[TW: Disciplinary spanking and non-consensual consent] This is not a slash fic per say, but it does have spanking as the main focal point. I strongly advise that you read the disclaimer in my bio prior to reading this fiction to see if this story might be a good read for you.
Author's notes: regarding the setting for this fic, please see the introductory notes at the beginning of chapter 1. Mention of spanking in this chapter, short references to abuse.
Chapter 8: Gardening Disputes
Alone in the still silence of his room, Harry swayed his foot leisurely as he sat on the edge of his new bed, contemplating the conversation with Snape from the evening.
He glanced down at the disciplinary implements in his hands and grimaced. Trepidation zapped through his stomach like lightning on a stormy night as he imagined the punishing sting each tool promised to inflict.
Harry swallowed hard, his thoughts soon drifted to the sensation of Snape's firm thighs beneath his stomach last night. How awful, he thought, feeling a subtle flush creep up his neck. He sighed and rubbed his free hand across his face, a mixture of confusion and embarrassment clouding his mind.
He had been through a lot in his life: perils, danger, panic and even bouts of depression. Yet for some reason, last night's spanking had pushed him far over the edge.
Then there was the sobbing, ugh; the unrestrained sobs he had let out as he pleaded for Snape to stop spanking him made him feel two inches tall. How mortifying, Harry thought as he set the strap and hairbrush down by his side, emitting a barely audible groan.
The emotional rollercoaster left him baffled as he tried to reconcile his reactions. How could he endure the searing pain of Umbridge's quill, which had drawn his blood as it carved his skin, without shedding a tear, yet crumble like soft dirt when bent over Snape's lap for a punishment? It didn't make any sense.
Harry glanced up to the ceiling and drew in a sharp breath. He knew that he could hold back his emotions; he'd nearly perfected it by the end of the war. So what happened last night? Why had he lost control?
Harry slowly twisted the paddle in his hand as he glanced down at it. He stared through it somberly, in contemplative silence.
As painful and humiliating as the spanking had been, he couldn't shake the feeling that it also felt so oddly… comforting. It wasn't just the back pats that he relished as he sobbed his heart out over Snape's supportive knees, it was the way he'd been held firmly in place during the smacks, so close to someone he'd always felt so distant from.
For a man known for his icy demeanor and formality, Snape's preference for such an intimate position revealed an unexpectedly tender side that Harry deeply appreciated. It was a peculiar contradiction; Snape delivering the painful strikes, yet ensuring the recipient never felt alone while receiving them.
Harry's mind drifted back to last night's walk through the gloomy dungeon halls, trailing behind Snape after enduring his punishment. It was then that he had finally felt some relief, the first in weeks.
Fatigue had weighed on him, and his aching backside served as a lengthy reminder of his poor behavior, but the feeling of liberation from his burdens was undeniable. Why was that? Harry wondered, feeling utterly perplexed by the conflicting emotions.
Harry hefted the paddle up and down. As he had suspected earlier, it felt smooth to the touch and heavy in his hand. The brush also carried a threatening weight to it, though the wood wasn't nearly as dense. And the strap– well, the strap scared him more than any of the others. He shuddered at the thought of it smacking down forcefully on his bare, upended bum.
As Harry glanced around his dimly lit bedroom, he considered where to conceal the disciplinary tools. Despite Snape's notion that they should serve as a 'reminder,' he wanted them out of sight, and out of mind.
His eyes darted around the room's layout until they rested on a suitable location.
Harry sighed, gathered up the implements, and sauntered over to his wooden desk. Opening the bottom drawer, he tossed the paddle, brush, and strap in, cringing at the reverberating clatter that echoed throughout the room as they fell into the bottom of the wooden drawer.
Harry listened intently for any sign of Snape's impending scolding, preparing himself for the man to burst in with the force of a storm. To his relief, he heard nothing but the soft silence of the room.
He undressed leisurely, discarding his shirt and trousers, which landed in a heap beside his large bed. As a yawn overcame him, he embraced the allure of sleep, beckoning him to bury his concerns.
Slipping under the inviting sheets, he removed his glasses, hesitating briefly. Snape had scolded him for leaving them on the nightstand earlier, but it's not as though he'd know where they were placed tonight.
With a nonchalant shrug, Harry set them down and nestled into the warmth of his bed. Regardless of the day's strangeness, he was looking forward to what the morning would bring.
As the hazy drawl of sleep began to entrap him, he preoccupied himself with how to broach the subject of Snape's own misadventures as a student.
Harry leaned over to extinguish the solitary candle's flickering flame, casting the room into darkness. The morning would arrive soon and he would be ready to welcome it.
Snape strode outside to greet the early spring dawn, his muted steps in the wet dirt brisk and purposeful. The sun had not yet risen and, much like Harry, the birds were still nestled warmly in their nests.
He inhaled deeply, noting the smell of the blossoming honeysuckles and damp earth. The morning dew glistened in the soft, pale blue light covering the tarp of his greenhouse.
As he made his way forward to check upon his plants and produce, he considered the evening spent with Harry. Though he'd tentatively agreed to share a tale from his tumultuous teenage years, choosing the right story was no simple task.
Memories of his painful experiences, as a young and impulsive student, resurfaced with every passing moment. They weren't merely recollections but vivid, visceral relivings of the crimes and lessons that had shaped him.
It was a challenge to select a time he felt comfortable sharing with Harry.
He had been reserved most of his life, the prospect of opening up a door to his most humbling and painful experiences was vulnerable, nearly too vulnerable.
Tapping the dirt off his shoes at the entrance of the greenhouse, Snape stepped inside and collected his watering can from the wooden work bench.
As he considered his youthful transgressions for some time, three incidents loomed large in his thoughts.
The first was his audacious and dangerous quest for forbidden dark artifacts in fifth year. The pursuit of which had ignited a rush of power within him, a sensation he'd craved. But the discovery and its subsequent consequences had swiftly humbled him. He recalled the vulnerability and humility he felt as discipline rained down on him, pulling him back from the precipice of arrogance.
In his sixth year, a catastrophic cauldron explosion which he was undoubtedly at fault for, had sent shockwaves throughout the school. The mishap's public embarrassment left a bitter taste in his mouth long after the stinging sensation in his backside had subsided.
That incident had forced him to grapple with the price of unchecked recklessness and personal responsibility. Would be an excellent lesson for Potter to learn; Snape thought to himself as he shook his head, memories of the young hero's own recklessness causing him to tsk out loud.
The most engrained lesson, however, was the malevolent curse he had inflicted on the Lichtenstein boy during his seventh year. Driven by a misguided desire for revenge, he had inflicted unnecessary and lengthy suffering upon his classmate. Dumbledore's stern yet much needed punishment had left him horribly sore, and mostly remorseful. Although, the lingering sentiment that Lichtenstein had brought it on himself never completely dissipated, no matter how guilty he inevitably felt.
Snape found himself briefly smirking as he recalled the shocked and incensed expressions on the faces of Slughorn and Dumbledore upon discovering each of his transgressions. In contrast to the physical and emotional anguish his father had inflicted on him with the cane or whip, the discipline administered by the Headmaster and his Head of House, though stern, had never made him feel like a wretched young wizard.
As Snape meticulously watered his thriving plants, he contemplated those pivotal, and often painful, moments of his flourishing life around him contrasted with the weight of his own history.
For a fleeting minute, the memory of Dumbledore's death pierced through his thoughts, reopening a well of pain and remorse, a reminder that even in transformation, some wounds never truly healed. His raw grief over the day on the tower would never subside, no matter how much he tried to bury it.
Snape continued carefully watering the remaining plants in the greenhouse, until the unmistakable sound of boots plodding down the dirt path pulled him from the memory of the late Headmaster.
Ron Weasley hesitated for a moment outside the wooden greenhouse door. He had never expected to be standing there, on the property of the man who had once viewed as his most dreaded professor. But times had changed, and so had they… hopefully.
Earlier, he had watched from a distance as Snape briskly made his way down the path and entered the large, dome-shaped greenhouse. He was initially puzzled, as he briefly struggled to recognize the man.
Snape was clad in a deep forest green cloak, a black button up which was accompanied by a thin black belt with a silver clasp holding up his trousers. His trousers, rather than the customary black ones, were earth brown and fit rather loosely.
It was the first time, in his six years of knowing the cold and enigmatic potions professor, that Ron had seen him wearing anything but his billowing black robes. It was quite the change, and had it not been for Snape's unmistakably large nose and slick, black hair, Ron would've failed to identify him.
It was a chilly spring morning and he quietly watched his breath billow up in little white puffs as he fidgeted his hands in his pockets outside the door. He had a sneaking suspicion that Snape wouldn't be too thrilled to see him at his home before sunrise, or at his home at all for that matter.
When Mum mentioned Harry's new living arrangements the previous night, following her encounter with McGonagall that afternoon, she practically had to persuade Ron to get off his broomstick at midnight. Although he wasn't enthusiastic about seeing Snape, he felt a strong need to ensure Harry's well-being. A part of Ron couldn't fathom why his friend would willingly choose to live with their former icy professor, of all people.
Ron sucked in one last deep breath, as he pulled his hand up to knock on the door. Just before his knuckles could rap on the worn wood, Snape swiftly pulled it open.
He raised his brow up at Ron, his expression stern and skeptical, as he set his watering can down on a small work table to his left.
"Mr. Weasley," Snape began, in his typical low drawl, "Rather early to be intruding upon a resident's private property, wouldn't you agree?"
Ron let out a puff of air, smiling uncomfortably as his blue eyes met Snape's deep, dark ones.
"Morning, Professor Snape. Um, I don't suppose Harry is up yet, is he?" He asked tentatively.
A moment of silence hung in the air as Snape assessed the redheaded boy before him. Ron looked exhausted, and his eyes bore the unmistakable marks of many sleepless nights.
Snape opened the door a touch more, a mixture of faint compassion and heavy annoyance flickered in his chest at the sight of him. Losing a family member was inexplicably hard, and even he couldn't convince himself to be overly stern with the young wizard.
Loss, however, wasn't a completely justifiable excuse for stomping around his home, unannounced or invited.
"Perhaps start with why you are here, so incredibly early, young man." Snape lightly scolded as he leaned against the doorframe. "Then I will decide if Potter's whereabouts are any of your concern."
Ron sighed as he grated the toe of his mud caked boot in the dirt, a glimmer of trepidation rose up within him at Snape's typical formality and abrasiveness.
Old habits die hard, I guess. Ron thought to himself.
"Just making sure you haven't killed him yet is all." Ron smirked a bit at Snape's slight frown.
"Harry's my best mate you know and, well, we've all been through a lot.…" he trailed off, breaking eye contact.
Snape sighed as he glanced down at Ron's exceptionally wet and muddy boots, a sour look formed on his stern face.
"Yes, well, how noble of you," Snape replied in his typical dry fashion as he turned back into the greenhouse. "Wait there," He directed as he disappeared inside, letting the door close firmly back on the redheaded boy behind him.
Ron shook his head and crossed his arms, glancing up at the yellowing sky. Thankfully the sun was beginning to rise. Perhaps though, he should have listened to mum, and came during normal visiting hours. Maybe Harry would have answered the door.
"Here you are," Snape said as he returned and swept the door open, dropping a pair of slicker boots at Ron's feet.
"What are those for?" Ron asked as he eyed the clean, dry pair of black boots.
"Take off your shoes and put them on," Snape said dismissively as he motioned to Ron's feet. "I'll not have you sloshing about and plastering my delicate, low-hanging plants with mud."
Ron huffed a bit at the direction but leaned against the door frame to slip off his wet boots. A small stream of muddy water slid out as he peeled off each one. Snape pinched his eyes together and tried not to focus on the smell of feet permeating the entrance of the greenhouse.
After forcefully shoving each foot in the new boots he glanced up at Snape. "What now?"
Snape said nothing, just turned and motioned for the young wizard to follow.
Ron obliged and peered around the greenhouse, filled with the same appreciation and genuine curiosity that Harry did. His gaze traversed over Snape's lush foliage, his eyes lighting up at the sight of magical plants entwined with hearty produce.
Amid the verdant chaos, he spotted an overgrown bed of dittany, its bright green leaves gleaming with their potent healing properties. Nearby, wolfsbane grew in clusters, its eerie violet beauty a stark contrast to the forest and olive green hues of other plants.
The air was thick with the earthy scent of rare botanical wonders, and Ron couldn't help but feel a grudging respect for Snape's expertise in herbology.
"Ah, you've got some screeching little Mandrakes I see," Ron commented, watching the way the tops of the bright green leaves trembled.
"Indeed," Snape replied, pulling a pair of scratchy and oversized gloves out from under the wooden table that supported a bed of his sopophorous plants.
"Put these on Mr. Weasley," Snape directed as he extended the gloves to Ron.
Ron eyed Snape, filled with apprehension as he took them.
"What for?" He asked, tentatively sliding his hands into the gloves.
"Don't tell me you've got Harry locked up somewhere so mental that I need these to get to him." Ron said, waving the gloves dramatically in Snape's direction.
Snape scowled, turning to search about the bottom shelf of the wooden table.
"Potter, is perfectly safe. He is asleep, in bed, as you ought to be at this hour." Snape replied stern and slow as he leveled Ron with a no-nonsense glare.
Ron merely nodded as he glanced away from Snape's disapproving glare.
"As a penance for intruding upon my property without notice, or permission, you may carefully prune the dittany," Snape pointed to the slightly overgrown plant in the garden bed as he withdrew a pair of gardening shears, and handed them over to Ron.
Ron slowly took them, his face revealing his utmost displeasure at the direction. Snape decisively ignored the incredulous look on the young wizard's face and turned away to retrieve his watering can.
"Come to me when you have done a satisfactory job, and I will assign you another task." He called over his shoulder to the dejected redhead.
"Wha-" Ron began, staring down at the menacingly sharp looking shears. Though he quickly gave up his sentence when Snape refused to turn back and listen.
"This is utter rubbish," he mumbled under his breath, lightly kicking the ground for emphasis.
Snape fixed him with a stern gaze from afar that left no room for arguments as he resumed tending to his plants.
"I knew I should've waited to come," Ron grumbled to himself as he begrudgingly walked toward the bed of dittany.
When Harry moseyed downstairs, near noon, he couldn't help but chuckle at the unexpected scene before him. While filling a cup with cold water at the kitchen spout, he turned his attention to the open window above the sink, drawn by the familiar sound of raised voices outside.
By the side of the greenhouse, he was surprised to see Ron, wearing a wide-brimmed garden hat and gloves, engaged in a heated argument with Snape about a large hole he had dug with a short shovel. Which apparently, according to Ron, was positioned just 'two centimeters' off Snape's mark.
Smiling wide, Harry quickly pulled on his shoes and crept outside, hoping to go undetected by both.
"The roots and their subsequent growth, Mr. Weasley," Harry overheard Snape scolding as he crept around the backside of the yard, "will not cease to wreak havoc because of your incompetence."
Ron's face was a deep shade of scarlet, fury bubbling over him as he peered up at Snape under the brim of the overly large hat that he had been instructed him to wear.
"Blimey, Professor. It's a measly inch– besides you told me right here!" Ron exclaimed as he pointed down at the massive hole directly in front of his boot clad toes.
Snape's expression was cold and firm, "It is no surprise to me that your memory has failed you." He replied, pointing ever so slightly to the left of the dug hole.
Just before Ron was about to implode, Harry stepped into view earning him a hard glare from both of them.
"Ron!" Harry said, his voice tinged with a reserved glee as he gazed between the pair; meeting their heated expressions with a warm smile. "I didn't know you were coming."
Ron fully turned around to face him, little droplets of sweat covered his freckled, scrunched nose. He put his free hand on his hip and staked the shovel down hard with his other.
"Well, good afternoon to you!" He said curtly, "Enjoy your beauty sleep, did ya?"
Harry crumpled with laughter, while Snape merely scoffed, frowning deeply as he peered back into the large hole while the young wizards spoke.
Harry turned his sparkling emerald eyes to Ron after composing himself, "What are you doing here? Thought you were off with the family for a few weeks?"
Ron huffed, still miffed by his long and laborious morning with Snape. "I'll fill you in when we get out of here," he said quietly as he subtly motioned his eyes behind him and over to Snape.
Harry nodded, glancing over Ron's shoulder at his glowering former professor.
"Snape?" Harry asked, his tone pacifying and smooth. "I've been needing to get some clothes and pick up a few things in Diagon Alley. Do you mind if I spend the day with Ron?"
Snape glanced up at the young wizards, his hands coming to rest on his hips. "You may not address me in that manner, Potter." He narrowed Harry with a warning glare before continuing.
"Considering Mr. Weasley has begrudgingly fulfilled the majority of your morning chores, you are free to do as you please for the remainder of the day."
Ron gave Harry a hopeful yet exhausted look, "Great, let's go. And you owe me a drink, mate."
Harry chuckled as he clapped Ron on the back and nodded. The motion prompted a resentful smile out of Ron, as he yanked his sweaty gloves off his hands and rested the shovel on the side of the greenhouse.
As the pair of young wizards turned to walk around Snape, they were caught with a halting hand.
"However, you are not yet finished, Weasley. Fill in your mistake, dig in the correct position this time, and after I have given you my approval, then you may depart." Snape commanded firmly as he gave Ron no nonsense glare.
Ron's relieved expression quickly resigned to frustration again.
"Seriously, Professor Snape?!" Ron asked as he crossed his arms and glowered up at the dark haired man.
"Indeed." Snape replied curtly, turning to walk back to the house.
Ron groaned loudly enough for Snape to hear his displeasure then he whipped around to Harry, nearly falling into the large hole.
"Go get a shovel, Sleeping Beauty," Ron pointed to the greenhouse, regaining his footing. "It's a team effort this time."
Harry emitted a light, good-natured laugh and rolled his eyes before pivoting to locate a shovel. He was looking forward to spending the day with Ron, despite the chorus of inevitable complaints he was bound to receive.
"I'll buy you a round of drinks mate." He called back over his shoulder to the steaming redhead.
Snape savored the mild and floral notes of his warm chamomile tea, his gaze shifting from the fireplace to the front door, and back again, for the fifth time that night. With each passing moment, his sense of dread grew as the time edged closer to ten.
For most of the day, solitude had been his companion and he had relished it. Immersing himself in his potions lab, nurturing the flourishing garden, and delving into the aged pages of an arcane lore manuscript, that held secrets known to only a select few. It was a much needed break from the demands of Harry's question about his past.
However, as the dinner hour had come and gone, and the soft sun set slowly over the winding hills, Snape had begun to grapple with some trepidation.
"Foolish boy," He muttered aloud as he rubbed the temple of his forehead.
Regrettably, he possessed an intimate understanding of Harry's disobedient tendencies. He recognized that the young wizard was not one to adhere strictly to rules or established protocols. His hope that Harry might abstain from breaking a rule so promptly had been a fruitless assumption.
Nevertheless, he had held onto the expectation that after their stern discussion the previous evening, the young wizard would exhibit a modicum of sense, especially in light of the disciplinary implements introduced to address any infractions.
But as the clock chimed ten, there was no sign of the boy. Snape sighed, setting his newspaper on the coffee table. Reluctance coursed through his veins as he contemplated Harry's impending discipline. The prospect of administering another unyielding spanking, so soon after the last, weighed heavily on his mind.
Despite his internal turmoil, Snape fully grasped the expectations of adulthood and his responsibility to impart the lesson of accountability to the young wizard. He knew he had to address Harry's actions, no matter how much he might have preferred to avoid it.
After a few more hours of restless waiting, Snape let out a final disapproving 'tsk' and released a heavy sigh. Filled with unwavering determination, he crossed the room in long strides, the clacking of his steps echoing behind him, as he reached the door and snatched his cloak.
Author's notes: It's a snowy October morning here in my small town, the perfect weather to curl up with a cup of coffee and write for hours on end. 😉 As always, thank you all for following along and your fantastic engagement on each chapter! I love hearing your thoughts and will always welcome them. Guest Hamlet, you are my tried and true reviewer on this platform and I always love hearing your thoughts- Thank you so much for your consistency and kind words.
With the weekend turning icy and my partner finally giving in on her request for me to help with furniture building, I might just find the time to release the next chapter before next Sunday. Fingers crossed! Though, I have a sneaky suspicion she might just set up a heater out there and throw my writing plans off track.
Happy reading this week and much love to you all. I'm looking forward to posting the next chapter soon! Stay safe, warm, and cheerful.