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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
- 5
- 6
- 7
A/N: Another quick one to keep things moving. I don’t like leaving you all hanging, as you know ;) DSxx
Thanks to the lovely Toby for the chapter title xx

Chapter 6 - Unresolved

Hermione woke to the sound of her stomach growling. It was no longer dark. The torches had been reinstated. However the time, once again, eluded her.
She rolled over for a better view but the room was empty. At least, that’s how it appeared. Of course, she had thought the same earlier, only to discover that he had apparently been hiding, watching her. Still, there was nothing that she could do to control his behaviour. And it certainly hadn’t turned out badly for her. She was feeling surprisingly relaxed and content. Mainly because she was no longer in pain, the room was now much cooler, and her hair was still a pillow of springy softness beneath her. None would last, but she would be doing her best to manage them better in the future.
And she would try to manage Snape better too.
She had expected the cold austerity that he exuded on most occasions, even the short temper and violent outbursts. It was pretty much as she’d experienced him throughout her years of schooling. What she was not accustomed to were the moments of stark contrast in between, particularly the gentle, almost tender, way he had healed her.
This was a man with whom she would have to be very careful.
He was obviously deeply emotional. And he didn’t seem to have absolute control over how he responded. Whilst he might have hurt her intentionally, he seemed to be filled with guilt or regret afterwards. And she was positive that she hadn’t imagined the weight of his erection pressed against her back. He could have done something more to her when she was practically naked in his arms, in the darkness, and yet he hadn’t.
Clearly, there was more going on with him than she could currently comprehend. But the chances of him explaining it to her were basically nil. He had been a spy. He was not trusted. And he trusted no one in return. And then there was the fact that she was here as his slave. He owed her nothing. He certainly didn’t owe her a comfortable place to sleep, or the level of protection she seemed to be receiving as a result of being cosseted away in his laboratory.
She sighed, tunnelling her fingers into the roots of her hair. It was clear that she wouldn’t discover what she needed to know through conversation. She would have to watch him, his cues, more closely. And she would have to stop pushing his buttons. He had so very many of them, both externally and internally, it seemed. She would have to do her best to be more . . . conciliatory . . . or at least less obstinate. Then he might begin to let his guard down.
Her eyes finally settled upon the bench and the meal that must have been placed there while she was sleeping. Tossing back the blanket, she pulled her dress up from where it sat still pooled around her waist before slipping her arms into the sleeves and securing the buttons. Swinging her legs out of the bed, she scuffed into her clogs and stood a little unsteadily before clopping over to the bench. The metal plate cover, she found, concealed a deliciously hot mound of scrambled eggs and bacon on toast. Beside it were a cup of tea and a small Danish pastry.
Her mouth instantly flooded. That was another thing. She certainly couldn’t complain about the food. Hooking her foot around the leg of a stool, she pulled it under herself as she speared her fork into the fluffy mass of eggs. Even one meal a day would be enough if it was as delicious as this.
She had finished the entire plate, bacon rinds and all, and was half way through the Danish—sticky blueberry as it turned out—when she was surprised by a loud knock on the door.
Snape hadn’t had a visitor the entire time she had been there. She gathered that he met people somewhere else; probably to ensure that she didn’t eavesdrop on their conversation.
She stared at the door, unsure of what to do.
The knock came again.
“Are you in there, Granger?”
Draco?
Hermione slid off the stool and approached the door.
“What do you want?”
“I’m coming in, okay? So don’t . . .”
Hermione frowned. So don’t what?
There was the sound of the door being unlocked and suddenly Draco was there, glancing anxiously over his shoulder as he slipped through the gap before slamming it closed behind him.
She looked at him. He looked back.
There was no greeting that seemed appropriate for the history that had passed between them. He had helped to kill her friends, or had at least been on the side responsible. Now he was free to do as he pleased, while she was a slave. ‘Hi’, didn’t seem to quite cut it.
“You look better than I’d expected,” he said.
Hermione’s normal response would have been to eviscerate, or at least emasculate him, on the spot, but it was said without an ounce of sarcasm, or even the trace of a sneer. He was being honest. And it was true. She had just enjoyed a long rest, a huge meal—she still had Danish crumbs on her fingers to prove it—and her hair had been tamed into a far more sane arrangement, more composed than what he would have witnessed at the sorting.
And of course there was the inevitable comparison with countless others who were forced to pass their days in the hell of the dungeon cells.
“Indeed. I have been rather . . . fortunate.”
“I’ll say.” Draco nodded, but it was with a slow thoughtfulness that put her on edge, as though he knew more about her circumstances than she did. No doubt he did.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked, less able to keep the sarcasm at bay.
He snorted then, his eyes crinkling with what appeared to be genuine amusement. Clearly the easy life of the ‘unopposed’ enabled him to take such jibes with less rancour than he had in the past.
He lifted his hand to his chin, rubbing the fine bristles with a hint of self-consciousness. “I need you to brew me a potion . . . in secret.”
Hermione crossed her arms. “What’s it for? A personality infusion? A compassion boost?”
He shook his head with a wry grin. “No. In fact, I’m not exactly sure what it’s for.”
“Well how do you expect me to brew it then?” she responded tersely.
He wiped his palm across his mouth before shoving both hands in his pockets. He was definitely looking self-conscious now.
“It’s for a . . .” His eyes flickered downward as he rocked onto his heels. “For an affliction.”
Hermione frowned. “What sort of affliction?”
He looked at her then from under knitted brows, biting his bottom lip as though unwilling to say more. Finally he sighed in resignation. “I’ve got something going on with my . . . you know, my genital . . . area.”
Hermione stared at him, bewildered. Draco wanted her to help him with a dick problem?
“I’m not quite sure—”
“It was that girl . . . that slave,” he blurted out, the one my father gave me after the sorting. “She gave it to me and I don’t know what it is.”
He was looking worried now, jaw working fretfully as he gauged her response.
Hermione raised a hand in an attempt to appease him. There didn’t seem to be any need to make him feel worse, even though she didn’t imagine he would afford her the same consideration.
“So you had sex with her?” she said.
“Of course. That’s what they’re for,” he snapped, before seeming to catch himself, looking away from her with embarrassment.
Hermione did her best to ignore it.
“And what are the symptoms?”
“It’s just . . .” He gestured toward his groin. “It’s just . . . you know . . . sore.”
“Sore how?” Hermione responded evenly, trying to quell her mounting frustration. “Is there pain on urination? Is there a discharge? Are there blisters?”
Draco stared at her, as though seeing her for the first time. “How do you know so much about knob rot?”
Hermione felt the twinge of a smile on her lips. But she didn’t intend to share it with him. “Just answer the questions,” she stated drily.
“Well there’s not . . . there’s no blisters.”
“That’s fortunate, as you may have been stuck with it for life.”
He looked down again with a mixture of fear and disgust. “It’s painful when I . . . pee . . . and there’s some . . . some stuff coming out of it.”
Hermione strode over to a shelf then and pulled out a book. “It sounds like Chlamydia or Gonorrhoea. Both are bacterial. I could make one potion that addresses both.” She started flipping through pages.
Draco released a sigh of relief. “Yes . . . can you?”
“I can . . .” she responded, before snapping the book closed with a loud thud. “But I won’t.” He looked at her then, aghast. “Unless you do something for me in return.”
His brows lowered as he eyed her warily. “What?”
“I want to know what’s going on. I want information.”
“Voldemort would kill me,” Draco hissed, glancing behind himself as though the Dark Lord were about to suddenly materialise.
“Nothing high level,” Hermione assured him, advancing a couple of paces. “I just want to know who’s here. Who’s still alive.”
Draco shook his head uneasily. “If he were to find out . . .”
“Who’s going to tell him?” Hermione asked. “Me?”
Draco stood with his hands on his hips thinking, occasionally looking groin-ward. Finally he acquiesced. “Okay, what do you want to know?”
“How many are in the dungeon cells?”
“About . . .” Draco looked upward, recalling. “I’d say about twenty-five now.”
“Now?” Hermione reiterated.
“Some have died.”
Hermione drew a deep breath but couldn’t allow the wretchedness of the situation to stop her, she had to know. “Who are they? Men? Women?”
“All women. The men were killed.”
Hermione put a hand to her face, rubbing her forehead as she absorbed the harrowing news.
“Who are the women?”
“They’re young. Our year and down mainly. A few Muggles too. Most of the older ones were killed.”
“Who are they? What are their names?”
“There’s . . .” Draco shook his head. “I’m not . . . we don’t call them by their names.”
“But they have fucking names.” Hermione’s voice rose. “At least they did little more than a fucking year ago.”
“I know . . . but I can’t.” Draco huffed, rubbing his face as well. “There’s Katie Bell . . . And Hannah Abbott . . . and some others.”
“I want their names,” Hermione stated fiercely.
“I’ll get them,” Draco replied hurriedly. “I’ll give them to you when I get the potion.”
Hermione glared at him, the blood thudding like a death knell in her ears. But she couldn’t afford to get him off-side. This was the only chance she had of finding out.
“Fine.” She turned away from him. “I’ll start working on it today.”
She stood, waiting for the sound of him leaving. But it didn’t come.
She turned back. “If that’s all?”
“You should probably know that Snape is being targeted.” Draco delivered the news in a low voice, as though afraid of being heard.
“By whom?”
“By ‘you know whom’.” He gave a knowing nod.
“Why?”
“Because of you.”
“Me?” Hermione was taken aback.
“Voldemort thinks he hasn’t done enough to you.”
“Enough? I’ve been beaten black and blue.”
“Yes, but he hasn’t . . .”
“Hasn’t what?”
Draco looked embarrassed again. “He has to fuck you. He has to make you submit.”
“What do you mean?”
“That’s part of it. That’s how the slaves are broken.”
Hermione crossed her arms defensively across her chest. Things were starting to make a lot more sense.
“By ‘targeted’ do you mean that he has been hurt?”
“Yes.”
She chewed her bottom lip. If Snape was being hurt to hurt her then it was serious. She combed her fingers through her hair, trying to think.
“I need something else,” she announced suddenly.
“What now?” Draco snapped irritably. “Surely I’ve given you enough.”
She raised her index finger, as though making some sort of concession. “Yes, but not only am I willing to make the potion for you. But I promise I won’t tell Snape about it.”
“I didn’t expect you to,” Draco growled angrily. “I told you it had to be done in secret.”
“Well now you know for sure that I won’t be telling,” she quipped back.
“Fuck.” Draco scowled. “What do you want?”
“I need some books from the library.”
“On what?”
“Sex.”
Draco’s brows drew together in puzzlement. “You’re not a . . . a virgin?”
Hermione rolled her eyes. “No . . . I just need a bit more . . .”
“It wasn’t Ron, was it?” Draco looked at her with a mixture of surprise and disgust.
“Shut up,” she snapped, turning away abruptly. “Just get them. Make sure they’re . . . detailed.”
“I really don’t think you’re going to need them,” Draco informed her, heading for the door. “You just have to lie down and let him—”
“Goodbye.”
Draco shrugged to himself.
His hand was on the knob when she stopped him again.
“Why ask me? Why trust me with something this . . . personal?”
He turned back. “Because you’re the only one with access to Snape’s ingredients.” She regarded him for a while before raising an eyebrow in acknowledgement. “And because you already think I’m a dickhead.”
The hint of a smile touched her lips.
“I’m not one to fly in the face of popular opinion,” she responded evenly.
He snorted again, finally admitting to himself that this was one of the reasons he had wanted to see her. He hadn’t had a decent roasting like this in a long time.
With a shake of his head, he opened the door and slipped away.
As soon as the door had closed, Hermione crouched down, buried her face in her hands, and wept.
- 5
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- 7
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The Unbroken