DISCLAIMER: I do not own these characters or anything else seen here that might be found in the HP Canon or movies.

WARNING: This fic contains graphic material and forced situations.

...*~*J*~*...

She dreamt of sunlight. Of the autumn wind breathing life into the old trees that dotted the grounds of Hogwarts. The way their colors changed as the school year progressed. The blue sky was full of fluffy clouds thick as cotton. And the sound of laughter drifted over the damp green grass from the direction of the lake.

In her dream, she could see her friends' smiles and hear their voices. She could smell the parchment of an essay on her lap; taste the autumn on the breeze. The soft grass tickled her legs and the sun beat down upon all of it; the king of the light. Everything was so beautiful and rich and alive.

It was dark when she opened her eyes. And there was no sunlight to be had. Not here. Not in the dungeons where the Professor kept his quarters even now that he was Headmaster. She propped herself up on her makeshift pallet and reached for the candle beside her on the floor. There were matches, but she ignored them, preferring the challenge of lighting it with wandless magic. She never attempted this when the Professor was around. He would probably be angry. But she had read about the theory of wandless magic from one of the Professor's books, off of the only bookshelf he kept in his bedroom.

Hermione was fairly sure he would be angry if he saw her with one of his books. And yet, he had never warded the shelf, and he knew her well enough to know that she would be tempted by the written word. But just the same, she kept it secret from him. Just as she kept it secret that she was teaching herself to do magic without a wand. It was risky, but it gave her strength to see that she was not hopeless without her confiscated implement. And it gave her power to know that whatever they might say about mudbloods; whatever they might do to her; they couldn't take her magic.

Some days she still couldn't believe that the dark lord had been victorious. That Good did not trump Evil. That the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, Harry Potter, her very best friend had not defeated Voldemort. They had always been afraid of this possibility, but never had they truly believed that it could happen.

And yet, here she was, spread out on a pallet in the Professor's bedroom. Kept hidden away. Deprived of sunlight and human contact. Little more than a belonging. Or perhaps she was less. After all, the Professor hardly ever spoke to her, except occasionally to ask her to fetch him something. She had been his great reward for loyalty to the dark lord at the end of the war. Hermione almost thought that was funny and the irony of it sometimes seemed to soften the sting of her imprisonment. You see, they were the only ones who knew how much the Professor hated her. And that he never would have chosen her for his own prize. If he had been given a choice.

She had come to him naked, but he had since provided her with clothes: a silky Slytherin green pajama set that left little to the imagination. She was certain the green was a taunt, but wondered why the Professor had given her such revealing clothing if he truly had no interest in her.

For the first few weeks, she had shunned all food, but the Professor had broken her of that habit with a long tirade about how ungrateful she was and all of the horrible ways he would punish her if she continued to defy him. It wasn't the threat of punishment that brought about the change. No. It was the anger. It was the refusal to give the dark lord that kind of power; the refusal to hand him another victim free of charge. She would survive, if only to withhold that small victory from him. And to taunt the Professor with her continued existence in plain sight.

It was horrible; never knowing what was going on in the world. A couple of times, she had asked the Professor for a Daily Prophet, but he had only turned on her with that horrible sneer of his and told her in a deep dangerous tone that little mudbloods had no need for news. And that she would hear nothing about her kind mentioned in its pages. That was true enough, she realized. The Prophet must belong to the dark lord now.

Yet still she found herself desperate for some sort of news. The Professor never spoke to her, and he was always so grumpy that she could never tell if something particularly bad had happened or not. Although, there had been one time, toward the beginning of her stay here (and it was just a brief stay, she told herself). He had come back so angry that he'd broken all of the glass in the room without touching a thing. And then he'd knocked the bookshelf over for good measure and later yelled at her to put it to rights. He never did question her about how she managed to put every single book back in its original place. But he must have noticed.

Occasionally, Lucius Malfoy would visit and she could usually hear fairly well under the bedroom door, if she pressed her ear against it. And yes, she was just that desperate. But it was never anything particularly enlightening. The men would sit around drinking fire whiskey and whiling away the time with talk of their lives. The Professor would inquire about Narcissa and Draco, and once Lucius asked him about his 'little pet.' She had stopped breathing at that, if only to hear his response better. And she had been shocked by the lewd answer he had given. It made her curious. Why would he lie about a thing like that?

Another time, she had heard the familiar voice of Professor McGonagall on the other side of the door. The Transfigurations Professor had been furious about something and had bravely—or foolishly—reprimanded the new Headmaster. And she'd been rewarded with coldness and harsh words that even Hermione was surprised to hear him say. 'Who are you?' McGonagall had asked him. 'You are not the man I once knew.' And Hermione knew she was right. Back then, he had been a spy. Now his support for the dark lord was out in the open.

Sometimes she wondered why the Professor didn't throw her out. It seemed strange, since she was absolutely no use to him. At the very beginning, she had been afraid to be his slave. This was the man who had killed Albus Dumbledore. This was the man whose information had helped bring down the Side of the Light, and who aided in the capture and murder of Harry Potter. In fact, he had even been responsible for the original attack on the Potter household so many years earlier.

Before the day she was given to the Professor, she hadn't spoken to him since her sixth year at Hogwarts. And she hadn't seen him since the Final Battle, at a distance. And the frank coldness in his inky black eyes as he appraised his little prize had made her want to wilt like a flower and die. When he brought her here for the first time (never to leave again), she had been so sure that he was going to take her to bed. By the time they had entered his bedroom, her legs had been shaky and her heart had been hammering hard in her chest. But he had only arranged her little pallet, like a dog bed in the corner, and left to tend to more important duties.

He hadn't touched her since then, but she could sometimes feel his fingers tight around her wrist where they had been as he dragged her to the dungeons. Her last human contact. And she began to see him as a cold, inhuman machine. He only did as he was bid and cared nothing for the joys of life. If he had, wouldn't he smile? Wouldn't he touch? Wouldn't he love?

Most days passed without event and Hermione was sure she was slowly losing her mind. She had read every single book on the little bookshelf at least a dozen times and the bedroom couldn't have been cleaner if a hundred House Elves took up residence. School was in session. That much she had gathered through the Professor's bedroom door. Only now the school was full of purebloods and half the staff had perished in the war. She yearned for her own school days, a lifetime behind her, on a different plane of existence.

Her Universe was smaller now. She knew every inch of it by heart. The bed was big enough for two (or even three), but the Professor slept in the center, all alone. He had only one pillow and plain white sheets. The comforter was flat and old, a dingy grey that may have been a passable silver in another life. And a scratchy wool blanket in a plaid reminiscent of McGonagall's old dressing gown was folded on top of an empty chest at the foot of the bed. The furniture was wood: bed, dresser, nightstand, one chair, and one little side-table. There was a reading lamp by the chair he never sat in and another by the bed. But there were no mirrors to speak of, except the one over the bathroom sink.

Some days, Hermione stared into that mirror, wondering what the reflection was worth. Wondering if anyone on the outside knew she was alive; or cared. Wondering what the Professor saw and why he hadn't turned her out already. It was strange, admittedly, and a puzzle she had thought on for long hours many a day. The Professor hated her; he always had. And he didn't put her to any use. If she didn't know better… but no, she didn't dare hope. Though it sure seemed to her that his behavior would make a lot more sense if he wasn't truly devoted to the dark lord.

With that in mind, Hermione tried to imagine that her Professor was actually still Dumbledore's man; that he had been all this time. But the pieces still didn't fit. He had killed the prior Headmaster, after all. And he had served the dark lord ever since. And yet, she couldn't forget his skill in Occlumency. The only certainty was that he had either fooled Dumbledore or the dark lord. So, how could she, Hermione Granger, resident know-it-all, Brains of the Golden Trio, possibly presume to know his mind? But she couldn't keep that question from troubling her and filling her with frustrated doubt. Some days, it was like an obsession.

It was on one of these days that the Professor came into his bedroom after the midday meal to rifle through a drawer in his nightstand, searching for something. He didn't often visit the room during the day, and Hermione took the opportunity to study his unreadable features and ponder this lingering question. But he caught her looking and froze, meeting her eyes with a suspicious expression. She never met the Professor's eyes. But for the longest moment, she couldn't seem to look away. And all the while, she couldn't seem to stop thinking about that one question that bothered her most: why did he keep her? And then he was gone, and she began to wonder if he had seen her thoughts. There had been alarm in his eyes before they turned away. And it sent a shock of foreboding down her spine. But the Professor never punished her. Even when he caught her reading books.

A few nights later, the door burst open at the appointed time and the Professor entered as he normally did, fully dressed, and headed toward the bed, as usual. But he suddenly stopped. And looked at her. And her whole body tensed under his gaze. It was not very often that the Professor deigned to look upon her. And it did not bode well. He turned his body toward her; studying her; considering.

"Come here, girl," he commanded. 'Girl,' he called her. A name would mean that she was human. But she jumped to obey and hurried over to stand before him. He did not speak again, but slowly raised his arms and bent his fingers in a silent command to come nearer. She hesitated and the dangerous quirk of his eyebrows at that insubordination sent a ripple of terror down her spine. She took another tiny step toward him. And another. And another. And each one seemed to scream louder and louder that he didn't want some simple chore done.

She tried to push that unlikely thought aside as she came to a stop not a foot from the Professor. But when his hands came to rest upon her waist, sliding against the silky material of the garment he had bought for her to wear, she knew that it was true. For a moment, her breath would not come and she might have suffocated under his unforgiving stare if he hadn't pulled her that last half a foot toward him, gently enough, until her body was suddenly pressed tight against his own. And she gasped at the sudden movement and the truth it represented. There was no denying the stiff length of his arousal pressing hard against her belly. He was going to fuck her.

One slender hand came up to grasp her unruly mane of hair, pulling her head back as he leaned down toward her. But he hesitated; his mouth mere inches from her own. It was as if, perhaps, he didn't want to do this. Or, more likely, he didn't know how.

And then he closed the distance, and their mouths were pressed against each other. She failed to suppress a strangled whimper at the sudden contact and his other hand moved to grope her backside. His lips were unmoving and his breathing was shallow and quick as his fingers kneaded the soft flesh. Then his hand stretched to grab her where her cheeks met her thighs and he lifted her hard against the bulging crotch of his trousers. At that, his mouth broke away from hers in a silent gasp and the hand in her hair slipped down over her shoulder to cover her breast. At first, his fingers merely slid across the satin fabric of her pajama top. Then his mouth met hers again in a faint groan as he began to roll the soft mound beneath his palm; squeezing her gently; kneading like a nursing cat.

After a moment, he released her, stepping back only far enough to leave a gap between them. And he reached for the hem of the satin garment and lifted it slowly over her head. Hermione had never felt so exposed. Her cheeks were aflame with embarrassment and her fear and anxiety pooled like jagged fire in her belly. Those black eyes never left her half-naked form as he stripped to the waist, and the dark arousal in their depths sent icy shivers down her spine.

Then his hands returned to her, pressing palms against her nipples as his lips fell open and his eyes fell closed in heady concentration. And somewhere, in the back of her mind, Hermione wondered if the Professor had ever touched a woman like this. When he pulled away from her the second time he seemed anxious and impatient. And his hand grasped hers. And he led her to the bed. When he pushed her toward it, he was gentle, but she was afraid to refuse. And she was afraid to obey.

Swallowing her fear and accepting her fate, Hermione climbed into the Professor's bed and stretched out on her back in the center. She kept her eyes on the ceiling as he removed his remaining clothing, but she could feel his hungry black eyes on her the entire time.

And then the mattress tilted. And when he was above her, she caught a glimpse of him between her legs; big, stiff, and eager. She grasped at the sheets as he pushed her legs apart and nestled between them. The anxiety was pulsing inside of her and she felt as if she might explode from the pressure; or die. And all she wanted was an escape from the thrumming emotions that wracked her body as his lips met hers again. It was the same dry kiss as before, and she could feel his heavy breaths on her nose as he rubbed his body against hers. His desperate thrusts across the silken fabric made electric currents pulse between her legs. And Hermione couldn't say that she didn't like the way they felt.

But then he was removing her satin shorts; the last barrier; her last shield. And as he crouched above her, positioning himself at her entrance, she cringed away from him in fear. But he caught her chin, and turned her face to his, meeting her eyes for a bare instant. And though they only spoke of hungry need and frustrated desperation, she had the slightest impression that he may have been concerned.

And then he was pressing inside of her, bit by little bit. At first, she struggled out of fear. But he stopped her with a hand upon her shoulder; pressing it hard into the mattress as he pressed hard into her. And his eyes met hers with a strange look; as if in surprise at the effect she was having on him. But he was at her barrier, and Hermione knew that he could not go any farther without breaking her. And the pain was so unbearable that she began to struggle despite his threatening grip. Tears were running down her cheeks, but he gripped her hips and slowly began to penetrate.

"Please!" she whimpered just as she thought she might rip apart beneath him. And he pulled back. For a moment she really thought he was going to stop. And her struggling ceased and her breath came out in a rush of relief as her body relaxed. And he thrust into her. The cry she released was from shock as well as pain and it mingled with his low groan of pleasure. Tears spilled across her cheeks as their eyes met. And he brushed his mouth against hers in a kiss as tender and sweet as the others had been dry. But it did not muffle her cry of pain as he began to move against her once more.

His thrusts were slow, painful, and far apart as if in agony. As if he were fragile and any movement too quick or hard would break him apart. As if thrusting any faster would make him come too soon. But he wanted to enjoy this.

His hands swept up and down her body, caressing every inch of her as he pressed inside. And though he was being gentle, she could feel him all the way in her stomach and every thrust seemed sharp and jagged. It was clear from the Professor's expression, however, that this felt glorious to him. He slipped an arm beneath her neck and tilted his body to allow the other hand to cup her breast, pinching the little nipple as he panted above her.

Electricity pulsed through her body, feeding a fire amidst the stabbing pains. And she felt like she might burst from emotion and sensation. And then the Professor met her mouth again and slid his tongue between her lips, probing the barrier of her teeth for entrance. She dared not defy him for long. And when she opened them, his tongue swept into her mouth, teasing the ridges on the roof and rubbing tenderly against her own tongue. And when she rubbed back—more out of curiosity than anything else—something seemed to click inside of her. And suddenly the fire seemed like to consume her and she knew she'd shatter from the force of it.

The Professor slipped a hand beneath her lower back, raising her to him as his thrusts became suddenly quick and erratic. Hermione was overwhelmed as he gave a couple hard thrusts and his body stiffened above her as his mouth broke away from hers in a violent, quaking gasp. And it was as if time froze for a moment as his hot seed poured inside of her. She knew it was over, but the fire did not abate. And as he collapsed on top of her, sated and exhausted, she cradled his head absentmindedly as tears spilled down her cheeks.

After a moment, he lifted himself to look at her, but could not seem to maintain eye contact. If she didn't know better, she would say that he felt guilty. But he pulled out of her and cleared his throat and cleaned her off with a wave of his wand before reaching for something on the nightstand. When he handed her a vial, she knew immediately what it was and took it without question as he slipped out of the bed.

And as he left her there in the empty bed, she studied the empty vial in her hand. And she knew what it meant.

He planned this.

...*~*J*~*...

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:} Llorolalluvia