Punished

As always, anything you recognize isn't mine, and thanks, as always, to Leigh-Anne!

6. PUNISHED

He knew without opening his eyes, just by inhaling, where he was.

"Crucio!"

Just as he knew, as soon as the bolt of pain struck his ribs, who had hit him.

He raised his head, ignoring Lucius, to find the Dark Lord watching impassively from his seat in Malfoy's candlelit drawing room as Lucius circled Severus warily, waiting for him to respond.

Severus staggered to his feet, went forward, and dropped again in front of Voldemort.

Lifted the hem of his robe.

Kissed it.

"My Lord."

And braced himself as Lucius came at him again and again. "Crucio!"

This time from the other side, a new set of ribs his target. Severus sprawled on the floor, never taking his eyes from those narrow red slits that studied him.

"Lucius..." the Dark Lord hissed. "Do you smell it? He dares come to us reeking of virgin blood..."

And again, the bolt of pain connected with flesh, with bone.

"Crucio!"

And again.

"Crucio!"

And again.

"CRUCIO!"

And the pain exploded in new places, with a crack of bone and tearing of flesh, but he didn't cry out, he didn't scream, he didn't protest.

He didn't fight back.

And when Lucius was gasping for air, dripping with sweat, the Dark Lord finally spoke again.

"Severus ... what have you to say for yourself?"

Severus staggered to one knee again, bowed his head again, and kissed the hem again. "My Lord."

He felt as much as heard Lucius approach and braced himself for another assault.

But Voldemort rasped, "Enough!"

"She was ours." Lucius fell back into his own chair, his mouth twisted in anger. "Mine and my son's."

Severus angled his face back at the blond man who had been his friend a very long time ago and managed to smirk. "She is mine."

Lucius grabbed the arms of the chair to hoist himself up, ready to charge Severus again, but the Dark Lord hissed and jerked a talon-like hand at the blond man, and he sank back down, seething.

Severus turned his face back to the Dark Lord, who looked at him and demanded in a lethal whine, "Why?"

He heaved in a shuddering breath. He'd bought himself a chance. That was all ... a chance. And this was it. He forced a sneer. "Because ... I wanted her."

"A Mudblood?" Lucius barked in triumph from behind him. "You lust after a filthy Mudblood?"

"I want to make her..." Severus said lovingly, "suffer." He heaved in a shuddering breath. "For six years she and that Weasley spawn and Harry Potter have stopped me from doing your bidding, Lord Voldemort. I deserve to be the one to make her pay."

"And Dumbledore... why would he let you?" the Dark Lord demanded.

"Dumbledore played into my hands. He thinks I am noble, that I am protecting her."

"Then how can you make her suffer?"

"The subtlety of pain is a fine art, my Lord, like poison: the superior sources are not always easily detected. There are many ways to cause suffering... as I use her proximity to learn more about our enemies."

The Dark Lord leaned back in his chair and allowed his red eyes to slant from one man to the other, back and forth, as he considered.

"You have made me angry, Severus."

Severus bowed his head.

"Lucius had every right to seek vengeance against you."

"As I allowed him to."

"Without fighting back."

"My Lord," Severus said, his voice dripping with acid, "I would not lower myself to fight for a filthy Mudblood."

He sensed it as much as heard it when Lucius leapt to his feet, enraged, but Snape continued, allowing the sneer to curl his lips, allowing his voice to caress and taunt, going for the kill.

"Especially when, as you point out, I've already tasted her virgin blood. I've already made her mine."

A wheezing cackle filled the room as the Dark Lord threw back his head and laughed.

#

She couldn't have said how it happened, but one moment she was so deep in sleep it felt like a drug, and the next she was leaping from the bed, pain throbbing between her legs, wand in hand, ready to hiss a hex...

And stopped herself a split-second before it was too late when she realized who was coming through the shifting stones.

"You – you should have warned me!"

Professor Snape stopped, his cloak swirling around him, and dragged his eyes down her body.

Which she belatedly realized was quite available to be stared at when she looked down and saw her skin, pimpled with cold, and her thighs smeared with dried blood.

But before she could react to cover herself, cleanse herself, or just Avada Kedavra herself and end both of their misery –

He took two steps forward.

And collapsed at her feet.

"Professor!" She jumped back, then cursing herself for being a coward, she dropped to her knees. "Professor?"

He didn't move.

In fact, so still was he –

"Professor Snape!" she shrieked and pressed her fingers to his neck until she found his ragged pulse. "Thank god."

It took all her strength to heave him over onto his back where she yanked his cloak open. His white shirt was only half-buttoned, half tucked in, and she gasped when she saw the purpling bruises, the blood, the torn flesh. And, oh, Merlin, an odd swelling looked like there might even be something broken.

"Oh, my god, what have they done to you?"

Think, you idiot! She did all but slap herself before she finally calmed enough to act. A bit of silly wand waving and she had him half-levitating and she managed to get him onto his narrow bed.

Which was still soaked in her blood; why hadn't she done something about that? Shut up, you twit, she ordered herself and kept moving. She slung on a robe she found tossed over a chair – his, clearly, as it dragged the floor behind her, but at least she was covered.

She dropped to the floor beside him.

"Professor Snape," she said gently. "Can you hear me?"

He moved, his face tightening in a scowl of pain.

"I'm going to get help. Professor Dumbledore, and – and Madam Pomfrey!"

His hand closed on her wrist like a vise, and she gasped at the pain.

"Nooo..." he snarled. "No!"

"But – you need – "

His eyes were mere slits, but they bore into her with a threat that stopped her cold. "Nobody – you will call nobody, Miss Granger."

She wanted to protest, to argue, but the power in those black, black eyes...

"Yes, sir," she finally choked.

He sank back onto his pillow, and it was several long minutes before she realized he no longer gripped her wrist.

Well. Think, Hermione. You have a brain. Use it!

In all these books, there had to be something about healing, didn't there? And if the Potions master didn't have potions available, he was a sorry excuse for a Potions master, and that was not an accusation anyone would make of Severus Snape.

She tugged the robe tighter around her and secured the sash, then with a whisk of her wand, shortened it.

God help Professor Snape if she were the best he could rely on, but he had nobody but himself to blame, damn him to bloody hell.

First, she scanned the bed for the vials he'd given her earlier. That was as good a place as any to begin.

Ah, one was on the edge, caught in a fold of sheet or else it would have already fallen to the stone floor. She snatched it up, sniffed it.

He'd given her three. Damn if she could remember which was which. She let her tongue test the inner lip of the glass bottle and winced. That was the first one; she'd remember that putrid flavor forever. That was before – well, it was before. It was unlikely to be of help now since it was neither for pain nor healing. Most likely a contraceptive, or at least it had damn well better be, she thought viciously.

She carefully tugged the rough sheet – how could he stand them? – and found another vial wedged beneath his leg. This one – oh, yes, she remembered this one. As vile a concoction as she'd ever been forced to swallow, but even the merest taste on her tongue numbed her. It had to be for pain. She carried it to his potions cabinet and began trying to find a matching bottle.

And found several.

She uncorked one and sniffed, deciding it must be the same brew.

How was she ever going to get this down his throat? But without it, how would she be able to accomplish anything more?

Kneeling beside him once more, she braced herself against the side of the bed and slid her arm under his head. If she could somehow get his mouth to open with one hand, surely she could dump it down his mouth with the other before he had time to spit it out.

His jaw was clenched tight against the pain, even though he was unresponsive when she softly called his name. She tried a little louder. "Professor."

Not a stirring.

Grasping the vial securely in her right hand, she cradled his head in the crook of her left arm and gently probed his lips with her fingers. He groaned loudly. She jumped, and she almost dropped him.

But didn't.

She applied more pressure to the corner of his mouth.

"Open .... Please, Professor Snape, just a little bit –" and when his lips parted on an indrawn gasp of pain, she tilted the vial and poured – it went into his mouth and coated her fingers, and suddenly, his eyes were open, wincing blindly at the ceiling as he gulped, even sucking her fingers into his warm, wet mouth in his efforts to get more of the potion. The shudder that rippled through him vibrated from her fingertips to her core.

"Are your taste buds flat dead?" she muttered breathlessly, pulling her arm free of his head and rubbing her fingers in the folds of his robe.

She bent over him again. At least his breathing was less labored. She still needed to find a way to help him heal.

Which meant finding the last vial.

She scanned the sheets, the floor, where was it? Oh horrors. She saw something glint from beneath his inner thigh, from between his legs. She squeezed her eyes shut and gingerly worked her fingers under ... damn.

There was no way to do this with her eyes closed, of course, and it wasn't as if he was watching, but she was about to grope a –

Her husband, she reminded herself firmly.

Somehow, that did not improve the situation.

She tossed her hair out of her eyes and gritted her teeth and probed deeper beneath his groin until she could finally grasp the stout bottle – and pulled it free.

She braced herself, waiting and watching for him to react.

Nothing.

She hadn't even unstoppered it, which every movement she made confirmed. But the torn soft tissue she was all too aware of was nothing compared to what she saw on his body, and she could only be grateful to have the entire bottle for him. Internal and external, he'd said. She poured some of the thick creamy liquid into her palms and gently smoothed it over his skin, no longer angel-white but now horridly abused. Each tender stroke of her fingertips made her shudder in shared, sympathetic pain. Did this happen often?

Or was it all because of her?

She couldn't allow her thoughts to go into that vortex of guilt and shame. She had to be strong; she had to take care of him.

If she could just ease some of his discomfort, she could then dive into those books and find something stronger.

Finally, the bottle almost empty, she sank back on her heels and brushed her hair out of her eyes.

Then brushed his hair out of his eyes.

It would have to do for now.

She let out a sigh of relief and padded back to the book-covered walls. If she killed him trying to heal him, he had nobody to blame but himself.

#

Of course, that attitude was all well and good when she could busy herself actually doing something, but much harder to live with when so many hours passed in silence.

She slept on the floor beside him when she could sleep. But mostly, she hovered, watched, and worried.

He didn't move, he didn't groan or moan, and he certainly didn't threaten, curse or glare.

Oh, how she wished he would threaten, curse and glare.

Occasionally, the slightest green flare in the fireplace would hint that someone might be Flooing in, and she grabbed her wand ready to – well, she hadn't quite decided what she would do.

Deep down she wanted somebody to come and make sure he was all right, to take this awful responsibility from her shoulders.

Deep down, more than anything, she wanted to do exactly as he'd asked and curse anyone who dared breach his wards.

Deep down she had so many contradictory desires, she simply didn't dare think too much about all the things she was feeling deep down.

But the flares never materialized into anything more, so it was a moot point.

And she was left alone to worry and fret.

Dobby.

Dobby!

House-elves popped in and out as they pleased. Surely calling Dobby wouldn't break the spirit of his request.

Hermione leapt to her feet, heart pounding.

"Dobby?"

With a loud "crack!" the house-elf appeared, crouching low and covering his head and eyes and whimpering, "Dobby isn't looking, Dobby isn't looking, Master Snape!"

"Dobby, it's me, Hermione!"

He kept his eyes hidden. "Dobby can't be in Master Snape's quarters! Dobby isn't allowed! Dobby isn't looking!"

Before she could stop him, he grabbed a heavy book from the floor and began hitting himself in the head with it. "Dobby is sorry! Bad Dobby, bad Dobby for entering Master Snape's chambers!"

Hermione lunged across the room and yanked the book out of his hands. "Dobby, it's all right! I called you!"

Dobby raised a trembling face to her and broke out in a smile. "Mistress Hermione! Dobby is happy to see you here." He cast a wary glance around the room, then squeezed his eyes shut again and punched himself in the eyes.

Hermione dropped the book, grabbed his hands, and realized this was getting her nowhere. "Dobby, listen to me, damn it!"

The elf nodded his head vigorously. "Dobby is listening!"

"First, you mustn't tell anyone you've been here. Not a single soul. Not even ... not even Harry Potter!"

One eye popped open in shock.

"Not even Harry Potter or Professor Dumbledore," she said firmly. "Or Professor Snape will be very angry at both of us."

Both eyes popped open, cut sideways to the bed, then squeezed shut. It was through sheer force she managed to hold his fists still.

"Do you agree?" she asked.

"Dobby will not tell anybody he has been here. Dobby doesn't want Professor very angry at Harry Potter's friend!"

"Good. Now. I need your help. First off, I need clean sheets. And don't you have some that are softer?"

Dobby shook his head. "House-elves don't clean Master Snape's quarters or Master Snape's office or Master Snape's laboratory. House-elves don't bring him clean sheets."

"Master – I mean, Professor Snape does his own laundry?" she asked, stunned. Would his talents never cease?

"Master Snape burns his sheets. He doesn't want anybody getting anything that has been his."

Well, that was borderline psychotic.

Which actually is not at all surprising, she thought. It also explained their coarse texture. She wondered how fast he went through them.

"All right, Dobby. First, would you please bring my sheets from my bed in the Head Girl's room?"

"Dobby will have them laundered –"

"No, there's no time for that. Just bring them. And then would you please send some..." What on earth should she request? "Nourishing broth. Yes, that's it. Nourishing broth."

Dobby nodded fiercely.

"And my tea things. And... for now, maybe that's all."

Clearly, this is what Dobby had been anxious to hear because before the word "all" was completely past her lips, he'd "cracked!" right out of the room again.

Crack!

He was back, his arms full of wadded red linens and her old, faded duvet which he dropped like hot potatoes and –

Crack!

He was gone again.

Before she could sort out the sheets, top from bottom, he'd "cracked" in and out twice more, first with her grandmother's sterling silver tea tray and tea things, and finally with a covered tray from the kitchens.

She noticed he didn't stick around long enough for her to make any more requests, the wretch. She had half a mind to start knitting socks again.

She approached the bed once again. If ever there was a time when she did not want Snape to wake up, it was now. With a crisp flourish of her wand she whispered, "Mobilicorpus!"

Professor Snape rose slowly from the bed and hovered there.

Hastily (and nervously, since even though she trusted her charms, she felt very vulnerable crawling beneath his hovering body), she scrambled to yank the old sheets off and secure her own.

And he never moved.

Absolutely terrifying.

But she refused to think about that. She would simply thank her lucky stars that he wasn't able to order her not to continue.

Or be awake and aware as she continued.

Because, now, she was going to (Merlin help her) strip his ripped and bloody clothes off.

She rose on her knees and reached across his body – and it was a much bigger body than one would think with robes out of the way – and unbuttoned and tugged until his shirt was free. Then she eased it off his shoulders, down his arms, and tossed it to the floor atop the soiled linens.

And found herself nose to thigh with his soiled black trousers.

And that was where her Gryffindor courage failed her.

She snatched her wand, lowered him to the bed, and tucked the top sheet over him.

He looked very odd, enveloped in blood red with a fluffy, rose-spangled duvet covering him. She was quite sure he would dock fifty points from Gryffindor as soon as he saw it.

But it had to feel better against his bruised and battered skin.

And blood red was a very good color for him.

And that was that.

She took his linens, and without much more thought, his torn clothing, and tossed them in the fire and watched them blaze.

She stretched out in front of the fire and stifled a yawn. It was a rather satisfying way of handling laundry, at that.

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