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At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 80085 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 10
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
- 7
- 8
- 9
A/N: Again, RL has had me busier than I would like and these chapters are also a bit longer than the usual. As always, thank you for your patience and your inspiring words. I really love them.
Also a smut warning for this chapter folks . . . again, the clue is in the title. DSxx
LissaDream – Thank you for your beautifully generous words. I’m so grateful to have you hooked in - ‘equally parts disturbed and turned on’ – that’s exactly the combination I was hoping for! Awesome xx
OO – I’m glad you appreciated the jump in the perv-ometer :) ‘She's either forcing an adrenaline rush or hiding from the truth. Either way, she's not facing her feelings.’ – this is really critical and feeds nicely into this chapter x ‘All that emotion struggling to get out one way or another’ – so true! ‘He's clearly keeping some kind of distance between them by referring to her response in such a detached manner, but his actions afterward convey the opposite, a need for attachment and humanity.’ – if this is your rambling, never stop rambling, perfect! ‘I wonder how growing up under the constant threat of annihilation affects the developing adolescent brain.’ – this is also wonderfully relevant. ‘No, you can't end it there!’ – which is exactly why I did it – I’m a total manipulative beeeaattchhhh!
Read-me-bedtime-stories – Thank you so much for your lovely review. ‘Your characters seem true to life... or realistic... or believable...’ – that’s such a great compliment, it’s something I always strive for. So pleased that you are enjoying this one xx
Cheichei87 – ‘Your Snape puts up such a facade of being disconnected from the whole situation, it was such a refreshing turn’ – yes, he’s definitely clinging to the illusion of being able to take an objective approach, and I agree it’s probably about time he was given a shake up :) ‘Breaking apart how she previously envisioned herself, unbeknownst to her, therefore allowing her to construct a new sense of self, really as an adult’ – I love this, great bit of insight. Thank you! x
Marionne25 – ‘THEY WOULD HAVE THOUGHT ME CRAZY WITH ALL THE EXPRESSIONS I HAD MADE’ – Hahaha, I blame Severus ;) Lovely to hear from you xx
Nightstar – ‘Sounds like people catching some feelings here’ – I sure hope so! x
Kvarta – ‘denial is her best friend as it seems’ – I agree, she has some insight but tends to omit the parts she perhaps can’t deal with. ‘she needs him - not the points’ – aha, now that’s an interesting thought! ‘He is just fluffy teddy’ – LOL. Maybe :) ‘what he didn't expect is for her to actually connect’ – ooh, more nice (and sad) insight. ‘poor broken Snape’ – I fear you may be right :( xx
Niv – I will! :) x
BlackMaiden – ‘That kind of duality is delicious and dangerous.’ – excellent! I’m really glad you’re enjoying it :) x
Numja – Hey, I’m really pleased you took the time to review. ‘Holy crap your Snape is so intense’ – isn’t he . . . and he’s not likely to let up any time soon, hope you’re up for it! x
Charmed1x – ‘We need to see it from Severus' point please, to know how she is affecting him’ – ooh, I agree that would be nice . . . but I’m afraid he might reveal a little too much at the moment. We might have to wait :) x

Chapter 8 – Ropemaster
Snape was impotent.
That’s the conclusion that Hermione had come to after a weekend of heavy duty over-thinking, hyper-ruminating and endless day-dreaming with her legs propped against the wall and her head hanging off the side of her bed. Not only was it childishly comfortable but the blood pooling in her brain provided for extra mega-cogitation.
Basically she had thought of nothing and no one else. And any time she might have been tempted to consider another topic like, say, the fact that she was supposed to be studying for her upcoming N.E.W.Ts (without a wand), the physical reminders of his attempts to make a carafe out of her nether regions were enough to bring her smartly back to the topic at hand . . . Snape’s cock.
There were too many clues. The hands. The voice. The constant hypnotic recitations. The wine bottle proxy phallus. The absence of even the suggestion of active penis—indeed, there hadn’t been the remotest twinge, the faintest whiff, of anything.
She had entertained the thought that perhaps he might not want to be that physically intimate with her. But whilst she certainly didn’t consider herself necessarily to his tastes in that regard, she couldn’t shake the sense that he was attracted to her. Attraction and intimacy were, admittedly quite different beasts, but the level of intimacy he’d engaged in thus far had been rather extreme, suggesting that intimacy per se might not be the issue.
Then there was the possibility that he had some moral or ethical objection to introducing his cock into the equation. However, the notion of an exceedingly scrupulous Snape in the current context wasn’t particularly credible.
Perhaps he considered that indulging his penis would nullify his claims to be focusing on her own atonement? That was more plausible . . . if it was, indeed, a deliberate choice.
But what if it wasn’t? What if he couldn’t get it up?
It would certainly explain a lot.
He’d been very close to her in their last engagement. She would surely have felt him stir against her if he’d been at all aroused. But, then again, she had been extraordinarily distracted. And despite the intensity of that moment, parts of her memory were now quite hazy, permanently smudged by the alcohol.
One thing she did remember, however, was the sound as she’d escaped—that jarring crash and clatter as the bottle had smashed.
Was it deliberate—borne of anger? Frustration? Or had it been an accident—shock at what she had done? Or simply a very un-Snape-like case of butterfingers?
He was so full of barely restrained . . . something. It might be anger. But it felt like something more. All of the references to forgiveness, trust, surrender . . . in his own fucked up way if felt like he was trying to communicate. And even more bizarrely he seemed to be getting through . . . perhaps more subconsciously than consciously . . . but she definitely felt different. More aware. But also more fragile. She wasn’t confident that she was going in a good direction, but it was movement at least . . . better than the inertia that had had its claws in her since the end of the war . . . making her feel like she was wading through life . . . constantly kicking through the detritus of the past, the remains of those she had left behind.
So how must it be for him?
Somehow Snape had survived. The news had come as a shock to everyone, especially Harry, Ron and herself . . . they’d witnessed his death after all—or at least thought they had—and in that moment had discovered a very different man to the one they had thought they’d known. But his surprise return to Hogwarts had somehow wiped both the bravery and vulnerability of the man from her immediate consciousness. He had come back with only the worst of his original traits and seemed to be hell bent upon stamping his overbearing authority on the place . . . as though he was trying to make a point, channelling his hyper-vigilance into something that no longer required it.
Everyone just wanted to finally relax, breathe, rejoice in the fact that the war was over but he didn’t let them, his presence alone was enough to remind them of those terrifying years, not to mention his existence in the role of Headmaster being synonymous with the death of their beloved Dumbledore.
And the question of why he had even returned was a valid one. What had been done to ensure that he was fit for the post? Surely survival and exoneration alone wouldn’t have warranted it. Had the school been his reward—his apology after all that had been forced upon him?
Everyone knew that Professor McGonagall should have been given the role, including McGonagall herself, although she was too professional to imply anything beyond the occasional puckered huff or withering glare in the wake of another of Snape’s dogmatic demands.
But surely the biggest question of all was why Snape had accepted. Only a matter of months after almost dying at the hands of Lord Voldemort, as the castle was still being rebuilt, he had returned. Hermione understood that he was still a relatively young man and had demonstrated immense fortitude throughout Voldemort’s reign of terror, but no matter how resilient he was, there was no way that he could have come through it all unscathed. It was impossible.
And perhaps that what she was seeing . . . snatches of what he had been left with after all that destruction, after everything else had been taken from him. Perhaps Hogwarts was his anchor. She understood that. And perhaps he was holding so tightly to it because he was just as afraid of losing it, of drifting away, as she was.
She’d kissed him to see more. And she had. She’d seen upon his face a fleeting glimpse of that man in the Shrieking Shack. The confusion and doubt, the vulnerability . . . but he was still so unpredictable, so aggressive (she believed he did smash the bottle on purpose) that she could never afford to trust him. Indeed he’d warned her not to, himself.
Perhaps he did possess some degree of insight after all.
***
“Just make something else,” Snape muttered over his shoulder.
Something else?
Hermione was incredulous. He had already instructed that, in preparation for their N.E.W.Ts and in keeping with the complexity expected of seventh year students, they were to brew an invisibility potion.
It was the second last potion in the text with good reason—a proper challenge. She’d actually been looking forward to it for years. In fact, since she’d first read the book cover to cover. But it required a wand. And she didn’t have one.
When she’d pointed this out, he’d dismissed her with those three feeble words—‘make something else’.
What was this? Play time? She couldn’t afford to be wasting her classes brewing potions using only the magic imbued in the cauldron. That wouldn’t prepare her for anything.
She tossed her spatula down and began to seethe.
He was ignoring her too.
Ever since she’d entered the classroom, he had kept his back turned to her. He hadn’t looked directly at her once. Even her question had been acknowledged with only a half turn of his head.
What was he playing at now? Mind-fuck phase two - the dismissal?
“I need my wand back, Professor.”
She had followed him to the front of the class and uttered the words quietly enough so that the others wouldn’t hear.
His broad back stiffened but he didn’t turn.
“You do not.”
Hermione swallowed down the hurt and frustration that had started to bubble up. She was feeling victimised and it wasn’t helpful.
“I’ll earn it back.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “However . . . you wish.”
This time he turned.
His hard, black eyes scanned the room to gauge if anyone was listening before settling upon her. He wasn’t pleased. At all.
“You will do as instructed and brew an alternative potion,” he muttered under his breath, lips barely moving.
“But—”
“And you will see me . . . after class.”
The words caught in her throat. She nodded faintly.
“In my . . . office.” He bared his teeth with the last word.
With a shiver she ducked her head.
No doubt he already saw it in her eyes . . . the fear . . . the anticipation.
***
“Get yourself wet.”
Hermione had been in his office all of fifteen seconds. Clearly, he wasn’t mucking about.
She assumed he wasn’t asking her to wet herself but gauging by his demeanour—sweeping around the room as though he had one hundred more important things to do—she knew better than to attempt a facetious comment.
“What are your plans for me?” she ventured instead.
He stopped abruptly, robes swishing fiercely, his gaze drilling into her.
Finally, his lip curled into a sneer. “I would urge you to at least be honest about what you want.”
She frowned in confusion. “What I want?”
He tossed the book in his hand onto the desk with a loud thud.
“You have asked me to describe my intentions because my voice turns you on.”
Her breath caught. Was she that transparent?
It was, of course, true. His voice would get her far wetter than she could achieve under her own steam. She’d hoped he would indulge her. Just not like this . . . moving stealthily in her direction . . . making her feel . . . hunted.
“Say it.”
She swallowed, feeling herself regressing back into a naughty school girl. It was impossible to avoid.
“Headmaster . . . I find your voice . . . titillating.”
He wasn’t amused.
He closed the distance between them in two swift strides.
“Say it!” he demanded, hand shooting out to squeeze the back of her neck.
“Your voice turns me on,” she gasped.
The pressure on her neck subsided slightly.
“It’s hypnotic . . . spell-binding . . .” she continued, looking intently at him. “Sometimes I masturbate to your voice, your words . . . feeling them . . . penetrate me.” His nostrils flared slightly, his breathing had deepened. “I’ve imagined coming on your words . . . in your mouth.”
His jaw muscles flexed as his eyes widened. Had she . . . stirred him?
Suddenly he grabbed her, spinning her away from him.
Both of his hands reached around, grasping the front of her shirt from behind before tearing it open, causing the tiny buttons to catapult off, bouncing across the stone floor. She cried out from the shock of it. Then each successive garment was removed with an equally rough yank until she was left completely naked—from the ankles up.
“I told you to get yourself wet,” he growled, hot breath scorching her neck. “Instead you vacillate between flippancy and flagrant obsequiousness. You may think yourself clever, Miss Granger, but what I’m taking from you subverts all of that, renders the trivial understandings of your overzealous mind obsolete.” He proceeded to guide one of her trembling hands to her breast and the other down between her legs. “Now stop trying to play with me . . . and do yourself instead.”
Drawing laboured breaths, Hermione grasped her stiff nipple and began rolling it between her fingertips, slipping the other finger between her labia to jostle her clitoris. She felt him retreat. There was the sound of a drawer opening behind her.
Moments later, he returned.
“You are fortunate, Miss Granger.” He was close . . . just above her right ear. “I’m prepared to offer you a choice . . .”
She closed her eyes, hoping for something favourable.
“. . . In which hole shall I insert this?” She felt the tip of something—her wand—trailing lightly down the side of her neck.
She swallowed as it skirted her throat. More insertion . . . she might have guessed. It wasn’t quite as she’d hoped, but he’d never offered her a choice before so perhaps it was progress.
“I’ll occupy . . . the other,” he continued, his tone turning low and ominous.
The other? With what? She wondered if he would finally bring it out.
“Which will it be?”
She hesitated before responding, “My . . . front . . . my vagina.”
“Then I will take . . . thisss,” he purred in her ear, running a single silky digit up the crevice between her cheeks, brushing the puckered skin and causing her hips to jolt forward.
If she wasn’t already wet, that would have been enough to do it—more than enough.
“Have you ever been tied?”
She was taken aback. Her lips fluttered around the response before finally releasing it, “No.”
“It is both confronting and powerful. Through it you will demonstrate that you are ready to receive . . . your reward.”
Suddenly her arms were pulled back and she felt something being skilfully wrapped around her wrists—a rope, strong and waxen, threaded in what felt like a complicated knot. When he jerked it tight, her shoulders retracted, her breasts simultaneously thrust forward.
Finally moving to stand before her, she saw that he held her wand in one hand, his own in the other. Bringing the tip of his to hers, he muttered a few indecipherable words, causing her wand to instantly transform, shortening by almost half and thickening. Tapping it again, he started the stumpy rod jiggling about, vibrating feverishly in his palm.
Grasping it by the base, he brought the thick, shuddering tip to her protracted nipple, making her gasp as it flickered against her.
“Will you be using this to stimulate yourself in the future?” He cocked his head slightly as he continued to slide the vibrating shaft over her.
She nodded without hesitation.
A hint of approval flickered across his lips. “It’s so much easier . . . isn’t it . . . when you’re honest with me?”
If she hadn’t been so apprehensive about what he was going to do to her, she would have suggested that he would do well to heed his own words. But she didn’t. She didn’t speak at all. All she could do was watch as he raised his own wand to the ceiling, causing four long ropes to materialise and slither down, hanging on all sides of her like ribbons around a maypole.
She’d stupidly assumed that she was already tied. Not . . . even . . . close.
Weaving his wand in a complicated series of spirals and flourishes, he set the ropes in motion, winding and curling around her naked body. All four twined together, forming intricate knots that pressed into her skin and pulled at her limbs. He continued to orchestrate their serpentine movements, wrapping around and upon themselves, until the final two plaited and slung together under each of her buttocks leaving her hanging like a trussed up turkey, her knees pressed tightly to her chest, her legs spread apart.
Swinging gently, she tried to take stock of her precarious predicament. She couldn’t move at all except for small vertical increments of her head; even breathing was difficult, her thighs framing her tightly bound breasts.
His dark eyes roamed over her, drinking her in, as though admiring his own efforts. Then, raising his wand, he performed a few delicate flicks, cinching her further upward until she was at eye height, level with him.
“Miss Granger . . .”
She almost choked in disbelief. It was ridiculous for him to address her as such—as though they were meeting at some sort of pleasant tea party.
“Are you comfortable?”
“Of course not,” she rasped, trying unsuccessfully to draw a deeper breath.
“Good.”
What the—
“Are you . . . aroused?” He took a step closer.
He could see it. Despite the web of ropes interlaced across her body, her pussy was relatively spared, in fact it was the main showcase and she had no doubt that her open petals were glistening with the evidence. The feeling of being totally constrained but impossibly open drew all of her attention to the throbbing fissure between her legs—it was erotic beyond words . . . of course she was aroused.
“You’ve made your point,” she muttered hoarsely, swallowing with difficulty past the rope encircling her jaw.
His lips ticked up momentarily. If he could award himself house points, no doubt he would have.
But then his face turned serious.
“You have risked your life . . . to hide something.”
She was momentarily baffled, wondering what he was talking about. What was she hiding?
“You took it on as your mission . . . to protect another.”
He began to circle her, his voice dropping into that same hypnotic rhythm as their previous encounters. She couldn’t follow him, the restraints wouldn’t allow it. All she could do was listen.
“It worked out . . . You should be relieved . . . But you’re not.”
He must be referring to Harry . . . and the end of the war. But why? And how did he know that she couldn’t celebrate, not even now?
“You’ve hidden others . . . in different ways . . . ways that further wound you.”
She closed her eyes. He knew.
“Sometimes we are forced to live this duality—to make impossible choices . . . unconscionable decisions. And sometimes the internal rupture becomes too great . . . too vast to reconcile . . .”
He had stopped in front of her but she couldn’t open her eyes—she couldn’t look at him.
“The result is that one then risks losing . . . oneself.” His fingertips brushed lightly over her mons.
Oneself? He was talking about himself . . . she felt it with certainty. About his journey . . . and its parallels with hers. This was about them both . . . they were both lost.
She exhaled in noisy gusts through her nostrils, trying to maintain her composure despite being on the verge of unravelling, like the ropes binding her . . . from the inside out.
“To find oneself is more difficult,” he continued. “Especially when one refuses to acknowledge the past.” His fingers tracked down further, skimming over her labia. “Sometimes it must be forced—the deliverance. A frank purge of the need to protect . . . to conceal . . . to bury . . .” His fingers slipped gently inside her. “Can sometimes be sufficient to break everything open . . . exposing exactly that . . . which one seeks.”
She suddenly groaned and tried to move but it was impossible. He had relocated the wand to her opening and was now using it to replace his fingers. The furious vibration that he’d instigated set her entire nether regions aquiver.
“Look at me,” he demanded.
She cracked open her eyes, upper and lower lips trembling in unison.
“You will keep this secreted inside you.” He pressed the agitating wand deeper. “You will give no indication as to its presence. No words . . . no vocalisations whatsoever will pass your lips . . . until I permit it. If you fail, your wand remains with me. Do you understand?”
She felt the sob welling inside her but she wouldn’t let it pass her constricted throat. She managed a faint nod.
He leaned forward, watching her intently as he worked the reverberating rod between her crudely spread legs, the enhanced ridges on the vine wood rubbing demandingly against her walls.
“The most difficult object to hide is that which desperately wishes to make itself known,” he breathed, thrusting the feverish phallus deeper. “Or that which others are so desperate to find that they will stop at . . . nothing.” He drove in further before gradually pulling out, fucking her with agonising precision. “You may do everything in your power to conceal it . . . divert, dissuade, even sacrifice . . . but sometimes fate is decided . . . beyond your determination, your will . . . your capability.” He plunged deeper still. “Sometimes you are powerless. And you are simply left with the burden . . . of survival.”
Her throat ached with the need to cry out. The pulsing phallus that he’d finally buried completely inside her was sending seismic quakes through her entire pelvis. But his words affected her even more viscerally. This was about Harry . . . about Lily and Dumbledore, and her parents, and everyone else . . . this was about permission to accept the losses, permission to survive when others hadn’t. He was giving it to her. But had he ever really accepted it himself?
She squeezed her eyes closed, clamping her bottom lip between her teeth in an attempt to hold in everything that was desperately trying to burst forth.
“Good,” he whispered, his thumb trailing softly over her mouth, soothing the crushing ache. “It is not enough to simply give in. There is more to pursue. But you must be prepared to fight and lose . . . and to come back for more.”
She needed air. Her shallow breaths—now panting through her open mouth in lieu of the deranged cries that she knew would come if she engaged her larynx—were making her feel faint and disorientated.
But still he persisted.
“And then there are entanglements . . . with words alone . . . words that arouse . . . written . . . verbal . . . they connect and take hold, ensnaring and captivating. But equally they manipulate . . . provoke and cajole. Indeed, it may be those that rend you in the end . . . that encourage you to spill, to reveal against your wishes . . . opening you up before it is time.” His finger slid down to prod at her anus. “So you must be cautious . . . beware of the man who entices you with his honeyed . . . tongue.”
There was only one honey-tongued man she knew of and he happened to be the one dripping maddening words about honeyed fucking tongues into her ears.
“Could you resist him?” he murmured huskily, continuing to trouble her tight opening with short, insistent incursions.
She winced. Of course she could—if he would only give her a tiny bit of respite . . . verbally . . . physically. He wasn’t irresistible after all . . . he wasn’t . . . he couldn’t be—
Fucking hell!
She stopped breathing.
The sensation at her back passage had abruptly changed. His finger was gone. Replaced by something slick and firm, sinuously probing inside her.
Beware of the honeyed tongue.
And when she opened her eyes, the sight that greeted her turned her breaths harsh and raspy, ratcheting from her chest like sobs. She couldn’t resist . . . she just couldn’t . . .
He was kneeling, holding the ropes around her buttocks with both fists and pulling her into him, swinging her rhythmically into that hot muscle that never stopped moving. His dark, penetrating eyes were upon her, his tongue inside her, laving, tasting, knowing her in a way that no one else did. She could not imagine anything so devastatingly intense, so overwhelmingly intimate.
Both the ropes and gravity were forcing all of her blood, all of the tension, into that part of her body and his tongue was delving inside her, as though probing to release some pressure valve. The solid reverberation inside her pussy hadn’t let up, in fact it felt more forceful than ever, perhaps due to the fact that she was coiled as tight as a spring. And when he released one rope to lift his hand to her clitoris, she knew it was all over.
She hadn’t uttered a single vocalisation. She had harboured her charge, protected it deep inside her as instructed. But she could do it no longer. It was now beyond her . . . and she would ultimately fail.
But as her lips parted, ready to surrender, she heard his silken whisper in her ear, “It is time.”
Then she fell off the world.
The ropes were gone.
She was in his arms.
Body convulsing helplessly, limbs pathetically weak, she nevertheless clung to him, grasping handfuls of his robe as the orgasm raged through her. Repeated detonations of her core sent shockwaves through her muscles, sensitised by the pressure from the ropes, so that she felt her entire body being drawn into the release. In her ears, the desolate howling was so foreign, so raw, that she barely recognised it as her own voice—it was as though everything that had been waiting to come out had tangled into a ragged ball of noise that wouldn’t let up, even as she buried her face in his chest. And she remained there—even as the seizing waves finally ebbed away, leaving her ticking and gasping like a dying fish.
At one point she became vaguely aware of the wand being removed from her. And much later, when her insides had turned to exhausted mush, she realised that she was faintly rocking. Face still pressed against his chest, she heard herself repeating two words in a husky, mindless mantra.
But when she worked out what they were—“I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . .” she instantly stopped, both shocked and confused.
She had no idea why she was saying them. Or to whom they were directed.
Then his fingers released hers from his robe, setting something in her hand. It was her wand. Clean. Restored. As it had always been.
Grasping it, she finally looked up at him.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He didn’t respond. Eyes dark and watchful.
Suddenly overcome with the need for some sort of reaction, she wrapped her hand around his neck but he turned away.
“Don’t,” he growled.
“Let me touch you.” She tentatively stroked his cheek. “You can trust me.”
Suddenly he turned and unceremoniously dumped her in his chair before sweeping away behind it.
Hermione grasped the leather arms in frustration.
“You can’t keep doing this,” she cried. “You can’t keep pretending!”
She couldn’t stop the tears from coming . . . she was just too overwhelmed.
“You talk about honesty but you haven’t shown a single drop of it.” Her words were choked with emotion. “Why can’t you just admit it—that you need this as much as I do?” Her breasts heaved with the effort. “I believe you smashed that bottle on purpose . . . because you can’t cope with your feelings. I understand. Of course I understand. But you can’t keep stripping me down, leaving me like this, and acting like you’re merely an observer . . . some self-appointed fucking therapist. I didn’t ask for this!” she shrieked into the silence.
Face tight with anguish, she twisted around in the chair.
The silence grew.
He was gone.
- 7
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At the Headmaster’s Discretion *Complete*

At the Headmaster’s Discretion Complete