Smile at Snape opening her legs

"I only wish to have more faithful servants for our Dark Lord, Snape. You should be happy. You're going to have a family with the former boy who lived." Her smile was a fragile, cracked thing, but it was there. It was a mask, she knew, but it was the only one she had left. She shifted on the bed, the sheets whispering around her, and slowly, deliberately, opened her legs. The motion was an offering, a surrender, a performance of the role she had been **** to play.

Snape's breath hitched. The faintest tremor ran through his hand before it stilled. He stared at her, at the blatant invitation, and for a moment, the mask of cold indifference slipped. A raw, visceral pain flashed in his dark eyes before being brutally suppressed. He saw not a willing partner, but the man he had failed to save, now offering up the last shreds of his dignity.

He moved towards the bed, his steps heavy with an unspoken burden. He sat on the edge, the mattress dipping with his weight. He did not touch her, not yet. He simply looked at her, his gaze tracing the curve of her belly, the swell of her breasts heavy with milk, the vacant defiance in her green eyes.

"So this is your victory, Harry," he whispered, the words laced with a poison that was directed as much at himself as at her. "You are better than this. Your... Your mother weren't want you to do this."

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