Ron was never afterwards sure how long it lasted. His brain swore it was over in less than a minute, but his bum was convinced it had been hours.

He knew by the fourth swat that he was in for it. By then, the sting of the swats had rapidly built to a fiery blaze, and he was yelping and squirming with every whack. By the tenth, he was bawling, though it was as much from relief that he was finally getting the worst of his punishment over with as from the inferno painfully raging in his bum.

Several swats later, Snape turned his attention to the sensitive lower half of Ron’s backside, and the volume of the boy’s howls reached an all-time high. As much as the rest of his bum hurt, the surgically precise placement of these swats – and their resultant sting and burn – made Ron seriously wonder if Snape weren’t using some highly targeted version of the Cruciatus.

He surrendered to the awful burning-stinging-throbbing-smoldering agony that had supplanted his previously unappreciated backside and lay limply across Snape’s lap, blubbering. There was a pause, then one last almighty whack across his arse, and the barrage of swats finally ended.

Ron lay there and wept. He was too drained even to feel further relief. He was confused in mind and spirit, aching in body, and he felt extremely young and foolish. Most of all, though, he couldn’t bring himself to face Snape.

“All right, Mr Weasley. You may rise.” Snape made to assist the boy, but found himself having to lift Weasley bodily from his lap, as the redhead was still crying too hard to obey.

Once upright, Weasley kept his head down, sobbing, even as his hands flew to clutch at his bum. Snape knew the boy’s bottom would surely feel as if it were ablaze just now, but Snape was still surprised at the force of the child’s emotions. Surely this wasn’t all due to his admittedly thorough spanking? After all, Weasley had had his share of Quidditch injuries, and as much as his backside might sting, it was just his bum. Nothing was broken, no permanent harm had been done. So why all these tears?

Snape sighed. More snot on his robes. As if the potion stains weren’t disgusting enough. He accio’d a handkerchief before Weasley used his sleeve – or worse – and then touched anything else in Snape’s quarters. “Here.” He nudged Weasley, holding out the cloth.

Weasley gave him a sidelong, mortified glance and hesitantly released one aching buttock to take the hankie. It was clear the boy was deeply humiliated and equally clear that he was still completely incapable of composing himself.

Snape sighed again. He’d intended to spank the boy soundly enough to assuage the Gryffindor’s guilt, thereby preventing additional nightmares from interfering with his sleep, but he’d had no desire to reduce the brat to the sodden mess now flinching before him. If nothing else, it made it impossible to dismiss him back to his dorm. Anyone would take one look at the boy’s blotchy, tearstained face and demand a full explanation – the very thing Snape wanted to avoid.

Much as Snape longed to throw the little monster out and enjoy the rest of his evening in blessed solitude, obviously that wasn’t going to happen. This was all Harry bloody Potter’s fault. Why did Snape ever agree to handle this himself? Well, at least he didn’t need to have the brat in the middle of the room, sniffling in that nauseating fashion despite the handkerchief clutched in his fist.

“Very well, Mr Weasley, go stand in the corner,” he pointed.

Breath hitching as he fought to bring his sobs under control, Ron couldn’t believe how much his arse stung. Bloody hell! Harry was right – Snape must use magic to make it hurt this much. Not that Ron didn’t deserve it, mind you, but he just hadn’t expected a simple smacking would make him break down and bawl like a baby, especially in front of Snape. He could only imagine how much the greasy git would enjoy telling all the Slytherins about it. Malfoy would be even more unbearable, and – oh, Merlin! – Potions class was going to be a living hell. He could just imagine the comments Snape would make to entertain the rest of the students.

To his horror, the thought made him blubber even more. He felt like a complete prat, but somehow he couldn’t muster his usual rage and hatred for Snape, even knowing that he’d probably delight in sharing Ron’s humiliation with the widest possible audience. He just felt ashamed and childish and very, very sore.

If he were completely honest, he had to admit that as much as his bum hurt – and this had unquestionably been the worst walloping of his life - it wasn’t just his scorched butt that was making him snivel like this. It was knowing what he’d done to earn the smacking. He had out-Snaped Snape; he’d attacked and come close to killing an innocent, and yet when he was standing there, entirely at Snape’s mercy, the greasy git hadn’t turned around and exacted bloody revenge. Ron had more than half expected Snape to use an old fashioned school cane or his belt or some other fearsome implement on him. After all, no one knew about this, it wasn’t an official school punishment; there were no rules holding Snape back. He could have done anything he wanted, knowing Ron couldn’t complain or argue.

Yet he hadn’t even taken a hairbrush to Ron. He’d just used his hand, and he hadn’t even made Ron drop his trousers. Ron had assumed that he’d at least do that, for the mortification factor if nothing else. But Snape hadn’t. Oh, he hadn’t been lenient, but he hadn’t been cruel either. He’d issued orders crisply, delivered an unexpectedly insightful lecture that had really made Ron think, then got right down to it and hit harder than Ron had believed humanly possible. But when all was said and done, it was just a sound spanking, administered over his clothes with the flat of Snape’s very, very hard hand. No slapping his face or knocking him down or even leaving lasting welts on his arse.

This was Wrong. Ron had spent the last year convinced that Snape was the Evil Slytherin while Ron and his friends were the heroic Gryffindors. Yet he was the one who’d launched an unprovoked sneak attack while Snape, when he finally had the freedom to be as mean and nasty as he wanted, hadn’t. Even Ron had to admit, he’d been… fair. He hadn’t sneered or insulted or threatened. He’d given Ron the longest, hardest, and most painful spanking of his life, but that was what he’d both expected and deserved. Though in truth, while it had hurt more than he had imagined, it wasn’t nearly as painful in other ways. His arse felt like he’d sat – repeatedly – on a hornets’ nest, but he hadn’t been mocked or belittled or terrorized. He felt punished, but not abused.

How could it be that Snape was behaving honorably- more honorably than Ron?

Ron hiccupped and tried once again to suppress his tears. If only his backside would stop throbbing so much and his brain would stop whirling with all those impossible questions, then he’d be able to stop this bloody bawling. How was he ever going to sneak back to the dorm like this? And sure enough, at this further proof of his own uselessness, the tears flooded out anew.

“Very well, Mr Weasley, go stand in the corner.” The quiet command accomplished what all of Ron’s efforts could not. Sheer shock halted his crying.

“Wh – what?” He stared at the Potion Master. “I’m twelve!”

Snape merely gazed back at him, unblinking.

“I’m twelve,” Ron repeated, genuinely trying to explain, not argue. “I’m too old to put in the corner.”

“Then I assume you wish to simply leave?” Snape inquired, raising one eyebrow.

“Well… yeah,” Ron admitted. He’d assumed that Snape would beat the hell out of him, then chuck him out to crawl, limp, or stagger back to Gryffindor Tower, where he would nurse his wounds and sulk.

“My, my Mr Weasley. You do have it in for me,” Snape commented mildly.

Ron grimaced as his hands tentatively tried to rub away some of the itchy sting from his bum. “What do you mean? Sir?” he added hastily.

“If I dismiss you in your current state, Weasley, it would be obvious to everyone from Hagrid to Professor Flitwick that you just received a thorough spanking at my hands. I would then find myself facing the enraged complaints and threats of your siblings, your friends, and your Head of House in short order, closely followed by the Headmaster and your parents, all out for my blood. Is it your intention to have me dismissed in disgrace?”

Ron’s jaw dropped. “No! I didn’t think –‘

“After all,” Snape continued, ignoring him, “wasn’t it your desire to keep the matter quiet and handle it ourselves? As I recall, I didn’t want to assume the responsibility for disciplining you for your actions. It was only at your request that I agreed to do so. I would have thought you’d be more circumspect about these events.” Snape paused, watching the expressions flutter across the boy’s face. That was the problem with Gryffindors: no subtlety. But he imagined that Weasley did have the talent for stealth. It was just woefully underdeveloped.

When he saw the brat had worked out the logic in his argument, he continued, “Or was it your intention to lure me into agreeing to settle the matter between ourselves, only to display your injuries at the first opportunity, assuming that in the resultant inquiry, any allegations I made against you would be dismissed as a pathetic attempt to excuse my own actions?”

“N- no, sir. I just…” Ron trailed off. Snape was right. If he went back looking like this, still sniffling and leaking occasional tears, too sore to walk properly let alone sit, everyone would instantly know he’d been swatted – and hard. Percy and the twins and even Ginny would demand to know by whom, not to mention why. And of course Harry and Hermione and the rest of his classmates wouldn’t be far behind them. If Snape hadn’t been thinking, Ron would have gotten them both thrown out of Hogwarts. “I’m sorry,” he said, hanging his head.

“You must remember to contemplate the consequences of your actions, Mr Weasley. You obviously know how to do it, you are just slothful about taking the time to do so. You will not always have Ms Granger around to do it for you.” Snape paused, seeing the boy’s color rise. At least he wasn’t dissolving into a snot puddle again. “As it should now be obvious to you that you will not be leaving here for some time, the question of your activities during this period arises. You may either seat yourself at the desk and begin writing lines or stand in the corner and contemplate your actions and punishment.”

Ron glanced at the hard wooden chair and swallowed hard. The thought of sitting on his smarting butt was nearly enough to bring back the sobs. Suddenly standing in the corner didn’t seem like such a bad idea. “I’ll take the corner, sir,” he mumbled, hanging his head.

Snape nodded, watching the boy limp over to the indicated position. He was still sniffling and wiping away the occasional tear, but at least he was no longer hysterical. Snape watched for a moment as Ron massaged his sore butt with a gentle hand, then turned his attention to a stack of essays.

“Weasley!” he called out several minutes later, not bothering to look up from his work. “Do not use your sleeve as a handkerchief. You have a perfectly serviceable one in your hand.”

“It’s all soggy, sir,” Ron said, embarrassed that Snape had caught him.

With an exasperated sigh, Snape banished the used cloth to the hamper and accio’d a fresh one into the boy’s hand.

“Thank you, sir,” Ron said meekly.

It took a total of three handkerchiefs before the tears and other body fluids were finally done for the night. Snape wondered if Ron were normally so weepy after a punishment – he would have expected a Weasley to recover more quickly; surely in a brood that size there was little time for coddling and he couldn’t imagine the twins being particularly sensitive to a younger brother’s tears. Still, he had given the boy a lot to think over, and it was obvious that the brat was well aware of the serious nature of his actions. Perhaps it was just as well that he was taking the whole thing hard. Besides, some of it might be simple relief. Given Snape’s reputation, the boy had probably been terrified of his upcoming punishment. Snape permitted himself a small smile; it was always so easy to torture the younger students. And of course, even after their worst fears had failed to materialize, they tended to exaggerate the severity of the punishment so as to impress the other little monsters. All told, it was a highly efficient method of keeping the students scared witless of him.

Snape kept the boy in the corner for ten minutes even after the mopping and blowing had finally ended. At last, he called him over.

“Yes, sir?” Ron was moving stiffly, and it was clear that every step hurt.

“I have decided that you will spend half your time assisting me with potion ingredients and cleaning the lab.” Ron nodded obediently. “The other half of the time, you will spend thinking about your actions and the philosophy which led to them.”

Ron frowned in confusion. “You mean standing in the corner some more?”

“No, I mean writing essays.” Snape smirked at the anguished look that came over Weasley’s face. Obviously the boy would infinitely prefer scrubbing cauldrons to more scholastic endeavors. “For your first one – no less than three feet – you will describe several examples from both Muggle and Wizarding history of the value of strategic thinking.” Ron’s brow wrinkled. That almost sounded interesting. “I have some books here that you may consult, though you may not remove them from my quarters. You can also use your History of Magic text and any books you may find in the library.”

“You want me to talk about battles and Goblin wars?”

“Those are some examples, but not the only ones,” Snape replied. “I expect you to do your research and come up with the examples you find most informative.”

Ugh. Research. On the other hand, this was sounding like a chess problem. He’d never had a research paper on an interesting topic before. “Sir,” he blurted out, “thank you.” At Snape’s stunned expression, he added, “You’ve been really nice.”

“Mr Weasley, if you consider my actions towards you this evening ‘nice’, I find myself acutely concerned about child rearing practices at the Burrow,” Snape drawled, hiding the shock he felt at the boy’s words.

Ron blushed. “I just meant that, well, you weren’t nearly as awful as I thought you’d be.” Hm. That hadn’t come out sounding the way he meant it. And from Snape’s expression, he wasn’t taking it as a compliment. “Um, I mean –“

Snape, amazingly, took pity on him. “I believe I understand, Mr Weasley. I take it that you are relieved that I ‘killed you, but I didn’t really kill you’.”

Hearing his own words quoted back to him brought a genuine, albeit brief, smile to Ron’s face. Snape did get it. “Yeah. I mean, yes, sir. That’s what I meant. Just… well, thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now get to work.” Realizing that Weasley hadn’t brought any of his books with him, Snape summoned a house elf and instructed her to bring Ron’s schoolbag down to the dungeons.

“Sir?” Ron had started to look over the books Snape had gathered from his personal library, and one had immediately caught his eye. “What does it mean, ‘The Art of War’? How can war be an art?”

The resulting discussion took several minutes, and Snape was surprised to realize that the house elf had not yet returned. He cleared his throat to call another, but there was a soft knock at his door and then a tousled dark head tentatively appeared and emerald eyes quickly fastened on where the two were standing by the desk. “Um, hi.”

Snape turned a fearsome expression of disapproval on Harry, who quailed before it. “A house elf said Ron needed his stuff, so I thought I’d bring them myself,” he offered timidly, holding the satchel in front of him like an offering.

“Thank you,” Snape said coldly. “Now leave.” It was already pointless. By then Harry had spotted his friend’s flushed features and reddened eyes and his eyes widened in shock. Ron blushed violently and looked away as he saw from Harry’s face that he had instantly deduced what had happened.

Eyes flashing, Harry turned to Snape and opened his mouth, but Snape took him by the collar and dragged him out of the room before he could speak. “Come with me, Mr Potter,” he ordered brusquely.

Ron stared after them. Loud voices broke out, only to be cut off as Snape obviously cast a silencing charm. He fidgeted uneasily, certain that Harry was demanding to know exactly why and how Snape had come to wallop him. He wondered what Snape was telling him. It wasn’t so much that he minded Harry knowing, but when he didn’t even know how he felt, it wasn’t going to be easy to explain things to the others.

A few moments later, the door opened, and a much chastened Harry emerged, following by a poker-faced Snape. Ron sneaked a quick look, but Harry didn’t seem to be limping. Maybe he’d just been roughed up verbally?

Harry headed to the door, but stopped for one last appeal. “I really should stay so you can check my work,” he whined.

“I told you we would not be meeting tonight,” Snape said firmly. “I will review your assignments tomorrow at our regular time.”

“But I have a Charms essay due tomorrow and it’ll be too late for you to see it.”

Snape frowned. “Why is this the first I am hearing about this essay?” he asked forbiddingly.

“Professor Flitwick only assigned it two days ago,” Harry defended himself. “Ask Ron.”

Ron nodded hastily, even before Snape could speak. “So this is really your only chance to check it over.”

Snape huffed in irritation. “Fine. Let me have it.”

“Erm,” Harry fiddled with his book bag. “I haven’t exactly finished it.” At Snape’s growl, he looked up quickly. “But if you let me stay, then I could finish it and you could look it over and then if it needs revising I could do it tomorrow morning before Charms.”

“This is not a study date,” Snape snapped. “Weasley is being punished. The two of you chattering away is hardly conducive to either of you completing your assigned work.”

“We won’t chatter,” Harry assured him. He must have heard something in Snape’s tone that eluded Ron, because he quickly moved back into the room, heading over to his friend. Ron looked nervously at the professor, but although his eyes were narrowed in annoyance, he merely growled to himself and reseated himself at his own desk.

Ron took a step towards the chair and winced as his backside protested. Harry’s quick glance showed he had noticed, but happily he didn’t say anything to Ron. Instead, he called over to Snape, “Sir? Can we study in front of the fire?”

“No. Sit at the desk.” Snape didn’t even look up.

Harry stuck his lower lip out. “Please?”

“No.”

“It’ll be easier for us to concentrate on our work, you know,” Harry’s tone was innocent but there was an undercurrent of meaning that finally brought Snape’s head up.

“The first time I catch you whispering or passing notes,” he began threateningly.

“You won’t!” Harry exclaimed happily. He grabbed Ron’s satchel back and led the way over to the area before the large fireplace. Ron, after an uncertain look at Snape, who nodded permission, took the books from the desk and followed him.

Several large, overstuffed pillows flew in from another room, and Harry wasted no time in building a little nest for himself. Ron followed suit, creating a sort of pallet on which he then lay, stomach down. Even in that position, his backside still stung and burned, but this was a lot better than sitting on it would have been.

About an hour and a half later, during which the only sounds were the rustling of parchment, the scratching of quills, and the crackle of the fire, Harry glanced over at Snape. “Oh, by the way, Ron likes peanut butter biscuits.”

Ron’s head snapped up at this apparent non sequitar, but Snape appeared to understand, and he crooked a finger at Harry. The boy trotted over to him and a low, hissed conversation took place. Ron couldn’t quite make out any words, though he wasn’t sure if that was because Snape cast a muffling charm or if they were just keeping their voices down, but at the end of it, Snape was glowering and Harry trotted back with a triumphant smirk and winked at Ron. Ron shrugged and returned to his book. If Snape wanted him to know what was going on, he’d tell him.

Some time later, Snape’s stern voice interrupted the boys’ work. “Finish up. It’s nearly curfew time.”

Harry obediently began to put his things together – he had already begun revising his Charms essay under Snape’s supervision – but Ron was too engrossed in his book to notice. “Give us a pass,” he ordered absently. “I want to finish this chapter.”

The dead silence that followed his words finally penetrated, and he looked up curiously. It was only when he caught the frozen expression on Harry’s face that he realized what he had done. Giving commands to Snape? Ignoring his instructions? Was he suicidal? His backside throbbed in time with his suddenly racing heartbeat, and he gulped, wondering if he was about to get another walloping for impudence. “Sir, I’m sorry,” he gabbled, too scared to look at the man. “I didn’t mean to be cheeky. I wasn’t –“

“Well, well,” Snape drawled. “I never thought I would live to see the day when you were using your brain for anything other than memorizing useless Quidditch statistics. I suppose such unaccustomed activity should be rewarded. You may finish the chapter.”

Ron stared at Snape in amazement, barely noticing that Harry was similarly astonished. “Th-thank you, sir.” He managed to get the words out, then apparently driven by some previously undetected streak of madness, he couldn’t help adding: “But Charlie says Quidditch stats are dead helpful in pub quizzes.”

“Ah yes, and what higher aspiration could a Weasley have than to excel at a pub quiz night,” Snape sneered. “I stand corrected, Mr Weasley.”

Ron grinned. Yeah, it was snarky and mean, but he remembered Snape’s earlier words about his family. He obviously thought they were intelligent and accomplished, despite his insults. That put his words in the category of teasing, as far as Ron was concerned, and as the twins’ younger brother, he had plenty of experience with that. “Yes, sir,” he acknowledged, then, lest the greasy git change his mind, he dove back into Sun Tzu.

At the end of the chapter, he was tempted to keep reading in the hopes that Snape might not notice, but he figured he had pushed his luck enough for one night, and he closed the book, carefully marking the page where he had stopped. “This Sun Tzu was one clever wizard,” he said enthusiastically, noticing that Snape and Harry were already seated on the couch at the other end of the room. He got to his feet, only wincing a bit, and hurried over to join them. He hesitated, then gingerly lowered himself onto the sofa. To his relief, the cushions were remarkably soft, and his bum only protested a little. “Why don’t we learn more about him in History of Magic and less about the stupid goblins?”

“Perhaps because he was a Muggle,” Snape informed him coolly.

“What? Really? But he’s dead clever!” Ron exclaimed.

“Some Muggles are smart, Ron,” Harry said reprovingly. “Just like some wizards are dumb.”

“Yeah, like Crabbe and Goyle,” Ron agreed, then realized too late that he was insulting members of Snape’s House. “Um, I mean…”

Happily, the pop of an appearing house elf distracted the professor, and Ron was surprised to find a plate of freshly baked peanut butter biscuits deposited in front of him, along with a cup of tea. Harry grinned at his expression and wiggled a piece of shortbread at him. Snape rolled his eyes and ignored both of them.