Disclaimuh'- yeah. That.
SOME NOTES: DUE TO THE VIOLENT NATURE OF THE FOLLOWING TEXT, I BEG YOU KEEP AN OPEN MIND AND CALM STOMACH.
IT IS SET IN BOTH THE PAST AND PRESENT, THE PAST APPEARING IN ITALICS AND THE PRESENT IN NORMAL TEXT
Twisted is what others might call it, but you are different. For reasons unknown even to yourself, you find their nonconsensual mutilation fascinating, beautiful even. Theatrical make-up and magically altered voices turn them into creatures of myth, gloriously transfigured shadows of their previous forms.
Of course, as with every obsession, there is a point your interest centers around.
A tiny pinpoint almost unnoticeable in the darkness of the theatre. She was never built for the stage, or entertaining a crowd of any form. You knew her once, a quietly defiant witch of standard issue length skirts and sloppy ponytails, wispy curls hanging loose from their confines. She was the books she carried, born and raised in the back corners of a library, bound together by a leather spine, hidden between two, quite ordinary looking, covers.
Nothing she was now was standard issue.
Blue veins pulse from the appendages weighing heavily on her back and the frail things flutter uselessly as she awaits the conclusion of the production. Voices clang and ricochet off each other under the high ceiling and she looks down, then to the left.
It is infuriating, her uncertainty with her new form. Even the mistakes her mutilator made are infuriating.
They are obvious. Shock white, pale and translucent, almost glowing, skin denoting a transfigural mistake in the spell. The pigments in her body must have faded slowly, like watercolor paint as it is washed off a rag. Pinks and browns and golden tones where she sat in the sun for too long all swirling down the sink and into the drain where they turn into a bitter, gummy paste and catch the hairballs and blood washed down along with them.
Professor, she says, soft and sweet and low between twin parted puffs of pink, pillows of swollen pleasure in the purple of the dawn.
You push her back into the bed and let your foreheads touch in an intimate gesture.
Her fragileness, despite her mental prowess, makes her your perfect woman. You perfect perfect perfect perfect…
And yet…oh god, the feeling hangs down and swings like a pendulum, and you ride out the wave, cupping her face between your palms. What would you do without her, your perfect perfect perfect… oh god oh god.
She's little more than a waif, a tiny skip of a being hidden behind the heavy curtain of the striped circus tent, a cigarette propped between her public's teeth, smoked to the core and still smoldering in the acid touch of light energy.
Her pupils are wide and black, like the rooms she is confined to. You want to touch, but dare not. Her sometimes mangled appearance chokes you, and draws you just the same. She skitters to her corner to cower in her embarrassment. She knows you, she knows you, she knows you.
And yet and still, she doesn't.
Oh yet and still, her mind is a beautiful basket woven by precise handiwork, strapped together to collect the most fragrant bouquet of flowers, and as you enter it it's like a peek of the closest you'll ever come to heaven.
Your methodical ways break her down into carbon, oxygen and a varying assortment of other crashing atoms and shuddering molecules. She's a mixture of distortment and rearrangement, a contemptible image in a puddle of gasoline. Her hair no longer the color god intended, her body no longer the shape it had grown to be, her character no longer the consistency it had been.
She makes you indescribably angry, even though she no longer remembers why. The experimentation will have taken care of her mental capacity to retain and recall knowledge.
You wonder if she still remembers pleasure. If her short-term memory can recall pain. If she still leapt at loud noises and feared the hands that pried at her unwilling thighs, the wand pointed at her struggling body, the spells cast the that morphed into this…this…whatever she was.
Muscles grip at the growths and again they flutter anxiously and the sight tears at you. You want to slash them from her body, desire this action so greatly you finger the tip of your wand and it grows warm in your pocket, anxious to begin.
You approach her with soft words and a smile, and she smiles shyly back up at you. The wings twitch and her skin, you notice, is producing a slight powdery substance.
Your fists clench and you try valiantly to keep the tension from reaching your facial muscles. You back is rigidly straight, your palms sweaty with a nervousness you haven't felt since your NEWT exams.
You're ready to end this. So ready. So ready.
You watch steady fingers dance along the chopping board, plucking wings from various insects, before carefully, sweetly, slowly, removing the wings from a silver moth.
Professor… she says, holding the wings up to the light, … aren't they beautiful?
Well, no they weren't. And they still aren't.
And yet and yet and yet…
Your body screams at you to move, screams at you to push her down and smother her with your body, push her so hard into the grassy ground that the bones in those awkward wings snap like chicken bones in the jaws of a junkyard mutt. Your body pleads with you to plunder those eyes of hers for any memories she may still have of you in the subconscious attic of her mind. You want to see if her body recalls yours, you want to see if it would still respond with the same fervor, still shudder and shake with the same intensity, but you doubt it.
She's not your little Mudblood anymore.
She's not. She's this…thing.
And you cant stand it.
You reach a tentative hand out to brush them (the wings!).
The skin is not scaly or slimy or rotting.
Its warm and dry, the powdery flush curling in strange patterns of brown and soft blue-grays.
She shudders with delight and her eyes light up with something akin to pleasure.
You withdraw you hand, disgusted, and for a moment, your eyes connect and you see the entrails of her mind littering her cranial cavity.
There was nothing left. Someone else's wand tip had mixed her DNA and scrambled it like it was for breakfast, shaken her components around and made her subhuman, just because they could.
Professor, she screamed, PROFESSOR!
Or at least, you imagine she called to you as she was dragged away. The truth is you weren't there. You weren't there for her, you sodding mess of a man, you pathetic excuse of a rescuer, scowering the country for any trace of her before you became obsessed with this mutilation experimentation.
And how ironic that it lead you back to her.
You're coming back into your own mind when the final straw hits you across your back.
And yet, your mind tells your violent impulse and you snap.
Oh snap, you snap!
Snapsnapsnap and thow her down to the ground and she screams in agony and you hear the sickening sound you've lusted for since you first saw her new form, the snap of those godforsaken moth wings jutting from her back like mutilated stumps of freedom. Blood gushes from the major arteries you've crushed, soaking the grass and you press your length against her and she struggles and you can't believe it as your arm presses into her windpipe and more tiny bones pop and SNAP! And she claws at you but you hold her firm and you hear her frantic sputters and yet and yet and yet and yet oh god…
oh god oh god shes beneath you again and her eyes are in yours and you want to brush your hand along her jaw tenderly, tell her its not her fault, its not her fault and yet the potion
and now she's mutilated
to produce the desired results
and it was definitely and waste of valuable materials.
And yet… and yet…
Hermione and snape were once in love, but she was captured and some strange experimentation leaves her a strange cross between a moth and a human, and also mentally handicapped beyond repair.
The desecration of the woman he loves inspires Snape to destroy the body that she once inhabited.
Written to Taking Back Sunday's "Make Damn Sure" and Marilyn Manson's "Beautiful People".
SOME MORE NOTES:
Whogirl- I reposted Stolkholm Syndrome because an asshole (now ex)boyfriend of mine "discouraged" my love of fanfiction, and my love of writing period. So as soon as I realized what a loser he was I dumped his ass and reposted. )
Also, Snape does not kill Hermione with his wand, as you have probably noticed. This is because he wants to desecrate the shell of a person she became after the experiments, not because he is particularly violent.
This story is neither post war nor prewar. I imagine in my tiny mind that strange things must happen with science during wartimes (like experimentation in Nazi concentration camps) and that Hermione, outside of becoming (as usual) a victim of rape, could be injured in another way during wartime. I wanted to toy with this idea.
The elements I wanted to work with were a mixture of shock, disgust, lust and love. Dunno how I did.
How about you review and tell me?
Constructive criticism welcome.