Pansy laid in bed, lethargic and thoroughly drugged. Dull heat throbbed through her nude body, what should have been pain she realized, with a certain vagueness of mind, didn't feel quite as it should. It was just there - much like she was, out of place, a small raven-haired child in the bedchambers of the man whose Potions class she sat through four days out of the week.
Red stained the sheets, splattered in passion, not her passion but his. His obsession - her body and her blood. The dull sensations as well as the blood could be traced to the crisscrosses that marred her otherwise porcelain-pink skin.
Snape entered the room, fully dressed, as presentable as if he had just returned to the classroom. The way he fiddled with the matte black buttons on the cuff of his frock coat sent twinges through her lower body, as if radiating from a lustful knot in her sex out to every limb.
She knew she was crazy. She had to be. He was a greasy git high on his own ego with a penchant for power trips. Pansy simultaneously hated and loved him when he cut her. The emotions evoked from the experience were so intense she often feared her heart might burst. But she hated the way he could hurt her with wild abandon, like he was dissecting a particularly intriguing specimen from one of the many fluid-filled jars that lined his classroom walls. He regularly ignored her tears to prolong his own pleasure. Yet somehow she felt closer to him with each slice, every new wound probed deeper within not only her body but her psyche.
Snape had never fucked her, but she couldn't fathom copulation could match the intensity of his routine bladed penetration.
His velvet voice snatched her consciousness out of the depths of her reverie. She could only mutter nonsensical strings of sounds at first, but that was as per usual when he had her like this. The smell of sweat and smoke and asphodel surrounded her as he sat on the bed.
"You were a good girl, this time," he said with the sort of inflection comparable to listing off potion ingredients.
Pansy's face became wet and she knew she had started to cry, even before she could feel the sobs wrack her body; they caused her breasts to heave and left her hiccuping for breath. That one flat sentence meant everything to her. His compliments validated her existence, made it all worth doing.
She knew she was crazy.
She also knew, more than her dignity or health, that she needed to be his. "Thank you," she whispered through choked sobs, "sir."
He simply nodded, and began to spread his recently brewed healing salve over her stinging flesh.
She was his and he took care of her. He had to love her, because no matter how many times he broke her body he always made her whole again.