Warning: this fic contains mature themes and certain things that will offend people. If you are overly sensitive please don't read it. If you don't like the idea of Severus Snape/ Ginny Weasley pairing then please don't read. If you would be offended on comments made against religion then please don't read.
Everyone else, hope you like.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, other people with more money do.
He never claimed to be a saint, far from it in fact, he was a demon who had pleaded his way to the pearly gates, only to be as much of an outcast there as he had been in hell.
But he knew this, and had long since accepted that no matter how many noble things he were to do, they would be overshadowed by the ugly mark he bared on his flesh.
But it hardly mattered to him anymore.
Not like it used to when he was younger and the scab on his forearm was still healing. He would grow angry when people would stare at him, talking in whispers about him, acting as if he weren't there when he clearly was. It only helped to fuel the anger and hatred behind the deadly spells he had cast.
But now, he had taught himself to stop caring. So he stopped, and he let himself live his life in a very dull, menial way. Taking pleasure in small things like his coffee being at the right temperature in the morning, or kicking Mrs. Norris when she refused to let him pass on into his own classroom, or when receiving a box of fresh potions ingredients.. He took simple pleasure in the weight of the day, being lifted from his shoulders at night when he had no more classes and could indulge in some scotch.
These things were his life. Dull yet comforting to him, but terribly lonely.
He had a few acquaintances, nothing too close, but enough to sate him, to drown away the ache for human contact, if only for a little while.
And he started enjoying his solitude, started enjoying the fact that he could almost do as he please. But sometimes he would grow tired of the silence that accompanied him throughout the night. On those nights he would leave the solace of his dungeons and allowed himself the chance to think clearly.
By drinking himself into a stupor.
He would lock himself away in his room, thinking of all the times in his life that he felt incomplete and without anything to live for but he lived merely out of habit. He would think of things to depress him more, to fuel him to drinking and drinking more and more of a mysterious green liquid that would leave him numb. He would weep for the one thing he held dear, feeling the pain all over again as it slipped from his fingers, finishing the last droplets of the glowing drink.
But he couldn't do that today.
Thanks to his love for a good scotch and the weight of his life being unbearably heavy on that fateful day months ago, he had let himself be drawn into something that would taunt him forever.
But that hardly mattered at that moment because he was being held against his will due to the ties that bound him to someone he hated.
To someone he owed his life to.
To someone he loved...
He remembered how the young man had come to him, asking him with pleading eyes and biting lip to be here on this day. As if it meant something, as if his presence would be missed, as if he cared.
So he came to the towering cathedral where haunting notes echoed from within, as people made their way down the isle for the wedding of the century.
Harry Potter was getting married.
She used to dance in front of a mirror, watching her hips swinging to a beat that was only in her head. Grinding against someone invisible, swaying in the arms of someone that would never hold her. She would twirl around in a faded sundress, hoping that someone would notice her.
And then one day her wish came true.
He came to her that night, as she swayed her hips round and round, writhing against nothing, her hair swayed wildly and her cheeks were flushed. She bit her lip when she noticed his reflection on her clawed mirror. It was cracked in the middle, a spidery line separated her shock and his lust.
Silently he came up behind her, touching her gently, making her knees shake.
He never did anything she didn't want to do, he didn't force her into anything. He was gentle and patient with her, taking his time as he broke through her innocence and made her writhe. But when she whispered his name against his shoulder, as she clung to him, watching the world fade around her; he moaned another name.
Maybe if it had stopped there, then maybe she could have made herself forget.
But he came almost every night, walking into her room that summer, with her holding the door open for him. After the first time, he never initiated anything, it would always be her, pressing herself against him, kissing her way down as she opened his shirt. And he wouldn't utter a sound, that is until he was on top of her, filling her to the hilt with himself, whimpering someone else's name.
And one day, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped.
She tried to ask him why once, a year had passes since that faithful summer. He didn't respond. He merely looked away, a dark emotion coming from his eyes. Threatening to spill in a violent way.
She never asked again.
Months later she was dancing again in front of her mirror, as she always did to make herself happy, but doing it now to try and forget, when a soft knock sounded from her door. Startled, she walked hesitantly towards it, biting her lip, trying to make her breathing steady. 'Would it be him?' she asked herself, turning the lock on the door.
But it wasn't him.
Hermione smiled her beautiful smile at her, before launching herself on the other girl. She laughed, her laughter like singing bells during church.
"Ginny, he finally asked me to marry him!" She flashed a brilliant antique gold ring with a stunning emerald cut diamond.
"Who asked you?" She asked softly, but she knew already, she recognized the ring immediately. The summer before, on one of their final nights, Harry had slipped it in her fingers before he came, screaming "Hermione" into Ginny's flesh.
"Harry of course? Who else?" She smiled brilliantly again, "You're the first I've told, my parents don't even know."
"Why me?" She asked this question to both Hermione and to herself.
"Because, silly, I need you to be my maid of honor."
She remembered tears falling from her eyes, masked by the smile she gave to the woman she admired and viewed as a friend. She remembered hugging the other girl as she thanked her for the honor.
And she remembered wording two words to her over her shoulder.
'I'm sorry.'
The sun shone through the stain glass windows up above, beams of colored light hit the alter beautifully, making me wish it was me on that cross if only to escape the sound of the organ announcing his bride to be. But that would only make things worse, giving me a perfect view of his soon to be wife.
If only she didn't look so beautiful, then maybe I could hate her.
Her hair was in rivulets around her face and down her back, like rivers of antique gold, with baby's breath laced through the curls. Her dress as white as fresh snow, pure, innocent. It was trimmed in red, Gryffindor red . He could see why Harry had chosen her. The light made her look like an angel, her eyes shone brightly, watching only the man at the end of the long journey, over white petals and through the fiery lights.
The priest droned on and on about love and about faith and about God. But God wasn't with me, he never loved me, just like my father never loved me, or Voldemort never loved me.
Like Harry never loved me.
He only used me, made me believe I was his friend.
He tore through that with the first hesitant kiss.
Something inside me broke down that night and I wanted to drown in him, wanted to stop breathing for him, wanted to be as close as two people could be. I returned the kiss with fervor and I lost myself. Drowning in a pool of emerald green, I let myself believe that maybe there was more to life beyond the meaningless existence I had lived for so long.
But when morning came he acted as before, as if he were my friend, and that the night before had never happened. And I didn't say a word to him. What could I say? He had destroyed the hesitant friendship that had taken so long to build with one swift thrust.
But maybe he was never my friend.
It stabbed at me when I learned of his engagement through other mouths and not his own. But he still asked me to come here personally. Maybe it was to torment me, to make me ache for him, to make me suffer like the most painful of dark magic never could. I don't know. I felt my heart throb as I saw his hand reach for hers, as he ached to be with her.
I felt like I would scream.
But when I saw their first kiss as man and wife, I felt like I would weep.
For there went the one person that I ached for, that I lusted after, that I bothered to care for.
I felt like a fool, lusting after a man who I had comforted one night months ago, craving to hear his moans again, wishing he had screamed my name instead of hers. That one night lead to months of obsession.
I had come here for closure. I had received none. And I doubt I can find it in a place where their centerpiece is a man hanging from a cross.
But as I start to leave, following the other guests out to the apparating point, I feel something slipping from my fingers.
My blood.
I stared down at my hands where deep nail marks had been dug into my palms, blood trickled down my fingers and landed on the marble floor beneath me. I examine the blood flow, frowning at it. It looked so bright in the mid afternoon light, it almost looked fake.
Almost.
Sighing I stepped aside from the throng of people making their way through the large doors. I took out a handkerchief from my pocket and mutely wrapped it around my hand. The blood soaked through the white material, staining it forever.
Feeling weary I leaned against a pillar, watching people pass by me on their way to the reception, dipping their fingers into the bowl before blessing brows with holy water.
I didn't dare touch the stuff, in fear of being burned.
Green. His eyes were green, a deep emerald color that could make me go numb, make me weep, make me scream out in anger. My dress wasn't like his eyes.
It was sea foam green, soft and dull like a wilting leaf clinging to the lively rose's stem. It clung to my breasts and to my hips, only to flow around my thighs and above my knees; The gossamer material left me feeling naked and exposed. My shoes were like ballet slippers and tied my ankles and up mid-calf. She had picked this color, claiming that it would make me look stunning, instead I felt like a dying weed on a hot midsummer's day in my dress. Because compared to her, that's all I will ever be.
During the ceremony, I refused to look at them, instead I stared at the stained glass windows that covered the upper part of the church walls. They depicted murder and forgiveness and hope and prayer... Their message was lost to my tear stained eyes, they looked like blurs of colors.
She wrote her own vowels. They were lovely, poetic, and sincere, just like her.
I heard my own mother sobbing in the background, the children she had taken as her own were getting married, she couldn't be happier. Sometimes I wonder if she would have been happier with Hermione as a daughter instead of me. I finally look down, towards my feet, people around me are cheering.
Their first kiss as man and wife.
I hugged myself and slipped away, through the other entrance as people throw rice at their heads, they make their way down the isle with laughter. I feel like I'm going to be sick.
I walked through a door that lead to a corridor and a staircase, daylight shone from the staircase, feeling dizzy, and slightly lightheaded I made my way towards the steps. I could still hear the crowd inside the alter cheering after them, it echoed through the walls. I laid my head against the stone railing and closed my eyes.
They were playing the organ again, as people left towards the reception. My head throbbed at the sound, I dreaded going to the reception, knowing full well that I would have to make an appearance eventually, that I would have to make a speech about how happy I was for the lovely couple, that I would have to do my duties as maid of honor and dance with the groom.
My nails dug into my arms as I hugged myself tighter, fighting the nausea that ate away at me.
He stared at his hand, staring at the dried blood that clung to his skin. He frowned, they itched. But he left his small cuts be and pushed himself away from the pillar and slowly walked around, staring at the ornate walls. His shoes clicked on the marble floor, it echoed as he walked down the corridor and trailed his fingers against the cold wall.
He wouldn't go to the reception, he decided as he walked through an intricate arch. He would return to his home, a house much to large for a man living alone. It held many empty rooms that had white linen covering all the furniture. His living room was the same as well, he hardly ever used it. If he wasn't in his bedroom then he was in his study or in his laboratory. The kitchen was only used by the small house elf who's mother had served his parents. She spent most of her time when he was away tending to the herbs and strange flowers that grew in his mothers old garden. The only thing that remained from the original garden was a rose bush that grew blood red roses right beside the gate.
He usually cut them up and extract the essence to make sleeping potions.
He stopped suddenly, having noticed that he was at the end of the corridor, a staircase was up ahead, being blocked by someone that seamed too fragile to be real. But he wasn't surprised to see her.
Mutely he walked up to her, his shoes clicking and sounding louder then before, she barely glanced up at him. But she did move to the side for him. He sat beside her, hunched forward, staring at his hands.
They sat together that way, side by side, not looking at each other, not saying a word. Merely sitting.
Time passed by them, neither seamed to notice, to enraptured in their own thoughts, to tired to care. One dreading the throng of people at the reception, the other dreading the utter silence of his home.
Finally she spoke, he was surprised to hear her voice held no sign of tears. "He broke your heart too."
Her presumption astounded him, but he smiled a bitter smile. "And how did you know?"
She smiled her own bitter smile. "Hermione is a saint, and Harry is no angel."
"Everyone else certainly seams to think so."
"They've not slept with him."
And he laughed, the way one laughs when they haven't laughed in a long time. It was harsh and raw and unpracticed. She smiled in surprise, never imagining that she would see her old potions master laugh. And at something so painful and so true, but she just watched him. His eyes lit up for a small glimmer, his face lightened up and he didn't look so bitter. But it was over as soon as it started and he had his familiar smirk playing on his lips.
She finally looked away from him and leaned against the wall. "Do you think we are the only ones?"
He shook his head slightly, his face solemn again. "No," he said softly. "I know there's more around that at one point or another shared their beds with Harry."
She closed her eyes, feeling tired, knowing that eventually she would have to get up and leave. She glanced at him through the corner of her eye and spoke softly.
"Are you going to the reception?"
"Wasn't planning on it, you?"
"I have to, Maid of Honor and whatnot." She sighed, waving her hand towards her dress in emphasis. She stared down at the dress and began dreading the noise and the people and the groom all over again. She didn't know how she would deal with it. She bit her lip, still staring at him, being obvious about it since he turned to look at her as well. For a moment neither spoke or moved, they merely stared at one another.
"Come with me."
Without missing a beat he replied, "No."
"Please, I don't want to go alone?"
She placed a small hand on his shoulder, and he flinched. But she didn't pull away, she tightened her hand on his arm and looked at him hopefully.
"If you don't go, you let him win."
And that was all it took, he gave up, giving into her logic, and giving into her. She gave him a kiss in gratitude on his cheek. But as she started pulling away, he leaned forward and closed his eyes.
His lips tasted of tea and scotch.
Her lips tasted of tears and honey.
His skin was cold, I shivered against him and he brought me even closer.
Her skin was hot, burning my fingers as I trailed my fingers on her jaw line.
His hair tangled in my fingers and I tugged him towards me as he tried to pull away.
Her hair was softer then any rose petal and just as red, I ran my hand through it, letting it slip through my blood stained fingers.
His breathing was jagged and he moaned against my neck.
Her pulse was rapid, I ran my tongue over it, sucking on the spot gently as she shivered.
I felt dizzy, my head spinning at the thought of him of all people, marking my skin as his own. I trembled against him, he pulled me even closer and I sat on his lap, my bottom resting on his arousal. I whimpered against his ear.
I felt confused, disorientated, and aroused from the taste of her hot mouth. I was drunk by her scent, like belladonna on a hot summers night, she drugged me to the point where I could hardly remember my own name, much less where we were.
Somehow they managed to drag themselves up the staircase, climbing its many steps to the top where the bell stood silently waiting. Again they resumed trying to get closer to one another, trying to continue feeling the adrenaline pumping through their veins painfully. Nothing mattered to them as they crushed their lips together, drugging one another to the point where they could hardly breath.
It didn't matter to them who the other person was at that moment, or that they were inside of a holy church or that the were being too loud. All that mattered at that moment was that his shirt had too many buttons and that her dress slipped off around her breast easily but would go no further without unzipping it. They found a remedy to both problems rather quickly, buttons flew and skirts were hiked up around waists.
And they found the closure they both ached for in one another, through every thrust and every moan and every sigh. The wall dug on her back painfully, but she didn't notice and merely hung onto him as he ravished her, as he pushed her again and again against the stone.
And as he filled her with himself he felt that it was as close to God he could ever be, up in the bell tower, defiling a sacred place, he felt he had gotten even with god for not loving him.
To a smaller extent he felt he got even with Voldemort for taking the girl he had ensnared in his younger self's diary, as his own. And he felt some sort of retribution for taking as his own one of Harry's many conquests. One of his many whores.
And she felt sated as she bit into his shoulder, moaning, shivering against him. She had also gotten her own revenge on Harry, and she finally felt like she could forget. She tasted his blood on her lips, she licked the wound gently, watching his shudder, watching him shake.
Feeling him spill inside of her, she threw her head back and they both screamed.
But only one name was said.
Authors Note: Um….I honestly don't know where this fic came from, I had been playing around with the pairing and wrote a few different stories but this one was the only one I liked and the only one I didn't end up tossing. It was supposed to be the prequel to another I wrote before it but I don't know if I will post it.
Review if you liked.