A/N: This chapter has been edited/dulled down to adhere to the rating system of FFN. For the full chapter, check out the story on Archive of Our Own.

As an extra note, while I have edited out the majority of the explicit content and made it VERY vague compared to the original (while trying to keep as much as possible and still fit in a proper rating), I feel like I NEED to say that this scene is NOT sexual, but is actually an often occurred situation that many couples who practise BDSM encounter. A heads up, this chapter won't be for everyone. It IS an aspect of BDSM and D/s that isn't always (if ever) written about, but it does exist. I had over 25 different BDSM practitioners (subs, Doms, Dommes, Mistresses, etc) take a look at this chapter and offer their thoughts on everything from headspace to implements to positioning and aftercare. Like most BDSM, it won't fit every situation perfectly but is adapted to the couple in question. A BIG thanks to the many people who helped me put this one together!

Reading this chapter out of that context is, therefore, not recommended.

Chapter Twenty-Five

April 17th, 2007

Hermione's research took on a mind of its own for months. Her first experience with accidental magic during sex had her theorising a hundred different ideas or so as to how accidental magic and the squib problem could be related. Luckily, Neville didn't feel even slightly neglected, since spring meant that his work at Hogwarts increased tenfold. While Pomona hadn't intended on staying another term, Minerva adding Head of Gryffindor to Neville's list of duties had the old Hufflepuff feeling a bit sympathetic for the man, so she'd agreed to stay on until the end of the year and help him plot out his classes for the following September.

With both so very busy with blossoming careers, they were often too exhausted to do much else other than to fall in bed with one another at the end of a very long day.

"You smell like hippogriff manure," Hermione said, eyes closed as Neville plopped into their bed.

"Showered'lready," he mumbled.

She lightly shoved his leg with her foot, too tired to do much else. When he didn't move an inch, she sighed and reached for her wand on the stand next to her side of the bed. Yawning, she cast a charm to make the room smell like a rainstorm and then fell asleep with the bit of vinewood still in her hand.

Most nights ended like that.

Other nights ended with a sudden burst of energy and Neville pressing her back against the cold tile of their shower, hot water beating down on his back and turning it red as he pistoned in and out of her. Her nails dug into his shoulder blades, leaving scratch marks that nearly drew blood as he snapped his hips and made her scream.

Married life was exhausting, but oh so very good, he had decided.

So when he returned home from a long day, dirt still under his fingernails from helping Hagrid weed the pumpkin patch, he was surprised to find Hermione sitting on the sofa, staring off into space, her thumbnail tucked between her front teeth as she chewed on it anxiously. "Hermione?" When she didn't answer, he noticed her worn copy of Hogwarts, A History sitting on the table in front of her. "What happened?"

She swallowed hard. "I've . . . I've been . . . a warning. An actual warning. I could be . . . I could lose . . ." She stood up and began pacing and Neville noticed that several locks of her hair had been pulled loose from her bun, not at curly as the ones that sprung free on their own, which meant that Hermione had been pulling at them anxiously. A habit he'd asked her to help break. "I've been lobbying for this . . . project," she said, choosing her words carefully which Neville knew meant it was one of the things that as an Unspeakable she wasn't allowed to talk about. She stopped to look at him, as though she were waiting for him to ask for details and when he didn't, she continued, "I put together an entire plan and budget and . . . months. I'd been working on it before the squib issue was even brought to light. Months of hard work and planning and practically begging for the job. Croaker had all but assured that it was mine and . . . and then . . . and then Zacharias fucking Smith walks in—don't tell anyone that he's an Unspeakable, by the way," she said as a quick interlude, "and steals it right out from under me! He's been in the Department for less than a year! I'd been planning for that project for longer than he's even known where the loo is down in the D.O.M.!"

Neville walked up behind her and placed his hands gently on her shoulders, but said nothing. She stopped pacing and he watched as her breaths came quick and unsteady, a panic attack likely just around the corner.

"I asked Croaker why he'd been . . . okay, I might have asked him what the hell he'd been thinking, giving something of that magnitude to someone so inexperienced and he . . ." She began pacing again, pulling away from him and then stopped, letting out a loud scream of frustrating into her hands. "He said that since Smith was a pureblood, he inherently knew things that I couldn't possibly and that my years of experience counted very little in matters of such—" The tears finally came and she pressed her forehead into the wall right next to one of their bookshelves, trying to hide her face as she hiccoughed repeatedly.

"He gave me a warning. Said I was . . . in-insubordinate."

Neville cracked his knuckles, a bad habit he'd picked up during that last year of Hogwarts when dealing with the Carrows. Something to do to stop himself from lashing out. Of course, that had been months before he'd actually taken to lashing out against the Death Eater regime at Hogwarts.

Another sob broke free from Hermione's lips and her breathing steadied out.

"I'm so sorry."

She shook her head. "I feel like . . . like I'm on the verge of exploding. I'm so angry and frustrated and just . . . I want to throw something or hex someone or . . . I don't know what to do. Everything is just completely out of control."

"Can I help?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

He swallowed and racked his brain for several quiet minutes before a thought occurred to him. "Can I try?"

Hermione turned her head and looked at him from over her shoulder. Her eyes were still wet but she looked more frustrated and confused than sad or even angry. Lost. She looked lost. He tried to show her the sincerity in his eyes without conveying his concern for her in a way that looked like pity. She seemed to understand because she nodded and he acted quickly, walking over and taking her hand, leading her to the small kitchen in the next room.

Neville took a tea towel and ran it under the sink, wringing it out and placing it against her cheek. She let out a sigh of relief at the cool feel of the cloth and let him move her hands so that she was holding the towel herself, allowing him to scrub his hands clean of the dirt that clung to him from the day. Once clean, Neville pulled the towel away from her, looking at the colour of her skin which was much less red.

"Breathe in for me," he instructed. When she did so, he smiled. "Good. I need you to be completely honest with me at all times, do you understand?" She nodded. "Does this feel like a panic attack?"

"No," she said quickly. "I'm just . . . angry and frustrated and . . . I don't know how to . . ."

"That's fine, love," he said, kissing her forehead. "It's okay to feel out of control sometimes."

"I don't like it. Make it stop."

Without removing his lips from her forehead, he spoke softly against her skin, "I need you to go into the bedroom and disrobe for me." Before she had a chance to pull away from him and perhaps think about slapping his face, he added, "We're not going to have sex. I'm going to spank you. First with my hand and then with my belt." They'd specifically chosen the crop for play and the paddle for punishment, but the other instruments had yet to find a specific use that Hermione would attribute to one emotional headspace or another.

She did pull away then, looking up at him. "Have I done . . .?"

"Nothing wrong," he assured her, taking her face gently in his hands. "This is neither play nor punishment. You're out of control, so I'm taking it back. I'm in control," he said, his shoulders squaring and his chest thrusting out a bit. His eyes were soft but unwavering in the way he stared at her. "Croaker is not in charge here, Smith is not in charge here; I am. I am in charge, and I love you. You are the most important thing in my world, and I am in control of you. Do you understand?"

Her shoulders sagged and she let out a heavy exhale, nodding. "Thank you."

"What's the safe word?"

"Devil's snare."

Minutes later, Hermione was kneeling on the bed, hands flat on the mattress and her knees; a favourite position of hers that was familiar and comfortable to her. The majority of her muscles were still tense from the day, and her mind was moving too fast for even her to keep up with. She thought about the project she'd lost and what she might've been able to do to save it—should have made my proposal more concise . . . maybe I could have cut out one assistant and save the budget an extra . . .—the busy work that Croaker—bloody Croaker—kept shoving off on her and how she'd spent hours trying to get it done in order to have time available for more important things—so much time lost and all for nothing—and then there was the squib research that always lingered in the back of her mind. Kingsley had stopped in earlier in the week asking about it. He didn't say as much, but the man wasn't very good at hiding his stress about the subject from her, which made her think that the Wizengamot was working against the Minister once more—Merlin, that awful law . . . poor Theo . . . poor Dennis.

"Focus on me," Neville instructed and Hermione blinked, hoping that she'd not been ignoring him this whole time. He rested a hand on her lower back and instinctively she pressed back into his warmth until she remembered that this wasn't about sex.

The first smack stung like it always did. His idea of a "warm up" was starting quite hot to begin with. It was something she appreciated since she wasn't a fragile witch, at least . . . not when it came to this. The hits came down like always; the warmth of his hand and her skin increasing with every additional smack. I shouldn't have been so upfront with Croaker about—

SMACK!

About . . . about . . . and Smith; who does he think he is to come into my department and—

SMACK!

and . . .

Need to get back to Kingsley about the statistics on the—

She purred and stretched her arms out in front of her as her cheek fell to the mattress, her eyelids growing heavy as the warmth crept up her body, washing away the buzzing sensation that the day's tension had caused. Her muscles ached from the stress. Her mind was exhausted from thinking about it.

Neville rubbed her lower back with one hand. "Stop thinking about everything that's running around in that beautiful head of yours. Let it all go. Give it to me and just feel what I'm doing." The leather ran gently up her rib cage, against her shoulder blades, and the down her spine.

Her hands trembled as she waited, already briefly forgetting his request—no, demand—her mind lost in a sea of anticipation. Images of Croaker and Smith blurred somewhere in the back of her consciousness as the feeling of dread in her stomach was replaced by an excited flutter. Instead of trying desperately to catch her breath from the pent up anger, she was breathless. Her skin tingled instead of buzzed unpleasantly.

Even as her skin burned, the warmth of his hand running up and down her back was what she really felt as her thoughts and emotions struggled for dominance. Glancing up at the headboard, she decided they really needed to install a mirror so that she could see the look on his face when he—

CRACK!

"Mmmphfff!" Hermione bit down on her lower lip to stop from crying out. It burned and thrummed and spread a heat all over her body. No sex. This wasn't about sex.

"Don't hold onto it," Neville encouraged. "You can always let go with me. I will take care of you when you need to feel vulnerable. It doesn't make you weak. Give it to me."

She sunk further into the mattress. Her mind flickered like a lightbulb in its last few moments, trying to remind her of the many things she needed to worry about. What if? What if? What if? her brain continually asked. Neville has me, she responded silently before remembering something important. "Thank you."

The belt carried a softness she hadn't expected. Looking over her shoulder at him, she noticed that his arm wasn't tense at all, clearly not putting a great deal of strength into the smacks. It was controlled.

He was controlled.

He smiled at her, his eyes full of warmth and love. "Good," he said. "You're perfect. Let me take care of you. I will always be here to take care of you when you need me."

She turned back and let herself felt good, relaxed even. It was a relief to know that someone would catch her if she needed to fall. The warmth still held onto her, though, even as the good pain started stinging a bit more. She wondered if it was leaving marks. The crop did that and she enjoyed the feel of them, even hours later. Running her fingers over them when he wasn't looking brought back the familiar sensations of how they got there and what they might have done before or afterward.

"I love you," he said.

It stung again, harder. More. Not too much, just . . . just enough. The warmth around her rib cage buried deeper and she felt almost drunk on it. Not the pleasant giddiness that came with the first few drinks when she was out with friends, laughing and dancing and recalling good memories, but the lack of inhibitions that came later when she'd had two too many and began reflecting too much on what she was feeling at any given moment and why. The lack of control of how she acted and what she said and the usual tears that followed if she stumbled onto the wrong thought or subject.

"Let it all go, sweetheart."

It felt like an emotional marathon and Neville was cracking a whip at her heels instead of a belt on her arse. The warmth tightened once again and buried deeper. It hurt. It genuinely hurt. Not enough to say her safe word, but enough to make her remind herself of what it was, just in case. She felt like she was being pushed toward something and she'd been digging her heels in, trying to stop the inevitability of it. Weighed down by anchors of pride and expectations.

"You're doing good," he said from behind her. "So good. I'm so proud of you."

Hermione burst into tears. She pressed her face into the mattress and let the great sobs overtake her. He was right there at her side, lifting her into his arms and pulling her against his chest, muttering, "Breathe," while kissing her hair.

She clutched at his shirt and pressed herself harder against him as she cried; strange tears of relief instead of frustration and anger from earlier. She wasn't happy, no. They weren't tears spent at a wedding or any sort of celebration. It felt like when she'd cried during the aftermath of the final battle. So much still needed to be done, but the heavy weight of that constant enemy always pressing down upon them was gone, and she'd just cried because she could. She didn't have to be strong then.

She didn't have to be strong now. Neville was strong for her.

Tomorrow, maybe she'd be strong for him.

An hour later, she was tucked into bed, sucking on an orange wedge that he'd brought in from the kitchen, foregoing other dinner plans for the time being. He sat up in bed while she rested her head against his chest, smiling at the familiar smells of Hogwarts—of her childhood—that clung to his clothes. He had spent the first few minutes telling her over and over how much he loved her, how he would never leave her, and how strong and smart she was.

She bathed in the sound of his voice and eventually broke into a small laugh when he'd muttered under his breath that Zacharias Smith was an unbearable cocksnatch, prompting her to ask through giggles what the definition of such a thing was. Neville had blushed and laughed and kissed her softly, stopping only to ask if she was in any pain and needed a potion or a salve. She shook her head and mumbled, "As long as I'm not bleeding, leave it. I like the way it feels."

"I'm going to keep asking you how you feel every so often. Sometimes when you come back down from that high . . . it can be confusing and kind of emotionally drop you on your arse."

Hermione snorted. "My arse can't take much more."

Neville smiled and kissed her forehead. "Just so."

She nodded. "I get it. Adrenaline . . . endorphins. When they fade quick enough, it could cause an upheaval. There would need to be a refractory period where hormones rebalance themselves . . ." She noticed Neville slightly snickering at her know-it-all reflex, and she smacked his chest lightly with her hand. "Prat," she said and then snuggled against his chest as though that were a punishment.

"Do you feel better?" he asked, pushing his fingers through her hair.

"Mmmhmm."

"I'm sorry you had a shit day."

She shrugged. "Croaker is an arse," she said, "and Smith is a cocksnatch."

Neville let out a booming laugh of surprise and then groaned. "Gods, I'll never live that down."

"It's not a real word, but it fits," she said, rolling over to look up at him. Her gaze flickered to the wall and her eyes widened. "Neville . . . was the wall behind the bed always gold?"

He shook his head without looking back. "You had another burst of magic," he explained. "It's nothing to worry about. I say we keep it."

An interesting thought occurred to her. "Huh."