body projection remaining still. The visual disconnect between his sensations and his reflection may help.”

Hermione stared at him. It really was a brilliant idea. She hadn’t been particularly surprised to discover that he knew Freudian principles, but this was really delving into modern neuroscience, brain remodelling and neuroplasticity. Obviously, he hadn’t spent the intervening years simply doing Wizarding crosswords.

His telling was also earnest, verging on enthusiastic. She’d never seen him like that, even when she was a student. He clearly enjoyed thinking about solutions to complex problems.

“It’s a good idea,” she said, unwilling to ruin the moment with what he might consider sycophantic gushing. “Any thoughts on what incantations might make it possible?”

“I’ll have to consider it more,” he said, picking up the carving and turning away from her again. “Get my wand back to me and I’ll trial a few approaches. Mollison should ask his family to owl some photos of him, similar to how he looks now, and they need to be front on.”

“Yes. I’ll ask him today.”

He nodded and continued carving.

Hermione took a deep breath and asked her next question in a rush. “Are you planning to continue sexual relations with Sarah?”

He halted for a moment. “Is she still speaking?”

“Yes, I understand she spoke to Emily today.”

“Then I see no reason to,” he responded dispassionately.

Hermione considered his answer. “She is extremely beautiful.”

“True.”

“Didn’t you gain any sexual gratification from the experience?”

He paused for a moment. “I obtained gratification,” he said.

“Sexual?”

“Not especially. Genuine sexual gratification requires more than engaging with physical beauty.”

Hermione was more than aware of that, she just wasn’t sure she'd expected it from Snape, especially after witnessing his antics in the pine forest.

“What if she forms an attachment to you?”

He sniffed. “Then I will simply dress like a farm hand. That seems to be a more than effective approach to deflect interest.”

Hermione held in a sigh of exasperation. She’d been punishing herself with the sexless farm-hand jibes enough without requiring his further contributions. Her question about Sarah’s potential attachment was also a serious one but Hermione suspected that she wasn’t going to extract another answer from him. There was also something else she wished to ask and didn’t want to risk him shutting down. Her breathing quickened as she thought about the best approach. Deciding that there was no comfortable way to broach the subject, she just blurted it out.

“You said I needed something . . . different. Yesterday. What did you mean?”

Snape’s eyebrows lifted momentarily as his hands stilled. “And so we come to the real purpose of this meeting.”

Hermione shook her head. "That’s not true Professor, I was determined to progress Mr Mollison’s therapy."

Snape didn’t respond. She looked out, watching the sinuous drop of leaves, wondering if it would be best for both of them if she just left.

“It would not be unusual for a therapist to benefit from therapy,” he said finally.

Hermione was well aware of the need for continuous debriefing and occasional rehabilitation of therapists. It was extremely difficult to spend an entire life listening to other people’s problems without taking them on.

“Were you talking about therapy?”

“Of sorts.”

“And what would this entail for me.”

Snape flicked his fingers to and fro, fine wood shavings falling between his knees.

“It would entail you giving up control.”

Hermine’s heart was physically jolted by the words. She was never more uncomfortable than when she felt control slipping away from her, even transiently. Her head suddenly felt fuzzy and the light around them seemed to change, turning a sickly yellow.

“I’m not sure that would be of benefit to me, Professor,” she said quietly.

He exhaled loudly through his nose. “And that terror in your voice isn’t enough to convince you that it would?”

Hermione swallowed and her fingers curled into her knots of her scarf. When the world slipped, as it did now, she needed the reassurance of something tangible. She knew well the value of meeting fear head on. Recent events had also made her very much aware that her world was far smaller than it should be and seemingly shrinking with each successive year in the relative isolation of the Retreat. Her critical judgements of herself, and even her clients, were not only unhelpful, they were verging on improper. The narrower her world got, the less diverse the characteristics she could accept into it. He was offering her a chance to break free of those bonds, her debilitating biases. But at what cost?

“Would it be sexual?”

“I believe that would be the most effective course of action at this point in time.”

Hermione gripped the scarf even tighter.

“What if I didn’t like what was happening? Would you stop?”

“No.”

Hermione jumped a little at his terse response.

“What you think you want and what your body wants are at complete odds,” he said. “You have a natural tendency to self-deprivation. The process would need to circumvent this. You will have an opportunity to tell me after each encounter whether you are willing to continue. But I won’t stop in the middle of a session. Your desires will be changing moment by moment, anyway. The ultimate purpose of each interaction is for you to see it through to the end, to take the meaning and understand the lesson.”

“What if I were in pain?”

“It would never be more than you could bear. You would learn to consider it a means to an end, a portal to a deeper understanding. I would be there to guide you through it.”

Hermione’s fear manifested in tremulous steamy breaths that escaped her mouth and floated on the still air.

She suddenly shook her head. “It would be most inappropriate.”

After a pause, he spoke, “I have no intention of attempting to convince you. I simply offer it as an antidote to your current state. You are in the process of realising that well-meaning, earnest intent doesn’t equate with genuine professional competency. And when that is fully realised, and you have done nothing to counter it, you will leave the profession. It strikes me that you have too much natural ability and have already sacrificed more than enough to be willing to let that occur.”

His penetrating insight into her circumstances was extremely disconcerting but also, in some small way, comforting.

“How would you characterise this relationship?” She frowned into her scarf.

“I would call it a professional arrangement.”

“Professional?”

“I would claim expertise in what I can bring to the arrangement,” he said simply, his fingers continuing to whittle away.

Hermione rubbed her hand over her face, almost unable to believe that she was considering his offer. “I would need to trust you.”

“Of course.”

She drew in a shaky breath. “What did you say to Lynch?”

Snape turned to her, studying her face with his dark unwavering gaze before responding.

“I told him that you were looking to leave. That you had some issues. I said that if he left me to my own devices, I would do what I could to help you through it. That it might enable you to stay.”

“What?” Hermione leapt up. “But that’s not true. I wasn’t going to leave.”

“How many times have you considered leaving in the past few days?” He sat back and crossed his arms.

“Is that what you've been up to? Legilimency?”

“Of course not. Answer my question.”

The answer, of course, was dozens. She’d considered leaving dozens of times.

“Why would it matter if I left? He could easily find someone to replace me.” She stood over him.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Come on. You’re not that dense.”

“Dense?”

He sighed and pursed his lips.

Hermione shook her head in confusion.

“The man’s obviously in love with you,” he growled. “Probably has been for years.”

“What?!” Hermione shrieked. “But . . . he’s married!”

Snape’s eyebrows shot up. “Since when has that mattered?”

Clutching her head, Hermione turned away from him. She was hyperventilating. The world twisted and warped around her like a kaleidoscope.

“What did he think you were going to do to persuade me?”

“Who knows,” Snape shrugged.

“Talk to me?”

Snape was silent.

“Did he think you were going to have sex with me?” Hermione spun around to face him.

“Maybe.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Hermione shook her head. “If what you say is true, why would he be willing to let you have sex with me?”

“Because, my naïve, innocent child,” He leaned toward her, “he is clearly so in love with you that he would rather let another man fuck you than lose you altogether.”

The air was heavy, leaden.

“Fuck,” Hermione suddenly muttered into her hands.

“Do I really need to explain these things to you?” A deep frown had captured Snape’s face.

Hermione slowly sank back onto the bench. “I’m . . . I’m able to deal with such things when they relate to someone else but I’m not so good when they relate to me.

“Obviously.”

Either Snape had Lynch all wrong or she had missed, or perhaps even denied, the clues that might have been evident for years. If so, it was a serious shortcoming, both personally and professionally. Snape was right, she would leave the profession if she couldn’t become the therapist she needed to be. And with that, she decided.

“I want you to help me . . . to be better,” she said in a small voice.

Snape nodded curtly and stood, ready to leave.

“Wait! When do we . . . start?”

“That won’t be known to you. Otherwise you’re liable to subvert or manipulate the situation. It will start when I decide that it’s time. It will also end at my discretion.”

Hermione’s heart was thundering, her breath coming in short gasps.

Snape walked away.

“Professor?”

He halted, his back to her.

“Why are you doing this?”

He paused. “Consider it an academic interest.”

Then he strode off, tossing something into the bird bath as he passed.

Hermione rose, feeling hollow to the core. What was it that she’d just agreed to?

As she approached the bird bath she saw it, floating on the surface, a beautifully intricate wooden carving. A butterfly.

Transformation.

***

Hermione watched the toothpaste as it swirled sluggishly down the plughole. It blurred as her exhausted vision tried to focus. She’d stayed up too late reading. She should have just . . .

Something moved behind her. Before she could turn, she was spun around and slammed against the tiles, her toothbrush clattering to the ground. A hard palm was pressed over her mouth, crushing her lips.

“Now . . . it begins.” His honeyed baritone slipped into her ear, warm tingling breath trailing lightly across her skin.

She grunted loudly, trying to yell.

“Shhhhhh.” He drew the sound out until she’d stopped struggling.

“You will now honour our agreement.” His voice remained low, calm. “You will not speak unless I give permission. Do you understand?”

He was pressing against her so tightly that she was having trouble drawing breath. Even her eventual nod was simply a brief smear of her forehead against the tiles.

“Good.”

She felt the hard weight of him lift slightly from her shoulders as he slid his palm from her face, but his hips continued to pin her to the wall.

His warm breath ghosted down her neck as slowly, inexorably, both hands slipped down the outside of her dressing gown to rest upon her thighs, before deviating inwards, curling around until he was cupping each inner thigh, just below her labia, bracing her with his strong fingers.

“You have made a habit of denying your desires. Your needs,” he murmured, his larynx tickling the side of her neck. “Now you will be forced to face them. To listen to and acknowledge them.”

His fingers tightened further, pulling her lips apart.

“You will hear nothing apart from yourself. It is only within this silence that you might finally listen.”

Then all noise was shut out—the running water at the sink, the rustle of his movements behind her, and his voice. All she could hear were the stark, raspy pants of her own ragged breathing. And, moments later, a moan, deep and unfamiliar. Hers.

One of his hands had pulled open the tie on her gown and slipped up to her breast, squeezing her nipple—extruding it with firm precision from areola to tip, while the other slid downwards, a long finger inserting, without hesitation, between the lips of her sex.

“Oh, Merliiiiiin!” Her rising voice echoed its brassy reverberation back into her face.

With disconcerting dexterity, his hand continued to palm her breast whilst manipulating her hardening bud with his fingertips. This, in concert with the thumb and fingers that were plucking and rolling the shaft of her clitoris, created a heady combination that almost overwhelmed the capacity of her deprived senses.

“Uuuuhhhh,” she groaned as her face rolled against the wall, her shuttered eyes focusing on the foggy breaths that burst across the tiles from her parted lips.

Switching to the opposite nipple, he rolled and tugged it to attention, flatting the fingers of his other hand to grind her labia and clitoris together in deep, rhythmic circles that compressed and stretch her opening without even touching it.

Her breath hitched, then grunted out. A sound she could never remember making before and, against the stark acoustics of the tiles, an interjection that forced her to engage with the most primal part of her being.

Sliding across to twist and pull the straining first nipple, she felt the tip of his tongue touch down just above her collar bone before sliding in a slick wet trail up the side of her neck.

She almost choked on her own inhalation before her mouth fell open, her hoarse keening frightening in its raw need.

Then the fingers that had been mashing her labia suddenly slid deeper, one tip pressing into her opening as his tongue, which had languorously journeyed up to her earlobe, flicked at the tight hole there.

Her breath hissed between her clenched teeth as if she could somehow simultaneously shut him out of both openings. Manifestly unsuccessful, he plunged into them together and her legs instantly crumpled.

The hand on her breast slid down to cradle her around the waist while a second finger slid into her clenching canal. Her pussy had accommodated so little for so long that even his two fingers were managing to stretch and fill her with both their girth and depth. He delved in rhythmically while his tongue twisted in her ear, but all she could hear was her own whimpering.

His pistoning fingers sped up, bumping at the spot inside her, the one she knew theoretically but was, for the first time, feeling intimately with an aching pressure as he stimulated her sensitive urethra through her wall of her vagina. Thumb massaging and circling around her clitoris as he pumped, she heard herself shriek and felt her own breath blast into her chest.

As she continued to build, her entire pelvis clenching and tightening, she heard another sound, the wet, juicy sucking of her pussy as his fingers thrust and curled. It was such a blatant symphony of desire that it broke through her remaining barriers and she cried out, her throat opening with the vocal release, as her pussy exploded with the convulsive release of her juices.

“Ohh, ohh, uuuhhhhhhh,” she wailed, as she writhed and wrenched around in his grasp, her head curling against the wall and her muscles convulsing over and over in a seemingly endless combination of spasmodic contractions. She was bearing down so heavily that she could feel the liquid squirting from her with each stuttering jolt of her muscles, spattering on the tiles below.

He continued to pump into her and flick her clitoris until he had drawn the final fluttering twitches from her pussy.

Moaning quietly with each exhalation, she finally heard the sound of running water return and the soft rustle of him behind her.

“Do you wish to continue,” his deep voice suddenly jolted her.

Panting, her eyes gradually flickered open.

When she responded, her voice was louder, more emphatic than she had ever thought possible.

"Yes.”
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In Their Hands *Complete*

In Their Hands Complete