Kaddish

Disclaimer: not mine.

Kaddish: a liturgical prayer, consisting of three or six verses, recited at specified points during each of the three daily services and on certain other occasions.

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"Yitgaddal v'yitqaddash sh'meh rabba..."

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She rides me as a goddess, granting such sweet blaspheme I've never felt ere or since, but I'm held back, hesitant, wretched, undeserving, cowardly bastard that I am. She feels my uncharacteristic reluctance, and stills our motions, studying me carefully.

"Severus, let me in"

I of the iron will and disdain of lovesick fools can refuse her nothing. With an unspoken incantation I lay my throat bare. I feel her enter; a bright beacon gently piercing the dark recesses of my consciousness.

The inhabitants of my mind greet her with fear and delight-- the chained imp in the corner who would kill her to keep her, the cold man of brittle, black glass who splinters with each sadistic strike to another, the small child who hates himself for crying--the cracked, fractured all and naught of me she holds in her hand, between her thighs. We--I-- wait silent and unmoving beneath her.

"It's all right, Severus." Her voice alone is an embrace of its own, her acceptance breaks me; tears wind their way down my face as she moves above me.

I breathe only her-- her sweat, her skin, her come fills my lungs. Her hand sears a path down my back and the muscles in my legs burn numb; pleasure bleeds down my arms and flows back upwards. Her lips burn through my ears, neck, and shoulder. As I pass a thumb over her breast the hardened peak scrapes through the pad across the bone, my other hand is lost in the lovely gnarls and snares of her hair. Time stretches the pulses of my blood even as the beats chase each other in a mad race to silence, fading under her moans and cries. My muscles pull at my bones, flesh stripped from my frame with every touch and everything disappears from sight, smell, feeling, hearing, and taste but her. As she comes, she pulls the life of me from cock, to heart, to brain.

I give all to her as ever, and am content for it.

Hermione.

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"...hu yaase shalom alenu, v'al kol yisrael, v'imru amen."

He didn't even resist, just smiled-- with a nod from one with a lifetime spent walking the thin line between good and evil to another poised to take the same path-- as I administered the curse, carefully researched and practiced, a holy prayer turned to a heathen act of pity: swift, undetectable, pragmatically merciful, as brutally effective as the Killing Curse.

His death was beautiful. His eyes were alight with passion as his body's death throes were transformed by the spell into pleasure. Thin, cadaverous flesh brought alive and shaking, the ice of his features melting to an animate human face, he drew a deep, final breath and exhaled, not a death rattle, merely a sigh, and his eyes deadened in truth this last time, his body slackening into his seat. I know not what he dreams in this sleep of death, but for his sake I hope it welcomes him better than the living world has.

My assigned and willing task is complete, and I turn again to thoughts of war.

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There. Finished. I promise. I hope it measures up to the previous parts. I got much criticism for this being not a true Snape/Hermione fic, so I hope this satisfies those previously disappointed. Thanks for reading!