“beyond wandpoint” 029 by gingerbred
“11 09j Sunday - The Bond”
Severus and Hermione, Albus, Poppy
In which Hermione confronts the elephant in the room, in her own mind at least...
For Grooot, in appreciation for the solid tip on pages.
Originally Published: 2017-12-02 on AO3
Chapter: 029
Pairing: Hermione Granger / Severus Snape
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
It goes surprising well, really, until they reach the very end.
"You may now seal your bond with a kiss," she thinks she hears the Headmaster say, but suddenly his voice seems improbably thin and tinny and incredibly far away. Hermione has never been to a bonding ceremony. She gathers they aren't often done anymore; they've gone out of vogue. She thinks if she had seen one before, this would have come as less of a surprise.
Severus, on the other hand, has seen a bonding ceremony before, but that doesn't seem to have prepared him any better for this. Admittedly that ceremony was during the last war when two Death Eaters had sought to bond their magic; it didn't end well for either of them. But apparently it was long enough ago that he had completely forgotten this aspect of the proceedings. He's feeling fairly stupid for that.
They stand there blinking at each other for a few impossibly long moments, unsure how to proceed. Hermione is wondering if 'may' means they have the option of not doing so, and she certainly doesn't intend to be the one to make the first move. She can only imagine his soul crushing rejection if she tried. That's a humiliation she can do without.
The Professor, for his part, seems no more inclined to make a move, and she thinks that might be confirmation that this isn't a requirement per se. That is until Professor Dumbledore addresses them both, "You should seal the bond with a kiss." When they still don't move, he adds, "Now."
And at that the Potions Master leans down and very softly, so much so she wonders if it actually happened, brushes his lips against hers for the briefest of moments and then withdraws.
She now finds herself blinking even more.
She might even be seeing spots. Later she'll realise that's partially due to Madam Pomfrey snapping a picture. But only partially.
The Headmaster is speaking again; she hasn't a clue what he's saying. Her blinks segue seamlessly to staring, she can't stop looking at Professor Snape's lips. They're firm and soft. Marvellously soft. Enticingly so. And then she wishes she hadn't just thought that. It seems odd they're so soft, considering he just woke from a coma this afternoon. Maybe two days isn't long enough for them to have chapped, or maybe one of the Healing Charms Madam Pomfrey employed prevented it. But the thought comes unbidden that he could have lingered a little longer.
He smells fantastic, an unusual mix of musky yet clean. She wonders if the spells the Mediwitch employs are the reason for that. There's a heady scent that can only be him, it's very masculine and human, not artificial or... foreign, and it's gotten stronger the longer he's been in hospital. She'd found it somehow comforting as she sat by his side. But there are none of the acrid notes that come from sweat she would expect in correlation. She suspects the Charm strips those away, probably killing or more likely Vanishing the bacteria - her Muggle knowledge of biology augments the magical in typical Hermione fashion. She assumes that would leave the person's natural scent behind... She's a little embarrassed to discover she likes the smell of him; that she finds it every bit as alluring as his lips.
And there's something about his touch that has her a little breathless. His hand, remarkably strong in hers despite his weakened condition; his hair, so silky soft as it tickled across her cheek... She's sure some of that is excitement, naturally, a case of nerves in the face of what they're doing here. But that doesn't really begin to explain her response. No, there are other, all too obvious reasons for that she's trying very hard not to think about, and she succeeds, mostly, at least for a moment. So she thinks instead about his touch - his hand in hers, his lips on hers - it's pleasing. Sure. Gentle. Not slobbery, groping or fumbling. Which is probably just one of the differences between men and boys.
She tries to breathe normally. It proves difficult. Those thoughts aren't helping. And then her focus begins to slip.
The simple truth is she thinks lifetime celibacy is stupid when there are eminently reasonable options, and there is absolutely no chance she's hoping for the death of the man who just came to her rescue. On the contrary, she plans to do everything in her power to see he survives, with or without the Loyalty Vow. So as to those reasonable options...
Another truth is that the Potion Friday had exposed her to a number of thoughts and ideas she probably wouldn't have dared allow herself to explore otherwise, and having Lavender as a roommate all these years has left its mark. When Hermione gives her imagination free rein, she is in fact quite imaginative, and she considers her bondmate a definite option. And a good one. For a great many things.
Most of which would have her blushing furiously were she just to think of them.
So she absolutely doesn't.
Much.
Hermione honestly hasn't harboured some secret crush on him all this time. She hasn't lusted after him from afar. She would never have allowed herself to do so. Well, not since second year anyway. He was the one who cured her of that, in fact. Dramatically. Fantasising about him would have struck her as immature and foolish. She sees herself as neither and tries to behave accordingly. Despite his voice.
But he does have a number of attributes she personally finds very attractive, and she has incorporated one or the other, or possibly more, into her checklist for dream partners over the years. Those hands, that voice... His obvious skill, knowledge, intelligence, acerbic wit, precision, determination, dexterity, loyalty, character... There may be more; she hardly knows him. Still, the fantasies weren't ever quite about him.
But under the effects of the Potion the other night, she took that hurdle. At a flying gallop. Over the spanse of an hour, she had fantasised about him in rapid succession in every remotely appealing scenario known to her and then made up a few more. What those fantasies lacked in detail, they more than made up for with graphic variety. Quite a lot of it.
And that's a problem, a very real problem. He's been crystal clear about what he wants. She understood him, perfectly, his requirements, his conditions, and she agreed. It's been only seconds since she accepted those limitations by bonding with him, and first and foremost amongst them is that their relationship, whatever form it takes, will be non-physical. And already she's wondering about convincing him to reevaluate that. After the war, of course, but still...
Admittedly, having envisioned something Friday is no indication whatsoever she actually wants it. Under the influence of the potion, she'd also pictured, well, Malfoy, but only because he was present, and presumably equipped with the necessary, erm, tackle for the job. There'd even been a brief, highly disturbing, fantasy with Firenze that now makes her shudder, for which she has no explanation beyond: the Potion is terrifying stuff and there was a portrait of Centaurs on the wall which probably served as inspiration. And then there were ideas for the creative application of a whole slew of objects that she's horrified just to think about now. But in stark contrast to... her bondmate, none of these were things she'd even remotely contemplated in advance, and certainly not since.
That's a very marked difference.
Unquestionably, any and all thoughts related to him prior to Friday had been remarkably tame, fairly abstract, but they aren't any more. Not at all.
And so she's feeling rather guilty. She only just agreed to his terms, and already she's going off script. She's ashamed. Embarrassed, both by some of her thoughts and the fact she apparently couldn't just respect his wishes for even the length of the ceremony. Not even a moment, apparently. They're really only seconds into this thing, and here she's wondering if she can't seduce him at some point in the future. After everything's settled... Certainly not now, that would be far too complicated, and frankly mortifying, given her classmates and... but later, later perhaps...
There's an abiding sense of guilt and shame. For all of that, for the fact he's been pressured to do this to keep her safe. It's a little overawing. She wonders if the Loyalty Vow is making it worse? Compounding the problem somehow?
Professor Dumbledore said... something. There's a flare of magic from both of them, between both of them, it envelops them and sinks into their skin. For a moment she thinks they're glowing, there's a flash, perhaps Madam Pomfrey's camera again, and then everything begins to... slide. Shift. It's all out of kilter. And then she's overcome with a wave of feeling.
Revulsion.
But it's not her own.
As the magic bonding them settles, he's suddenly rocked by a swell of feelings, none of them his own. A vague note of recognition echoes in the back of his mind; it's hard to hear his own thoughts above the roar of her emotions. But he thinks he's read about something like this. Whatever form of bond Albus had chosen for them, apparently they're to be emotionally linked as well.
Fucking hell.
He's known Albus, worked alongside him too long to take this for inadvertent. The bastard planned this all along. For fuck's sake.
He's having trouble staying on his feet under the onslaught of her... feelings, and that's before he can even discern what they are. When he does, it only gets worse.
The humiliation, her humiliation is... overwhelming. Humiliation and... guilt. He's not sure as to the source of that guilt, and he honestly doesn't care in the face of her staggering shame and embarrassment. It's literally staggering, in fact. The force of it, the impact has him swaying on his feet. And it's fucking insulting.
His disdain for this solution ratchets up and he's... he's revolted to have been forced into this. It was bad enough as it was, but this... this is how she feels about... about being bonded to him. She must still have been terrified out of her mind to have agreed to it if this is how she feels. She'll doubtless eventually feel she was pressured or taken advantage of. He risked his life to get her to safety. He's risked it more than once, in fact, over the years, trying to keep her safe, and this is how she feels about him... It's... it's humiliating. She's right about that.
He's wavering back and forth and it isn't long before his knees buckle. Poppy and Albus have their wands in hand, prepared to cast spells to catch him, but to add to his... humiliation, the witch who finds him so distasteful has caught him, physically, before the others had a chance to act. He can feel her panic that she's now touching him, clutching him to her, trying to support his much taller, larger frame against her far more delicate one, and he just wants her... gone.
He's losing consciousness again, and is thankfully spared either having to chase her off or watching her flee in disgust by doing so. He's never been so grateful for a faint. His field of vision constricts, tighter and tighter, everything fades to grey, his ears are ringing, and he's having serious trouble understanding anything he hears anyway. He senses more than knows Poppy has rushed forward, and somehow he's tucked back into his bed.
Some information filters through. He's vaguely aware of his robes being magicked off and being returned to the Infirmary gown. He sort of hopes they got the young woman out of the room before then. Magic is being cast. Some of it seems to help. He feels more at peace and soon, soon he's able to fall asleep and get some apparently much needed rest.
It would seem a couple hours of consciousness had been too much. Or perhaps it was the minutes of marriage. That bodes well.
Severus and Hermione, Albus, Poppy
In which Hermione confronts the elephant in the room, in her own mind at least...
For Grooot, in appreciation for the solid tip on pages.
Originally Published: 2017-12-02 on AO3
Chapter: 029
Pairing: Hermione Granger / Severus Snape
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
It goes surprising well, really, until they reach the very end.
"You may now seal your bond with a kiss," she thinks she hears the Headmaster say, but suddenly his voice seems improbably thin and tinny and incredibly far away. Hermione has never been to a bonding ceremony. She gathers they aren't often done anymore; they've gone out of vogue. She thinks if she had seen one before, this would have come as less of a surprise.
Severus, on the other hand, has seen a bonding ceremony before, but that doesn't seem to have prepared him any better for this. Admittedly that ceremony was during the last war when two Death Eaters had sought to bond their magic; it didn't end well for either of them. But apparently it was long enough ago that he had completely forgotten this aspect of the proceedings. He's feeling fairly stupid for that.
They stand there blinking at each other for a few impossibly long moments, unsure how to proceed. Hermione is wondering if 'may' means they have the option of not doing so, and she certainly doesn't intend to be the one to make the first move. She can only imagine his soul crushing rejection if she tried. That's a humiliation she can do without.
The Professor, for his part, seems no more inclined to make a move, and she thinks that might be confirmation that this isn't a requirement per se. That is until Professor Dumbledore addresses them both, "You should seal the bond with a kiss." When they still don't move, he adds, "Now."
And at that the Potions Master leans down and very softly, so much so she wonders if it actually happened, brushes his lips against hers for the briefest of moments and then withdraws.
She now finds herself blinking even more.
She might even be seeing spots. Later she'll realise that's partially due to Madam Pomfrey snapping a picture. But only partially.
The Headmaster is speaking again; she hasn't a clue what he's saying. Her blinks segue seamlessly to staring, she can't stop looking at Professor Snape's lips. They're firm and soft. Marvellously soft. Enticingly so. And then she wishes she hadn't just thought that. It seems odd they're so soft, considering he just woke from a coma this afternoon. Maybe two days isn't long enough for them to have chapped, or maybe one of the Healing Charms Madam Pomfrey employed prevented it. But the thought comes unbidden that he could have lingered a little longer.
He smells fantastic, an unusual mix of musky yet clean. She wonders if the spells the Mediwitch employs are the reason for that. There's a heady scent that can only be him, it's very masculine and human, not artificial or... foreign, and it's gotten stronger the longer he's been in hospital. She'd found it somehow comforting as she sat by his side. But there are none of the acrid notes that come from sweat she would expect in correlation. She suspects the Charm strips those away, probably killing or more likely Vanishing the bacteria - her Muggle knowledge of biology augments the magical in typical Hermione fashion. She assumes that would leave the person's natural scent behind... She's a little embarrassed to discover she likes the smell of him; that she finds it every bit as alluring as his lips.
And there's something about his touch that has her a little breathless. His hand, remarkably strong in hers despite his weakened condition; his hair, so silky soft as it tickled across her cheek... She's sure some of that is excitement, naturally, a case of nerves in the face of what they're doing here. But that doesn't really begin to explain her response. No, there are other, all too obvious reasons for that she's trying very hard not to think about, and she succeeds, mostly, at least for a moment. So she thinks instead about his touch - his hand in hers, his lips on hers - it's pleasing. Sure. Gentle. Not slobbery, groping or fumbling. Which is probably just one of the differences between men and boys.
She tries to breathe normally. It proves difficult. Those thoughts aren't helping. And then her focus begins to slip.
The simple truth is she thinks lifetime celibacy is stupid when there are eminently reasonable options, and there is absolutely no chance she's hoping for the death of the man who just came to her rescue. On the contrary, she plans to do everything in her power to see he survives, with or without the Loyalty Vow. So as to those reasonable options...
Another truth is that the Potion Friday had exposed her to a number of thoughts and ideas she probably wouldn't have dared allow herself to explore otherwise, and having Lavender as a roommate all these years has left its mark. When Hermione gives her imagination free rein, she is in fact quite imaginative, and she considers her bondmate a definite option. And a good one. For a great many things.
Most of which would have her blushing furiously were she just to think of them.
So she absolutely doesn't.
Much.
Hermione honestly hasn't harboured some secret crush on him all this time. She hasn't lusted after him from afar. She would never have allowed herself to do so. Well, not since second year anyway. He was the one who cured her of that, in fact. Dramatically. Fantasising about him would have struck her as immature and foolish. She sees herself as neither and tries to behave accordingly. Despite his voice.
But he does have a number of attributes she personally finds very attractive, and she has incorporated one or the other, or possibly more, into her checklist for dream partners over the years. Those hands, that voice... His obvious skill, knowledge, intelligence, acerbic wit, precision, determination, dexterity, loyalty, character... There may be more; she hardly knows him. Still, the fantasies weren't ever quite about him.
But under the effects of the Potion the other night, she took that hurdle. At a flying gallop. Over the spanse of an hour, she had fantasised about him in rapid succession in every remotely appealing scenario known to her and then made up a few more. What those fantasies lacked in detail, they more than made up for with graphic variety. Quite a lot of it.
And that's a problem, a very real problem. He's been crystal clear about what he wants. She understood him, perfectly, his requirements, his conditions, and she agreed. It's been only seconds since she accepted those limitations by bonding with him, and first and foremost amongst them is that their relationship, whatever form it takes, will be non-physical. And already she's wondering about convincing him to reevaluate that. After the war, of course, but still...
Admittedly, having envisioned something Friday is no indication whatsoever she actually wants it. Under the influence of the potion, she'd also pictured, well, Malfoy, but only because he was present, and presumably equipped with the necessary, erm, tackle for the job. There'd even been a brief, highly disturbing, fantasy with Firenze that now makes her shudder, for which she has no explanation beyond: the Potion is terrifying stuff and there was a portrait of Centaurs on the wall which probably served as inspiration. And then there were ideas for the creative application of a whole slew of objects that she's horrified just to think about now. But in stark contrast to... her bondmate, none of these were things she'd even remotely contemplated in advance, and certainly not since.
That's a very marked difference.
Unquestionably, any and all thoughts related to him prior to Friday had been remarkably tame, fairly abstract, but they aren't any more. Not at all.
And so she's feeling rather guilty. She only just agreed to his terms, and already she's going off script. She's ashamed. Embarrassed, both by some of her thoughts and the fact she apparently couldn't just respect his wishes for even the length of the ceremony. Not even a moment, apparently. They're really only seconds into this thing, and here she's wondering if she can't seduce him at some point in the future. After everything's settled... Certainly not now, that would be far too complicated, and frankly mortifying, given her classmates and... but later, later perhaps...
There's an abiding sense of guilt and shame. For all of that, for the fact he's been pressured to do this to keep her safe. It's a little overawing. She wonders if the Loyalty Vow is making it worse? Compounding the problem somehow?
Professor Dumbledore said... something. There's a flare of magic from both of them, between both of them, it envelops them and sinks into their skin. For a moment she thinks they're glowing, there's a flash, perhaps Madam Pomfrey's camera again, and then everything begins to... slide. Shift. It's all out of kilter. And then she's overcome with a wave of feeling.
Revulsion.
But it's not her own.
As the magic bonding them settles, he's suddenly rocked by a swell of feelings, none of them his own. A vague note of recognition echoes in the back of his mind; it's hard to hear his own thoughts above the roar of her emotions. But he thinks he's read about something like this. Whatever form of bond Albus had chosen for them, apparently they're to be emotionally linked as well.
Fucking hell.
He's known Albus, worked alongside him too long to take this for inadvertent. The bastard planned this all along. For fuck's sake.
He's having trouble staying on his feet under the onslaught of her... feelings, and that's before he can even discern what they are. When he does, it only gets worse.
The humiliation, her humiliation is... overwhelming. Humiliation and... guilt. He's not sure as to the source of that guilt, and he honestly doesn't care in the face of her staggering shame and embarrassment. It's literally staggering, in fact. The force of it, the impact has him swaying on his feet. And it's fucking insulting.
His disdain for this solution ratchets up and he's... he's revolted to have been forced into this. It was bad enough as it was, but this... this is how she feels about... about being bonded to him. She must still have been terrified out of her mind to have agreed to it if this is how she feels. She'll doubtless eventually feel she was pressured or taken advantage of. He risked his life to get her to safety. He's risked it more than once, in fact, over the years, trying to keep her safe, and this is how she feels about him... It's... it's humiliating. She's right about that.
He's wavering back and forth and it isn't long before his knees buckle. Poppy and Albus have their wands in hand, prepared to cast spells to catch him, but to add to his... humiliation, the witch who finds him so distasteful has caught him, physically, before the others had a chance to act. He can feel her panic that she's now touching him, clutching him to her, trying to support his much taller, larger frame against her far more delicate one, and he just wants her... gone.
He's losing consciousness again, and is thankfully spared either having to chase her off or watching her flee in disgust by doing so. He's never been so grateful for a faint. His field of vision constricts, tighter and tighter, everything fades to grey, his ears are ringing, and he's having serious trouble understanding anything he hears anyway. He senses more than knows Poppy has rushed forward, and somehow he's tucked back into his bed.
Some information filters through. He's vaguely aware of his robes being magicked off and being returned to the Infirmary gown. He sort of hopes they got the young woman out of the room before then. Magic is being cast. Some of it seems to help. He feels more at peace and soon, soon he's able to fall asleep and get some apparently much needed rest.
It would seem a couple hours of consciousness had been too much. Or perhaps it was the minutes of marriage. That bodes well.