Part 6

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. They belong to JKR. I make no money.

A/N: Okay, the final part. I hope this answers your questions. Appologies if the solution isn't as fantastical or as logical as you expected, but I hope you will enjoy it anyway.

---

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she hissed, pressing her wand deeper into my neck, catching the bone of my lower jaw.

I tilted my head in response, wincing as the back hit the door behind me. The wand slid down a fraction, aiming straight for the carotid. She smiled as she felt the rapid beat of my pulse, the flutter at my throat making the handle vibrate in her hand. It was as good as a lie detector. And I was as good as dead.

“Oh, I think you do,” I said, all caution thrown to the wind.

---

“I think you know exactly what I’m talking about, Hermione. You’ve lead me on quite a trail, my dear, but it ends now.”

I smirked at her, revelling in the thrill it gave me. A spark flashed in her eyes, her ire increasing. Perhaps it was more than a little foolish to provoke her so, but she was so beautiful in her anger. She seemed to come alive; her too pale skin flushed at the cheeks; her painted lips curled back to reveal sharp teeth, stained faintly yellow from years of use.

Now my pulse raced in anticipation, not fear.

---

“Poking your greasy nose into places where it doesn’t belong, Severus? I thought you’d left that habit back at Hogwarts along with you credibility.”

Hermione brought her hand to my face, her long nails trailing across my cheek, sloughing off the topmost layer of cells. It stung, but no less than my pride. I would have marks in the morning.

“You’re quite the clever little witch,” I said, hot air escaping my lips in a puff of white. “It took me ever such a long time to figure out why you did it. Why you chose her, of all people.”

---

“I barely knew her. She was little more than an acquaintance. What purpose would her death serve other than ridding the world of one more useless bint with ideas far above her station?” she spat.

“You killed Rebecca Dawes to save your own skin. She was going to spoil everything, wasn’t she? Reveal your little secret to the world, send you straight to Azkaban.”

I leant closer, inhaling the scent of her perfume and her sickness. It was addictive.

“Tell me, did you get as much of thrill when you killed her as you did when you killed your husband?”

---

The hand on my cheek contracted. Pain sliced through me, and I felt the telltale trickle that told me she’d broken the skin. I gasped but ploughed onwards, taking no prisoners.

“I know you killed Ron,” I whispered into her ear. “And so did Rebecca. She was going to reveal it at the trial, show that it wasn’t the first time you’ve had a problem with dosage. And the cases are so strikingly similar.”

“It was an accident.”

“On both counts? I think not. You’re either incompetent, or you have something to prove. I’m rather inclined to believe the latter.”

---

A tear fell, making its way down her cheek in a trail of water and mascara. The hollows beneath her eyes seemed to deepen, becoming as dark as bruises. She wasn’t sad. She was angry.

“Some people deserve death,” she said, her voice quiet but filled with malice.

Her wand left my neck. She smiled. There was no humour there, only an emptiness that I couldn’t quite imagine. The Hermione I knew had gone. And it made me wonder if I ever really knew her at all.

I didn’t see the flick of her wand, but I saw the blade.

---

It flashed in the corner of my eye, slicing towards my throat with a deadly accuracy. I twisted to the side, just missing the blow, and watched as Hermione followed through, the blade hitting the wood with a dull thud.

I moved behind her, reversing our positions as she yanked the knife from the door. She came at me again, her eyes wild, but I was ready, grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head. Her wand dropped to the floor with a clatter.

“Pinned, like the butterfly you are,” I whispered, pressing hard against her. Holding her still.

---

She pushed against me, trying to free herself, her curves fitting against my body in an almost distracting way. I could feel the softness of her chest against mine, the curve of her thigh by my waist. Perfection wrapped in poison.

A groan passed my lips, and she smirked in response.

“Pity,” she spat. “You only ever got me like this in anger when all you wanted it to be in lust. I expected so much more from you. But, if you can’t deliver—”

I silenced her with my lips, pressing them against hers with violence rather than love.

---

Her taste was distinctive, and it plays around my memory even now, tantalising me with things I can’t ever experience again. All sweetness with a bitter aftertaste, very much like the medicine I swallowed as a child. But she wasn’t in the least bit good.

Her mouth opened against mine, and my tongue duelled for dominance with hers, all slickness and heat. Her taste made its way down my throat, and I felt as though I was falling. Kissing her was like a drug, and I hated myself for wanting it, for moving closer and touching her like a lover.

---

She stopped struggling and her arms went limp. I slid my hands from her wrists, tracing up her soft skin to her palms. My left linked with hers, our fingers interlocking, my right took the knife and dropped to my side. The handle was smooth and cool between my fingertips.

In one quick move, I sliced upwards, embedding the blade beneath her ribs, puncturing a lung. She let out a muffled whimper, her scream silenced by mouth. I hated myself for hurting her, but it had to be done. She wasn’t right, and I couldn’t have her hurting anyone else.

---

“I’m sorry,” I whispered against her lips, tasting blood that wasn’t my own.

She slumped against me as though she were drunk, her brown eyes wide with shock. Her fingers gripped at my shoulders, tearing the black fabric that graced them as she struggled with gravity.

“I loved you,” she said, her words red and liquid.

She fell to the floor, her knees hitting the ground hard. Her face was pale and drawn, tiny flecks of red adorning it like rubies. She was dying, and it was my fault.

But I didn’t care. Not then. And not now.

“I know.”

---

I remember little else about that night save the light leaving her eyes. The Aurors found me sometime later, her blood upon my hands and tears on my cheeks. I was taken to Azkaban and later tried by the Wizengamot. I was sentenced to death on the 3rd of March that year. Nobody attended my funeral. Those who I loved, and who loved me in return, were dead and buried. My ashes were scattered to the wind, and I began to roam, carried forever by the winter wind.

This is the tale of Severus Snape.

The story of a murderer.