Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

Hermione sneezed, the sickly sweet scent of gardenia and jasmine irritating her nose. She sniffed again, the fragrance familiar, like fingers clenching, wrapping themselves around her throat. The hazy shroud of déjà vu settled upon her, the suffocating sense of foreboding robbing the breath from her body.

“I don’t want to be here.” There was an edge of panic to her voice as she backed away from her professor.

“I’m afraid you haven’t a choice in the matter, Miss Granger.”

“Please, sir.” Hermione backed away further from the dark wizard, tripping over her feet as she landed hard against an open rubbish bin. The force of the blow and the stench of the festering garbage had her gagging for air.

“Calm yourself,” Snape hissed.

The temperature had dropped, and despite the heaviness of the Muggle-fashioned tweed coat he wore, Snape shivered.

“Calm yourself,” he barked, the disturbance of the electromagnetic field whirring around them, as her magic began sparking and popping like stray flames from a roaring fire.

The magic rose within her, the raw power surging through her veins, the heady feeling of relinquishing herself to the elemental force of the lifeblood that proclaimed her Witch was more intoxicating than any magical or Muggle narcotic.

Snape closed his eyes, deeply inhaling her energy and tasting the spicy heat on his tongue. “Miss Granger, how utterly disappointing. All whistles and bells, but lacking in depth and void of substance.”

Their breadth closing in, he lunged at her.

Hermione had little time to react; in a blur she was held captive in his bruising grasp. Her legs kicked apart and her body wrenched toward his solid frame, he took advantage of her perpetual momentum to brutally slam her into the bin. His forearm placed between her face and the dumpster absorbed the harsh blow. Snape had her wrists pinned behind her back, and using the length of his body, he pressed flush against her smaller frame to halt her squirming.

“I do so hate having to repeat myself,” he spat.

Hermione’s attempts to dislodge him from her were futile and only succeeded in drawing him closer.

“I’m sorry, did you say something?” Severus mocked.

Her speech was muffled by a mouthful of tweed.

“Do speak up,” he gloated.

Snape felt the pinch of blunt teeth. “What a naughty little kitten,” he chuckled, the dark and rich rasp deeply disturbed her to stillness.

He loosened his hold slightly. “Will you calm yourself, or shall I be forced to bind you?” he whispered against her ear.

“You reek of her,” Hermione cried out pained. “Her stench is saturated…”

“Of whom do you speak, Miss Granger?”

If she had been facing him, Hermione would have seen his brow raised in question.

“That bloody pink-trussed cow.”

“Disparaging the name of a former Hogwarts professor and esteemed Ministry official—I am quite appalled, Miss Granger, at such disrespect for an elder,” he tutted, releasing his hold on her.

Hermione turned to face him, her wand at the ready.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” Snape drawled, amused.

“Scourgify!” she shouted in frustration.

“Feeling better?” Mirth might have colored his words, but all the same, his wand was in hand when it hadn’t been a moment before.

“You smelled like a Knockturn Alley whore,” Hermione said as she crinkled her nose in distaste.

Snape sighed at such trivial matters. “I can assure you that is an insult to whores.”

She opened her mouth, hurt crossing her features.

“You act as though surprised, Miss Granger. I am no virgin nor have I taken a vow of celibacy.” He held up a hand to quell the indignation that he sensed bubbling to the surface. “But I have not sought emotional or physical release from another since our association began.”

Hermione nodded, appeased for the time being. “You didn’t smell like you,” she murmured.

He smirked. “And what, pray tell, do I smell like?”

“Like a match that has burnt down to nothing, fresh and clean like lemongrass. Spicy like sage and bittersweet like a freshly brewed cuppa.” Her cheeks flushed with want.

Severus swallowed thickly, her unassuming innocence and need unnerving his composure.

“We are cutting your appointment time close,” he managed to strangle out.

********************

The waiting room was clinical in its appearance, white-grey walls adorned with gold framed pictures of flowers and seaside landscapes. An array of wooden chairs upholstered with stiff blue cushions surrounded a low-standing coffee table. Magazines and pamphlets on how to recognize signs of depression lay scattered about.

Snape took the seat adjacent to the exit, his back against the wall. He discreetly observed the other occupants of the room. A young girl of about twelve, whose emaciated form was made painfully obvious by the oversized clothes hanging from her frail frame; there was an older man, perhaps ten years older than himself, heavyset with thinning patches of red hair. Severus mused he could have been the progeny of a Weasley and Horace mating gone terribly awry.

“Dr. Morelay is finishing up with a patient,” Hermione spoke.

Snape moved his coat from the seat he had been saving for Miss Granger.

“I’ve just to fill out these forms,” she said, indicating the clipboard in her hands as she sat down next to him.

The questionnaire was six pages in length, filled with mundane items like name, date of birth, family medical history, to questions of a more personal nature such as frequency of suicidal thoughts, attempts if any, and feelings of one’s body image and self-esteem. Hermione completed the pertinent information, but left the rest of the form blank.

They didn’t speak, and she had not directly addressed him since entering the waiting room. To the casual observer, they seemed to be strangers, having met by chance.

“Miss Granger?”

Hermione looked up at a slender woman of about sixty with silver hair styled in a neat bob, dressed smartly in a pantsuit with glasses hanging from a chain around her neck.

“Good afternoon, I’m Dr. Morelay,” the woman said, smiling.

Hermione stood, clipboard clutched in her hands, and she cast a surreptitious glance at Snape.

“If you will just follow me,” Dr. Morelay said as she took the forms from Hermione and gestured in the direction of her office.

****************

Hermione settled into a plaid-covered loveseat, and Dr. Morelay sat opposite in a high-back chair. She glanced about the office and noticed certificates and diplomas from Cambridge hanging on the wall behind the doctor. A desk sat caddy corner against the furthest wall.

A small metronome ticked back and forth, the tempo lackadaisical, and Hermione found her breathing patterns in sync with the gentle, if persistent, tick tock.

“Some of my patients find it to be soothing,” Dr. Morelay said as she gestured to the musical device, “but I can switch it off, if you would prefer.”

“No, it’s fine,” Hermione answered.

“Do you know why you are here, Hermione?” Dr. Morelay queried in softly spoken tones.

“Do you?” the Gryffindor shot back archly.

“Yes, I do,” the doctor replied as she nodded. “Headmaster Dumbledore has apprised me of your situation.”

“Oh.” Any confidence Hermione possessed drained from her countenance.

Silence.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

Silence.

Fifteen minutes passed.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

Thirty minutes.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

Silence still.

Forty-five minutes.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

One Hour.

“I am afraid our session is up, Hermione,” Dr. Morelay said as she set her notepad down.

Hermione stood, ready to make a beeline for the door.

“Some find it difficult to express themselves verbally after suffering from a traumatic event,” Dr. Morelay said as she retreated to her desk, rummaging through a drawer. “Here,” she said pulling out a grade school composition book, “I find that some of my patients view journaling as a cathartic exercise…”

Hermione accepted the notebook.

“It allows them to put their thoughts and emotions down without the fear of judgment or rejection. Perhaps, you would feel more at ease with this method, and if you like, we could discuss your writings during our next visit,” Dr. Morelay suggested.

Hermione offered a noncommittal shrug, eyeing the office door.

******************

Snape was idly skimming the business section of The Times when Hermione reentered the waiting room. He folded the paper, tossing it causally on the table, before slipping on his coat.

“I’ve two appointments scheduled for next week,” she said as she flashed him the small appointment card before enclosing it between the pages of the composition book.

He nodded curtly and motioned for her to precede him out of the office.

********************

He didn’t speak but eyed her curiously as she chucked the notebook in the rubbish bin.

“And what offense did that book commit to warrant such punishment?”

She huffed; he could just make out something pertaining to “twit” and “bloody feelings.”

“I’m supposed to share my feelings,” Hermione snapped. “Journaling is cathartic,” she mimicked snidely.

“From your reaction, I shall assume your first session did not go as planned?”

She felt the warmth of his body next to hers. “I’ll not speak to her, mandated by Dumbledore or not.”

Severus waited for her to continue.

“I am fine,” she said after moments lost in her thoughts.

“Are you inquiring or stating fact?” he asked, his voice lacking in its normal sarcastic bite.

Hermione turned to him, “I don’t know… both? Pick one.”

“I cannot,” Snape offered.

“I know,” she sighed wearily. “I do not need professional help.”

“Are you quite certain?” Snape softly queried as he adjusted her scarf, caressing the silver and green threads. He waited, idly watching the puffs of her breath evaporate into nothingness. The winter air tinged her cheeks pink.

Hermione was transfixed by his nimble digits. “I have you.”

“Hmm,” he said noncommittally.

“I cannot speak with her.” She stilled his hands with her own. “I thought I was dying.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I was sticky and wet… numb,” Hermione continued in a hoarse whisper, her small hands clutching his own, knuckles turning white.

“He was heavy, I—I couldn’t move,” she said as she pushed away from her professor.

He would not apologize. She was safe.

“Miss Granger?” Severus noted by her vacant expression that she had withdrawn into herself.

“I am selfish.” Hermione finally spoke. She toyed with the barely healed skin on her palms. The scabbed flesh tore away easily with the slightest jab of her fingernail, the pressure causing the blood to pool, welling to the surface flowing down her arm, trickling down her skin, falling the distance to plop on the ground in a steady drip.

*****************

Stock still, he gripped his wand, eyes narrowed in calculation.

*****************

Her fingers were coated red.

She painted her lower lip with a crude swipe of her thumb. Blood smearing, a jagged line on her cheek, tongue darting out, the metallic taste of her lifeblood, her eyes closed.

“I wanted to die. I want to,” she murmured.

*****************

He struck; spidery, callus-roughened fingers seized her. The merciless hold tightened spastically, digging into the tender column of her neck.

*****************

Hermione’s vision blurred.

Fuzzy.

Hazy.

Gray.

Choking, expelling an erratic rhythm of huffs, mucous seeping from her nostrils, unable to inhale.

Weightlessness, her feet not touching pavement.

Nothing.

******************

Crack!

Snape sneered, the odor of dust and mildew offending his olfactory sense. He dropped the girl; she crumpled in a heap of limbs. She did not move, but she was conscious.

******************

Hermione wheezed, her body trembling; the hardwood floor biting.

He was over her, crouched.

She curled into a ball, shaking uncontrollably.

*******************

Severus reached to touch her but pulled away.

His hands, he had blood on his hands.

******************

She heard the pounding of retreating footsteps and cringed at the sound of pained retching.

**********************

A/N: A big thank you to my readers/reviewers and beta Lyn.