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Sense and Insensibility Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 33531 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- 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
- 5
- 6
- 7
A/N:
Kvarta – ‘which is more than I can say for the document I must finish by tomorrow’ – tell me about it, I have sooo much to do, which is why I spent the day writing! I blame your naughty muse! ‘when we are hurt or in pain, we do tend to create bonds and attachments, much stronger than we normally would, to those who show kindness and give support’ – so true! ‘in past every moment of tenderness feel like it's stolen, not something that belongs to him’ – BAM, you said it, love your interpretation. ‘she does not refer to ALL his horns, I hope’ – hahaha, I was thinking that when I wrote it ;) ‘olive branch with thorns :D - Pomona can only envy him’ – heheh, that’s our Snape. ‘That particular memory can make things much more volatile between them’ – I suspect you may be right. ‘it's starting, slowly but it's staring *happy dance*’ – yes this has been a rather gentle build-up but it is starting :) Plenty of sunshine here but I do love your good vibrations, thank you! <3
OO – ‘burgeoning connection between the characters’ – yes, there is a slow shift, like a ship turning. ‘and naked Snape’- hahah, well you have been waiting patiently ;) ‘You went right for the word kill with the first sentence!’ – I’ve discovered that these things can happen when you don’t try to bang out a chapter every other day (like today – fuck)! ‘And the comparison between the Snape that the world sees and the Snape she knows is really there’ – yessss, excellent interpretation. ‘Relocation can often renew the joy of that first snort. :P’ – Can so imagine you doing this :) ‘He should have sung a song to block out the sounds’ – or whistled!
Fox – Hey Foxy, sorry you had to re-write you review. That sux. ‘people with anosmia saying, that eating is a necessary evil’- yes, a friend of mine has that. I can imagine it would be a pretty lacklustre existence. ‘honestly I went into depression for far less that that’ – so did I :( ‘heartbreaking to see how much it cost her to have this lonely, scary half-life, where everything is a threat’ – perfect summation of her existence. ‘I must be an evil person to laugh’ – and so must I for writing it. ‘Surely a Potions Master must know, that heightened senses are very useful’ – more useful than he knows ;)
‘No Snape! Don't dismiss it. For the love of god, let's have some action!’ – hahah, I’m torturing you with the slow build this time :P ‘Ok, so I do feel a little sorry for him right now, as prickly and arsy as he is, he is quite alone too’ – he is all three. ‘Ohhh another secret! I love it’ – secrets are a must!
‘I have goosebumps all over and I'm drowning in my own saliva.’ – wow, if that’s what a naked Snape can do, looking forward to what his future antics might induce. ‘yup, it looks like you are backed into a corner mate.’ – totally ;) ‘awww Snapey... I'd love to see his horn...’ – we know ;) ‘Do you know how hard it must be to give a piss in the same room as all-hearing, all-seeing and all-smelling know it all???’ – hahah, brilliant!! ‘there will be lots of fun, when anaconda makes appearance at last.’ – or a little worm, which will it be? ‘God must be a woman!’ – and don’t forget stress balls! ‘I believe there is something slowly starting between them two’ – indeed! Thanks for all your lovely reviews. xx

Chapter 6 – Light and Dark
“Are you certain that you wish to . . . proceed?” His doubtful expression, lips drawn together to accentuate the derision, immediately has her back up.
“Yes. Why?” She pulls at her gloves impatiently.
“You appear to be wearing every piece of clothing you own.”
“You wouldn’t have a clue how much clothing I own,” she mutters, pulling open the front door and catching her breath as the biting cold immediately assails her.
He’s not wrong. She is wearing a lot. And it’s already weighing her down. Still, she doesn’t intend to give him the satisfaction of revealing her discomfort. Casting a warming incantation to supplement her copious layers, she strides confidently out the door—at least that is how she wishes to appear— and down the stairs. He follows.
“Did you bring the items I requested?” Her breath materialises and dissipates in the glow of her wand.
He grunts. She assumes that means ‘yes.’
Her boots slough through dewy grass as they proceed toward the looming darkness of the forest. Already audible to her sensitive ears is the cracking of shifting branches, the fluttery whisper of owls and the throaty screech of bats. The entire wood is filled with scuttling and rustling, the pads and beats of paws and hooves . . . and within the undergrowth—slithering, crawling and . . . waiting.
She suppresses a shiver. It is by no means the first time she has been in the forest at night but she has forgotten the sheer aura of the place, even beyond the threat of countless dangers, it holds an ancient magic that she feels as a prickling electricity as they enter the shadowy recesses between the trees.
“Perhaps I should lead.” His voice is close behind her.
She happens to agree. Stepping off the path, she allows him to pass. Apart from a black overcoat, he is wearing his usual attire. She envies that level of comfort. Her own coat is extremely restrictive with so many layers beneath it. Still, if she is mauled at least there will be plenty of padding before they realise she isn’t worth bothering with.
Following his sure-footed strides, she notes that he is alert to everything around them. He picks up the sounds and movements a little later than she, but he misses nothing—simultaneously aware of the obstacles in front of them, and her position behind him, holding branches and bushes out of her way and extending his arm for her to grasp as she negotiates rocks and fallen logs.
He begins to seem almost gentlemanly . . . But then he speaks.
“Why couldn’t you continue in your legal role?”
It may have been an innocent enough question but considering that she is now in a different profession, one for which he considers her decidedly ill-equipped, it strikes her as a slight.
“My condition made it prohibitive.”
He is silent for a few paces.
“More than it does currently?”
“No.”
“So you are, in fact, worse now.”
“That would be the logical conclusion from my response.”
She wishes she didn’t sound so defensive but he is clearly driving at something.
More loaded silence.
“One would have thought your condition could be accommodated in such a . . . regulated profession.”
“My employer didn’t consider it possible.”
That was too much information. She immediately wishes she hadn’t said it.
“Were they concerned about their reputation?”
She sighs. “No.”
“Was it your performance?”
“. . . No.”
He is immediately onto that pause.
“You were having a relationship with someone . . . Your boss?”
She doesn’t respond but her hands ball into painful fists.
“I suppose that is one way to climb the corporate ladder.”
“For fuck’s sake!”
Her shriek echoes through the wood, magnified by the shocked silence that follows.
He raises one placating hand as though she is a wild animal about to attack. And that is very much how she feels, ragged breaths wracking her small frame, teeth bared.
“I apologise.”
“Don’t . . . speak to me,” she rasps, throat constricting with pain and fury.
Glaring accusingly at him, she forges past. She would rather face an assailant than have to look at him a second longer.
Stomping through the undergrowth, breathing heavily, she finally emerges into a moonlit clearing adorned with herbs, mosses and flowering plants, glowing in various hues, some bioluminescent.
Wordlessly, she holds out a hand to him and he reaches into his pocket for a jar and tweezers, placing them carefully in her fingers. Closing her eyes, she draws steadying breaths, attempting to clear her mind and senses before approaching the plants. Stepping forward slowly, she sweeps her lit wand over one large clump, scanning the lemony petals for a certain level of vibrance before kneeling to test their scent. Selectively, she pinches off those that are most potent, placing them in the jar until she has exhausted the supply.
Periodically returning to him, she collects jar after jar of leaves, stems, fronds and petals until the produce of the glade has been picked clean. By the end she is exhausted . . . But her blood still bubbles with anger.
Thrusting the last jar into his hands, she turns to leave.
“Hermione.”
His low murmur stops her.
“Please.”
She waits a moment before reluctantly turning back.
He hesitates, lips parted. He is clearly having difficulty articulating.
“Please accept my apology.”
“Why should I?”
“I . . . I wish to help you.”
“Of course you do. That’s why you’re so bloody offensive.” Her voice wavers and she hates herself for showing how upset she is.
“I have no excuse.” His eyes flicker to the forest floor. “I intended to express my displeasure at your circumstances but I blamed you instead. It tends to be my standard response. I’m not proud of it.”
The furrowed lines of his prominent features are exaggerated in the diffuse wand-light. Despite herself, she finds that she believes him.
“Why would you help me?”
“I believe I owe it to you.”
She hisses out her displeasure. “I do not wish you to owe me anything.”
“I . . . remember your compassion.” His voice catches and she finds her heart beating faster at the admission. “I would like to afford you the same. I believe I can help.”
Her eyes search his face for deception, for derision—she finds none.
Shoulders dropping in resignation, she plays her final card—that held closest to her chest. She is afraid but he can’t help her unless he knows.
“You must be gentle with me,” she whispers. “I can’t take any more.”
She is shocked to see a glassy sheen mist his impossibly black eyes before he appears to collect himself, delivering a curt nod. “Of course.”
Gazing at him intently, desperately hoping that she hasn’t made a mistake allowing in someone with the power to take her under completely, she gives a shaky nod in response before inclining her head toward the path. “Perhaps you can lead the way?”
His eyes linger on her a moment more before he steps forward and guides her back through the forest.
***
“When were you last assessed?” He appraises her from behind his desk.
“About six months ago.”
He notes this on the parchment before him.
“Are you still receiving treatment?”
“No.”
His frown deepens. “Why not?”
“Traditional healing potions have no effect. Analgesics deal with the pain but that is a minor component. I’ve mostly become accustomed to it now anyway.”
He stares, appearing to be thinking, before scuffing more notes across the parchment.
“When did you first notice symptoms?”
She considers the question. “It’s difficult to say. The changes were so gradual that I didn’t particularly notice until it became a problem. I was quite pleased to begin with. The world just seemed to be getting richer.”
“When did it start becoming a problem?” He rests a finger against his upper lip.
“I was probably . . . twenty-three.”
“And you are now?”
“Twenty-eight.”
He scrawls a number in the top corner and circles it.
“Are all senses uniformly affected?”
“They’re all hyper-acute but the distribution differs.”
“Which means?”
“Some parts of my skin are more sensitive than others. Some smells and flavours have a greater impact.”
He nods, adding to his growing list of dot points.
“Do you believe that the difference is related to sensory receptor density?
“Possibly.”
“Have you deteriorated since your last assessment?”
“Yes.”
He tosses the quill down before steeping his fingers thoughtfully.
“You need to be re-assessed—to establish a new baseline. You will need to make an appointment at St Mungo’s. They will have your past records for comparison.”
She shakes her head. “I won’t go back there . . . not again.”
“It’s going to be pointless attempting to implement any new therapies unless we have established your current status.”
“I’d like you to do it,” she murmurs, gazing down at her hands.
“Sorry?”
“Can you please do it?” She looks up at him, the bleak desperation in her voice reminding him of his promise to her . . . be gentle.
He swallows down the gruff sigh that is threatening to emerge. Her brown eyes continue to plead with him and his hand immediately reaches for the bridge of his nose, another automatic barrier-building mechanism he has perfected throughout his life. Instead, he catches himself, allowing his hand to hover awkwardly by his cheek before dropping it back to the desk.
“Right.”
Pushing his chair back, he stands, before flicking his hand at the window to close the shutters.
“You will need to remove a few . . . layers.”
Rising from her chair, she self-consciously starts to undress. He turns away, opening a drawer to remove a few implements. He spends a considerable amount of time riffling around, unsure of how long she needs.
Finally he turns back.
Merlin’s—
She is standing in a camisole made from some sort of shimmery material, perhaps silk. Below that is the modest triangle of her knickers. And nothing more. He can also see how desperately thin she is. He finds it somewhat surprising as she carries herself with a strength that belies her evident frailty.
She is alert and watchful. He raises a metal spatula.
“No. Your hand . . . use your hand.”
He is tempted to argue but quickly realises the futility. Returning the spatula to his workbench he sighs. “I’d like you to provide a rating—from one as minimal sensation to ten as maximum sensation—of what it feels like when you are touched.”
She nods.
“Close your eyes.”
He considers this necessary to ensure that her other senses don’t influence the results, but he is simultaneously relieved for the break from her gaze.
As he approaches she feels the heat of him. It radiates so powerfully that she can accurately discern his proximity to her and even the contours of his form. She holds her breath, feeling his touch before it even happens. A fingertip alights on her wrist. Gentle. She allows relief to seep into her.
“Eight,” she breathes.
Then her forearm.
“Seven.”
Shoulder.
“Six.”
He slides his finger along the pad of her fingertip and she stiffens.
“Ten.”
She can hear him breathing. No longer through his nose. It must be equally awkward for him but she remains immensely grateful that he has agreed.
He proceeds to test her other arm, and then she feels him crouch down and his finger brush against her shin.
“Seven.”
The side of her foot.
“Nine.”
Her inner thigh.
She whimpers. “Ten.”
She squeezes her eyes closed, her skin quivering as he drifts across to her other leg.
“Same,” she gasps, brow furrowing as he grazes behind her knee and then slips up to skim along the sensitive curve of her other thigh.
Rising, he stands before her. Their breaths merge. Both damp and laboured.
His fingertips gently touch the pads of her lips and her mouth drops open; wordless noises emerge.
“Ten,” he murmurs.
He touches her cheek and she involuntarily tics toward his caress. Her eyelids flutter as he brushes them, she arches away as he trails down the side of her neck.
Finally he ghosts over her nipple and a moan erupts from her throat. Grasping his wrist in her trembling hand, she opens her eyes to find him looking equally flustered.
“Eleven.” She squeezes the word out.
He whirls away from her, hands on his hips as his back muscles seethe visibly beneath his coat with each breath.
“That’s enough.” His voice is guttural, strained. “You need to go.”
- 5
- 6
- 7
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Sense and Insensibility *Complete*

Sense and Insensibility Complete