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Chapter Text

Hermoine sipped the last of her Cola, one of the many muggle inventions that had become popular since the fall of Voldemort, and tried to calm her fraying nerves, letting the fizz tingle at the back of her throat.

“Miss Granger?” McGonagall called out evenly. “You’ve been quiet for some time now.”

Hermoine felt the edges of the world coming back into focus. “Sorry, Professor.”

“There’s no need to be,” the older witch said kindly. “I just wanted to know if you’ve given what we discussed earlier some thought.”

Hermoine sucked in a deep breath, holding it for as long as she could before letting it out somewhat sharply. “I have, I jus - I don’t - I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“Of course , you have a choice, Miss Granger. You have one now as well. There is absolutely no force and my opinion of you will take no hit if you refuse my offer.”

Hermoine nodded. “Miss Weasley said I was welcome to stay at the Burrow full time and obviously Ron is adamant I should and I would love to. It’s just..”

McGonagall leaned forward. “I know, Hermoine.” She said, her voice so gentle, Hermoine thought she might cry. “You’re welcome to stay at the castle over the summer too if you would like to.”

Would she like to? Hermoine thought about the empty corridors, the broken walls, the burnt floors,the blood splattered dorms…. She clenched her fists tightly, trying to swallow down the overwhelming grief that overcame her. She suddenly felt very alone. She had no family. She had her friends, but they were as broken as her. 

She shook her head. “No I don’t, I don’t think I could come back now. When the castle’s still so, so - “

“Dead?”

She sighed. Silently.

“I really do think spending the summer at Professor Snape’s will be immensely beneficial to you.”

“Why Snape though? Does he even want me?”

“Professor Snape is the one who suggested it. And I think it is a good idea, because you need structure and guidance and care that you haven’t had for so long.”

“I can handle myself though, Professor.”

McGonagall smiled fondly. “Well you’re still not of age yet and wouldn’t be for a year, no matter how many experiences you’ve had that no child your age should. But more importantly, just because you can, doesn’t mean you should have to.”

Hermoine was quiet again, chewing her inner cheek. McGonagall let her. 

“So I take your silence as approval?”

“I don’t know about approval,” Hermoine said, “but I suppose a summer cannot hurt.”

McGonagall smiled. 

Hermione kicked at her trunk a bit, trying to calm her nerves down. She suddenly felt so out of her depth. She had agreed to live with *Snape*.

Looking around the unfamiliar living room, Hermione took in her new surroundings. The house was surprisingly bright, with large windows letting in the evening light - a stark contrast to the dark dungeons she associated with Snape. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with a surprsing mix of magical and muggle titles. The furniture, however, was exactly as she'd imagined: dark, austere pieces in deep greens and rich woods with a few silver ornaments adorning the mantelpiece. 

"Miss Granger," a sharp voice broke her train of thought. Hermione looked up and stuffed her hands in her coat pockets. This was the first time she was seeing Snape since...well since she thought he had died.

"Professor," she greeted politely. It wasn't forced. "Good evening."

"You too, Miss Granger." Hermione was going to follow up with a 'how are you' but Snape spoke. "I trust your journey was uneventful. I must apologise for not accompanying you personally. The wards surrounding this property are quite complex and required my presence to admit a new resident."

Hermione blinked, surprised by the unexpected apology. "Oh, it’s fine, Professor. Professor McGonagall had informed me.” Snape gave a curt nod. "Perhaps we should discuss our arrangements?"

Hermione smiled faintly. She liked this about Snape, always to the point. Then a thought struck her. "Professor, I hope you don't mind me asking, but... is this Spinner's End?"

Snape looked surprised, and if he was irritated, he didn't show it. "No, not Spinner's End. This is another property close to the Welsh border. Spinner's End is... not suitable for habitation currently."

"Oh. I'm sorry," Hermione said, feeling a twinge of regret for bringing it up.

“No need,” Snape said. He levitated two small ottomans into the room - velvet and dark green, because obviously.

"Shall we sit?" he asked, gesturing to the furniture.

Sitting down, Hermione fidgeted with the hem of her jumper, her nerves suddenly overwhelming her. Before Snape could begin, she blurted out:

"Professor, I... before we start, I wanted to say something." She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "I want to thank you for taking me in. After everything that's happened... well, I truly appreciate it. And I also... I need to apologise." Her words tumbled out faster now. "For years, I had such misconceptions about you. We all did. Accusing you of trying to kill Harry, thinking the worst... I was so sure I understood everything, but I was completely wrong. Harry told us what he saw in the pensieve, and I just, I'm truly sorry, Professor. For doubting you, for…well for everything.” She fell silent, her cheeks flushed with emotion and embarrassment. Snape remained quiet for a few long seconds, his dark eyes unreadable as he regarded her.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and measured. "Your apology is... acknowledged, Miss Granger, but it is unnecessary. You acted on the information available to you at the time, as did many others." 

“Maybe but I -”

“If it would make you feel better, then your apology is accepted.”

Hermione breathed out deeply. “Thank you, thank you.” 

Snape paused again, but when Hermione didn't say anything further, he continued, "Perhaps we should now discuss our arrangements?" 

Hermione nodded. She hadn't noticed when or how, but suddenly two cups of tea materialized on a table between them. She picked up the cup closer to her, inhaling the steam. Ginger, she thought, and for a moment, was reminded of home. She pushed that feeling aside and looked up at Snape.

"One of the primary reasons Minerva suggested you reside here is to provide you with structure and guidance. You've lacked this since you were at least twelve years old, though given your... propensity for mischief, I suspect even earlier."

Hermione felt her cheeks warm at the subtle jab. Snape continued, his tone measured, "I intend to provide that structure. A system with clear expectations, and consequent rewards and... repercussions."

Hermione's brow furrowed slightly. "And what are these expectations, sir?"

Primarily, a commitment to your education and intellectual growth. Though I daresay that's hardly a concern for you, Miss Granger." His tone was dry, but not unkind. Hermione blinked,  Did Snape just compliment her?

"Have you considered your post-Hogwarts aspirations?" Snape continued.

Hermione nodded. "I... I'm not entirely certain. I once thought I'd work at the Ministry, but now... I'm considering becoming a Healer."

"A commendable profession, and not unsuited to your abilities," Snape remarked. Hermione's eyebrows rose slightly.  Two compliments in as many minutes? From Snape?   "However, you're aware of the rigorous academic requirements for Healer training?"

"Yes, sir. I know I need top grades in Potions and Herbology. Madam Pomfrey also suggested Charms. I'm taking those three, plus Arithmancy and Ancient Runes as electives. I know most take Defense, but I feel I've had... quite enough of that for now."

"Understandable," Snape replied, his expression thoughtful. "Are you certain about undertaking five subjects? Most students pursue four. Arithmancy is particularly challenging, and you'll need to prepare for your Healer Aptitude Exam alongside your N.E.W.T.s."

"You think I should drop Runes?" 

"I would recommend it. Your interest in Runes can be pursued independently if you wish."

Hermione sipped her tea, contemplating. "I suppose that makes sense."

"You'll need to catch up on sixth-year Potions as well. Due to... circumstances, it wasn't taught adequately."

"To be honest, I need to catch up on everything," Hermione admitted.

Snape nodded. "I trust you possess sufficient self-motivation for me not to oversee your studies directly?"

"Of course," she replied, a hint of indignation in her voice.

"Very well. I suggest you create a schedule to cover the sixth-year content over the summer. Should you require assistance, you are to come to me." Hermione nodded. "Now, we come to the matter of rules. They must be adhered to, with failures to do so resulting in consequences of varying severity. I will outline them now. We may discuss them, both now and at any point you feel necessary. However, they must be followed."

"What are they?" Hermione asked, her voice steady.

Snape's tone became even more precise. "You are to maintain your room and bathroom in a clean and organised state at all times. I will not be responsible for this. While I won't mandate a bedtime, you must be present at the dining table for breakfast at 8 AM daily. House curfew is 9 PM. Do not break it. Inform me whenever you leave the house. As we now share this residence, chores will be divided. If I prepare dinner, you'll set the table and clean up afterwards. If you cook, I shall do the same. Weekends may involve additional tasks." He paused. "Any questions thus far?"

"No, I don't think so," Hermione replied. Everything seemed reasonable.

"Very well. Disobedience and dishonesty will not be tolerated under any circumstances and will invite severe consequences."

Hermione shifted uncomfortably at the mention of severe consequences. Gathering her courage, she asked, "Professor, what exactly are these consequences?"

Snape's dark eyes fixed on her, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he spoke. "Miss Granger, I am a traditionalist when it comes to matters of discipline. The methods I intend to employ are similar to those I have used with my Slytherins over the years." He paused, allowing his words to sink in. "This means a range of disciplinary actions including stringent measures. I believe in setting clear expectations and equally clear repercussions for failing to meet them."

Hermione swallowed hard, her mind racing. She had heard rumours over the years about Snape’s rules with the Slytherins but she hadn’t thought…. "By stringent measures, do you mean...?"

"I mean precisely what you're thinking, Miss Granger," Snape replied, his tone leaving no room for misinterpretation. "Physical chastisement, when deemed necessary."

Hermione's eyes widened, apprehension crossing her face. She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again, unsure of how to respond.

Snape continued, his voice softening slightly but maintaining its firmness. "I understand this may come as a shock to you. If you have any objections or concerns, now would be the time to voice them."

Hermione breathed in deeply. “You would…spank me?” she stammered.

“If the need be,” Snape replied evenly. “You are free to ask questions if you wish.”

Hermione swallowed. “Like, how would you?”

“You would only ever be spanked “ - and Hermione felt a heat of embarrassment creep up her neck at that - “on your bottom or your thighs, never anywhere else. I will also never punish you in front of others, it will always be discrete and your punishment will never be discussed with anyone else.”

Despite the shock and embarrassment of the situation, Hermione felt slightly mollified at her promised privacy. “What-what you sp - punish me with?”

“For smaller offenses, typically a small wooden paddle or a spoon, on repeated or larger offenses, a strap or a switch might be warranted.”  A switch!  It was remarkable how matter of factly Snape spoke.

Hermione struggled to find her voice. “What sort of stuff would warrant a - spa - physical punishment?”

Snape's eyes narrowed, his voice sharp and laced with evident disapproval. "Let us review, shall we, Miss Granger? Fighting mountain trolls in girls' lavatories. Deliberately seeking out a Cerberus on the third floor. Brewing illicit Polyjuice Potion in abandoned bathrooms. Gallivanting into the Forbidden Forest at night. Time-turning without proper authorization. Setting my robes on fire."

With each infraction listed, Hermione felt her face grow hotter, her gaze dropping to her lap in embarrassment.

Snape continued, his tone unyielding. "Need I go on? Suffice it to say, Miss Granger, that such reckless behavior will no longer be tolerated. Your penchant for rule-breaking and putting yourself in danger ends now. Is that clear?"

Hermione nodded, still unable to meet his gaze. "Yes, sir," she mumbled.

"Good," Snape said curtly. "I expect you to exercise better judgment from now on. Your safety and well-being are paramount, and I will not hesitate to enforce that through whatever means necessary."

Hermione, looking dejected, mumbled, "Yes, sir." After a moment, she looked up hesitantly. "Professor…did Draco ever get punished this way?"

Snape's expression hardened. "What occurs between myself and Mr. Malfoy is strictly confidential."

"But-" Hermione started to protest.

Snape cut her off sharply. "Unless you're interested in testing out the consequences we just discussed, I suggest you drop this line of inquiry immediately."

Hermione's eyes widened, and she quickly backpedaled. "No, sir. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

Snape nodded curtly. "Come. I'll show you to your room."

He led her upstairs and opened a door, revealing a surprisingly warm and inviting space. The walls were a soft cream color, with touches of deep red and gold in the curtains and bedding - a subtle nod to Gryffindor without being ostentatious. A large desk sat by the window, and bookshelves lined one wall.

"You may decorate it as you see fit," Snape said, his tone neutral.

Hermione stepped inside, surprised and touched by the thoughtfulness of the room's design. "Thank you, Professor. It's lovely."

"You can rest until dinner is served in about an hour," Snape informed her. "What would you like to eat?"

"Oh, whatever is fine," Hermione replied absently, still taking in her new surroundings.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "If it were 'whatever,' Miss Granger, I wouldn't have asked. What would you prefer?"

Hermione, taken aback, thought for a moment. "Um... maybe shepherd's pie?" she suggested tentatively.

Snape nodded. "Very well. I'll call you when dinner is ready."

As he left, closing the door behind him, Hermione flopped down on the bed, her mind whirling. What a crazy day, she thought. Snape was still Snape - strict, intimidating, and no-nonsense. But there were also unexpected touches of kindness. The room, dinner, his genuine advice about her studies... Maybe living here wouldn't be so bad after all.

It's not like she'd break any rules anyway...

Chapter Text

Hermione's eyes snapped open, her heart racing as she glanced at the clock on her bedside table. 7:55 AM.

"Shit, shit, shit," she muttered, throwing off her covers and scrambling out of bed. She'd overslept. How the fuck did she oversleep? She never overslept and she overslept here on her first day?

She rushed to the bathroom, hastily brushing her teeth and splashing water on her face. No time for a shower. Her hair was a mess, but it would have to do. Pulling on the first clothes she could grab, Hermione practically flew down the stairs.

As she burst into the dining room, slightly out of breath, she saw Snape already seated at the table, a steaming cup in one hand and the Daily Prophet in the other. He lowered the newspaper, his eyes narrowing as he took in her disheveled appearance.

"You're late, Miss Granger," he said, his voice cool and disapproving.

Hermione felt her face flush. "It's only ten minutes, sir," she protested weakly.

"Tardiness is disrespectful, regardless of the duration. I warn you, Miss Granger, repeated instances of this behavior will not be tolerated. Do I need to enforce a bedtime after all?"

Hermione's cheeks burned with embarrassment. "No, sir! That won't be necessary. I just... I had trouble falling asleep in the new environment. It won't happen again."

"Did you not sleep well, Miss Granger?" he asked, his tone marginally softer.

Hermione hesitated, her fork pausing midway to her mouth. A fleeting image of her night flashed through her mind - tossing and turning, jolting awake from fragmented nightmares, staring at the ceiling as sleep eluded her. It had been a mix of her usual insomnia and the night terrors that had plagued her since the war.

"I slept fine, thank you," she lied, avoiding his gaze.

Snape's eyes narrowed slightly, skepticism evident in his expression. "I see," he said, clearly unconvinced. "Very well, then."

Hermione ducked her head, focusing on her barely touched breakfast and hoping Snape wouldn't press the issue further. They ate in silence for a while. Hermione barely touched her food, pushing it around her plate more than eating it. Snape observed this, his jaw tightening as he resisted the urge to snap at her.

Finally, he asked, "Are you feeling unwell, Miss Granger?"

"No, I'm fine," Hermione lied quickly. "I just... don't usually eat a heavy breakfast."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Be that as it may, you need to eat something substantial. I won't have you fainting from hunger later in the day."

Hermione nodded and forced herself to eat a few more bites of toast.

When they finished, Snape stood. "If you're done, I'll give you a tour of the manor."

During the tour, Hermione was continuously surprised by the manor. The library, in particular, left her awestruck. Two stories of knowledge surrounded her, the scent of old parchment and leather binding filling the air. She ran her fingers along the spines of ancient tomes, her eyes shining with excitement.

The potions lab was equally impressive. Sunlight streamed through enchanted windows, illuminating the space in a way she'd never seen in the Hogwarts dungeons. The orderly rows of ingredients and state-of-the-art equipment spoke of Snape's dedication to his craft.

In Snape's study, the professor gestured for Hermione to sit. "There are a few matters we need to discuss."

Hermione perched on the edge of the chair, suddenly nervous.

"Have you given thought to your study plan?" Snape asked, his eyes fixed on her.

"Yes, sir," Hermione replied. "I haven't written it down yet, but I've been thinking about it. She took a moment to collect her thoughts. "For Potions, I’m planning to review and practice the advanced potions I missed, like the Draught of Living Death and the Wolfsbane Potion. But before that I need to refine my techniques and understand their uses thoroughly. For Charms I’ll focus on catching up with the advanced spells wings like the Shield Charm and the Disarming Charm. I’d like to work on perfecting these and integrating them with other spells. I still need to work out a plan for Herbology though," she admitted.

Snape nodded, offering suggestions and adjustments to her plan. "Your approach is sound, but I would recommend dedicating more time to practical potion-making. Theory is important, but hands-on experience is crucial."

"That makes sense," Hermione agreed.

“I'd also like to conduct weekly checklist quizzes to ensure you're on track," Snape added.

Hermione bristled at this. "With all due respect, sir," she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm, "I'm perfectly capable of managing my own studies. I don't need you hovering over me like I'm some first-year who can't tell the difference between aconite and dittany."

Snape's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Mind your tone, Miss Granger. I'm being lenient as it's your first day, but any Slytherin would have found themselves bent over a desk for such insolence." He paused, his voice taking on a chilling tone. "Perhaps you'd like to spend some time in the corner to reflect on your attitude?"

Hermione's face flushed crimson, both from embarrassment and shock at the explicit threat.  The corner? Surely he couldn't be serious?  But the look in Snape's eyes told her he was deadly serious.

"I expect an answer, Miss Granger," Snape said, his voice cold.

Hermione swallowed hard. "No, sir. I'm sorry for being rude. It won't happen again."

Snape nodded, his expression softening slightly. "The weekly checklists aren't to oversee you, Miss Granger. They're to ensure I can provide any assistance you might need. It allows me to track your progress and identify any areas where you might be struggling before they become problematic. Additionally, it will help us adjust your study plan as needed. I'm well aware of your capability to handle your studies, but even the brightest minds can benefit from guidance."

Hermione felt a warmth in her chest at what she perceived as a compliment. "Thank you, sir. I understand."

As Snape stood to leave, he added casually, "I forgot to mention, this study is usually where the most severe punishments are carried out." Without waiting for a response, he headed for the door. "Come along, I'll show you the grounds next."

Hermione remained rooted to the spot, her mind reeling from Snape's parting words. The implications of what he'd said sent a shiver down her spine. As she heard Snape's footsteps retreating, she shook herself out of her daze and hurried to follow, her thoughts in turmoil.

Hermione glanced at the clock in her room - nearly 1 PM. She set down her quill, satisfied with the study plan she'd just completed. Stretching, she made her way downstairs, where she found Snape emerging from the kitchen.

"If you're hungry, lunch is ready," he said.

"Yes, thank you," Hermione replied. "Would you like me to set the table?"

Snape nodded, and Hermione busied herself with the task. As she set the table, she fought to stifle a yawn. The lack of sleep was catching up with her, leaving her feeling drained and slightly irritable. Dark circles had formed under her eyes, a testament to her restless, almost always sleepless, nights.

During lunch - a simple but hearty meal of a thick vegetable soup with a salad and garlic bread - Snape didn't miss the way Hermione's hand trembled slightly as she lifted her spoon, or how she seemed to zone out momentarily between bites. He kept his comments to himself for now, trying to give her the benefit of the doubt.

As they ate, Hermione commented, "This is really good, Professor."

Snape acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod, saying nothing.

After a few moments of silence, Hermione spoke again. "I've finished writing out my study plan for Potions and Herbology."

"We could review it now if you wish,” Snape said, wiping his hands.

"Of course." Hermione drew out her wand. "Accio study plan!"

The parchment zoomed into the room, and Snape caught it deftly. His eyes scanned the document, occasionally narrowing or raising an eyebrow.

"Your plan is generally sound," he said finally. "However, I would suggest a few alterations. For Potions, you should move the study of Golpalott's Third Law to earlier in your schedule. It's foundational for understanding many of the advanced antidotes you'll need to master."

Hermione nodded, making a mental note.

"As for Herbology," Snape continued, "I'd recommend focusing more on the magical properties of Mediterranean plants in your first month. They're crucial ingredients in many healing potions, which will be beneficial for your Healer aspirations."

"That makes sense," Hermione agreed. "Thank you, Professor." 

Snape handed the parchment back to her. "Revise it accordingly and show me the updated version tomorrow."

Hermione, her exhaustion getting the better of her, snapped, "Oh, for Merlin's sake! I'm not some incompetent first-year, Snape. I think I can manage to make a few simple changes without you breathing down my neck like a troll in a tea shop! Honestly, you’d think I’m trying to develop a new spell rather than write a simple study plan."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as Snape's eyes flashed dangerously. Before Hermione could realise the gravity of what she just said, Snape spoke, his voice low and almost menacing. "Miss Granger, I've punished students for far less impertinence than you've displayed today. I assure you, my paddle has tamed much more rebellious spirits than yours. You are  this  close to testing out the punishments we discussed yesterday. In my experience, a couple of sound swats with a paddle can do wonders for disrespectful behavior."

Hermione's eyes widened in shock, her tired brain finally catching up with her mouth. She realized how disrespectful she'd been, and that too to Snape! "I'm sorry, Professor," she said quickly, a note of panic in her voice. "I didn't mean to be disrespectful. It won't happen again."

"This is your final warning, Miss Granger," Snape said sternly. "I've been far too lenient already."

"Yes, sir. I understand. I'm truly sorry," Hermione repeated, her heart racing.

Snape's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "I'm asking you again, Miss Granger. Did you not sleep well? Remember, dishonesty is a very serious offense in this household."

Hermione felt her palms grow sweaty. Despite the warning, despite her exhaustion screaming at her to confess, she found herself lying again. "No, sir. I slept fine. I'm just... adjusting to the new environment."

Snape looked skeptical but nodded slowly. "Very well. You may go if you’re done.” 

Hermione didn’t need to be told twice. As she climbed the stairs to her room, a tendril of anxiety curled in her stomach. What if Snape found out she'd lied about sleeping well? The thought of facing his disappointment - or worse, his punishment - made her feel slightly nauseous.

Reaching her room, Hermione sat at her desk, pulling her study plan towards her. As she began to work on the revisions Snape had suggested, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was walking a dangerous line. But the alternative - admitting to her nightmares and risking appearing weak - seemed even worse. With a sigh, she dipped her quill in ink and tried to focus on the task at hand, pushing her worries to the back of her mind. How would Snape find out how she was sleeping anyway?

Chapter Text

A week into living with Snape, Hermione had fallen into somewhat of a routine. She'd wake up at 7:30, giving herself enough time to get ready for breakfast at 8. After breakfast, she'd spend the morning studying, breaking for lunch around noon. The afternoons were dedicated to practical work - brewing potions or practicing charms. In the evenings, she'd read or work on essays before dinner at 7. 

Despite the structured days, Hermione was still having trouble sleeping. Nightmares plagued her nights, leaving her tossing and turning until the early hours of the morning. The lack of sleep was making her irritable and moody, but Snape's previous threats ensured she just about held her tongue from being outright disrespectful.

On this particular morning, Hermione's eyes flew open to see 8:10 glaring at her from her bedside clock.  "Bloody hell!" she cursed, throwing off her covers. She'd somehow managed to be on time the past week, but it seemed her lack of sleep was finally catching up with her. Barely taking time to brush her teeth, she ran downstairs, her hair a wild mess.

Snape was in his usual spot, reading the newspaper and sipping tea. 

"Any interesting news?" Hermione asked hesitantly.

"The usual political drivel," Snape replied matter-of-factly, not mentioning her tardiness.

"I suppose the Ministry is still fumbling through post-war reforms?" she ventured.

Snape's lip curled. "With all the grace of a troll attempting ballet."

Hermione snorted, then caught herself. She'd learned that while Snape was undoubtedly strict and didn't tolerate disrespect, he actually had quite a high tolerance for harmless cheek and would participate in sarcastic banter, provided it didn't go too far.

As breakfast wound down, Hermione said, "I think I'll start on that essay about the properties of moonstone in healing potions today."

"That sounds wise," Snape said, his face still hidden.

“Oh, also um, I was wondering if I could go into town today?” When Snape didn’t answer immediately, she rushed to continue “Just uh, feeling a little cooped up in the house, that’s all.”

Snape set his newspaper down, looking at her, his expression unreadable. “You may, provided you let me know when you’re about to leave.”

“Oh - uh - “ Hermione’s brain lagged for a fraction of a second. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, she thought Snape might be more…difficult she supposed.

“Maybe right after breakfast? I’d like to look through the shops a bit and I’d still like to get back and get some work done before lunch.”

“Very well, you may go wherever you’d like provided you don’t venture beyond the apparition boundaries of the town.”

“So I can leave as soon as I’m done eating?”  Maybe he didn’t notice?

“After your fifteen minutes in the corner.”

Hermione nearly choked on her tea.  "What?"

"I warned you that tardiness isn't tolerated," Snape said calmly, picking up his paper again. "You should be happy I'm still giving you the benefit of the doubt and not mandating a bedtime."

"I'm not going to stand in the corner like a child!" 

Snape lowered his paper slightly. "A child would probably be respectful enough not to make me wait for breakfast."

"This isn't fair!" 

"Making someone wait isn't fair." 

“I - you can’t make me!” 

Snape lowered the newspaper again, his eyes stern. Hermione opened her mouth to argue again, but Snape cut her off harshly. "You can either go stand in the corner for fifteen minutes and think about why you're late and what the inconvenience of that is, or you can fetch the paddle from my study. We'll have a conversation with it about insolence, and then you'll go stand in the corner. Your choice."

Hermione's face burned with embarrassment. After a moment of internal struggle, she relented and walked to the corner Snape indicated. "Fine," she muttered, pushing back from the table.

As she walked to the corner, her mind whirled. This was ridiculous, childish, humiliating.  That's probably what Snape wanted, the cruel bastard he'd always been.   What was she supposed to do with her hands?  Does he expect me to put them on my head?  The thought made her cheeks flame. Settling on clasping her hands behind her back, she faced the wall.

As she stood there, Hermione suddenly felt the urge to rest her forehead against the cool stone. She was embarrassed, frustrated, and utterly exhausted. Tears of frustration pricked at her eyes, but she blinked them back furiously. She wasn't going to cry over something as trivial as this.

The minutes ticked by agonizingly slow. Hermione's initial embarrassment gave way to a mix of resentment and grudging acknowledgment. Part of her wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all, while a smaller voice reminded her that she had indeed been late and disrespectful.  And Snape had let you off earlier, multiple times actually .  And this is where you are, corner time like a five year old.

"You may turn around now, Miss Granger," Snape's voice cut through the silence.

Hermione turned, deliberately keeping her hands clasped behind her back. She met Snape's gaze, his eyes clearly waiting for her to speak.

Taking a deep breath, she began, "Professor, I... I'm genuinely sorry.. It was inconsiderate of me to keep you waiting and then to argue about the consequences. I know you gave me a warning earlier as well and I - um I’m sorry is all. This won’t happen again, I promise."

Snape nodded, his expression inscrutable. "Your apology is accepted, Miss Granger." He paused, then fixed her with a penetrating stare. "Now, I'll ask you once more, and I will remind you that dishonesty is the most extreme offense in my book.. Are you sleeping well?"

For a moment, Hermione truly considered confessing, but the embarrassment of her recent punishment and the fear of appearing weak won out. "Yes, sir. I'm sleeping fine. Just still adjusting, I suppose." 

Snape didn't respond for several long seconds. Hermione felt her heart rate quicken a little. She fought the urge to fidget her hands behind her back. 

Finally, Snape spoke. "If you say so. Do you still wish to go into town today?"

Relieved at the change of subject, she nodded. "If that's alright."

"Very well. Will 50 galleons be sufficient?"

Hermione blinked in confusion. "I'm sorry?"

"For whatever you wish to purchase," Snape clarified. "Will 50 Galleons be enough?"

"Oh, no, that's not necessary,” she said honestly. I have some money saved up-"

"That money is not to be touched until you come of age," Snape interrupted firmly. "Your expenses will be taken care of by me now."

"But sir, I can't-"

"This is not up for debate, Miss Granger," Snape said, his tone calm but leaving no room for argument.

Hermione opened her mouth to protest again, but thought better of it. "Thank you," she said quietly, accepting the money he held out.

As she turned to leave, Snape called after her, "Take an umbrella. It may rain later. And send me a message if you'll be back later than noon."

Hermione froze, feeling her heart constrict as a small ball of grief settled on her throat. His concern, his tone was so…paternal, so reminiscent of how her father used to speak to her. She scolded herself internally.  This isn't your dad, Hermione. It's just Snape.

Struggling to keep her voice steady, she managed a quick "Yes, sir," before hurrying out the door, hoping Snape hadn't noticed her momentary lapse.

The walk into the small wizarding town of Willowdale was pleasant, despite the overcast sky. Hermione found herself lost in thought as she made her way down the winding country lane. The situation with Snape was... complicated. He was strict, sometimes harsh, but there were moments of unexpected kindness that caught her off guard. Then there was Ron... She pushed that thought away quickly. And her parents... The familiar ache in her chest intensified. She missed them desperately, wondering if she'd ever see them again, if they'd ever remember her.

Hermione found herself walking down the main street of Chepstow, a small town nestled near the Welsh border. The overcast sky reflected her mood as she lost herself in thought. The situation with Snape was... complicated. He was strict, often harsh, but there were moments of unexpected kindness that caught her off guard. She pushed the thoughts down. Her mind drifted to Ron, and a familiar ache bloomed in her chest. They hadn’t written to each other since she’d been at Snape’s. McGonagall had told her that the Weasley’s knew she was staying at Snape since they’d opened up their home to herself as well. They were both so lost, trying to navigate a post-war world that felt so alien. The trauma of the past year had left its mark on both of them and she felt like they spoke different languages now. She wondered how much love could pull through.

And Harry... guilt gnawed at her. She should have written to him more often. The last time she’d seen him was at Fred’s funeral. But every time she tried, the words felt hollow. How could she complain about nightmares when he had lost so much? Then there were her parents... The familiar ache in her chest intensified to a sharp pain. She missed them desperately, wondering if she'd ever see them again. 

The first drops of rain on her face brought Hermione out of her thoughts. She stopped to open up her umbrella when a brightly coloured signboard caught her eye - ‘Pedro’s Peculiarities - If we don’t have it, you don’t need it’.  Interesting name . The shop window was cluttered with an array of items - everything from self-stirring cauldrons to enchanted garden gnomes.

Inside, the shop was a labyrinth of shelves and displays. Hermione found herself a bit lost, wandering through aisles that adjusted in length as people passed by, reminding her a little of Hogwarts staircases.. She eventually located the crammed stationery section, selecting a few simple quills and rolls of parchment.

As she made her way to the counter, she saw a muggle looking cooler. She slid the lid open and it was filled with every possible drink one could imagine - everything from charmed bottles of firewhiskey to canned butterbeers to a range of muggle soft drinks.  She settled on four cans of cola, a small comfort from her childhood.

Behind the counter wasan  older wizard with twinkling blue eyes and a salt-and-pepper beard. His robes were a patchwork of different fabrics, giving him an eccentric appearance.

"Afternoon, miss," he said cheerfully. "Find everything alright?"

"Yes, thank you," Hermione replied, noticing how the man's eyes didn't linger on her face as so many did these days. She instantly liked him. If he recognized her, he didn't show it, and she was grateful for that.

"Name's Pedro," he said as he began running his wand over the items. "Don't think I've seen you around before. Visiting family?"

"Oh, no," Hermione said. "I'm um- staying with Professor Snape, actually."

Pedro’'s eyebrows rose. "With Severus, eh? Well, well. How's the old bat treating you?"

Hermione couldn't help but smile. “Not too bad, I suppose.”

Pedro chuckled. "I’ll take your word for it. Oh, remind him, would you? Got a new batch of Valerian root in. Top quality stuff."

"You sell potions ingredients too?" Hermione asked, surprised.

"Course! Got a full apothecary in the back. Severus is one of my best customers." Pedro leaned forward a little. "Between you and me, I think he just likes to check if my ingredients are up to his standards."

She smiled. “I believe that. I’ll let him know.”

As she walked back, a small voice in Hermione's head whispered that Valerian root was a key ingredient in several types of Sleeping Draughts. She could easily brew some to help with her insomnia... But she immediately quashed the thought. It was far too dangerous to mess with sleep potions without supervision and she knew better than to risk it. 

It rain picked up just as Hermione entered back into the house. She spelled a quick drying charm over her clothes and saw Snape setting the table. Looking at him she suddenly felt awkward. She walk had cleared her head and she realised just how rude she’d been to him. 

“Um, hi,” she said softly.

“Hello, Miss Granger, I hope your walk was able to calm you down.”

Hermione blushed a little but realised that Snape wasn’t really angry about it. “Uh yeah, I’m sorry, again.”

“As I said, I accepted it. Did you enjoy Chepstow.”

“Yeah actually, ran into a shop called Pedro’s Peculiarities which was pretty cool. The owner told me to tell you that a new batch of valerian root has come in.”

“Ah, yes. I’ll write to Pedro. Lunch is ready, if you’d like to eat”

They ate in comfortable silence for some time. Hermione was actually hungry and Snape was a shockingly good cook. She suddenly remembered.

“Oh, sorry I forgot,” she said, taking a bite of pasta before placing the fork back on her plate and taking out a few coins. “There’s about 30 galleons left.”

Snape waved a hand dismissively. “Keep them, Miss Granger, use it for additional stationary you might require.”

“That’s really not needed, I -”

“Honestly Miss Granger, it’s 30 galleon, not some unearthed treasure, it’s much more convenient for you to simply have it as you’ll most likely soon need to purchase more quills and textbooks and parchment, will you not?”

“Uh, yes, I suppose so, um, thank you.”

“This is nothing to be thanked for.” And Hermione would have argued but Snape probably wouldn’t budge anyway. Plus, the walk had exhausted her, adding onto the effect of her lack of sleep.

Snape cleared his throat. "Miss Granger, I'd like to remind you that tomorrow is Sunday. We'll be having our first weekly checklist review after breakfast."

Hermione felt irritation rise back up. “I still don’t understand why I need to do that, I’ve done everything I need to.”

"As I have mentioned,  already , it's a standard procedure I've implemented to ensure your progress," Snape replied evenly.

Hermione scoffed, her exhaustion and irritation finally boiling over. "My well being? That's rich coming from you. You're probably just looking for more ways to criticize me and make my life miserable."

Snape's eyes narrowed dangerously. His voice remained calm, but there was a sharp edge to it. "Miss Granger, I suggest you watch your tone. I've been lenient thus far but I shall not anymore."

"Lenient?" Hermione snapped. "You call making me stand in a corner like a child lenient? This is ridiculous. I'm not a first-year anymore, and you can't treat me like this Snape, sod  off ."

For a few seconds, the only sound in the room was the rain pattering against the windows. Hermione’s words finally caught up to her, her eyes widening a little. She felt panic rise up her throat. “Professor, I-

"Are you finished with your lunch, Miss Granger?"

Hermione whispered, "Yeah, I'm done."

"Very well," Snape said, setting his cutlery down, his actions deliberate. "Go wait for me in the living room."

Hermione swallowed a lump in her throat. “Professor, please I -”

“Now, Miss Granger,” Snape didn’t shout but his voice was chilling and Hermione felt herself forced to obey. She pushed back from the table, her chair scraping against the floor and walking towards the living room. 

Shit, what the fuck is wrong with you. I’m so screwed.  Hermione paced around the room nervously, shaking her hands. She was going to plead, she had to, but somehow she knew what would happen. She knew Snape and he wasn’t going to relent. 

She felt dread curl up in her stomach as Snape walked in, his entrance feeling ominous. She took a deep breath and started again, “Professor, I’m sorry, please-”

“Sit, Miss Granger.” There was no room to argue here.

Hermione sat, forcing her knees to stop fidgeting up and down. 

“You shall only give answers to the questions I ask, understood?”

Hermione nodded, feeling miserable. 

“You are also expected to answer audibly,” Snape said, voice very sharp.

“Yes-yes, sir.”

“Did I or did I not warn you about your disrespect?”

“You did,” Hermione whispered, feeling shame overtake her.

“And did I or did I not inform you of the consequences of you not fixing your attitude?”

“Professor please-”

“ Miss  Granger.”

Hermione crossed her arms and uncrossed them again, a nervous tick of hers. “You did, sir.”

“Then you know what is coming your way. I am informing you of the rules in place while you are being disciplined and it will do you well to heed them unless you want to face consequences.”

This is hell, this cannot be real. She was going to be spanked by Snape. The thought alone sent a curl of dread back up her gut. 

“Do not reach back during your discipline, not only will this risk getting your hands rapped, which I would like to avoid, but it will incur additional penalty. Do not let go of your position unless you are instructed. It is natural to cry and struggle within reason, but do not use foul language and most importantly, do  not  kick me. There  will  be a penalty for  each  infraction. Am I understood?”

Hermione crossed her arms again and nodded. As soon as she did however, she felt herself being angled to the side and three sharp swats fell on her denim clad bum. She yelped, more at the shock than pain but her pride ensured she didn't say anything more. She rubbed her hand over the spot that was just spanked. 

“I warned you that I expect verbal responses.”

“Sorry,” she said softly, moving her hand and Snape firmly pulled them away. She felt tears prick the back of her eyes that she blinked away.  What is wrong with you? Stop crying!

“And lastly, all punishments are carried out over a bared bottom,” Snape said, his voice completely even.

Hermione’s head snapped up and found herself at a loss for words as a deep sense of shame overtook her for the situation she put herself in. “Professor, please -”

“This is not up for discussion, Miss Granger.”

“Professor, please, I’m-I’m almost  sixteen ,” she tried, desperation creeping into her voice.

“And students your age and older have been punished in a similar fashion.”

Hermione felt the urge to bolt. “Sir-”

“Miss Granger, I have tried to be patient, but I warn you I am quickly running out!” Snape didn’t shout, he never shouted, but his voice was close to it. “Walk over to the ottoman, stand at the side and remove your jeans and knickers.”

Hermione wanted to obey. No she didn’t actually, she wanted to run, but she wanted her legs to walk over. But they felt like lead now, refusing to listen to her brain.

Snape sighed. He gripped her arm firmly and tugged her to the dark green piece of furniture. He did not like strong arming his students into accepting their punishments, although he rarely had to do so other than the rare errant first year. Hermione walked pliantly however, and Snape recognized her hesitance as fear rather than disobedience. He pulled a regular, small spoon out of his pocket and ran his wand over it, transfiguring it into a large, wooden one with a smooth back. Hermione felt her heart skip a beat looking at it. 

“This implement is typically reserved only for students much younger than you. However, I recognise that this is your first time being disciplined like this so I will go a little easier. But I am warning you, this is the only time.”

Hermione swallowed. She knew she should probably be thankful, but to her, the paddle or the spoon in this moment seemed all the same. “Okay,” she said, her voice quivering.

“We have wasted far too much time already. Remove these and bend over,” he said firmly, tapping at the belt loops of her jeans. Her hands shaking slightly, she popped the metal button and pulled her jeans down, letting them rest on her knees. She hesitated as her fingers hooked to the side of her underwear. She wanted to plead again, say something to get herself out of this, but throat seemed stuck.

“Miss Granger, if I have pull them down, I promise you, you will not like the consequences.”

Hermione squeezed her eyes and opened them, feeling the frustrating blink of tears pricking her eyes again. “No, no, I’m…doing it.” She took in a deep breath, pulling her knickers down, just above her knees and bent over immediately. 

She felt Snape tug both her jeans and knickers down further, resting them at her ankles. She flushed and shivered as the air hit her bare bum and legs. “For next time, they must be pulled down completely. Remember it.”

Next time? There’s no fucking way, there’s going to be a next time.

She heard a soft tap on the legs of the ottoman and immediately the furniture increased in height and length. More of her upper body was resting on the furniture now, rather than hanging off the upper side which was…more comfortable actually, not that Hermione cared very much about that right now. 

“Bend down further, place your hands on the rung on that side,” Snape instructed, pushing her jumper up a little and resting his hand on her back. She bit back a groan of embarrassment as she felt her bum raised higher.

She didn’t notice Snape picking up the spoon beside her and flinched as he tapped it lightly on her left cheek. “Do you understand why you are in this position?”

“Yes sir,” she said so softly, Snape almost didn’t hear her. 

“Stay in position, do not reach back, do not kick me, do not curse,” he reminded, continuing to tap the spoon lightly. Without waiting for a response, he raised it high, above his shoulder and brought it down with a sharp crack on the left cheek. 

Hermione gasped at the sharp pain but before she could react, three more resounding blows fell on the exact same spot, intensifying the pain to a truly awful level. 

Oww, fuck

Hermione promised to take her punishment silently but that weakened considerably as Snape landed the next four blows, one after the other, on the same spot on her right cheek.  

“Ahh,” she gasped. She felt the urge to stand up but forced herself to lie still. Snape pushed down firmer on her back as he targeted the next set of strikes lower on the left bum cheek. Again, one after the other, on the same spot.

“Oww, oww!”

Snape ignored her, continuing to aim blow after blow with that dreaded spoon in the same pattern, four on the same spot on one cheek, then the same on the other cheek before moving lower. 

Fuck, this hurts, so so much.  Hermione squeezed her eyes shut against the pressure building up at the back of her eyeballs as the pain on her bum built up. It wasn’t sharp and torturous like the curses thrown at her when she was at war. This was a deliberate, dull sting that developed as the same spot was hit over and over. She pressed her face down onto the ottoman as she tried to stem her tears, her nostrils filling with the silky, velvety texture.

Hermione tried to be stoic, focusing on the thin white patterns running over the black granite floor. But a series of strikes fell on the particularly sensitive sit spots at the base of her bottom and Hermione’s resolve started to completely crumble as her vision became blurry. 

“Ah- Sna-sir! Please - I’m sorry, oww, please!!” And she was. She was sorry for the situation she’d put herself in. All she had to do was not talk back.  How stupid could you be?  She just about stopped herself from reaching back, not wanting to risk any additional strikes.Snape stopped, keeping the spoon pressed on the undercurve of her bottom. “Settle down, Miss Granger,” he said, firmly. He tapped the spoon firmly all over the now red bottom. “Have you understood why you are in this position?”

Hermione took a gulp of air, wiping her face on the sleeves of her jumper. Tears had started dripping down her face. “I won’t be disrespectful, sir. I promise.”

Snape felt the tiniest twitch on his lips hearing the words. Every child, no matter an integral member of the famed Golden Trio or not, uttered these words when being disciplined by Snape. “I will hold you to it then, I am warning you Miss Granger,” Snape said, his voice strict as he tapped the spoon firmly all over her bottom,  “Should we find ourselves in this situation, it will not be the spoon that will come out and this last bit of your punishment that I am about to dish out will feel like love pats compared to what will follow, am I understood?” Hermione breath hitched at the announcement that she had more to come. She tried her best to focus on his words and not the  awful  stinging enveloping her bum.

“Ye-yes sir,” she whispered.

“Very well, then.” He immediately raised his hand high and brought down the ten hardest strikes so far, landing them one after the other alternatively on each cheek, five on each tender undercurve.

“Ahhh-oww,oww, I’m sorry, OWW!” Hermione yelled out the last gasp of pain as the final swat fell. She almost didn’t notice that Snape had stopped spanking.

“Miss Granger, calm down. Settle yourself. Your punishment has concluded. Stay in position, do not move.” Snape followed this unconventional rule with all discipline he handed out. At the root of all rule breaking was self control and Snape was determined to instill it in his charges, no matter how harshly.

Hermione tightened her grip on the wooden rung as she forced her body to stay still. She wasn’t sobbing, but she was close to it. Tears were falling freely and had started clogging her nose. She couldn’t believe how…how  awful  this was. Her entire bum felt hot and was smarting like there were a million ants all over it. She roughly wiped her face on her woolen jumper sleeve. She’d been Cruciod and somehow it was this…a sodding smacking with a wooden spoon by Snape that left her crying.

“You may fix your clothes and rise up.” Snape’s voice was calm, no hint of fury or disappointment.

Hermione pushed herself up, immediately pulling up both the garments tangled at her ankles now. She swiped her hands over hands, drying away any last tears. Snape transfigured the ottoman back to its original size.

“Sit,” he instructed, pointing at it.

“I’d uh - I’d rather stand if that’s okay.”

“It’s not an option.”

Hermione scowled, but sat down carefully, wincing as she made contact with the thankfully soft material. She decided to speak before Snape said anything.

“Sir I’m sorry, really. I was rude, constantly, and that’s not acceptable. I know I said this before and you probably don’t believe me but, I really mean it, I’m very sorry.”

Snape usually wasn’t one to put much stock into the string of apologies that came out of students that he’d just disciplined. It was difficult to feel genuinely remorseful towards the person who’d just set your arse on fire. Yet somehow, as he looked at Hermione, he felt himself believing it.

“I accept your apology, Hermione,” he said with what was probably the gentlest tone she’d heard from him so far. Hermione looked up, surprised at both the usage of her first name and the tone. “Listen to me. I want you to remember this. Your punishment and remorse are not codependent. Your remorse has to come from within you. Your punishment is a consequence, remorse isn’t. The war is over, Hermione, you cannot just break rules now, there will be appropriate, adequate consequences for them now. Do you understand?”

That…makes a lot of sense actually. She wanted to be angry at him, she really did. She wanted to storm into her room and slam her door shut. But somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to it. A little because of her still horribly smarting bum, but also because she was starting to  see  what Snape meant. She had to fix herself right now.

“I do, sir, really.”

“Then that’s settled. We shall never speak of this again. Alright?”

“Okay, professor.” 

“Perhaps a rest in your room for some time would be beneficial?”

Hermione nodded. “Yeah, I think I’ll do that.”

“Very well then, I’ll send some coffee up.”

She felt a wave of gratitude rush through her. “Thank you.”

Hermione immediately locked the door to her room the moment she entered. She shook off her tight jeans, cringing at how red and splotchy her bum looked and put on some loose joggers. She lay down on the bed, intending to get up in ten minutes. But soon she fell asleep. 

Chapter Text

Hermione's days had fallen into a routine that was both comforting and suffocating. She woke early, dragging herself from bed despite the heaviness that seemed to cling to her limbs. The first few days had been manageable—pushing herself through the motions of breakfast, study, and dinner—but as the sleepless nights accumulated, she began to feel the cracks in her resolve.

Each morning at precisely 7:30, she rose, performed a quick charm to hide the shadows under her eyes, and made her way down to breakfast. Snape, ever punctual, was already seated at the table when she arrived. The silence that filled the room wasn’t entirely uncomfortable.

Snape’s eyes followed her movements as she sat, but he never commented on her appearance, never questioned the glamour she used to cover her sleepless nights. She was grateful for that, but there was a part of her that wanted to confess—to admit how frayed she felt. Still, the words never came. She couldn’t tell Snape. He was strict, demanding, and somehow, despite everything, she didn’t want him to think she was weak.

The routine carried her through the day. Breakfast at eight, study sessions in Snape’s library, practical work in the afternoons. But no matter how busy she kept herself, the nightmares always returned at night. They were unrelenting—visions of Bellatrix’s laughter, her parents’ blank faces, and Harry’s hollow eyes after the war. Each night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, her heart pounding in her chest.

The guilt was another thing that kept her awake. She reopened the parchment she’d received from Ron a few days back, the lines of the fold deepening like crevices. 

Hermione,

Mad things happening at the Burrow lately. Dad's got this new Muggle thing called a microwave. Nearly blew up the kitchen trying to heat up some leftover shepherd's pie - forgot to take off the tin foil, didn't he? Mum was furious, but George couldn't stop laughing. Reckons we could make a new product line based on it.

Speaking of George, the shop's doing brilliant. He's got me helping out on weekends now. Still weird being there sometimes, but it's good, you know? Charlie visited last week, brought this mental story about a Norwegian Ridgeback that tried to mate with a Welsh Green. Dragons, honestly. Mental.

Ginny keeps sending owls from Scotland. She and Harry seem happy up there, though Harry's rubbish at writing back to anyone. Last letter was just three lines about the weather and some ancient magical site they're studying. Suppose some things never change, eh?

Been trying to cook for myself more. Remember how you always said I needed to learn? Made pasta yesterday. Came out a bit sticky, but it was edible. Progress, right?

Listen, I've been thinking... I keep meaning to come see you, to really talk. But every time I try, I just... I dunno. It's like we're speaking different languages now. Everything I want to say comes out wrong, or not at all. Maybe that's always been our problem.

Mum keeps your usual spot set at Sunday dinner. Think she's hoping you'll just show up one day. I haven't told them you've moved out. Easier to let them think you're just busy with research, I suppose.

Don't feel like you have to write back. Just... take care of yourself, yeah?

-Ron

Hermione folded the letter back carefully, her throat tight. She hadn't told Ron or Harry that she was staying with Snape—couldn't bear to explain why she'd chosen to apprentice with their former professor, of all people, just that she was looking to go back to Hogwarts.. They wouldn't understand. How could they, when she barely understood it herself? It was easier to let them think she was staying somewhere in London, focusing on her research. The lie of omission sat heavy in her stomach, adding to the weight of everything else she couldn't seem to say.

She hadn’t written to them since she arrived at Snape’s. Every time she picked up her quill, the words dried up, her hand freezing above the parchment. What could she say to them? How could she explain how lost she felt without making it seem like a betrayal of everything they had fought for? And yet, the longer she went without writing, the worse it felt. It was as though the space between them was growing wider with every passing day.

Her feelings toward Ron had shifted, and that unsettled her. She still cared for him, but the connection they had once shared felt... different. It was as though they had outgrown the versions of themselves that had once fit so perfectly together, and she wasn’t sure if they could ever go back. As for Harry—how could she tell him about her nightmares when his were surely worse? He had lost so much, and she couldn’t bring herself to add to his burden. And her parents…she took a deep breath, pinching the inside of her palm as she felt her heart constrict.

That night, after another restless attempt at sleep, Hermione went down to dinner, her movements slower, wearier. Snape was already at the table, a steaming cup of tea at his side, the Daily Prophet folded neatly next to his plate. 

The silence stretched on as they ate, the clinking of cutlery and the rustle of paper the only sounds in the room. Snape’s presence, while quiet, always seemed to carry a weight that made the air feel thick around them.

“Miss Granger,” Snape’s voice broke through her thoughts, his tone as even and precise as ever, “you seem... distracted.”

Hermione looked up, startled. “Oh, I’m fine,” she said, too quickly. She picked at her food, not meeting his eyes.

Snape set his utensils down, his sharp gaze fixed on her. “I’m sure you think you can hide your troubles behind empty reassurances, but I assure you, I am not so easily deceived.”

She swallowed hard, the knot in her stomach tightening. He saw through her, just like always. “It’s nothing,” she tried again, her voice weak.

“Nothing, Miss Granger?” Snape raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he found her response particularly tiresome and his expression made Hermione feel so bothersome. “You’ve hardly touched your food.”

Hermione froze, her fork clattering against her plate. “I just…I ate a lot of biscuits at tea,” she said quietly, the ridiculousness of the lie catching up to her.

Snape narrowed his eyes slightly. He remained silent however, watching her, waiting for her to continue. His patience was unnerving, and yet, somehow, it made her want to speak. She hadn’t been able to tell Ron or Harry, but here, with Snape’s expectant gaze on her, the words began to spill out before she could stop them.

“I haven’t written to Ron or Harry,” she blurted, her voice wavering. “I don’t know why. I mean, I do... I just can’t bring myself to do it.”

Snape’s expression didn’t change, but there was a slight shift in his posture, as though he were giving her the space to continue.

“I miss them,” Hermione said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But things are different now. The war... it changed everything. I don’t know how to talk to them anymore. I feel like I should be stronger, like I should be able to just... move on. But I can’t. And I’m afraid if I tell them how I really feel, they’ll think I’m weak.”

The confession hung in the air between them, raw and unguarded.

Snape’s eyes flickered with something Hermione couldn’t quite place—understanding, perhaps, or atleast something close to it. “It is not a weakness to acknowledge the toll the war has taken,” he said quietly. “It is far more dangerous to pretend you can shoulder it alone.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. She had expected his usual sharpness, a reminder of the rules, not…this. “I just... I miss Ron,” she murmured, her voice cracking. “Ofcourse, I miss Harry too but he and Ginny are in Scotland but Ron, Ron….” she couldn’t continue. She swallowed a breath, feeling embarrassed at how much she’d revealed.

“That is perfectly understandable” Snape’s voice was calm, though there was an edge of steel beneath it. “You have endured far more than you should have to, Miss Granger. It would be foolish to think otherwise.”

She swallowed hard, guilt welling up in her chest. “Yes I know, it’s just…” she shrugged “I dunno.”

For a moment, Snape didn’t reply, his eyes locked onto hers with that same inscrutable intensity. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but firm. “Recovery is not linear, Miss Granger. You have every right to feel what you feel.”

Hermione stared at him, surprised by the unexpected empathy in his words. For a brief moment, the weight in her chest seemed to lift, though the guilt still lingered. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but words didn’t come out. 

Hermione sat there, letting Snape’s words sink in, the weight of her guilt momentarily lighter. It was strange, having this conversation with him of all people. She'd expected him to be harsh, maybe even dismissive, but instead, he was… understanding. Not kind, not exactly, but something close to it.

Hermione stared at Snape, struggling to process the unexpected words of empathy. It wasn’t like him to offer such reassurances, and she found herself unsure of how to respond. She shifted in her seat, the silence between them growing heavier again, though this time it was tinged with something softer, more reflective.

As she absently pushed her food around her plate, Hermione’s mind wandered. The memory of second year surfaced and she felt her lips expand into a smile. 

Snape’s eyes flicked toward her sharply, one eyebrow raised. “Something amusing, Miss Granger?” he asked, his voice as smooth and cutting as ever.

Hermione froze for a second, caught off guard, but then she shook her head with a small, self-deprecating smile. “No, it’s just... it’s funny,” she said, glancing at him. “I was just thinking about how I’m sitting here, actually talking to you about my feelings... and, well, how different that is from how I used to see you back in school.”

Snape gave her a pointed look, his lips thinning. 

Hermione flushed slightly but couldn’t help the grin that crept across her face. “Well, if you’d told me back in second year that we’d be having this conversation now, I’d have thought you’d gone mad.”

Snape raised an eyebrow, his fork pausing mid-air. “Second year?” he echoed, his voice dripping with skepticism.

Hermione shifted in her seat, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Yes, second year,” she said, her tone a little bolder now. “When Ron and I... uh... borrowed those ingredients from your storeroom for the Polyjuice Potion.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed, but there was a spark of something—amusement, perhaps?—flickering beneath his usual stern expression. “Borrowed, Miss Granger? Is that how you recall it?”

Hermione bit her lip,. “Well, we didn’t exactly ask for permission, did we?” She shrugged.  “But we were… desperate. You know, saving Hogwarts from an unknown threat and all that.”

Snape leaned back in his chair, his eyes sharp as they locked onto hers. “Yes, I recall,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “And if you had been caught, the consequences would have been rather severe. Something that could have been easily avoided had you done the responsible thing and informed an adult. You were  very  lucky to not be a Slytherin student.”

Hermione swallowed, suddenly feeling a little less cheeky. “Yes, well, it worked out in the end, didn’t it?”

Snape’s face twisted, almost resembling a scowl. “Let me remind you, Miss Granger,” he said, his voice dropping to a cool tone, “should you ever feel inclined to 'borrow' ingredients from my stores again, the outcome will not be so forgiving. Sitting will become a distant memory,” he said bluntly. “I trust you understand?”

Hermione flushed, a hot heat of embarrassment rising up her neck.  “Understood, Professor,” she replied quickly. 

Snape gave a soft, almost imperceptible snort. “Let us hope so,” he said, his tone as dry as ever, but Hermione caught the faintest glimmer of approval in his eyes.

Snape leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze still fixed on Hermione, as though weighing her response. After a moment, he spoke again, his tone clipped but carrying a new, practical air. “Incidentally, Miss Granger, a fresh shipment of ingredients arrived this morning. I will be brewing a rather large batch of Dreamless Sleep potion for the hospital wing. Given the increasing demand, it will require my full attention over the next few days.”

Hermione nodded, listening, though her thoughts were already beginning to drift. Dreamless Sleep—exactly what she needed. A voice at the back of her mind whispered,  It would be easy. Just a little. He wouldn’t even notice...

She frowned, pushing the thought away. But even as she tried to refocus on Snape’s words, that same voice resurfaced, more insistent this time.  You’re not sleeping anyway, and it’s not like you’re using it for some Polyjuice mischief...

Hermione glanced at Snape, her heart suddenly racing. She couldn’t possibly—no. After everything, she couldn’t go back to sneaking around and stealing from him. Not after he’d shown her... empathy. Not to mention the humiliation of bending over for a spanking. The mere thought of it made her stomach churn.

“Is something wrong, Miss Granger?” Snape’s voice cut through her thoughts, sharp as ever, though there was no accusation in it—only observation.

Hermione forced herself to meet his gaze, swallowing hard. “No,” she said quickly, too quickly. She could feel the heat rise in her cheeks again, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I just... I’ve heard Dreamless Sleep can be tricky to brew. Is that why you need such a large batch?” she asked, trying to divert the conversation, though her voice felt tight in her throat.

Snape studied her for a moment, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “Indeed,” he said finally. “Its complexity requires precision. One mistake, and the potion can have rather... unfortunate effects.”

Hermione nodded, her heart pounding in her chest. She forced a small smile, but her thoughts continued to swirl.  One mistake, and he’ll know.

“I will be in my private stores tomorrow, ensuring the batch is properly prepared,” Snape continued, his tone returning to its usual clipped efficiency. “You are, of course, welcome to observe if you wish.”

Hermione hesitated, her mind at war with itself. She should tell him. She should confess how close she’d come to considering it—to taking from him again. But the words stuck in her throat, and she simply nodded. “I’d like that,” she said.

As the conversation lulled, the voice in her mind grew quieter but didn’t disappear. Hermione couldn’t shake the feeling that her decision wasn’t over. 

That night, Hermione jolted awake, her sheets twisted around her legs, her nightclothes soaked with sweat. Bellatrix's laugh still echoed in her ears, mixed with the memory of her parents' vacant expressions as she obliviated them. Her chest felt too tight, each breath a desperate gasp as she tried to ground herself in reality.

She pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to stop the tears that came anyway. The silence of her room felt oppressive, broken only by her ragged breathing and the pounding of her heart. How many more nights could she do this? How much longer could she pretend she was fine during the day while falling apart every night?

As her breathing slowly steadied, Hermione made her decision. She couldn't ask Snape for help—couldn't bear to see the disappointment in his eyes, couldn't admit to this weakness. But she couldn't go on like this either. Tomorrow, while he was brewing the Dreamless Sleep potion, she would find a way to take some. Just enough to get through the worst nights. Just enough to keep functioning.

The guilt was already there, settling in beside her fear and exhaustion, but she pushed it aside. She had survived a war, helped defeat Voldemort, lost nearly everything in the process. Surely she had earned one small mercy, even if she had to steal it.

As she lay back down, staring at the darkness above her, Hermione tried to ignore the voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like Snape, reminding her that some actions, once taken, couldn't be undone. She would deal with the consequences later. For now, she just needed to sleep.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Hermione woke with a dull ache behind her eyes and the heavy drag of another night spent in restless half-sleep. The decision she’d made in the darkness still clung to her like fog, wrapping around her chest as she dressed slowly and made her way downstairs. The kitchen was quiet—eerily so—and for a moment, she thought Snape might be lurking just out of sight, but the only sign of his presence was the faint warmth that still clung to the charmed plate of eggs and toast waiting at the table. A folded slip of thick parchment, sealed with a neat flick of magic, lay beside it. She picked it up, recognizing his precise, slanted handwriting: “Gone to the Forest of Dean to gather fresh serpent's root—suppliers continue to disappoint. Will return by dinner. Do not disturb the lab.” Hermione stared at the note, her stomach tightening. The words do not disturb seemed to pulse against the page, a ward as much as a warning, but instead of dissuading her, it only made the air feel more charged—like the house itself was holding its breath.

Hermione set the note down slowly, her fingers lingering on the parchment as if hoping it might change its message. The Forest of Dean—he would be gone for hours, maybe all day. The realization settled over her like a thick cloak, equal parts dread and opportunity. She sat down at the table, the warmth of the food doing little to comfort her. Her appetite had vanished. Across from her, Snape’s usual seat sat empty, his absence more conspicuous than she'd anticipated. She stared at the steam curling off her tea, trying to still the tremble in her hands. This was it. No more excuses. No more waiting. If she was going to do it, it would have to be today. And yet, even as the thought took shape, guilt twisted in her chest like a second heartbeat.

She stepped cautiously into the narrow hallway just beyond the main door, the worn stone floor cool beneath her bare feet. The walls here were lined with shelves crowded with old flasks, preserved roots in yellowing jars, and a few grim-looking specimens floating in thick, amber liquid. The air was dense—cool but not fresh—with the sharp, medicinal tang of crushed herbs and something deeper, more metallic, like blood or rust. The faint flicker of magical torches cast long, wavering shadows along the corridor, making everything feel a touch distorted, as though the space didn’t quite obey normal dimensions.

Ahead, the hallway split into two narrow arches. On the left was a thick wooden door, carved with protective runes that shimmered faintly even in the low light. Hermione felt the buzz of its magic immediately—a low thrum in her bones, a warning. That had to be the work area, the inner lab where Snape brewed. The wards were strong, layered and intelligent, the kind of protective magic that didn’t just lock a door but listened for intent. She didn’t dare approach it.

To the right, however, was another door—lighter wood, no runes, and already cracked open. A faint greenish glow spilled out, along with the unmistakable scent of dried lavender, camphor, and flobberworm mucus. The storeroom. Her breath hitched as she moved toward it, her heart thudding in her ears like a metronome measuring out the slow descent of her resolve.

Hermione stepped into the storeroom, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the cool, green-tinged light filtering through the charmed sconces. The space was narrow but meticulously organized, lined wall to wall with tall shelving units stacked with neatly labeled vials, bottles, and boxes. Each shelf held rows of glass containers in varying sizes—some murky with sediment, others glowing faintly with enchantments to preserve potency. She moved slowly, her fingers trailing just above the edge of the shelves, scanning the handwritten labels: Essence of Belladonna, Calming Draught Base, Pepperup Elixir, Fluxweed Tincture...

Her breath quickened as she reached a section labeled Sleep & Sedation. There, nestled between a box of powdered valerian root and a squat cobalt flask marked Mild Numbing Draught , was a cluster of slender glass phials capped in black wax— Somnus Noctis. Dreamless Sleep. The very sight of it made her knees feel weak.

A warning echoed at the back of her mind—Snape’s voice, cold and cutting, “If you ever repeat your second year stupidity, Miss Granger, sitting will be a very distant memory.” The memory sent a sharp flush to her cheeks, but she shoved it aside. Her gaze remained locked on the vials. The thought of finally silencing her mind, of one single night without visions of screaming or silence or loss—it was too alluring. Consequences could wait.

She left the storeroom slowly, the vial clutched tightly in her hand, hidden inside the folds of her robe as if it might burn her skin if she held it too long. The corridor felt colder now, as though it knew what she’d done. Every step back toward her room rang louder than it should have, her ears straining for any unexpected sound—even though she knew Snape wouldn’t return for hours. When she passed through the kitchen again, the breakfast he’d left for her still sat on the table, charmed to remain warm. The eggs looked a little rubbery now, the toast slightly curled at the edges, but she forced herself to sit and eat. Dreamless Sleep was potent, and she knew better than to take it on an empty stomach—it dulled the body too fast, left the mind too vulnerable.

As she pushed the last bite of toast into her mouth, her eyes flicked once more to Snape’s folded note. Do not disturb the lab. She swallowed hard, guilt settling thick in her throat. It wasn’t just a line she’d crossed—it was his line. His cutting voice echoed in her head - “For larger offenses, a strap or a switch might be warranted.” The threat hadn’t been idle, and she knew it. But the fear of punishment, even humiliation, wasn’t enough to override the desperate pull toward stillness. Not tonight. Not after everything.

Back in her room, the walls seemed to pulse with quiet expectation. She stood at the foot of the bed, the vial now warm from the heat of her hand. Her conscience stirred—reminding her of how this crossed a line, how Snape would see this as a betrayal, not just a breach. But the lure of stillness, of silence, was stronger. She pulled out the stopper, the scent of crushed chamomile and something darker curling into her nose. No more nightmares. No more shaking herself awake with tears on her face.

Hermione woke slowly, the way one might surface from deep, still water—her limbs heavy but relaxed, her thoughts clear in a way they hadn’t been in weeks. For a moment she simply lay there, blinking at the slant of golden light on the ceiling, the soft weight of blankets over her. No tightness in her chest, no phantom screams clawing through her dreams. Just quiet. She sat up, a little unsteady as the lingering effects of the potion ebbed from her system, but otherwise… well. Better, she thought, stunned. The best sleep she’d had in months. Her muscles ached pleasantly, like she’d finally let go of something clenched for too long. Stretching, she smiled faintly to herself and padded toward the hallway, tugging on her cardigan as she went. Her room felt unusually dark, and as she passed the narrow window she paused— was it that late already?

As she descended the stairs, the scent of roasting vegetables and something warm, possibly stewed pears, met her nose. She turned the corner and stopped short in the doorway. Snape stood by the dining table, wand in hand, levitating cutlery into their proper places with his usual precise flicks. She blinked, surprised.

“Oh,” Hermione said, startled. “You’re back.”

Snape glanced up, one brow arched, setting a jug down (why didn’t he just use magic for this anyway) “Indeed. I returned hours ago. I assumed you would stir once the sun was directly overhead, but alas.” His eyes flicked to the clock on the far wall. “It is nearly six, Miss Granger. I am setting the table for dinner.”

Her stomach gave a traitorous growl as she tried to process the time. “Six?” she echoed. “I… I thought it was just past lunch—”

“You were fast asleep,” Snape cut in smoothly, though his tone was not unkind. He tilted his head, studying her with clinical precision. “You appeared rather pale. Are you unwell?”

“Oh—no, I’m not unwell at all,” Hermione said quickly, truthfully, her voice brightening more than she meant it to. “I’m great, actually.” She gave him a small smile as she slid into her usual seat at the table. Snape paused for a beat, clearly registering the unexpected enthusiasm, a flicker of confusion crossing his features before he schooled it back into his usual impassivity.

Dinner was roast chicken with rosemary and garlic, charmed to stay perfectly crisp, served alongside herbed potatoes and honey-glazed carrots. There was even a small dish of poached pears cooling on the sideboard. Hermione ate more than she had in days—slowly, steadily, but without the lethargy that had dragged her down most evenings. She didn’t feel that crushing exhaustion pressing against her spine or the thick fog behind her eyes. For once, she was fully present, chewing, tasting, even humming softly under her breath at one point as she reached for seconds.

Snape raised an eyebrow at her humming but didn’t comment, simply cutting neatly into his food. Hermione, emboldened by the easy rhythm of the evening, tilted her head slightly and asked, “So… what all did you end up doing? You were gone nearly all day.”

He didn’t answer right away, pausing to chew and swallow before replying, “The Forest of Dean was, as usual, predictably overgrown. I was nearly caught in a tangle of devil’s snare within ten minutes of arriving. The Ministry map, naturally, failed to mark that section.”

Hermione snorted. “Typical.”

He continued, his tone flat but vaguely irritated, “My boots are ruined. Mud up to the knees. But I did manage to find a small clutch of serpent’s root before the sun dipped too low. I had to scare off a hedgehog nesting beside the cluster.”

“You scared off a hedgehog ?” Hermione asked, eyebrows raised.

“It was attempting to urinate on the stalks,” he said, as if that explained everything. “And yes, I glared at it until it fled.”

Hermione tried to suppress her smile. “The Snape method of wildlife management.”

He ignored that. “The Ministry’s herb gatherers seem to think serpent’s root grows in abundance, but apparently none of them know the difference between it and bloody scurvygrass.”

Hermione shook her head. “You’d think the people in charge of magical flora would be able to identify a plant or two.”

Snape gave her a sidelong look. “Your faith in bureaucratic competence continues to astound me.”

They continued eating in relative ease, the conversation unusually light for them. At one point, Snape refilled her water glass with a flick of his wand and then glanced over. “And your day?” he asked. “What did you manage to accomplish while I was out trekking through thorn-laced undergrowth?”

Hermione hesitated, her fork pausing mid-air. “Oh… not much,” she said sheepishly. “I mean, I didn’t exactly get a lot done.”

Snape gave her a long, unreadable look. “No? And why, may I ask, did you sleep the entire day away?”

She shrugged, aiming for casual. “Just… felt like it, I suppose.” She kept her gaze on her plate, trying to sound flippant. The lie tasted sour in her mouth, and the guilt twisted deeper when he didn’t press her further.

He was being kind. That was the worst part. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t sneer, didn’t demand a timetable of missed tasks. Just... let it go. The guilt grew heavier with every bite.

“Well,” Snape said after a pause, dabbing the corner of his mouth with a linen napkin, “unlike someone, I did not spend the day in bed, and I intend to retire shortly.” He stood, smoothing down the front of his robes. “I suggest you use what remains of the evening to accomplish something worthwhile. Your weekly study review is approaching, and it would be in your best interest not to present me with half-finished work.”

Hermione stiffened, the fork halfway to her mouth. The words were delivered with a note of dry facetiousness—as if it were a teasing jab rather than a real threat—but her stomach twisted all the same. He wouldn’t punish her over something like laziness… but this wasn’t just laziness. This was lying. This was stealing. And if he ever found out...

Snape gave her a final look—measured, not unkind, but... lingering. There was something in his eyes, a slight narrowing, as though some part of him didn’t quite believe her. But he said nothing more, only turned and swept out of the room, his robes billowing behind him.

Hermione sat there for a long moment after he’d gone, her appetite suddenly gone. Then, wordlessly, she stood and made her way back upstairs, shoulders tight with guilt.

She set to work immediately, pulling out three parchment scrolls: a three-foot essay on the properties and practical applications of moonstone in restorative potions, a comparative analysis of Muggle and magical botanical classification systems, and a shorter review on the 19th-century revival of wandless spell theory. She worked steadily into the evening, pushing through the burn in her wrist and the scratch of her quill, not out of fear—but guilt. A gnawing, pressing guilt that had rooted itself firmly in her chest.

When the clock struck midnight, she set her quill down, blew gently on the final scroll to dry the ink, and quietly reached into the drawer beside her bed. The second vial of Dreamless Sleep gleamed faintly in the candlelight. She hesitated—just for a moment—then uncorked it, drank it down, and lay back on the pillow.

Again, no dreams. Just silence. And the steady weight of secrets tucked beneath her ribs.

It didn’t take long for the vials to vanish.

Hermione finished the first two in just over a fortnight—far faster than the strict dosage guidelines allowed. She told herself it was fine. That she needed it. That it was temporary. But the truth was, dreamless sleep had become part of her nightly routine, as habitual as brushing her teeth. The relief of it—the gentle, complete silence it brought—was too alluring to resist. After years of soldiering through exhaustion, letting herself fall into rest without fear, without dreams, felt like a mercy.

One rainy afternoon, with Snape away on some Ministry consult about cauldron standardization violations in Yorkshire—“a death sentence of paperwork,” he’d muttered with particular disdain—Hermione found herself standing in the potions storeroom again, heart pounding, palms damp. She didn’t hesitate this time. She took two more vials, slipping them quickly into the pocket of her jumper like she'd done it a hundred times before.

They were gone in under two weeks.

She waited until late afternoon, when the house was quiet and she was certain Snape had left again—this time for a meeting with a Healer from St. Mungo’s who was supposedly “too brilliant to function” and needed Snape’s help revising a potion that had recently exploded during testing. It would keep him out for hours.

She slipped through the house, her footsteps soft, heart thudding with restless urgency. The hallway to the storeroom felt longer this time. She didn’t hold her breath, not like before—she was far past fear of being caught. But when she reached the shelves and scanned the familiar row of dark glass vials, a cold shock ran through her.

It wasn’t there.

She looked again. Once. Twice. Frantically now, pushing aside jars of powdered ginger, dried billywig stingers, tinctures of lavender and monkshood. Her hands trembled. There had always been one or two vials tucked just behind the wormwood. Always.

But the spot was empty.

The coldness in her chest bloomed into something jagged. Panic, raw and immediate. Maybe he’d moved it. Maybe he’d noticed. Maybe he knew. Her eyes darted around, half expecting him to step into the doorway with that crushing look of disappointment— and worse, betrayal —etched into every line of his face.

But he didn’t. The lab and the hallway beyond remained still, humming only with faint wards. Hermione stood frozen for a moment longer, then tore herself away, the dread pooling deep in her stomach. She retreated to her room, heart pounding, mind racing.

That night, she lay curled on her side, the blanket pulled up to her chin, willing herself to sleep. Her hands wouldn’t stay still. Her chest felt too tight. The shadows in her room seemed to move.

Sleep did come—but not for long. And when it did, it brought the worst dreams yet.

Visions of flame and screaming. Of her parents standing in front of her, blank-eyed, silent, as she begged them to remember her name. A memory twisted into a nightmare, then into something worse—Snape’s voice cutting through the dark, not in anger but with disappointment sharp enough to bleed.

She woke gasping, tangled in damp sheets, her nightshirt stuck to her skin with sweat.

The morning passed in a blur. Her head pounded, her limbs felt full of wet sand, and her skin was cold and prickling despite the warmth of the room. She sat through the hours like she was underwater—words didn’t register, objects slipped from her hands, everything pulsed with a faint, nauseating throb. She barely noticed when Snape returned. It wasn’t until he called her for lunch that she realized how long she’d been sitting in the same chair.

She stood up too fast. The world tilted.

Snape frowned from across the kitchen. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“I’m okay,” she mumbled, but her voice cracked. She took a step toward the table, blinked hard—and then her knees buckled.

“Actually, I don’t…” she began, but the sentence never finished. Her vision wavered like heat off pavement. Her limbs wouldn’t move right. And then everything slipped.

The last thing she heard before the floor rose up to meet her was the sharp crack of a chair scraping back and Snape’s voice, alarmed and sharp—
“Hermione!”

When Hermione came to, the light in her bedroom was soft and golden, pouring through the curtains in long, gentle beams. Her head felt heavy, cotton-stuffed, but her body lay relaxed beneath her bedsheets, her limbs tucked in neatly as if someone had straightened them for her. The scent of lavender and old parchment hung faintly in the air.

Beside her bed, in a transfigured armchair that didn’t look particularly comfortable—though it had been charmed into something plush for the moment—Snape sat, dozing lightly, his long fingers loosely folded over his abdomen, his boots abandoned somewhere by the foot of the bed. His black robes looked slept in. His hair, as always, was a bit of a mess, but there were faint shadows beneath his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

He’d stayed. For three days, by the look of it. The idea made Hermione’s breath catch a little in her chest. Not just because he’d been the one to find her, or that he’d gotten a Healer, or that he’d worked out what was wrong—but because he hadn’t left. Not once. There were signs all around her: a transfigured basin by the nightstand, an untouched mug of tea on the window ledge, the crease in the blanket covering her clearly pulled up and re-tucked several times. He’d been here the whole time.

She felt both touched and awful.

She stirred slightly, and Snape’s eyes opened immediately, sharp and alert even though he looked like he hadn't truly rested. His wand was in his hand before she could speak.

“Don’t try to sit up yet,” he said immediately, the exhaustion in his voice doing nothing to soften the command. He flicked his wand over her torso, the diagnostic spell glowing pale green as it swept across her chest and limbs. “You're stabilising, but not fully. One more tonic.”

He handed her a vial—cool to the touch and fizzing faintly.

“What is it?” she croaked, her throat dry and hoarse.

“Rehydration and systemic stabilisation,” he replied. “It will keep your blood sugar up and prevent a collapse. You’ll need another dose in a few hours.”

She drank it. It tasted like plums boiled with bitter herbs and a chalky afterburn. She winced, but swallowed it all.

“What time is it?”

“Just after eight.”

“In the morning?”

“Yes.”

She blinked hard. “So I was out for more than twelve hours?”

Snape looked at her flatly. “Hermione. You were unconscious for nearly three days. ”

Her stomach turned.

“What—? How—?”

“It’s not surprising,” he cut in, his voice low and clipped, “ given what you’ve done. ”

She felt the shame pool instantly in her gut, heavy and unrelenting. “Sir, I—”

“No.” He raised a hand. “Not now. Don’t exert yourself.”

“I just… I need to say I’m sorry—”

“I said not now .” The words cracked like a whip, and for the first time in years, Hermione flinched under his tone.

“We will have a long talk when you are fully lucid. But right now, your job is to eat and rest. And not argue.”

“I don’t need to rest anymore,” she muttered, almost involuntarily.

Snape stood. Turned to her. And the expression on his face stopped her cold.

His voice was soft—but lethal. “Do you really want to add defiance to what is already a staggering list of dangerous, reckless, idiotic choices?”

Hermione swallowed, shaking her head quickly.

He nodded once, sharply. “Wise. Because once you’re on your feet again, I will deal with this properly. And I assure you, Miss Granger— you will not be sitting comfortably for quite some time.”

This time, there was no facetiousness in his tone. No raised eyebrows. No ambiguous quirk at the corner of his mouth.

He meant it.

Hermione sank back into her pillow, heart thudding. He turned and strode toward the door, muttering something about food. She closed her eyes, guilt pressing against her ribs like a stone.

He’d stayed. He’d watched over her. He’d probably saved her life.

And now, she was going to have to face the consequences.

Chapter Text

Hermione made it three days before she tried again. “Please, can we talk?” she said, shutting her potions book.

Snape picked up a vial and drew his wand over it, seemingly ignoring her. turned to her. Hermoine was tried again. “I’m truly better. I’ve even been sleeping the past two nights without anything.”

Snape turned to look down at her and asked sharply, “So you’ve been lying every time I asked how you were sleeping?”

Hermione winced. “I’m sorry.”

“You will be,” he said coolly.

An uncomfortable silence settled between them. Snape spoke again. “You were taking a diluted, modified version of the standard formula. One that is safe for short-term use and more frequent consumption. I adjusted it myself.”

“Oh,” Hermione said softly. Her chest tightened. “Thank you.”

Snape gave a short nod. “Very well. Eat your breakfast, then meet me in my study.”

Her stomach turned. She remembered, with far too much clarity, how Snape had once mentioned that his study was usually reserved for the more serious punishments. At the time, it seemed inconsequential. Now, it did not.

Hermione’s fork scraped quietly against her plate. She managed a few mouthfuls, but the food sat like stone in her stomach. Her thoughts spun in circles, rehearsing what she might say, how she might explain. Her guilt pressed heavily against her ribs. She had been careless. Worse, she had been selfish. And now she was about to face the full weight of that choice.

The walk to the study felt longer than it was. When she stepped inside, the room was exactly as it had always been—bookshelves towering on every wall, parchments stacked with clinical precision, The distinct smell of ink and herbs dotted the air. She had loved this room every time Snape allowed her in to read or work. She hoped this wouldn’t change that. 

“Sit.”

She jumped, immediately obeying. The cozy green cushioned chair felt colder than she remembered.

“You’re already in a world of trouble,” Snape said, his tone like ice. “So I advise you to answer every question with complete honesty. If you lie, even once, I will know.”

Hermione nodded quickly, her palms damp where they gripped the edge of the seat.

Snape stepped forward, arms crossed, his eyes sharp and unreadable. “Do you need additional punishment to loosen your tongue?”

Her breath caught. “No, no, sir. I understand.”

Snape sat behind his desk, posture rigid, eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. He said nothing at first, letting the silence stretch unbearably long.

"From the beginning."

Hermione licked her lips. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Nightmares?” Snape asked, and although his expression didn't show it, his tone was a touch softer.

“Yeah," she whispered.

 "And?"

"I didn’t sleep at all for two nights. So I… I took a little."

"Without asking me."

She flinched. "Yes, sir."

"How much?"

"A few drops. Just enough to fall asleep."

“How much did you take from my personal store.”

“Two vials once.” Hermoine looked down at her fidgeting hands. “And then two more later.”

“I knew it,” Snape said, more to himself. "And then?"

"So I took it. Then again the the next night. Then the one after. I kept using just enough. But it stopped working as well."

Snape crossed his arms. "So you increased the dosage."

She nodded. "Only a little."

He let the silence return for a few seconds. "How long did this go on?"

Hermione hesitated. "Maybe a month?"

He stood. She could hear the controlled anger in his movements as he walked around the desk standing right in front of her. “Do you have any idea how dangerous what you did is? Do you have any idea how potent Dreamless Sleep is? Taking Dreamless Sleep for a month could kill you.” 

"Not every night," she whispered. "Some nights I didn’t need it. Or I tried not to."

"Tried not to?" Snape’s voice was like ice. "What changed?"

"It just… got harder. I couldn’t sleep without it. The nightmares got worse whenever I skipped."

"Yes, that is a common side effect of Dreamless Sleep."

Hermione wiped her palm across her face. "I just didn’t know what else to do."

Snape folded his arms. "Why not come to me?"

She couldn’t answer.

"Did you think I wouldn’t help you?"

“I…” Did she think Snape wouldn’t help her? “No,” she said straightening up. “No, I didn’t think that.”

Snape furrowed his brows, pausing for a few seconds, then changed gears. 

"When did you realise you couldn’t stop?"

She winced. "When I ran out. The night I went back and found it gone."

"Yes, because I removed them. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t notice?"

She didn’t have an answer. Snape continued. "You let yourself suffer through withdrawals. You collapsed. You could have died. And for what Miss Granger? For a few nights of peaceful sleep that were immediately marred by several nights of worsening nightmares?"

"I didn’t know it was that bad," she said, voice cracking. "I didn’t know what to do."

“What you could have done, what you should have done, is come to me.” Snape paused again for a few seconds. “Miss Granger after everything that has happened, did it ever occur to you once that perhaps I have experienced nightmares and would be able to adequately teach you how to deal with them?” She looked up, eyes welled up but Snape continued harshly, “No you didn’t, because you didn’t think. Or perhaps you were too proud.”

“I’m sorry, she whispered.”

“You will be once we’re done. Did you share the potion with anyone?”

She blinked. "No. Of course not."

“Potter? Weasley?”

She shook her head. “No I didn’t, I promise.”

She nodded again.

"What about all the times I asked how you were sleeping?"

Hermione’s voice was small. "I lied. I’m sorry."

"Why I truly do not understand this, all of this could have been avoided simply had you come to me. By now, you would have probably been rid of the nightmares altogether."

Her throat tightened. "I was ashamed. I didn’t know how to say it."

"You didn’t know how to ask?"

Hermione bit her lip and nodded.

Snape stared at her, his eyes narrowing. "All of this. Because you didn’t know how to ask?"

His voice rose suddenly. Hermione jumped.

"I have half a mind to switch your thighs down to your knees every night for a month."

Her stomach plummeted. Tears filled her eyes. She looked down, trembling.

Snape’s voice cut through the air. "I will not be doing that. But you will be punished. Severely."

Hermione could only nod.

"I am deeply disappointed. You are not stupid. And yet you made a series of reckless, dangerous choices. You showed no regard for your safety. Or my trust."

She whispered, "I’m sorry."

"You will be punished," he continued. "Yes, physically. That is unavoidable. But it does not end there."

Snape’s tone shifted. A shade less harsh. Still firm.

"I will help you. We will set up a structured regime. Something safe. You will not go through this alone. There will be changes. We will address the nightmares."

Hermione’s chest ached. Even now, even after everything, he was being kind.

"We will deal with your punishment now," Snape said, straightening, "and later this evening, we will set the new plan in motion. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Hermione answered, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Snape watched her for a long moment. Then, in a voice lower but no less commanding, he said, "Look up."

Hermione obeyed, eyes meeting his. Her cheeks were still blotched with tears, but she held his gaze.

"You are a Gryffindor," Snape said, his voice slow and deliberate. "You are brave, and you are intelligent. This punishment will be hard. It will be painful. But we will get through it. And once it is done, I will not hold it over you."

Hermione’s throat tightened. She nodded. "Yes, sir."

There are three transgressions to deal with."

Hermione looked up slowly.

"Lying. Stealing. And knowingly putting yourself in danger.” 

“I didn’t knowingly do it,” she tried to protest.

“Really? he said, his voice like ice. “The highest scorer in my OWL Potion class didn’t know how potent Dreamless Sleep can be?"

She had nothing to say.

"You will be punished for each of these," Snape said evenly. "Separately."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Separately?"

"Yes," Snape said. "These are among the most serious rules, and you broke them all."

Hermione opened her mouth, then hesitated. She looked down again, voice small but steady. "Yes, sir. I understand."

"The first day you were here," Snape said, his voice calm but razor-edged, "what did I say about how I handle physical discipline?"

Hermione’s lips pressed together. She stared at her hands.

"It wasn’t a rhetorical question, Miss Granger," he said. 

"You said a paddle for smaller offenses and a strap or a switch for more serious ones," she said quietly.

"And do you agree this warrants a more serious reprimand?"

Hermione swallowed. "Yes, sir."

Snape’s tone dropped to something graver. "Any other student under my care would have found themselves bent over for two sessions with the strap for the lying and putting themselves in danger. And then likely a switching for the stealing."

He let the words hang in the air. Hermione felt her belly twist. Her fingers clenched in her lap.

"However," Snape continued, voice softening slightly, "in light of your illness and the circumstances surrounding this particular string of idiocy, I have decided to modify that."

Hermione looked up, startled. Her brows lifted ever so slightly, a flicker of confused relief mingling with dread.

"You will be paddled. Soundly. For the repeated lying," he said, tone firm again. "And you will be given a long acquaintance with the strap for the stealing. I do not tolerate either. You will not lie to me. You will not steal from me."

He paused. He didn’t let it show on his face, but the hesitation was deliberate. In truth, he had spent more time than he cared to admit weighing what to do. Any Slytherin in his charge would have been switched thoroughly, and without ceremony. But Hermione was already in tears, already bracing herself like someone who thought the world might cave in. And he knew what had driven her to this. The nightmares, the desperation. Snape knew how it could get.

"As for the dangers of consuming restricted potions unsupervised," he went on, voice clipped again, "I want a five-foot essay on the subject on my desk by Wednesday evening. Impeccable quality. Better than anything you turned in at Hogwarts. You came very close to the switch, Miss Granger. Consider this your last warning."

Hermione nodded quickly, her eyes glassy again. She whispered, "Thank you."

She meant it. Still, two punishments. That would be awful.

"We will take care of the stealing now," Snape said, standing. "You may rest, work on your essay, or return to your studies after that. In the evening, after dinner, we will discuss how to address the issues you are having at night."

There was a long pause.

"And my next…"

Snape turned, sharp. "Your next what?"

Hermione’s cheeks flushed a deep pink. She fidgeted. "You know…"

"I do not know. Speak clearly."

Hermione looked down, cheeks burning. "My next spanking."

"Tomorrow. Before bed."

Hermione nodded, her shoulders dropping slightly. 

Snape looked at her steadily. “Do you have any other questions or objections?”

Hermione shook her head. “No, sir.”

“Do you feel unwell? Or weak?”

For a fleeting moment, the thought flickered in her mind. It would be so easy to say yes, to delay this. But she pushed it aside. She had lied enough. She needed to make this right.

“No, sir,” she said, her voice low but steady.

“Very well then. Stand up and walk to the desk. Adjust the height so it meets your waist. Stand close to it, feet shoulder-width apart, trousers and knickers down and bend over. I will be over shortly.”

Hermione rose slowly. Her limbs felt stiff, as though her body was reluctant to move toward what it knew was coming. As she approached the desk, the space felt foreign, sharper somehow, colder, more imposing. Her fingers trembled slightly as she drew her wand from her sleeve. She focused on the desk’s legs, whispering the adjustment spell she had learned in fourth year. The desk’s legs creaked and shifted until the surface was level with her waist.

She set her wand down beside her. She fumbled with the metal clasp on her trousers, thumbing the waistbands of her pants. She hated that she was in this position after promising herself she wouldn’t be. She took a deep breath and in one go unclipped the clasp and pushed them down to her ankles (she begrudgingly remembered).

Her stomach turned as she stepped up to the edge. She positioned her feet  shoulder-width apart and leaned forward until her waist met the desk. Her hands found the far edge and gripped tightly. The wood was cool under her fingertips and dug uncomfortably. Her breath came in shallow pulls, chest tight with anxiety. Shame prickled under her skin. She had brought this on herself. Still, the reality of it being bent over bare bummed to get spanked by Snape felt unthinkable. Except it was reality.

She heard footsteps approaching and her belly flip flopped again. The soft swish of robes. Snape came to stand beside her.

“You remember the rules?” he asked, voice even but stern.

Hermione blinked, trying to recall. “Uh… yes. I think so.”

“I will repeat them for your benefit. Remember them for next time.”

Next time. The words landed like a stone in her gut.

“You are not to reach back. If you do, you will receive additional strokes with the strap across your hands. Do not let go of the table. You may cry. You may scream. But you are not to use foul language. And under no circumstances are you to kick me. Each infraction will result in further penalties.”

Hermione’s heart pounded. Her hands tightened on the desk’s edge. She felt exposed, vulnerable and so, so guilty. And yet, she understood.  But beneath the fear was something else too, a thread of resolve, shaky but real. 

She nodded, though her voice caught a little. “Yes, sir.”

“Step a little further from the desk,” Snape instructed.

Hermione’s breath caught. Her hands tightened slightly on the far edge of the desk. “Yes, sir,” she murmured.

She shuffled her feet back an inch, then another, until the stretch in her legs and the pressure at her waist told her she was far enough. The position was awkward and left her bum and legs in a truly vulnerable position. with embarrassment. She hated everything about this, she hated Snape’s harsh tone, she hated how firm the desk felt underneath her stomach and she hated most of all she hated this crushing feeling of guilt that threatened to consume her. She stared hard at the wood grain on the desk, wishing it could swallow her whole.

Then she felt it.

A cold, hard strip rested suddenly across her bum. She flinched involuntarily, unable to stop herself, even though she didn’t dare move away. She hadn’t even seen him retrieve the strap or walk over. Had he summoned it silently while she’d been adjusting the desk? Had it been in his robes all along? She didn’t know. But it was there now, resting against her, a silent promise of what was to come. Her stomach gave a slow, anxious turn.

Snape said nothing yet. He just let the strap rest on her bum, letting its presence settle in like a shadow. Hermione gripped the desk harder and pressed her lips together, trying to brace herself.

Snape rested a firm hand on the small of her back. She felt the gentle pressure through her jumper, then the slight shift as he pushed the fabric up, folding it neatly out of the way. Now there was nothing between the paddle and her bum. Despite everything, despite knowing that he was about to cause her pain, the touch grounded her. The weight of his hand calmed the frantic rhythm of her heart anchoring her in place more than the desk ever could.

“Prepare yourself.”

Snape’s voice felt distant, like it had traveled through water.

First came the sound, a sharp whistle as the strap sliced through the air. Hermione’s breath snagged in her throat a split second before the leather landed with a brutal crack against the center of her bottom. The sound rang out, far too loud in the stillness of the room, and then came the pain. It hit like a bolt, blazing and immediate, searing straight through her composure. Hermione gasped, eyes clenching shut, her fingers digging into the edge of the desk as the heat radiated outward. She hadn’t even caught her breath when the second stroke landed, lower, just beneath the first.

“Ungh!” she grunted, her jaw clenched against the surge of pain. This was nothing like the spoon. That had been child’s play compared to this. Infact in that moment, Lestrange's Crucio felt like child's play.

Snape tapped the strap against her again. Hermione tensed. The leather hissed through the air, and landed again, striking a fresh line of fire just below the last. “Oh—!” Her left leg shot up in reflex. She opened her mouth to protest, but the fourth lash came before she could form a word, catching the tender crease where her thighs met her bum. The pain was ghastly.

“Aghh!” She couldn’t stop herself. Her hands flew back, her body jerking upright in one motion, both palms clutching at the burning skin as she stumbled away from the desk.

“Granger!” Snape’s voice cracked sharply through the haze. “Bend back over this instant. We are not even close to finished.”

“Sorry!” she gasped. Her voice shook, and so did she. Tears pricked at her eyes now, stinging just as much as the strap.

“Bend. Over.”

But Hermione stayed frozen, breath catching in ragged gasps.

“Granger,” Snape said again, more level now, but firmer than ever. “It is in your best interest to return to position and take the punishment you’ve earned. Have you forgotten the consequence for reaching back and breaking position?”

Her face crumpled, her lower lip trembling. “Sir, please… don’t add more.”

Snape sighed, quiet but audible, a sound of resignation rather than anger. “Bend back over.”

With a shaky breath, she slowly leaned forward again, bracing herself against the desk. The stretch pulled at her already blazing skin, and she winced as the pain flared anew.

“I will let this one slide,” Snape said after a moment, his voice low, controlled. “But this is the only time. Do not move out of position again. Do you understand?”

Despite the throbbing ache, she nodded, voice barely audible. “Yes, sir.”

Snape tapped the strap again on the same spot, on the very base on the bottom, right where he struck the fourth time. Hermoine screwed her eyes shut again, preparing herself. The leather landed with the same unrelenting force, and for the first time since the punishment had begun, her eyes stung with tears. The burn sank deep and for the first time since her punishment started, her eyes filled up with tears. 

Then the strap shifted lower, now tapping against the tops of her thighs, a fresh, unbearably tender target. Her body tensed, instinctively flinching, but before she could even gasp, three sharp cracks came in rapid succession, each one landing just beneath the last in a ruthless, downward path. 

“Ah...oww! Aahh!” Hermione jolted upright with a wet gasp, tears finally spilling over. She frantically rubbed at her now flaming thighs, which had turned a vivid red. Oh, fuck!

“Bad choice, Granger. Hold out your left arm, palm open.”

“No, no, I’m sorry, I’ll stop! Please, it just, it hurts so much.”

“Left arm, palm open.” Snape did not shout, did not force her hand out. His voice was even, no room left for argument. Hermoine had to submit to the discipline.

Hermione felt awful. She was crying now, tears silently streaking down her face. Part of it was the pain. Her bum and legs burned, and her hands did a poor job of soothing it; even shifting from side to side, desperate to ease the pressure, brought no comfort at all. More than that, however, was the torrent of emotions the spanking was bringing out. It felt like the physical pain had unlocked her chest, and all the feelings she’d been bottling up began to spill free.

“Granger.”

Hermione took a shaky breath, wiped at her eyes, and slowly raised her left palm. Snape grasped her wrist, firmly, but not tight. He lifted the strap and brought it down with a sharp snap, then immediately released her hand. She shook it out, more from instinct than pain. It stung, yes, but only some, meant to remind more than punish. Still, after the fire raging across her bum and thighs, even the mild strike felt jarring. The contrast made her all the more aware of the burn that hadn’t faded in the slightest.

“Bend back over, Granger. We are not finished.”

“Snape—Sir—”

“Enough. You’ve already delayed this far too long. You stole from me.  A sound strapping is nothing compared to the official Ministry penalty for stealing restricted potions. You will accept the rest of your punishment without further protest, and once it’s done, we’ll consider the matter closed.”

Hermione bit her lip as fresh tears gathered, spilling over despite her effort to contain them. She hated this, hated the pain, hated the guilt, hated that she’d brought it on herself.

“Granger. Do not make me repeat myself.”

“No, I’m— I’m going,” she choked out. “Just… just give me a second.”

Snape stood still, arms crossed, the strap hanging from one hand and nodded curtly.

Hermione drew in a breath and bent back over, this time folding her arms and burying her face in them. The wood felt cool beneath her forearms in contrast to the heat radiating from the punished flesh below.

Snape rested a warm hand on the small of her back. “We’ve got a few more to go. Would you like me to hold your hand behind you so you don’t risk reaching back and earning extra strokes?” His voice was steady, not gentle, not harsh.

She nodded. “Yeah, okay,” she murmured, reaching back.

Snape took her hand. But instead of gripping her wrist and pinning it in place as she’d expected, he interlaced his fingers with hers and rested their joined hands at the base of her back, pushing her jumper up. It was a small gesture, seemingly trivial, but it brought her an unexpected sense of comfort.

Without delay, the cruel piece of leather began tapping again—this time lower, squarely between the backs of her thighs and the curve of her bum. Hermione clenched her jaw and turned her face into her folded arms, eyes squeezed tight. Without realizing it, she gripped his hand harder.

Snape didn’t pull away. He let her hold on, then raised the strap and brought it down twice in quick succession, both strikes landing in the exact same spot.

“Oww—oww! Oh! Blimey!”

This time, she didn’t rise. Her body trembled, but she stayed bent. Snape, determined to get this over with, tapped the strap again, this time higher, just beneath the curve of her bum where it met the thighs.

Two seconds later, he delivered a pair of strokes in rapid succession, landing with punishing precision on the same spot on across the already scorched skin. Hermione choked on a sob, shifting her weight from one foot to the other in a desperate, useless effort to escape the sting.

Then came another tap, right on that same burning line. Before she could react, the strap cracked down again, striking squarely over the previous lines. Hermione let out a ragged gasp, her shoulders jerking with layering, burning pain. Her hands clenched white around the desk's edge. 

Then, to her dismay, she felt the strap begin tapping once more. That same exact spot. Her breath hitched.

“Oh—not there, please!”

Snape didn’t answer, he only let her squeeze his hand tight.

“What is this spanking for?” he asked, his voice even, the strap still tapping ominously.

“I—I stole from you,” she stammered.

“Will you steal again?” Tap. Tap. Tap.

She shook her head furiously. “No! No, I promise!”

“This is the last one. Do not reach back. Do not get up. Stay in position until I tell you.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Snape lifted the strap high, higher than before, and brought it down with a brutal snap, the leather striking deep across the most tender, punished flesh.

Hermione jerked, her first sob escaping her lips as the pain bloomed hot and fierce, sharper than any stroke before. Her legs buckled slightly, barely keeping herself upright over the desk. Her grip on his hand tightened instinctively, knuckles white, as her body trembled slightly.

Snape set the strap down on the desk without a word.

“This punishment is over,” he said at last, his voice lower. The sharp edge lacing it was gone. “You took it well. You may get up.”

He didn’t move his hand, leaving it to her to let go first. After a few long seconds, Hermione released it and slowly pushed herself upright. Bending to pull up her jeans, she winced as the rough denim scraped against the raw skin. She hissed through her teeth, silently cursing her decision to wear jeans instead of something softer.

She wiped her face with both hands, swiping away the remaining tears, and tucked a few damp strands of hair behind her ears. When she looked up, the strap had vanished, Snape must have banished it. Good riddance.

Her body still throbbed, a deep, radiating heat pulsing across her bum and legs, but something inside had shifted. The pain hadn’t dulled yet, but the heavy guilt pushing against her ribs had started to ease. She could breathe again. Something had broken loose, and though she was sore and exhausted, even, she felt lighter.

She chose not to think about the paddling still awaiting her.

“You’re fine,” Snape said, more of a statement than a question.

Hermione gave him a look, rolling her eyes a little. “Yeah, right.”

“You’re definitely alright,” he said with a flicker of amusement in his tone.

“I’m sorry again,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t have taken it. It was wrong. I should have just come to you.”

Snape gave a short nod. “Your apology is accepted.”

Her shoulders relaxed.

“We’ll speak after dinner about a path forward, for your sleep. Don’t concern yourself with it for now. I promise there’ll be a solution.”

She nodded, and to her own surprise, felt warmth stir in her chest, for him, of all people. Despite the pain, or perhaps because of how it had been given, she didn’t feel bitter. She felt... cared for.

“Perhaps you’d like to rest?”

She shook her head. “No, all I’ve done the past few days is rest.”

“Sure. Then either work on your essay or start catching up on missed lessons.”

“I was actually thinking I’d read,” she said, shifting her weight slightly.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “Read? As in a textbook?”

She rubbed the back of her neck. “Er…not exactly. Just a book I picked up a few days ago. Whispers of the Elder Script , it’s on ancient rune dialects. I never finished it, and I thought I might now.”

His brow smoothed a little. “As you wish. I do expect the essay by tomorrow’s dinner.”

“Of course,” Hermione said, nodding. “I’ll start it after lunch. I’ve actually kept up with most of my schoolwork.”

“Very well. I’ll see you at lunch.”

Up in her room, the moment the door shut behind her, Hermione grimaced. The burn reignited with every step, the rough denim scraping mercilessly against her punished skin. She wasted no time wriggling out of her jeans, breathing a sigh of relief as she replaced them with a loose, airy cotton dress. 

Unable to resist, she turned toward the mirror and lifted the hem of the dress. The sight made her wince - vivid red lines striped her backside, trailing down to the middle of her thighs in angry marks. The skin was hot to the touch, deeply tender, and she hissed when she pressed too hard. It hurt. But surprisingly, there were no welts, just the unmistakable aftermath of a very thorough punishment.

Shaking her head, she let the fabric fall and picked up the book from her desk. Whispers of the Elder Script felt heavy in her hands. She settled onto her bed, shifting carefully until she found a position that didn’t make her flinch, and opened to where she had last left off.