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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
- 7
- 8
A/N: Again, so little time this week but hopefully enough here to keep you with me. DSxx
Thanks to Ailosacath for the chapter title xx
OO – ‘Who hasn’t shut themselves down just to keep going? Who hasn’t blocked out the sadness in the hopes of maintaining sanity?’ – too true :(. ‘She’s doing so much to keep herself afloat. Which is an exhausting way to live.’ – life is exhausting enough, right? ‘I’m still mystified by what she plans to do with her sexual knowledge?’ – answer coming right up ;) ‘Room of Reconciliation—did you mean Room of Requirement?’ – OMG, that is fucking hilarious. Don’t you love my subtle cross-promotion here? Thank you so much for pointing that out. Just goes to show how fucked up my brain is at the moment :D
Chapter 8 - Unshackled
He had recovered. Or so it seemed, as Hermione watched Snape moving around the laboratory without a hint of the hobble that had troubled him the day before. She continued polishing vials, following him from under her eyelashes, wondering why he appeared to be collecting random ingredients on the far bench. There didn’t seem to be an obvious relationship between any of them; certainly not a typical potion that could be brewed.
He looked up and caught her watching. Quickly placing the current vial on a tray, she picked up another and peered intently at it, as though buffing it to a perfect shine were the primary purpose of her existence.
The truth was that she had several slightly more important things to consider in that moment. One of them was how to approach the immeasurably fraught situation with the man prowling about on the far side of the room. The entire dynamic was so far outside of her realm of experience that she wondered how she could possibly hope to not only execute it successfully, but to assure an outcome that would be to her advantage. She didn’t have a well thought-out strategy. However, she did have some knowledge about how men thought and behaved, and was hopeful that Snape would possess at least some elements common to the men that she knew. Or had known.
The sex itself wasn’t really her prime concern. She’d had sex before. It just hadn’t been particularly lengthy or satisfying and, in reality, didn’t give her much of an insight into what all the fuss was about. However, it was clearly powerful, and damaging enough to use as a weapon. Her main objective had thus become working out how to engage with him in the manner that was expected, but to somehow remain as intact as possible throughout. He had already demonstrated how volatile and physically aggressive he could be. Despite that, and the fact that her punishment had been mandated by Voldemort, she still considered herself extremely fortunate to have landed the challenging and prickly wizard rather than someone like Lucius Malfoy. Now she hoped that, rather than seeking to break her, he might actually be willing to grant her a small amount of leeway. Perhaps even a smidgen of control.
The plan was ambitious. Perhaps foolhardy. But if she was going to be of any use to anyone, it was essential that she—
“There are several ingredients missing.”
Hermione jolted a little as his firm, authoritative voice rang out.
Shit.
Somehow he’d already managed to identify the slight irregularity in the stores as a result of what she had used to brew Draco’s potions.
Swallowing hard, she placed the vial and cloth on the bench before scuffing across the room to where he stood expectantly, deep frown lines etched into his brow. Clenching and unclenching her fists, her mind raced furiously as she tried to work out what to do.
She could claim innocence. But he would know.
She could tell him the truth. But she had promised Draco that she wouldn’t. And Snape would probably lash out, punishing her for her secrecy.
Or she could simply . . . ignite the fuse. And hope she didn’t get too badly burned.
“Can you explain?” he asked, eyebrows arching menacingly over his probing glare.
“I’m sorry, Master.” She bowed her head slightly. “I’m afraid that I spilled some ingredients yesterday. They were contaminated, so I disposed of them.”
His frown deepened. She drew a shaky breath, attempting to strengthen her resolve. “I wonder if . . .” She swallowed, brushing her damp palms against her thighs. “Perhaps it would be best if you . . . punished me?”
One of his dark eyebrows twitched up in shock. She felt herself beginning to die on the inside but the only way this would work was if she committed fully. Looking appropriately contrite but, she hoped, just a fraction seductive, she grasped the skirt of her voluminous dress and began to slowly hitch it up.
If he was going to stop her, it would be now, as her bare legs were revealed, inch by inch. After all, it was far more gratuitous than the brief glimpses of forearm and neck that had drawn his wrath previously.
But he didn’t.
He simply watched, his intense black gaze moving over her with needle-point precision as she bunched more and more material within the grasp of her trembling fingers. When she had pulled the hem up so far that her knickers were exposed, she turned and leaned over the bench, sliding her feet apart in an effort to brace herself against whatever he may wish to throw at her.
Biting her bottom lip, she lowered her head. And waited.
Snape paused to gather his thoughts, eyes roving over the firm contours of her muscular legs, the jut of her buttocks, already too proud, too defiant, despite her suggestive intimations.
It would please him to touch her. As he had earlier. In the dark. He could simply reach out and run a single digit around the fine lace that curved across her right buttock. His skilled fingertips could slither down her taut hamstrings, feeling every twitch, every infinitesimal tremble. His hyper-sensitive skin could savour her silken warmth, her soft down, her musky damp.
He sighed inwardly. Unfortunately, this was not an occasion that would allow for a delicate touch, or for any semblance of finesse or restraint. And judging by the boldness of her stance, she knew it. It seemed that she had finally worked out what had to be done.
Reaching out, he slipped his fingers into the back of her knickers and wordlessly split the seams before tossing the remnant away like a rag.
Hermione closed her eyes. It seemed that he had taken the bait. Now what?
Whack!
A stinging blow exploded across her right buttock, causing her hips to slam against the edge of the bench.
Before she could draw breath, another came. And another. She bit her lip so hard that she tasted blood. His hand felt like it was made of toughened leather . . . with spikes—not at all as she had remembered it when he had healed her. He moved to her other cheek, building each excruciating blow with clockwork precision until her skin felt like it was being flayed off.
She had been through so much in the past two years. Endured far worse. But for some reason this simple spanking hurt like she was being thrashed by the devil himself, striking her so deeply and forcefully that she wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that both of her cheeks had ruptured. Even when he suddenly stopped to rub a surprisingly gentle palm over each, and it became clear that they were still very much intact, the constant screaming, like beacons of pain, continued.
Even though she had encouraged him to punish her, this wasn’t working out how she had expected at all. She definitely wasn’t in control. Her position over the bench, and the sense of wrong-doing that each blow implied, might have had something to do with it. Tendrils of their fraught past seemed to be twisting around them, drawing them into their old, challenging dynamic. Student and Professor. Her desperately desiring approval; he determined to disapprove. The overriding sense of unfairness. His treatment of her had always been unfair. He had been unfair to all three of them. She, Harry and Ron. Now dead.
She stuffed a fist into her mouth, moaning with a mixture of agony, despair and fury.
Snape’s hand halted mid-slap. He gazed at the angry red of her cheeks. There had been no softening of her stance. She was still working against him, actively opposing each and every blow. It would continue to hurt until she gave him control. But whether she was capable of doing that, the stupidly proud Gryffindor, was another matter.
Stepping to the side, he moved in closer, careful to focus his gaze only on her mottled backside. But at the same time, he reached out, sliding the fingers of his free hand up her neck and into the roots of her hair. The effect was immediate, a visible melting of the tension through her shoulders, along her back, and down through her buttocks and thighs.
The next blow was met with a slight elevation as she stiffened, but his continued massaging saw her gradually sink back. The subsequent ones produced smaller and smaller reactions until he delivered a slap that resulted in no response whatsoever. He followed with a soothing palm that ventured lower, gliding along the downy edge of her crevices before riding up to ease the tension with a delicate fingertip at the ridge of her tailbone. Another blow and her breathing pattern began to change. He could hear it, the choppy, erratic gushes becoming slower and more regular. The next time his palm landed, she absorbed the impact with an instinctive roll of her hips and he couldn’t help the smile that lifted the corner of his mouth. He would need to manipulate that memory for the benefit of . . . others.
He continued until she lay draped, practically boneless.
His hand had been struck numb, thudding like a slab of useless meat. It would help if he rubbed it against her but he couldn’t afford to diminish the visual impact of what he had achieved.
“Now don’t do it again,” he muttered, tucking his hand into his pocket with some difficulty.
She slowly lifted her head and turned to look at him. Her face was flushed, eyelids at half-mast, lips slack.
It could be read as the mindless anguish of the broken.
He knew better.
“I won’t,” she replied, a statement absolutely lacking in conviction. Another he would have to work on.
Then she pushed herself to standing, swaying a little.
He withdrew his hand from his pocket, ready to catch her.
But she didn’t fall. Instead she blinked a few times, her misty gaze clearing surprisingly quickly. Before he knew it, she was suddenly standing ramrod straight, lips pressed into a firm line. Then she stepped forward, reached out a hand and boldly grasped the bulge of his erection.
“Perhaps you’ll let me take care of this, Master?” she asked, looking up at him with a dangerous level of determination. Didn’t she know how it would be perceived? Feeling the panic starting to rise, he made to push her away, but she pressed closer. “I’ll do anything,” she murmured, squeezing him gently through his trousers. “To survive.”
He hesitated. There was something that grabbed him, more insistent even than her tenacious fist. The way she delivered those words, the desperate conviction in her voice, her eyes, he found surprisingly entrancing. It was most definitely an act. A performance. But not one intended for the Dark Lord. It was for him. He couldn’t help but wonder what she was planning. He didn’t trust her in the slightest—she was far too clever not to be plotting something. So it seemed foolhardy to grant her any leeway whatsoever. But . . . then again . . . he had taken her for a reason.
She smiled, a sultry hitch of her lips, a faint shuttering of her lashes over warm chocolate, pseudo-innocent eyes. She was good. And whilst he didn’t believe any of it, not for a second, he was interested to know exactly how good she could be.
“Show me,” he said.
Hermione held his gaze. She was still floating, somewhat dissociated from the burning pain in her buttocks, dissociated even from the organ whose contours should have been sending some serious warning signals to her brain to cease and desist.
A brief exploration by her probing fingers had been enough for her to realise that she was dealing with something of very different proportions to what she had handled in the past. It should have scared her off immediately, but she was emboldened by the fact that he seemed willing to grant her at least one opportunity to prove herself. She had to make it count. And then there was the fact that she happened to have been granted just a little inspiration—he wasn’t the only one who was aroused, and she wasn’t beyond using that small amount of leverage, no matter how ill-gained.
Her biggest asset in all this, however, was the fact that she genuinely saw this as the best opportunity to ensure her own survival, and perhaps that of the others. That, and the fact that she could act. She was good at it. She always had been.
Clamping her bottom lip between her teeth, looking hesitant and just a fraction naughty, she grasped the top button of his fly, and pulled it open.
It was time to find out exactly what she was dealing with.
- 7
- 8
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The Unbroken