For the Potions Master's Amusement
Chapter 27: Release
Hermione reached the professor's office, and before she could touch the handle, the door opened to admit her. She slipped inside, removing her Disillusionment Charm, and found Professor Snape waiting for her, one hip resting on the corner of his desk. He still wore the luxurious black velvet dress robes, and he looked like some ancient Dark prince of old, the planes of his face austere beneath his burning black eyes. Hermione felt an ache in her chest from the beauty of him—for how she needed him and wanted him with every fibre of her being.
She opened her lips to greet him, but he silenced her before she could speak.
'Thank you for coming,' he said, his voice devoid of emotion. 'I would like to have our discussion in my study, but I wanted you to be aware that the rules which I had previously established for you are now lifted.'
Hermione's tongue darted out to moisten her lips. She didn't like the sound of that. What did he mean, 'are now lifted'? Permanently? No, that couldn't be right. But better not ask too many questions, just now. 'All right,' she said.
He stood and courteously motioned for her to precede him into the study; she slipped past, relishing the warm, familiar scent of him. The study was softly lit by the crackling fire and the oil lamps. On a low table near the sofa, a tea service was laid out. Unsure of where he wanted her, Hermione perched uncertainly on the edge of the cobalt blue sofa, and her professor shrugged out of his black velvet dress robes, leaving them draped over one armchair while he shifted the other to face her, then sat.
'I am going to have a cup of tea,' he said, pouring some into a cup. 'Would you care to join me?'
Hermione fought the impulse to wring her hands. His manner was making her very nervous. She certainly didn't feel as if she could swallow anything, but to refuse seemed churlish.
'Thank you,' she said, watching as he added two sugars and a splash of milk to a cup before passing it to her. She felt a dim pleasure that he remembered exactly how she liked her tea, and as she accepted the saucer, she deliberately grazed his hand with her fingertips.
His head jerked up at the contact, and his eyes fastened on her face for a moment before he looked away again, pouring a cup for himself and sitting back in the armchair. He began to drink, seemingly lost in abstraction, and rather than break the silence when she was uncertain of his mood, Hermione sipped at her cup. The warmth was lovely, and almost against her will, she found herself calming under the familiar ritual of drinking tea. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking another mouthful of perfectly prepared Earl Grey. Everything was all right—nothing terrible was going to happen. He probably wanted to discuss her detention, which was set to occur in less than six hours, now—perhaps he would delay the starting time or cancel it altogether …
The rattle of china alerted her that he had set his cup on the tea tray, and she directed her attention back to him.
'Are you finished?' he inquired politely. 'Would you care for more?'
Hermione felt her complacency dissolve like fabric beneath acid—why was he acting like this? Like some sort of robotic imitation of a Potions master? She leaned forward and set her cup and saucer on the tray. 'No thank you,' she said quietly, giving in to her anxiety and permitting herself to wring her hands. She had a very bad feeling about this.
Professor Snape cleared his throat and straightened in his chair, grasping the chair arms with his long-fingered hands. 'Hermione,' he said, looking directly into her face, 'I owe you an apology.'
Hermione only just managed not to let her mouth gape open in amazement. Of all the things she had thought he might say to her, this was not one of them. 'You do?' she said, bemused.
'Yes,' he answered, his voice losing its flat, even quality as harshness showed through. 'As your Dominant, it is my job to be fair, up front, direct, and perfectly clear in my communications with you.'
Hermione watched him nervously as a hard, disdainful expression settled on his features.
'It is my responsibility to deal with you from a position of calm, reasoned authority. A Dominant should never discipline a submissive based on his emotions. There is a place for emotion in the dealings between a Dominant and a submissive, but it is never a factor in her discipline.' He drew a ragged breath. 'In the last week, I have failed you utterly.'
Hermione stared at him, dumbfounded. He had certainly been a right bastard to her ever since Anthony Goldstein had invited her to the Yule Ball, but she had never expected him to own up to it. She had known it was wrong of him to take out his bloody-mindedness on her, but she had been willing to overlook it because … because he was the most important person in her life. And because deep inside, she knew exactly why he was upset, even if he did not.
Now he straightened still further, giving the appearance of a stone statue rather than a living being, his shoulders rigidly even, and under her frightened gaze, his face once again emptied of expression.
'You are well within your rights to terminate your association with me,' he said tonelessly. 'I will provide a letter of recommendation for you when you leave school, as well as a letter of introduction to the D/s circles in London. I will make it clear that it was through no fault of your own that your training was cut short.' The tiniest flicker of emotion touched him and was ruthlessly repelled with a minute shake of his head, causing the ends of his hair to sway against his black-clothed shoulders. 'I release you from your training, Hermione. Your progress has been little short of astonishing; you should be very proud of yourself.'
He rose from his armchair, his movements lacking his usual grace and fluidity, and he stood at attention, as if waiting for her to rise as well. Hermione stared at him, a desolate hollowness in her middle where her tummy used to be, spreading its deadening tendrils through her with alarming swiftness. Released her? He was sending her away—she was no longer to be in training with him—he was removing himself as her Dominant!
'No!' she cried, keeping her seat, unable to organise herself enough to stand.
She saw his jaw clench, and he turned his eyes in her direction, seeming to be looking at a spot to her left. 'Did you have a question?' he said.
A feeling like a lump of lead in her mid-section held her in her seat, but her brain continued to function independently of her feelings. 'Do I not have any say in this decision?' she asked, striving to sound logical.
A nerve in his cheek jumped, but his manner did not relent. 'You are, unfortunately, ill-informed to make such a choice,' he said, his voice rather thin, as if his breathing were somehow impaired. 'Your training is not far enough advanced, nor have you had enough exposure to the D/s lifestyle, to have the tools to judge whether or not I have behaved appropriately.' He swallowed and looked again into her eyes. 'I hope you can bring yourself to—' his voice wavered 'trust me one last time to take the action in your best interests.'
Trust him? Of course she trusted him! Yes, he'd been a git about the Yule Ball, but she would willingly follow him into fire—there was no question in her mind. Oh, what was the matter with him? What was the real issue?
'Of course I trust you,' she said simply, her mind whirling, looking for a way past his determined distancing of himself from her.
The tic in his cheek jumped again. 'It is kind of you to say so,' he said woodenly.
She studied him, pushing away the panic which threatened to overwhelm her thinking. He was angry with himself! He actually thought he had committed an unforgiveable act towards her. Yet even so, he had pinned her to the wall and fingered her quim, whispering filthy, possessive words into her ear—he had called her beautiful, in all her post-climax disarray—and he had been aroused, too. This wasn't about her at all—it was about him—about his lack of emotional control.
He still wanted her—why else would he be holding himself so rigidly? He still wanted her, but he felt he had put himself beyond the pale. She took a deep, deliberate breath, feeling her panic recede in the wake of absolute certainty: She had the power in this situation, if she could figure out how to use it properly. In this moment, when he was sending her away from him forever, she had the best opportunity she was ever likely to have to obtain the deepest wish of her heart.
'You feel that your behaviour this week has been inexcusable?' she asked, almost sick from the wild surge of adrenaline that flooded her body.
'I know it has been,' he answered shortly.
Hermione forced herself to relax against the sofa cushions, and she crossed one leg over the other, the bronze overskirt falling open to show her legs, sleek in sheer stockings. 'I forgive you,' she said.
He showed the first signs of real life he had displayed since their tryst in the alcove, his chin rising sharply, his nostrils flaring, even as his eyes shot daggers at her. 'I have not asked for your forgiveness,' he spat, pronouncing the last word as if it were an obscenity.
Hermione cheered inside, her face showing no sign of her delight. There! He was engaged, now—he was offended that she would dare to offer forgiveness. Excellent!
'Of course not,' she agreed easily. 'I see that you don't feel forgiveness for your transgressions is even possible—but I forgive you, nevertheless.' She smiled up at him gently, trying not to betray the insane physical reactions her body was producing in response to her gamble—and how desperately she wanted it to succeed. Her heart was pounding erratically, her hands were slick with sweat, and the competing impulses to either fling herself at him or flee the room were blaring like Klaxon horns in the back of her mind.
His fists clenched, as if he would like to hit her, and his lips thinned to an angry white line. 'It is not for you to forgive!' he snarled at her.
'It is certainly my right to forgive you, if I choose to do so,' she said quietly. 'What I need for you to do, please, is to forgive yourself—because I have no desire at all to leave my training with you—and I will resist with all the weapons at my disposal any effort on your part to send me away.'
His eyes flashed dangerously. 'Are you threatening me?' he demanded.
She watched his segue from self-reproach to rageful anger, knowing that every word he spoke was directed not at her but at himself. The knowledge buoyed her confidence, and as the last of her fear melted away, she rose to her feet.
'I would never do something so disrespectful,' she said firmly, stepping forward and laying her hands upon his chest, looking up into his face. 'It seems we need to discuss the emotion which drove you to act as you did, though. What was it?'
His chest heaved, his wrathful eyes darting from her face to the sight of her hands upon his coat, then back again. With what appeared to be an almighty effort, he wrenched away from her and turned his back, striding jerkily to the fireplace. He stopped at the hearth, studying the crackling fire, and he was silent for so long that Hermione did not think he would answer her.
'Possessiveness,' he croaked at last. 'It was possessiveness.'
Cautiously, she approached him, a relief close to giddiness singing through her mind. 'I feel possessive of you,' she said, reaching him and stretching her arms about his waist from behind, burying her face in the scratchy wool covering his back. 'You know I do—I go crazy every time I even think you're going to Hogsmeade to see Taffy Smith.'
She could feel him stiffen in her embrace. 'I won't discuss that with you,' he said.
Hermione flattened her palms on his stomach, her fingers finding and fondling the buttons of his coat. She turned her face so that her cheek rested between his shoulder blades. 'All right,' she said, daring to unbutton his coat and smooth her hands up the soft lawn of his white shirt, loving the feel of his toned body beneath her hands. 'But will you discuss your possessiveness with me?'
He turned quickly, capturing her wrists in his hands, and he looked sternly down into her face. 'This is not a matter of which to make light,' he said tautly. 'It is very serious.'
Hermione took a deep breath and laid her heart at his feet. 'I am in dead earnest, sir,' she said, her face raised to his, knowing she had abandoned subtlety and not caring. 'If we can't discuss your feelings of possessiveness, how else am I to convince you that I choose you for my Master—that I want to offer my submission to you, and to you alone?'
He went completely still, his midnight eyes widening slightly, even as he released her hands. And although Hermione strained to hear his least response, the only sound to be heard was the ticking of the carriage clock over the mantelpiece.
A/N: Well, now what's going to happen? I'd love to know your thoughts! More to come in a day or so. Thank you for your comments; they mean the world to me!
