In my opinion, Miss Granger was an awkward girl. Long, and lanky, with her bushy hair and close together eyebrows. Her body was oddly proportioned and she had more bends than she did curves. She was the spokesperson for mediocracy, she was average. In a crowd of students, I would never recognize her if her insistent hand weren't raised. But I envied her knowledge. I was attracted to her intellect. Her voice when explaining a concept was the most alluring thing I've ever heard. After a while, I'd catch myself staring at her lips when she spoke. A while after that, she began to catch me. Her shell of mediocracy fell and from it's remains the woman I know now has hatched into the beauty that stood next to my shoulder, day after day, looking for a solution. It wasn't lust. I didn't crave her body. I didn't exactly need physical contact. It was far beyond that. I needed mental stimulus, an emotional connection. I don't know the exact moment I fell in love with Miss Granger, Hermione, but I do know that it had to be when she smiled, or when she explained her ideas to me. I needed her, I wanted her. I loved her.
Over the course of the war, through every great battle and every small fight, Hermione was by my side. You must know of the war. The details, I should not have to explain, for the articles still lie in the newspapers, you know who won, you know how they won. It is obvious to those who read this book. So I shall not recall the minor details of a war already explained. But there was a war being fought elsewhere. My war. The war of wills. I debated with myself if I should tell her how much I cared for her. Even if it meant rejection. She was no longer a student, my moral opinion was quieted. And on one faithful night, the night before the war ended, we coupled. She was twenty years old then. She was ripe, and willing, she was a virgin. She came to me, her heart beating wildly in her chest, she told me. Like a fist continually being slammed onto her rib cage, threatening to break it's confines. I remembered thinking, How poetic, my Hermione. She asked if the war would ever end, if the battles would cease, and she could live again. She wondered if she would live through the final fight, or would she die a virgin, unloved and unwanted. I pressed her head against my chest then, letting her weep the tears of a prisoner of war. She wept her tears of sorrow, and regret. I let her unbutton my shirt, kiss my lips, I let her use me that night. She was repaying me for using Pansy. It was only fair. I let her soft, small hands caress my body like a specimen, waiting to be tested, to be used, to be experimented on. Don't get me wrong, I caressed, I touched, I felt. I pushed into her with such gentleness that the pain that followed was meaningless. Short, and weak. I made love that night, and she just used me. I've never experienced a love like that before.
If you are reading this, it is probably years after the Great War. Years after the fall of Dumbledore's army, years after Voldermort's rule, hopefully. My memoirs, my story, stuffed into the crevice of the dark room. Where the dark is haunting, where the screams drift to my ears in whispered tones, as silent as the dark is thick. Sometimes, just sometimes, I recognized them as Hermione's. Being tortured as I sat in a dark room, alone, with my quills and my parchment, writing what may be illegible years from now. Sitting in a room while the woman I love is being tortured. Sitting... waiting. For what? Madness, rescue, starvation, death. I do not know how many days have passed, nor do I know the nights. All I know, is that the war I wage with my own wills has come to a solution. The war has ended, I have lost.
Excerpt from War of Wills: Chronicles of Severus E. Snape- Only legible chapters..
My brother's account of his capture was the only records remaining of the Great War. I, Sylvia Snape have published these findings. The Wizarding World, as we knew it, is gone, Voldermort, ruled for a time being only to fall at the hands of his own power hungry Deatheaters, who killed each other during the power struggle. The Wizarding World was left to the survivors. The whores, the beggars, those who served for Voldermort in means to save their lives. No survivors have been found of Dumbledore's army. I, as the Minister of Magic guarantee the events of the middle ages of magic shall not happen again. Please, support my cause, the reconstruction of the Magic age.
And so, the remaining wizards gathered around, chanting Minister Snape among the crowds...