“Because I need it,” she told him. He waited for her to elaborate.
“I've spent the past three years trying to fix myself – learning to cook at least the basics, learning to knit properly, learning laws and magic and having friends over and trying for a proper career, to dating Ron...but it doesn't and didn't help. I wanted to stop warding every door, to stop counting how many spoonfuls of sugar I put in my tea every time – it's four, by the way, one full scoop and three scoops of barely-there crystals just to make four – and I wanted to stop wanting to scream when people touched me.” She sounded a tinge desperate.
“But I figured out what it is – I don't need to be fixed, sir. I'm not actually broken. I just... I've spent so long taking care of everything, of everyone. They all come to me with their problems, and when I upset them or don't give the right answers they leave. I've done what was expected of me, and for what?”
She was bitter, now, beautiful with her anger. “I spent a year running, numbing myself to everything. If I stopped thinking, stopped keeping things in control, I'd scream. I don't want to be in control of everything. Not all the time. I want...I want to be taken care of. I want someone else to take care of me the way I need to be taken care of. I want to trust someone again, with my life. I don't have that. And...I want to take care of someone who will appreciate me and what I bring to them. I want to be understood and...above all, I think, I want to be wanted.”
“And that, Hermione, is why I do this.” Severus studied her, watching her reactions. “In this setting, I am honest as I can be – normally, my sessions are short. I provide training over the summer on occasion, and all sessions are conducted here. I have not had the...pleasure of my own submissive, to the extent where I am unsure of what sort of dominant I would be if given the opportunity.”
Rising, he surveyed her. “I imagine the reason why you have not been able to properly progress is the same reason I have not taken anyone under extended tutelage, is that correct? You cannot trust them fully.”
“Yes.” She sounded choked, and tears glittered on her lashes. “I feel like a failure and I hate it, and term starts soon and - “
“And you need this,” he finished for her. “But you trusted me – you nearly melted in relief when you realised who was behind you – and now you are asking me to train you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have done the research.” It wasn't a question, but she nodded regardless. He paused. Their impromptu little session had been...wonderful. Their impending employment together would ensure that she would be able to progress more quickly. “What do you wish to gain from a contract between the two of us? What are you willing to part with in return for my time?”
She frowned. Really, had she expected him to give her something for nothing? He was a Slytherin, after all. She knew nothing of his tastes, or he of hers.
“What did you want?” Good girl – she should be asking questions.
“You're replacing Filius – I require assistance lifting some charms from both my person and Draco's.”
Brown eyes lit up with curiosity. “Something you can't lift?”
He nodded. “Obviously.”
“Are you going to tell me what it is first?” She grinned cheekily. Severus wondered if he was losing his mind in his desperation to end the Dark Lord's last torment. Perhaps the allure of having someone he could care for, who relied on him, who trusted him fully and already knew his secrets, was just too much when so tempted. He couldn't risk his godson's future marriage, not that he thought this lovely creature before him would intentionally betray the circumstances.
“After you take a vow of secrecy regarding it, yes.”
Hermione nearly wriggled in delight at the thought of a challenge, pulling her wand and pondering what to say. “I, Hermione Jean Granger, do swear not to disclose the details regarding the charms that Professor Severus Snape is requesting my assistance with without his permission, and nor may I reveal that information through written or spoken word, unless he approves it.”
Magic gleamed brightly around her finger, and he considered her vow approvingly.
Clever girl.
“Good enough?” She smiled wider at him, expectant.
In response, he began rolling up the cuff of his left shirt-sleeve. “There is a...lingering magic. I no longer care about the Mark itself, so much as I care that there is something that prevents both Draco and I from certain physical activities. An activity which he will find most helpful in regards to his engagement with a Miss Greengrass.”
Understanding lit her eyes as her fingertips grazed his skin above the skull. “What about Mr. Malfoy? The three of you are the only ones who weren't sentenced to Azkaban, after all...”
“He seems to have escaped the trouble.”
“I would help you with or without your agreement to train me,” Hermione said, smiling. “If you can't lift it, it's going to be a challenge, and I think I could use one.”
“So we have a deal?” he purred. “I will train you, you will assist me, and we shall draw up whatever rules we deem necessary.”
“Deal.” She reached for his hand, and they shook. Her grip was firm and strong.
“Then I suggest we reconvene at a later date to discuss terms.” They both headed for the door. “Would you prefer to be contacted by owl or Patronus?”
“Owl, if you don't mind.” Hermione's eyes sparkled and she smiled at him. It was unusual to have someone do so. “I think I'll slip out the back, avoid those wankers.”
He nodded curtly. “Have a pleasant evening, Hermione.”
“Good night, Severus.” He escorted her to the door and watched until she had safely spun away with the tell-tale pop of her Apparition. Severus sighed and pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it and inhaling blissfully.
“You haven't failed,” Severus said softly; she hadn't even heard the tread of his boots across the floor. A gentle hand on her chin raised her blurry eyes to look at him. “It's alright, Hermione.”
“I'm sorry,” she choked out.
“I know.” He smoothed tears from her cheeks. “Do you understand now?”
“Yes, I -” He raised an eyebrow and she subsided with a wounded look.
“While annoyed that you seemed to have forgotten about me, I admit, Hermione, I was much more concerned to see you neglecting yourself.”
She sighed. “And my students.”
He waved his hand negligibly. “They're children. They need to learn now that the world is not fair and that, often, people who do the wrong thing get away with it.”
“And that sometimes people who make mistakes need forgiveness,” Hermione said stubbornly. “How do I fix it? I don't have a problem taking points off for disrupting, or for arguing, but I broke his trust as a professor by not listening to him.”
“If he was a Gryffindor, you could merely sit him down and apologise. But he is a Slytherin,” Severus said. “He will learn better through demonstration of your mistake. Don't be obvious, don't point it out. But if you are going to take points off the boy for being disruptive, by all means in the future take points off the one causing it, as well.”
She smiled wanly. “Like you did when it was Harry and Malfoy?”
Severus scowled. “Witch, that was different – I was supposed to be watching over both boys and had to make a preference clear. Yes, however, even now I prefer to rebuke my Slytherins in private, rather than in public, if that is what you meant.”
“Maybe.” Hermione sighed. “I'm sorry, Severus.”
“No need to be – you needed me to show you, and I have.”
“Thank you,” she whispered, looking directly into his eyes.
“That is what you asked me to do,” he said. “Do you feel adequately yourself now?”
Hermione closed her eyes, taking stock of herself and trying to calm her mind.
Too much worry, too many anxieties, all clamoring about in her head. Guilt, yes, and sadness. The feeling of failure. Relief that he'd caught her before Neville noticed, and the peculiar tingle of warmth that he somehow knew her well enough to realise it. Anger that he was sticking his nose in, even though she'd asked him to. She still itched to run to her office in case someone wanted something, wanted to go over her syllabus....
“No,” she said finally, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“Good girl.” He caressed her jaw. He'd known her for a long time as a strong girl on the cusp of womanhood, and she'd blossomed so beautifully, with her soft eyes and wild hair. He knew now, too, how rope would imprint on her flesh, how it looked against her sun-kissed arms. And most fascinatingly was her mind. So quick, so capable... he'd trained other men and women who didn't have such a firm grasp of who they were and what had gone wrong.
Merlin help him, he sounded like a spotty teen with a crush.
“Surely, Hermione, you have some to realise that taking time for yourself is not the end of the world? There is no war – you have no need to be perfect every moment of every day. For Merlin's sake, woman, get it through your damn head that you are allowed to make mistakes! Or does that ridiculous fluff you refer to as hair prevent you from basic thinking?”
She sniffled again.
“Damn it, you make me want to throttle you.” There was no heat behind it, but it earned him a half-sob, half-laugh as she buried her face in her hands. “Hermione... you need to put yourself first. If you are unable to manage adequate sleeping and eating, for Merlin's sake, say something. I have already offered you refuge, or are you too thick to realise you need assistance?”
“I'm sorry!” She was sobbing now. Good – he knew from watching her as a student that after she'd cried she'd come back stronger. Her teeth, for instance. He was certain he'd dealt the bushy-haired bint a blow, but she'd bounced back, her spine strong as steel and her smile bright. Or even with her bloody friends.
“Up,” he commanded roughly, rising from his crouch on the floor. Hermione scrambled to comply, and seemed surprised when he pulled her into an embrace. He wasn't entirely inept with people, damn it, he did know how to hug someone... “Finish crying like a first year, then we shall speak further.”
Hermione didn't think twice, burrowing her face into his shoulder, her hands digging into his shirt for purchase, letting herself cry. Why hadn't she noticed her troubles sooner? She was supposed to be intelligent, and yet Severus had seen it.
And tried to help. She'd been so stubborn!
Severus held her stoically, glad of drying charms. Surely, the girl was drenching his shirt, wracked as she was with sobs. Her curls were soft under his hand and he stroked them gently as they tried to wind themselves around his fingers.
Slowly, Hermione quieted, from sobs to sniffles and gasps to deep, shuddering breaths.
“It's a pity we have so little time before dinner,” Severus said dryly from above her.
“Oh?” she managed.
“Indeed.” He lowered his voice to a mere caress of. “Else I would have to take certain steps. But, alas, you may encounter trouble sitting and I'd hate for Minerva to inquire about rope marks on your wrist.”
Oh, God. The mere thought nearly buckled her knees with relief. He didn't think she was too much work? She'd told him how messed up she was.
“Stand on your own two feet, Granger – I'm a man, not a wall.”
“Sorry.”
“And stop bloody apologising,” he admonished as she drew away from him.
“Sor-” She gave him a sheepish look at his glare.
“We should attend dinner, before the hormonal little miscreants jump to the conclusion that I've murdered the Charms professor.” He flicked his wand at her.
“Ouch!” Hermione frowned as his spell brushed through her hair all at once. “Not so rough! I want to keep that attached, you git!”
Severus smirked widely at her.
“Come now,” he purred. “If you left here looking like that, they'd assume I'd done something far more intriguing than turning you into potion ingredients.”
She stared at him, heat suffusing her cheeks.
“Then again,” he continued, leaning closer to her, so close she could smell tea and whatever knicker-drenching cologne he wore. “Perhaps you should visit with me after dinner – discuss those charms, read, grade; whatever you would like.”
He clipped each syllable, enunciating crisply, and she shivered, her eyes going dark. Oh, Merlin, yes.
“Um.” Hermione wet her lips, blinking furiously. “That would be nice, thank you.”
“And before I forget -” he outstretched his arm, wordlessly and wandlessly Summoning a book that came flying from the bedroom. “For you, Hermione.”
She accepted it. “'Frizzle's Guide to Managing a Magical Classroom'?”
“It is an exceptional book,” he said. “Charms for managing troublesome classes, tricks and tips from a valued educator.”
“Thank you.” She blushed, holding it to her chest. He was standing so close she had to refrain herself from leaning into his heat.
“Do not mention it – at the very least, I would recommend not allowing Minerva to see that particular copy. She's been trying to find out what happened to it for the last fifteen years and I'd rather like to see if I can reach twenty.”
The look he gave her was downright wicked, and she laughed.
“To dinner, then?”
“Indeed. I shall be along shortly – you may leave through my office if you desire, the dungeon corridors are quite empty at this hour.”
“Alright.” Hermione carefully stepped around him, checking her reflection in his mirror. Her hair was much neater now, and a quick charm fixed the damage her crying had done. She looked much better. Tired, but better.
When Saturday came, students scampered out of doors to flood the grounds with laughter and skiving off of homework, it found Hermione, keyed up and stressed beyond belief, standing outside Severus's chamber doors.
He opened at her knock, black hair, black frock coat, black trousers, black boots, and black eyes against the dimly lit room. “Hermione?”
“Help me,” she whispered.
“Come,” he murmured, possessively ushering her inside. “I've been waiting for you; everything is ready.”
Hermione looked so relieved, and Severus stroked his thumb gently against her back, feeling the tension seeping out of her. He'd been waiting all week for her to require him. Once she was stronger, more sure of herself, he'd be able to ask her for his needs: for now, however, he needed to care for her, build her as a person.
It was what he could not do in his past role as a spy, or his current role as a teacher. Over-inflate a student's ego and they stopped striving to do better or became too comfortable with Potions. Such students did not grow. They stopped learning and seeking answers. And, most annoyingly, they became a waste of ingredients and materials, blowing cauldrons and endangering their fellows.
But Hermione... she was a gem he could polish. He could push her, knowing she would always strive for more everything. He could praise her and she would keep trying to please him if only to receive it again. She knew him, his past, and trusted him. It was humbling and intoxicating all at once. How long had he wanted this in his life? Needed this? Too long.
The low candlelight of his chambers was comforting to him, and to her, for she looked around, eyes darting before relaxing. Counting the exits.
“You need to be bound,” he told her, keeping his voice low and even as he gestured to the ropes he'd laid neatly out on the couch. “I have selected these just for you, Hermione.”
“I...for me?” Hermione reached out, and stroked the chocolate-brown rope. Severus smirked, knowing how soft it was.
“Ordered specifically for you, yes. Only you, and no one else.” His voice was a mere purr, and he stepped behind her, slipping her robe off over her shoulders and down her arms. Pleased to find she wore a comfortable-looking Muggle shirt and jeans, he tossed her robes over the back of his armchair. “You were right to come to me, Hermione.”
She smiled, relaxing further, and handed him a hank of rope. “Thank you, Severus.”
“Don't thank me yet.” He guided her to kneel before him, pleased that she immediately knelt in the proper position, and presented her arms to him, waiting. “You will tell me immediately if you experience any discomfort or pain, is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied promptly, and he began to wrap the rope around her wrists, keeping it flat and smooth against her skin. Oh, he'd chosen the color well. It brightened the colour of her flesh, highlighting the fine hairs and scattered moles. Or perhaps they were freckles – he didn't care, for it was beautiful.
Severus slid a finger between the rope, checking that it lay properly before binding her wrists together, ensuring that it was merely tight enough. Hermione looked up at him, her eyes almost liquid. “Better?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” He caressed her cheek gently. She was much calmer now. “Tell me what troubles you.”
“I worry,” she said, and he trailed his fingers to the ropes again, enjoying the feel of them. “I worry that I've taken on too much, or that I cannot do this. I'm having nightmares. I feel like a failure.”
He tsk'd softly. “You are not a failure.”
“I feel like one,” she countered. “I can't seem to get it through my head that I'm doing my best. I mean, I nearly wrecked things with you before they'd even begun, I messed up with a student, and I still haven't finished unpacking or anything.”
“That does not make you a failure,” he told her firmly. “It means that you are human, like the rest of us. Over my lap, Hermione. I think you need a spanking – penance for your mistakes.”
She awkwardly crawled closer to where he sat on the armchair and maneuvered herself into position. “Would you like me to count?”
“No,” he said after a moment's consideration. What she needed was something more, something he understood all too well. “I want you to apologise. I will tell you why I punish you, you will apologise after the punishment, and you will be forgiven.”
Her breath hitched; how had he known? Hermione nodded, trying not to cry already.
“Five for the incident with your student,” he said, his hand firm. The crack of it on her arse stung, even through her jeans.
“I'm sorry,” she replied promptly after the fifth. Severus's hand stroked her arse gently.
“You are forgiven. Five more for the incident with Minerva and trying to upset me.”
“I'm sorry.” Hermione tried to sound more contrite – she wasn't as sorry for that one, really.
Severus snorted. “Cheeky girl.” He slapped her arse again, harder, making her groan. “Now I forgive you.”
His hand rubbed her again; she wasn't sure if she should be grateful for the respite, or if it made the stinging more pronounced.
“Ten for doubting yourself, Hermione.”
What?
“And while I have you here – another ten for not coming to me sooner and neglecting yourself.”
His hand cracked again, and she cried out softly. The strokes were measured, not landing in the same place, and he varied how hard he struck. That he felt she needed to be punished more for self-doubt and self-neglect hurt her more than any strike to her arse, and tears fell freely.
“I'm sorry!” she cried after the tenth, but he didn't pause. Her breathing hitched and she cried harder, whimpering her apologies between each blow now. God, she'd really messed up, hadn't she? She doubted she'd be able to turn off her worries overnight – she'd always been this way – but he found it important…
He knows me, she thought wildly as her pulse hammered through her.
“Hush now, Princess.” The sound of him shushing her slowly made its way through her thoughts, and she realised she was sobbing. Mortified, she tried to stop, drawing in great shuddering breaths, only to choke on tears. “I forgive you. Let it go. It's alright.”
His soft words undid her again, and she let herself weep, all of her tension and hurt draining away. This felt right – being under his power, letting him give her what she needed, having him comfort her. And it made her feel special to know this part of him, to see this side of him. He fit so well with her, and forgave her, let her be a mess...
“I'm sorry,” she mumbled at last, his knee wet against her cheek.
“I know,” he crooned. “And I forgive you. You will remember this in the future, will you not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good girl.” His hand tangled itself in her curls, letting her catch her breath. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.” It was true. She felt hollow now, but his quiet comfort and the feel of her bound arms was filling her with something stronger. “My legs are starting to cramp, though. May I get up?”
“Of course.” She winced as she sat back, and he rose gracefully to assist her to her feet, guiding them both to the couch.
“Thank you, Severus. For everything, I mean.” Her rear still stung slightly and, uncaring of whether or not it was alright, she kicked off her trainers and curled herself up on the couch, her head on his lap once more.
Hermione felt him chuckle softly. “Impudent wench.”
Still, he didn't move her, just tangled a hand in her hair once more and Summoned a book from the shelves. Hermione sighed in contentment as his reading glasses flew across the room to him as well. This was lovely. She felt so much better, despite having blubbered all over him like a firstie. The pressure of the ropes around her wrists was calming, centering, and she closed her eyes. She was safe here, and warm, and he – Severus – was showing her such a hidden facet of himself that she couldn't help but want to stay as long as she could.
Severus glanced down at her a while later; her eyes were open and she was more relaxed than he'd seen her in a long time. Hell, Petrified she'd been more relaxed than she had since the start of term. He was loathe the disturb her, but by now she'd need the scant hours until dinner for the marks to fade from her wrists. “Hermione.”
Warm brown eyes looked up at him, and he scowled at himself for wanting to rush things. It was bad enough that he could see the curve of her breast at this angle. “Hmm?”
“Time to untie you.”
“Oh.” She looked so disappointed. Good. Keep her wanting more.
This time he scowled at her. “I'm not kicking you out, you swot. You don't want to attend dinner with marks on your wrists; Poppy, at least, would notice.”
They maneuvered into a less awkward position, and he eased the knots out. Yes, definitely an imprint, and it sent a not-small-at-all thrill of possession and lust through his mind. Hermione was staring at them with a soft smile and she quickly reclaimed her place on the couch. He watched her a moment, seeing some of the tension seep back into her shoulders, and Summoned another book, dropping it into her lap without a word.
Anyone looking in, he mused, wouldn't have understood. Him, long-limbed and primly dressed with his plain looks and huge nose, sitting on a comfortable couch with her curled beside him. They wouldn't have noticed that she was the one touching him, despite his possessive arm around her shoulders. They wouldn't have seen the curve of her lips when she turned the page and caught a glimpse of her wrists. They wouldn't have seen her press closer to him when thoughts struck her, plaguing her with insecurity.
Onlookers likely would have thought them a couple – and while he did wish that to be so, he knew it was too soon.
They were gone when she reemerged. “They left?”
“They did.” Severus poured another cup of tea for her, already reaching for the sugar bowl. One, two, three, four, she counted. “Did you glean enough information from your questions?”
Letting out an exasperated sigh, Hermione dropped onto the couch, ignoring his disapproving frown, and accepted the teacup. “Your friend is slipperier than an eel,” she complained. “His answers were probably the most crucial, and yet he gave me the least information!”
“Lucius does tend to dislike straight answers,” he agreed, reaching for her book to look at what she had written. He had been quietly conferring with Draco at the time, rather than leaving the room entirely, but he still hadn't been fully listening, trying to give them some privacy without actively leaving Hermione alone with Lucius.
Cautiously, she sipped at the tea – perfectly sweetened, and not too hot to drink – before snorting inelegantly. “Does he love his wife or not?”
Severus pondered how to reply to her question. “I had the pleasure of meeting Lucius's father at one point before he was killed for his perceived disobedience,” he said. “He was a thoroughly unpleasant sort of man. He believed in power and riches. Family, to him, was nothing more than a status point – the 'perfect' wife and son to trot out.”
Hermione frowned, taking her book and making notes.
“For Abraxas Malfoy, emotions were a weakness, something not to be tolerated. Lucius has had those things ingrained him from a very young age. However, he lacks the calculation and coldness of his father. He is surprisingly human, but does not vocalise his emotions well. In short, Hermione, Lucius Malfoy loves his wife and son with a staggering intensity but does not know how to show it.”
She considered this, nodding.
“He'll never admit it, of course. Narcissa has known Lucius long enough to understand the depth of his regard for her. Draco, however, hasn't stepped into his own yet, and is still trying to win his father's approval.”
“But he already has it?” Hermione guessed. Severus inclined his head and reached for a biscuit.
“Indeed.”
“Sounds like a healthy family dynamic,” she groused, scribbling notes with her quill. “Then again, it could be worse.”
“It could.” Severus selected another biscuit. “Is tea and biscuits enough, or did you skip lunch again?”
She waved a hand negligently. “I ate in my office earlier. Biscuits are fine. Do you have any of the ginger ones?”
“I do.” He pushed the plate closer to her, watching the look of concentration on her face.
Finally, she closed the book with a sigh and dropped it to the floor before leaning to grab the plate of biscuits. The ginger treat was crunchy and she smiled happily, then frowned. How was she supposed to bring that up to Severus?
He tugged on her hem. “Your emotions are naked on your face, witch. You have something you don't want to tell me.”
Her cheeks burned. The rebuke in his velvet tones had been mild, true, but she knew how deceptive Severus could be. He had a vicious twist to his words when he desired to, capable of cutting a person down in moments.
Fingers wrapped around her wrist, and her eyes snapped to his. “Miss Granger, if you are quite finished worrying, speak to me like a bloody adult before I assign you detention writing lines so that you will not waste. My. Time.”
His voice was so cold it hurt, and she snatched her hand back.
“Don't be an arse,” she said, uncaring that she sounded hurt.
“Don't shrink away from me,” he hissed, his back rigid as he rose from the couch to pace the stone floor. “I have no intention of harming you.”
Hermione frowned, studying him. She hadn't seen so much tension in him in weeks, when she'd purposefully tried to make him upset at breakfast and the mention of the club. She mentally considered what she must have looked like, curled up into herself, not touching him, and obviously trying to bring up something difficult. Oh, damn him and his insecurities. She rolled her eyes.
“Severus, sit down, you daft man, and stop trying to be Professor Snape. I want to talk to Severus about making a slight change to something.”
He stopped pacing, crossing his arms over his chest and glowering down his nose. It was certainly an intimidating stance, but she steeled herself and tossed her hair back.
“Sit,” she said bossily. “Now.” Being a stubborn man, he merely arched a brow and Hermione huffed. “Fine, be that way.”
She stood on his couch cushions, and his nostrils flared. I am so getting spanked for this later. “Severus Snape, you bloody moron. I'm not trying to end things with you. I've been trying to figure out how to tell your scowly arse that I wanted to try moving into a more intimate realm with you.”
Oh, she would treasure the gobsmacked look on his face before he masked it. “Is that so?”
“It is.” She reached for him, tugging him reluctantly closer. That she was able to said clearly that he was listening. “You know this trust thing works both ways, right?”
His cheeks stained a pale pink, and she kissed one gently. “Severus, I have no intention of stopping now. You need to trust me, too.”
“I do,” he growled finally, not meeting her gaze. Gently, she put a hand on his chin, forcing him to look up at her.
“Maybe,” she agreed. “But at the same time, it's part of you to be distrustful. I promise, if there's something about our agreement that is making me want to end it, I'd come to talk to you first. I don't want things to end, Severus. I'd very much like to keep going, actually.”
Bending slightly, unused to being taller than he, she kissed him gently.
“Now, can we talk about this, please?”
Severus snorted. “What is there to talk about?” He gave her a rather smoldering look. “You, little girl, want to put me in control of your pleasure as well, do you not?”
Oh, God, the hot look in his dark eyes made her knees tremble.
“Yes,” she managed breathlessly. Hermione smiled. “And here I was worried that you wouldn't want to.” God, his eyes were dark. Granted, she'd known that but they were truly unfathomable. Was it the angle?
“Silly girl,” he purred, his voice smooth and pitched just low enough to wet her knickers. “Of course I want to control your pleasure, see and feel and hear you in the throes of passion. I've only been waiting for your surrender.”