Harry Potter - Series Fan Fiction ❯ Death's Kiss ❯ Chapter 1

The strange sound that drives him barmy is at it again.

 

Tick… tick… tick… tick…

 

Like the faint creak of old wood or the inner workings of a mechanical clock.

 

Severus is starting to wonder if the sound really exists at all, or if it is an auditory hallucination caused by his brain misfiring.

 

It certainly would do him good to get out of the house once in awhile, but he can't bring himself to leave her. Even though he knows it wouldn't make the least bit of difference. She would still be sitting in whatever position in which he left her, his very own living mannequin, waiting for his return. Always waiting to be touched, posed, and situated --completely unable to do even the simplest of acts by herself.

 

She has always been an undeniably plain girl, from her unimpressive features to her average height and build. When she is standing, which isn't often, the tip of her frizzy head reaches just under his chin. Her bushy hair is the exact same colour as her eyes.

 

Severus is usually rather fond of a woman's eyes, but he would never wax poetic about hers. In no case would he ever feel inclined to compare their colour to the likes of chocolate or the coat of a bay horse. If anything, he thinks that they are the colour of mud… or perhaps shite. Yes, shite brown is fitting for her.

 

But, no… now the colour of her eyes is less than meaningless. Staring into them is like staring at a blank wall. They are dull, glassy, and most of all completely devoid of life, of cognition, of anything but the inconsequential colours of a black pupil, a brown iris, and the spidery red veins that span over the milky white of her sclera.

 

Her very existence is meaningless. It didn't have to be so, but the ungrateful chit of a girl had vexed him. He had tried to save her - after a fashion - if one can extend the definition of saving to reducing a horrible case of enslavement to a lesser degree of subjugation. In which she could have still possessed the ability to think, to feel, to live. But now she is just a husk, a shell, a corpse that breathes and sleeps and eats. She even defecates on his floor if he's not careful.

 

Her last words plague his mind as he stares at the limp form that he has spread out obscenely across his sheets. She can't speak to him now, can never afflict him with her harsh words of scorn like she did then.

 

“I'd rather die!” she had screamed, after he had told her the conditions in which she would be set free. Free from the Dark Lord's clutches. Free from being abused by rabid Death Eater scum. Her only duty would be to tolerate him and his advances, to live quietly and demurely in his home. She should have been grateful. She wasn't.

 

There she had been, tied naked and bloodied to a dirty wooden post and she still possessed the gall to reject his offer.

 

It was more than infuriating, it was alarming. Her face should have been contorted in fear, not contempt, as he stared her down and studied the hex marks of torture that mapped her bare skin. They'd hurt her, badly, and she still had the courage to look him dead in the eye as she refused him. In that moment, in that fragment of time, he knew that the only way that he could ever have her, truly have her, was to destroy her driving force.

 

Her soul.

 

His jaw had tightened to the point of feeling unhinged as the urge to strike her had taken over him. Instead he had stroked her cheek gently, whispering three words of promise as she recoiled from his touch. “Then you shall.”

 

The Dark Lord was generous to his most loyal followers and Severus Snape had been nothing but devoted when it had become clear that the side of Light was a losing alliance. He had been right to play both sides until the end. It had secured him a position among the living… and as a self-preserving Slytherin this was dreadfully important.

 

Better yet, he was now regarded with the respect he deserved for being Lord Voldemort's right hand man. Any reasonable request that he made to his Lord was now honored.

 

It was only hours after her capture, still the very night of the final battle in which the Dark side had won, when he had requested that Hermione Granger be given to him. His Lord had bestowed upon him a serpentine smile and a blessing, “I wouldn't have it any other way.”

 

In the past, when he had first acquired her, he always used her body quickly, pumping into her inert form in a manic frenzy of greedy lust. Immediately after he climaxed he would fling himself away from her, half expecting the room to be filled with the girl's angry screams of revulsion. Imperio was dreadfully hard to maintain during orgasm and the countless times he had faced a terror stricken woman, full of emotional bursts of forceful magic, made him wary of this fact. This, above all, was why he had demanded she be Kissed. Far lesser women had managed to harm him with a deft kick to the groin or an unintentional hex after he'd forced his way with them.

 

Now, he strokes her body lovingly - reverently - coaxing her quim to react to his touch. He has found that she can still become quite wet if he applies himself. The physical response is gratifying. He licks the hollows of her neck, tastes the musk of her armpits, and strokes the nub of nerves between her legs. He avoids looking into her eyes, those dead orbs of nothingness, and concentrates on the way her muscles twitch and the slickness that coats his hand.

 

He had hit her once… months ago… after she had pissed all over him during one of those quick fucks where he was still terrified that she would awaken. The resounding smack of his hand hitting her cheek had filled the room. Her head had swung to the side with the force of the blow, but she had given no outward response, no flinch, and he had felt so sickened by her lifelessness that he'd gone limp.

 

Now he always makes sure to cast spells on her that ensure she expels her waste only when he deigns her to do so.

 

“I love you,” he murmurs to her as he replaces his slime slicked hand with his cock. Because he does, does love her, loves that she accepts him anytime he desires and never cringes away from him. Loves that he doesn't have to shower, or say kind words, or do anything but manipulate her with deft hands to have her body willing and able to accept him. She is always there to listen to him rant, always there to do with as he pleases, and he relishes in the fact that without him she would die, that she needs him to bathe her, feed her, and ensure that she doesn't waste away lifeless while she stares blankly at his ceiling.

 

He opens her mouth to kiss her without hesitation; with such burning passion he thinks he might combust. He's found that with enough concentration he can even charm her tongue to kiss him back. No one has ever kissed him like she does.

 

As he pushes into her he pivots his hips up slowly, teasingly, groaning out the pleasure he feels with a fervor he could only express to her. She can no longer judge him, can no longer mock him --- no longer do anything but lie there willingly as he takes what is his.

 

His.

 

She is his, and in his lust clouded mind he presses his chest hard against hers, until she sucks in quick shuddering gasps. She wants him, somewhere deep down inside of her he is convinced that she wants him. In the recesses of his fractured mind, he is quite sure that the sound of her heavy breathing derives from their shared pleasure. Suddenly he feels quite frantic, pushing his arm between their joined bodies to move his fingers skillfully over her clit. It is his turn to draw in a shuddering breath as she tightens and squeezes his throbbing erection. The deep ache inside his gut grows and blooms until he spurts hot and salty, painting her insides with a river of white seed.

 

The haze is slow to wear away, but when it does he lifts himself up to gaze in awe at the purpley-red marks that marr her throat, her collarbone, a few spots trailing down to her dismal breasts.

 

He pulls her into a loose embrace, his heart as dark as the bruises that mottle her pale flesh. “Perfect,” he rasps in the shell of her ear. “You are perfect.”

 

For even though she is plain and inanimate, no other woman could ensure him the promise of being endlessly silent, always acquiescent, and forever obedient in accommodating his deepest desires.

 

As he drifts to sleep his mind calls forth images of the start of it all. He does not think of the moment she was Kissed often, but not for the reasons one would suspect. If you were to accuse him of feeling guilty he would laugh at you. After all, he is entirely convinced that she chose her own fate.

 

The reason is not that his fellow Death Eaters had flocked to the event like thestrals around rotting meat. Or how they jeered and howled as the naked girl shrunk back in terror, body rigid for that brief moment when the Dementor's lips had met her own, or even how she had crumpled the moment after the silvery wisp of her soul was stolen - the ropes that bound her caused her to remain half upright, her legs splaying open like some sort of demented peep show.

 

No, what still caused him distress was Lucius Malfoy's drawling accusation as Severus had untied his property from the post.

 

“So, you still plan on keeping her? My, my, Severus, I would have never thought that you'd be one to indulge in necrophilia.” The last word had been delicately inflected with all the distaste only Lucius could manage to affix to a single word.

 

The snotty blonde would not be able to indulge in anything of the sexual sort after what Severus had done to him.

 

After all, there was no comparing what this is to that. Not when her pulse beats so strongly against his lips… and never was something dead so very warm.