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In Their Hands Complete	By : Desert_Sea Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 19648 -:- 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.

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Dr Hermione Granger flicked through his file again but the blur of words did nothing to dislodge the cold stone of dread that had settled in her stomach. The perfunctory summation of his existence wasn’t just detached, clinical—it was positively sparse. If she hadn’t known better she would have thought it had been concocted. For what purpose? To be deliberately misleading? For whom?

Regardless, the pages of blandness were, at the very least, unbecoming of a man with a past as chequered as she had known his to be. But, at its most nefarious, seemed to add weight to the stone that sank further with each passing minute. Professor Severus Snape’s mere presence had always been tangible for her as a student. It had dragged at her. His gaze. His scorn. And now, even after an almost eight year reprieve, the mere thought of beholding him could conjure the same. She tossed the folder onto her desk and sighed—could she be any more Pavlovian! Her fingers caught in the roots of her unruly hair as she gazed at the ceiling. How useful was a psychotherapist who knew every theoretical underpinning of the addled mind, but couldn’t counter something so fundamental?

Kicking her heel into the carpet, she swivelled her chair to behold the floor to ceiling vista outside her window. A mere sliver of glass separated her from a world so beautiful that it never failed to render her breathless. Spires of trees stretching back beyond forever—early autumn exposing snatches of sky between the bones of branches, and leaves of colours never meant for a world as painfully broken as she knew it to be.

But, with time ticking only on the wilt and wither of leaves, and with the perspective that a few concerted breaths could bring, the view would inevitably transform her. She would eventually succumb to the heady infusion that a newfound appreciation of the ‘bigness’ of the natural world could bring.

But even still, thoughts of her former Professor continued to creep in at the fringes of her consciousness.

What had the war done to him? And what of the intervening years?

Hogwarts, or more precisely, Professor McGonagall wanted him back. But at what cost? The figure that loomed larger than any other in her memory had had eight years to evolve or devolve. She had absolutely no purchase on where the years of hospitalisation and relative isolation had taken him. Despite his previously unwavering countenance she had no doubt that he had been as vulnerable to the chaos as the rest of them, and likely moreso.

He’d died three times. They’d brought him back. Had he wanted the other? Did he want it now?

“Grangerlocks! Look sharp!” George Weasley poked his shaggy head in the doorway. “Have you forgotten? The Colossus of Grumpiness is arriving today.”

Unfortunately, she hadn’t forgotten.

Hermione reluctantly swivelled away from the window. “No, that fact hadn’t slipped my mind.”

George grinned at her. “I have some of my best gags lined up for him. I’ll have him laughing in no time.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and finally gave up a smile. She knew he was trying to make her laugh. The very idea of George trying to apply his off-beat brand of humour therapy to Professor Snape was both ridiculous and terrifying in equal measure.

“You know Sprout’s back too?”

Hermione fanned out the other files on her desk before pulling Pomona Sprouts’ for another glance. “Yes, her compulsions have returned. Apparently the hypnotherapy didn’t work.”

“Now, Dr Granger.” George raised a finger. “Dr Ellory is a . . . “

“Highly experienced hypnotherapist with over five hundred successfully treated clients . . . yes I know.” Hermione huffed, dumping the file back with the others.

“Do I detect an ever so slight air of cynicism about her methods?” He pretended to look shocked.

“How many times have her ‘successful’ clients returned?”

George tugged at his bottom lip. “Quite a few since I’ve been here. That’s eighteen months. How long have you been doing this?”

“Two and a half years.”

He slapped his palm against the door. “Merlin! That long? No wonder you can’t find a man.”

Hermione’s mouth no longer dropped open with such statements. As a female sex therapist she had heard every misogynistic innuendo imaginable, many of them, admittedly, from the mouth of George Weasley, who was repeatedly disappointed by her failure to bite.

“Why would I need a man when I have you around?” She gave him her sweetest smile.

“So now I don’t even qualify as a man?” George pretended to look hurt but was betrayed by the permanent glint in his eye. “Perhaps it’s not a man you’re after?”

Crossing her arms, Hermione rose from her seat. “I’m not having this conversation with you. Haven’t you got whoopee cushions to blow up or something?”

“Nope.” George pulled a packet of something from his pocket. “Whoopee cushions are so ‘First Wizarding War’. This is the latest in cutting edge hilarity. Helium gum. You chew it and your voice goes squeaky. Snape’s going to love it.”

Even as she managed to push him out her office door, Hermione’s smile dropped away. Leaning heavily against the timber, she suddenly felt her energy drain into her boots. The wind had picked up. Now gusts of it plucked at the limbs of saplings waving at her helplessly beyond the glass. If she’d been more maudlin, and she wasn’t far off, it might have struck her as symbolic, premonitory.

She’d given two and a half years of her life to the Galladdon Retreat—trying to help those deeply scarred by the ravages of the Wizarding Wars and, equally, those overwhelmed by the tide of darkness that debrided and exposed them—the inherent frailty of the human condition. Admittedly, she’d experienced considerable success. The retreat had allowed her to work intensively to treat some of the most intractable of conditions and recalcitrant of clients. Her knowledge was exemplary and she genuinely cared about people—understanding them as both an intuitive and an empath.

In fact, she’d never refused a client. Never even thought about it. Until now.

Severus Snape was the one man, the one person who had been able to slip, seemingly effortlessly, under her skin as a student. Although she had become adept at countering the emotional projections and personal intrusions of clients wrestling with her as the incarnation of their inner demons, she was concerned that, with seven other clients to treat, he would monopolise her time, both professionally and in the privacy of her own thoughts as, inexplicability, even in his absence, he did now.

If it was an issue of equity, she would refuse to treat him. And who knows if he would even be open to considering the possible sexual underpinnings of his condition. Although that wasn’t necessarily an avenue for investigation with every client, she knew enough of his history—his sexual humiliation as a student and unrequited love for Lily Evans—that there was a high likelihood that he continued to harbour residual emotional and sexual conflicts.

He may refuse to engage with her at all. An ex-student therapist may well be the last person on earth he would be willing to interact with. But that wasn’t necessarily an issue. There were three alternative therapists available, although one was George Weasley and she couldn’t help thinking that Snape’s response to his art and humour therapy might be less than enthusiastic.

She checked her watch. Pre-arrival meeting. Nostrils flaring and eyes fluttering closed, she let her head tip against the door, temporarily shutting out the erratic gusts that continued to contort the world beyond. They hadn’t all been successful. She sometimes wondered if this bubble of sanity they were attempting to create was, for some clients, nothing more than a half-way house for a soul already on its way out of this world. Some they could pull back from the brink. Others, however, would simply wave to them as they floated away.

***

“Wands will be confiscated upon arrival.”

“Good luck with that,” George muttered into his coffee.

“What was that?” Aidan Lynch stopped pacing and looked up from his clipboard.

George shook his head after a deep swallow. “Snape’s not going to want to give his up.”

“I’ve read his file.” Lynch stared at George with piercing blue eyes. “He might be a war hero but he’s not coming in here with a wand. He’s going to be treated the same as everyone else.”

George’s eyes flicked to Hermione and she could tell he was thinking the same as she. Snape wasn’t the same as everyone else.

Lynch continued to pace. “I’ve put Snape in with Mollison and Jaeger in with Creevey. Anyone forsee any issues with that?”

“Mr Mollison is still suffering acute Cruciatus symptoms.” Simone Ellory slid her glasses down her nose to peer at him. “From what I’ve read, Snape’s not the most tolerant of individuals. We don’t want him creating further issues.”

“What do you think?” Lynch propped a hand on his hip and looked at Hermione who was cradling her tea cup in her lap.

“Professor Snape’s case file is so insubstantial, I wouldn’t like to speculate what state he will be in after all this time. If there are issues, we can always relocate him.”

Lynch gave a brief nod and continued. “Sprout will be in with Calder and Lenna with Sarah.”

“Do we have a surname for her yet?” Dr Ellory asked, tapping her pen on the sheet of paper before her.

Lynch shook his head. “All we know is that her name’s Sarah and she’s thought to have selective mutism. But that’s why she’s been referred here. We need to determine the exact nature of her illness and try to establish her history and where her family are.”

“She’s going to require some intensive regression therapy,” Dr Ellory stated.

“I think it would be prudent to assess her properly first before making any assumptions,” Hermione said quietly.

“Not everyone’s problems are sexual,” Dr Ellory responded coldly, not looking at her.

“If you think that’s the limit of my knowledge and expertise then perhaps you might need to consult my CV,” Hermione replied.

Lynch raised a hand. “Ladies, perhaps you can leave your ‘whose dick is bigger?’ competition for later. We only have a few minutes before the bus arrives.”

Hermione huffed as George smirked into his mug.

“Okay, have we missed anything?” Lynch ran his fingers through his thick greying hair as he looked between the three individuals seated before him.

“Do we know how Emily Lenna’s burns are being managed?” asked Hermione.

“I understand she still has pressure garments over most of her body,” Lynch replied. “We have asked for a six week supply of all of her usual salves and potions and I’ve put together a physical therapy regime to increase her range of movement after the scar contractures. I’m yet to examine her, so I’ll have to make a judgement on what she might be capable of after that.”

He hadn’t answered her question but Hermione decided to leave it. She couldn’t remember a more diverse group with a greater range of issues and needs. It was going to be challenging to say the least.

“Toot, toot,” George murmured.

Hermione looked up to see that the bus had pulled up outside the long windows at the front of the retreat.

Toot, toot indeed.

***

He hadn’t changed. Physically at least. He may have been a shade thinner, a line or two more may have taken up residence on his forehead but he was essentially the same Snape from her years at Hogwarts.

In some ways she wished he’d changed—become stooped and frail—dependent enough to be easily cared for. But he was far from frail. He was still frighteningly formidable. She could feel it.

Entering the room with the others, tall, lean, dressed entirely in black, he was instantly out of place. He could be the concierge, or the butler or even the therapist, but never the patient, not the one apparently spiralling of control, in desperate need of healing.

The tension in his shoulders, the elegant grace of his stance and the inscrutable expression were all indicators that he was going to be as difficult as she’d anticipated.

Lynch directed the new arrivals to sit on the chairs that had been placed in a cluster opposite the therapists in the main activity room. Everyone, that is, except the woman, Emily Lenna, who was already seated in a wheelchair.

“Welcome everyone.” Lynch spread his muscular arms wide. “My name is Aidan Lynch. Some of you might already recognise me. In a previous life I was captain of the Irish Quidditch team but, since retirement, I have become a therapist, specialising in physical therapy. I started up the Galladdon Retreat four years ago and we have had hundreds of clients through this facility in that time.”

The small group watched him with emotions ranging from suspicion to apprehension—those that had been referred. Others, like Pomona Sprout, wore expressions of cautious relief, while the man that must be Shaun Mollison writhed and grimaced, the latent effects of the Cruciatus wracking his emaciated body.

“You should have already read and agreed to the Galladdon terms of stay and be aware that this, for most of you, will comprise a six week period of intensive therapy. You will be required to participate in our structured activities but there will be plenty of opportunities for you to interact with the natural beauty outside of this place which we very much consider to be therapeutic in its own right.”

Lynch nodded to each of those seated as he spoke, using all of the communication techniques that they had honed as professionals over years of training and engagement.

“But before I show you around the facilities, I would like to introduce you to the other therapists that you will be working with over the coming weeks. We have Dr Simone Ellory who is our hypnotherapy specialist.”

Dr Ellory gave a pearly white smile and raised a manicured hand. Hermione was surprised to see her looking so charming but she had noted the older woman’s eyes had rarely left Snape since he’d entered.

“And Dr Hermione Granger, our psychotherapist specialising in sex therapy.” Hermione gave what she hoped was a warm smile as she acknowledged the group. Snape’s expression didn’t change. Did he recognise her at all?

“And finally we have George Weasley, our art and humour therapist.”

George nodded his shaggy head and waved a rambunctious hand, clearly eager to get on with lightening the mood.

“So without further ado.” Lynch continued. “I’d ask that you now hand over your wands. I’ll lock them away for the duration of your stay, whereupon they will be returned.” He gave a commanding smile that indicated that he wouldn’t be swayed on this point.

Each withdrew their wands from bags, sleeves and pockets before handing them over. Snape, instead, held his balanced on his pale fingers, as if daring Lynch to take it from him. Hermione held her breath and felt George tense next to her. Lynch’s blue eyes didn’t leave Snape’s onyx ones as he plucked the wand from his fingers. “Professor,” he nodded, before moving on.

Grasping the collection in one large hand, Lynch stood with his feet wide apart. A reassertion of dominance? Hermione wondered.

“Are there any questions?” He inclined his head toward the group.

There was silence apart from occasional tics and grunts from Mollison.

Then a hand slowly rose in the air.

Lynch raised his chin. “Professor Snape?”

“Yes . . . er . . . Mr Quidditch . . .” His deep, familiar tone was as dry as parchment. “I was of the understanding that we were simply on a day trip to the Museum of Abominations. Am I to assume that we were misinformed? Or is this, in fact, the aforementioned location, whereupon the abominations in question are a gaggle of former Hogwarts students masquerading as professionals?”

Hermione closed her eyes. Fuck!
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In Their Hands *Complete*

In Their Hands Complete