SS/HG one-shot written by request.
Prompt: An A/U, post-OotP hurt/comfort drabble not involving the Cruciatus Curse.
Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: For Logospilgrim; for all she does. Betas extraordinaire are Indigofeathers and Minuet99. All mistakes are mine.
Carefully, Severus kept his eyes locked on the well-worn leather of his boots as he stepped slowly into the bright sunlight. His steps were almost shuffling, the combination of exhaustion and heavy iron manacles preventing him from lifting his feet more than a bare centimetre above the hard-baked ground of the busy Hogsmeade street. He tried to raise a hand to shield his eyes from the glare, but one of the guards flanking him yanked on the chains. The sharp pull nearly made him stumble back, but he managed to keep his footing, his dark eyes squinting to slits.
He could feel Hermione's gaze upon him, but he refused to allow himself to spare even a glance in her direction. They might have allowed him to take the punishment for her, but they were still forcing her to be present, knowing that she would share his pain by watching it. If he let himself look at her, see his battered form reflected in her horrified eyes, he wouldn't be able to retain his concentration.
And concentration was Hermione's only hope.
Severus knew that the pain of the lash would be beyond severe. This was no Roman courtyard, where the blows would be halted at forty. They would go on and on, ripping into his pale flesh one hundred times. Trying to rip a scream from him, for if he did scream, he forfeited the right to usurp her punishment. Not only would Hermione's lithe body go under the merciless lash, but also the severity would be trebled for a 'Mudblood'... something he doubted she could survive.
The wood of the post was weathered to a silvery-grey, and he could see bloodstains on its rough surface as he was led up to it. It was a simple construction: two uprights of sturdy logs as thick as his arm and tall as his waist, spiked and bound to a crosspiece. The post stood in the centre of the ring of spectators gathered in the street, offering to all an unobstructed view of the proceedings.
One of the guards kicked the back of Severus' knees with his boot, directing him to kneel before the post. Closing his eyes, he complied, allowing his long black robes to pool in the dust around him. He put no energy into a futile struggle when their heavy fingers grabbed the front of his teaching robe. They took no care to unbutton it, merely yanking hard and forcing it open, small black projectiles flying every which way. Pulling the dark cloth from his shoulders, they tossed it into the dust beside him. No such 'care' was taken with his crisp linen shirt. Severus felt the cold steel of a knife against his skin as they slipped the blade up under the shirt, slicing it open from neck to waist and letting it fall from his shoulders.
He could feel the increased tension in the guards as they unshackled his hands, but he made no manic attempt to resist or use wandless magic. Each wrist was quickly grasped, his arms stretched wide against the framework and bound with leather thongs. The leather was wet, but he knew it would soon dry in the oppressive heat of this summer's day, tightening and adding that pain to the rest. An unexpected caress gently gathered his shoulder-length hair into a loose handful, and pulled the strands across his now bare neck, and over his left shoulder, allowing the ends to drape across his breast. "I'm so sorry," Tonks' choked whisper was barely audible in his ear. She moved back, allowing another person to take up position behind his back.
In a loud voice designed to carry to the onlookers, she read the formal statement of punishment: "Severus Snape, you are hereby confined in place of Hermione Granger for the crime of brewing an illegal potion – under the authority of the recently ratified Wizarding Protection Act, article fifteen, subsection two, the punishment for such a crime will be corporal punishment from the Ministry, in a public setting. A penalty of three hundred lashes is so ordered, but in deference to your lineage, you shall bear only one hundred due to the percentage of Noble-born ancestors in your maternal line, in accordance with the recently ratified Wizarding Heritage Act. Punishment will now commence."
Severus's chest was against the crosspiece now, his arms firmly bound, his back exposed to the sun's pounding rays. He allowed himself to relax to the coming pain, slow his breathing and pulse, his head lolling loosely as he attempted to enter a trance-like state where he could distance himself from what was about to happen.
That state vapourised into hot reality as the whip cut its first brutal path through the air. It was a simple weapon... four thin strips of leather, knotted at the ends, wielded by a man with arms nearly as thick as Severus's thighs. Yet, it was crudely effective in Macnair's hands, and the Potion master's breath hissed between his teeth as another blow came.
Each stroke traced an angry line of fire across the pale skin, drawing hot, angry welts that bloomed red with blood instantly. Those raised lines soon drew a swollen road map on the broad expanse of his back, as Severus bit his lower lip between clenched jaws to contain the unanticipated ferocity of the stinging pain. The lattice of welts spread with each blow, etching its path of fire down to the waistband of his trousers, up to the nape of his neck, and across his shoulders all the way to the straining biceps of his outstretched arms.
Twenty-two
The whip was re-crossing old ground now. Every stroke bit into flesh already marred by previous blows. Tender skin was torn open, the leather now leaving wider crimson trails of blood in its wake. The muscles of Severus's back and shoulders were shuddering now, the convulsive, painful motions ripping the wounds still wider as the whip continued to slam down. Stroke after merciless stroke, the lector seemingly tireless.
Thirty-five
Severus could feel the warm spatters of liquid on his cheeks, and he knew it was his own blood. With each lash, the thongs slapped into the soupy mass of blood and torn tissue, spattering scarlet droplets as they were swung back. He could feel now the bits of knotted leather tied at the ends of the lash, and they dug like salt crystals into the old wounds. Deeper and deeper the whip tore, cutting past the skin now, lacerating thick muscles. He could hear a woman's screams and cries of anguish – not Hermione, most likely those of Molly Weasley. Taking as deep a breath as the burning allowed, his resolve faltered a moment as he glanced up into the crowd. Among the faces of those who were repulsed, or more often of those fascinated by the grand spectacle, he saw Argus Filch. Surprisingly, the school caretaker who so longed for 'the old days' of just such punishments looked shocked, and was muttering something quietly to himself – it almost seemed like a prayer. His distressed gaze met Severus' for a moment, but then he quickly looked away. Severus did not need Legilimency to know that Filch was sickened by what was happening. The old ways had come again through the fear of the people, and the fact that the Ministry could carry out these displays with impunity should have made clear that the threat of Lord Voldemort winning the war was as dangerous as the potential reality of it.
Sweat was streaming down Severus' face now, he no longer desired to find distraction among the people watching. His head fell back, drawing out the spots of blood into crimson smears down his face. It was as though his blood has been replaced with molten lead, ribbons of flame and acid in the maelstrom of pain that had engulfed his back. His breaths were coming in harsh, panting gasps now, his heart thundering in his chest in concert with the wet slapping of the whip. Agony contorted the sharp planes of his face to a grotesque masque, no less frightening than the silver demi-mask he used to wear in the service of those who now castigated him, his quiet dignity in the face of despair a distant memory.
Yet, he did not scream.
Seventy-eight
The skin of his back hung in long strips now, jagged shreds of torn flesh brushing at his waist. The entire universe centred on the rhythmic rise and fall of the whip, on the agony that threatened his sanity and begged to be released in a primal scream.
A release he could not allow.
Ninety
Gryffindor spots of red and gold danced across the insides of his closed eyelids. His body was trembling violently now, but he was beyond knowing it. Consciousness itself was a perilous thing. Severus no longer felt the individual impacts, nor did he feel the heat of the blood on his chin where he has bitten almost completely through his lower lip. Every ounce of his being was focussed on two directions that – along with the omnipresent pain – had come to define his existence.
To survive and not to scream.
One hundred
"The punishment has been carried out according to Ministry provisions," Tonks announced unemotionally to all assembled.
The lashes stopped as suddenly as they had begun. Severus heard himself emit a soft sob as they slashed the thongs binding his wrists, allowing his torn body to collapse to the ground. He lay there choking on the dust as he gasped for air, feeling the fire in his back subside to mere agony. To any onlooker, he was a shattered wreck, but the emotion surging through him was pure triumph.
He had done it. He had survived, he had kept his tongue, and Hermione had been spared. If he died now, he knew it would be worth it, knowing that beautiful, delicate body would not be broken under the lash. For that reason it had been endured.
A pair of gentle arms slipped beneath him, carefully avoiding the bloody mess of his back as they lifted his head from the dust. Trembling fingers pushed his sodden hair from his forehead, and he felt the soft brush of lips against his cheek. Hermione's voice was little more than a sobbing whisper in his ear, her own tears of shared suffering falling to mingle with the tears and sweat and blood on his face.
Slowly, he opened his eyes, and felt his heart beating fiercely in his chest. It was not the sight of Hermione's beautiful, anguished face. It was the face of the person standing behind her, looking coldly down at them. The green eyes were harder than Severus had ever thought possible, and he knew with horrific certainty why all of this had happened, why Hermione had been betrayed to the Ministry.
Strangely, Severus could see a touch of sympathy and regret in the jade depths, but it was belied by the words, "You brought this upon yourself, Snape."