This is just something that came to me in the middle of the night. I hope you enjoy it.

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

Rain rattled and angry branches scratched against the window as Amos Diggory sat sipping at his tea. It was very late, but he couldn't sleep. He seldom could, nowadays; now that the dark lord was in power and any day their secret could be found.

'They'll never suspect you,' Arthur Weasley had told him. But how could he be sure? At first he had refused to take her, but then his old friend had spoken those soft words: 'What would Cedric do?'

What would Cedric do? That had been the question in the back of his mind these past eight months, since the girl had come to stay here. They'd built a hidden room behind the hallway closet, but would it be enough? Only time would tell, and every day he woke alive he prepared himself for another day of waiting with baited breath. Waiting for the day they found him out.

Amos Diggory had never been a brave man. He had never been a hero. That was part of the reason she was safe here. No one would suspect. But it was also why he sat up nights, listening to the sounds outside, straining against the urge to peek through the shuttered windows at the quiet yard beyond.

The girl had been a joy, in other ways. His wife had come alive again, with a child beneath her roof—and she was a child; a child who had seen too much in her short life. Cedric had been two years above her in school, but she was older now than he'd been when he died. Sometimes, the sight of three plates at the table made the memory of a smile light up his face. But usually, it hurt to be reminded.

His tea had gone cold and the fire was low when Amos breathed a sigh of relief and stood from his rickety chair. Another night's watch was past without remark. Maybe tonight he'd be able to sleep. His old bones creaked and his joints protested as he stretched from his long-studied position and headed toward the sink. The last four years without his son had aged him more than all the years of parenthood combined, but these last eight months had been the worst.

Feet shuffling, hand trembling faintly around the teacup, he doused the candles on his way through the kitchen and reached through the darkness toward the tap. With practised fingers, he gently washed the fragile cup by hand, as he'd seen his Muggle mother do when he was young. 'Some things are better done without magic,' she would say. And he was inclined to agree. The tea set had been her own, and remained his one connection to his non-magical maternal line. He was reaching to set it in the cupboard when a sudden pounding at the door made him drop the precious thing, shattering it into a thousand shards on the kitchen floor. The fragments of its memory might have been the stabbing in his throat, for he could not breathe as he stood there, gasping, listening, praying he'd heard wrong. Surely that was thunder in the yard—a bolt of lightning at a tree. He had not slept well for weeks and could have imagined it deliriously.

A second pounding confirmed his greatest fear and sent him flying toward the door. It would not do to keep them waiting. And yet, he found himself cowering before the tall oak shield between him and the mystery beyond. Could it not be Arthur who had come to call? Or would it be his death he greeted when he opened that old door? "Go on!" a sudden whisper urged. He turned to see his wife standing in the hallway, a dressing gown thrown about her in her haste, her eyes wide with the terror that he felt. With her to protect, he felt braver.

"Go. Hide. I will deal with them." And he watched her nod with solemn fear as he turned back toward the door. Another angry pounding against the wood made him leap back in panicked shock, but he reached for the doorknob before he could lose his nerve.

"U.D.A." the figure barked in a tone of high authority. Amos could only stare, horrified to find not a mere Death Eater but the Head of the Undesirable Detection Agency, himself, standing on his doorstep. "Well," the dark man growled, "do you plan to keep me standing in the rain?" Shaking off the shock, Amos stepped aside to allow the man to enter. This did not bode well for them. The less important Death Eaters were wont to take bribes or settle for other arrangements when a Muggleborn was found. But the Head of the Agency, himself? It did not bode well.

The dying embers of what had been a cheery fire were the only light in the dim, dark room, and their eerie glow cast ominous shadows across the gaunt features of the taller man. Rainwater poured off his pitch-black robes as Amos watched with unconcealed terror. He'd never seen Death Eater robes so close before, and it sent a shock of comprehension down his spine. This was real. This was happening. There was nothing he could do. But with that thought came another: they had planned for this scenario, knowing it would likely come to pass. If he failed to stick to that plan, they would all be doomed. His jaw clicked shut with silent resolve as the angry wizard brushed water from his cloak onto the floor. "Can I help you, sir?" His voice was softer than he'd intended, but it was rather a miracle that it had come at all.

The dark man froze, meeting his eye for the first time and straightening to his full height. Severus Snape had always been a tall and forbidding man, but his dark presence was now more terrible than ever before. Now, he had the power of the dark lord right behind him. This was Voldemort's right hand man. "That is a question you will have to answer, yourself," he replied with oily menace. "There have been whispers that you are keeping an unregistered Mudblood. Can you confirm this?"

Amos blinked, hesitating just a second too long before choking out, "I—well I..."

"I see," Snape cut him off. Amos's heart pulled like heavy lead down into his stomach. I have failed the first test. "Well, as you know, there are strict laws in place prohibiting exactly that, but the punishment will depend on the nature of the situation. Protecting a Mudblood is, of course, heavily frowned upon. If I find that that is the case, you and your wife will be taken into custody." The wicked man let a sneer spread across his gaunt features and Amos had a sudden terrible urge to make a run for it. Remarkably, he held his ground. Stick to the plan. All will be well.

"Do you have a warrant?" The words came automatically, as if from a practised script.

Through the darkness, the evil features of the man before him seemed to twist with malicious humour. When he spoke, his voice was an octave lower than before and Amos felt a shiver down his spine. "It would not be in your best interests to encourage me to write an official warrant, Diggory. One way or another, you will procure this Mudblood for me. It does not need to end in Azkaban." He let that terrible word linger in the silence for a moment. "Maybe I am wrong about you, Diggory. Maybe you aren't protecting the girl as my informant seems to believe. It might be that you are keeping her for some use..." here, his black eyes lilted through the darkness, gleaming with lewd significance, "perhaps for some... additional profit to your humble household... I care not the reason..." Amos hardly dared to breathe. "If that is the case... we may be able to come to an... agreement, of sorts." And there it was. Their dearest hope and their darkest fear. They had known that this would happen, and they had planned for it, and they had prayed against the probability that they would one day have to follow through with those plans. But there it was.

"W-what sort of agreement?"

That terrible grin teased him for a long moment before the horrible man purred into the darkness, "Oh, I think you know."

Amos hesitated, not wanting to assume his meaning, not wanting him to know that this had been their hope, not wanting to make it any easier for the horrible man, in case he decided he could get away with more. Of course, in truth, he could do as he pleased and there wasn't a damn thing they could do to stop him. But this was their only chance, and the only way they could keep him from seeing her face, from realising who she was, was to let him into her dark, hidden room. Amos swallowed, gathering the courage to do what must be done, hating himself for having no better options to give her. He was a failure as a protector, as he had been once before.

"I will take you to her."

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

Hermione Granger was startled out of her tortured dreams as the door to her makeshift bedroom was thrown open. A strangled scream died in her throat on instinct as she froze atop the little bed. "They've come!" the hushed voice of Mrs. Diggory announced. Cold terror slipped like ice water down her spine. "Hide your face from the light, girl, and get ready. It is as we feared. I'm sorry." And with that, she was gone, leaving the door wide open to the nightmare that would enter. Panic flared in her chest as she sat frozen, waiting. There were voices in the hall.

"If I am satisfied that she is, indeed, being kept for this purpose, I will refrain from making my report... for the time being." Hermione's breath caught in her throat. She knew that voice. "If, however, I am given cause for suspicion... it will not go well for you."

There was a long pause before poor Mr. Diggory's frightened voice responded, "We k-keep her in here." And that was all the warning she was given to hide beneath the sheets before the coats across the doorway were yanked aside and she heard the familiar clunk of his dragonhide boots against the floor as he stepped into the room and closed the door. There was a rustling of fabric as he removed his outer robes, and then he was upon her.

Hermione suppressed a squeal of surprise and terror when he crawled onto her bed, not hesitating to rip the sheets away from her and throw them to the floor. His mouth was on hers before she could let out a breath and she gasped at the sudden sensation. Instinctual panic and familiar hate nearly made her rip away from him, but she was quick to recover. Right now, she was a whore. If she was anything other than that, she would be dead, and the Diggorys as well. Instead, she poured her hate into her kiss, opening for him as he thrust his tongue inside. His hands ran greedily across her flesh, reaching for the edges of her clothes. She gasped with alarm as he efficiently stripped her, baring her skin to the freezing rainwater drenching his clothes. She had never felt so vulnerable. And as her professor's hands began to roam her freezing flesh, she remembered something Mrs. Diggory had said when she explained this probable eventuality. 'They don't really believe that the girls are whores. It's just a story that they're eager to buy.'

It was with desperation that he cupped her breasts, thrusting his body hard against her as his mouth connected with her neck. The bite was hard, violent and spiteful and she arched against him in her rage.

She wanted to hurt him, too.

Suddenly, her hands were in his hair, tangling in those cold, dripping locks and pulling them tight until he moaned. He liked that. It only made her hate him more.

Icy fingers pushed her legs apart, sliding urgently between her folds, and he growled aloud. The sound of her hated ex-professor growling with fierce arousal—and all for her—should have made her shudder with terror and loathing. But somehow, it made her stomach tighten into knots she hadn't felt for quite some time. Life was pouring back into her; passion as strong as her hate. Once, she had respected this man.

His fingernails were jagged and they tore at her as he thrust two long digits deep inside. She cried out in pain and bucked against his hand as he began to fuck her with it. His other hand drew slowly up her naked curves as he buried his nose in her hair, breathing in her scent as he panted against her ear. She was writhing beneath his touch, no longer caring who this was or why they were here. She could feel again and she only wanted more.

Those long, deft fingers, slowly, teasingly circled her throat before tightening around it, cutting off her air. She would have gasped had she been able, and for a moment she thought that he might kill her then and there. And then she was coming, bucking against his hand without a care if she lived or died. Hot life pounded in her veins, reaching out to every nerve in her body with sharp awareness. Her very skin seemed to pulse with power. And then he let her breathe and the tears began to come as everything she had shut up inside of her came pouring past her shields. He had broken them, somehow. And then the wicked man was fumbling with his clothes and she knew that now he was going to fuck her. She hated him for that and for making her feel first, for tearing down her protective walls so that she couldn't hide behind them. She was present, now, as she hadn't been for months, and she would have to suffer this. Perhaps that's why he'd let her come. Perhaps he'd wanted her to feel it. He'd broken her right open like an oyster, baring the tender part to be devoured.

Like a knife to the heart, he thrust inside her and she began to cry. But he did not fuck her as he had with his hand. His movements were tender and slow. She hated him for it. His mouth met hers with softness and she pulled his hair, but he only reached for her arms and locked them down by her side by sliding his beneath her back. One hand gently cupped her head, massaging the skin of her scalp as he slowly, greedily thrust into her. The most she could do with her hands was hold his waist, and she dug her fingernails into his flesh there, drawing them across it to gouge him with her pain. He hardly seemed to notice. Somehow, that seemed to break her down and she submitted to the anger and the sadness he had caused. But had he caused it? Or had he just unleashed it? Either way, it had been carefully concealed from any and all prying eyes, including her own, but now it was let free. She had no power to control it any longer and that was his fault. His horrible, terrible, beautiful fault.

And he was here. Her professor. The man she had admired. The one she had loved despite the wicked words of her classmates against him. The one whose betrayal had most struck her heart, more than any of the tragedies around her. His betrayal had stricken down her faith as nothing in the past year could, but he was here. And he was holding her and touching her and kissing her with a sweetness she had never known. And a spark of hope reignited. How was it, after all, that she had known all those years that he was good, if not by instinct? Could they all be wrong about him still? In the morning her mind would snuff out that tiny spark with logic and cold rationality. But now, with her heart ripped open and her soul pouring out, she let herself believe. And found herself kissing him back with a passion to rival her pain.

Their tongues slowly rubbed against one another and he moaned into her mouth. Her answering whimper came unbidden, but it was not suppressed. When he released her arms, she brought them round his neck, linking her fingers to lock him in her embrace. He growled and pushed her thighs up to her chest, thrusting more urgently as she locked ankles behind his back. This was all that there was in the world, for the moment, and Hermione let everything go. Rising to meet his thrusts, she whimpered as he began to pant against her mouth. He rose up on his elbows and she knew that, had there been any light, they would be staring into one another's eyes. Tears stung as she stared into the darkness, knowing he was there and imagining his face as she'd last seen it. Did he look different now? Perhaps she'd never know. "Oh Merlin," he growled, hammering erratically against her. Somehow, through all of the other emotions, love welled up in her chest as he dug his nails into her waist and cried out into the darkness.

He collapsed on top of her, afterward, panting into her hair. The hot breath was a reminder that he was real, even as the unreality of it all began to fall over her. Logic was slowly returning, and with it the fear and the doubt and the hate she had for this man. And what, if any, of it was real? Was it possible to love someone and hate them, too? How could she feel all of this all at once?

Tears streamed down her cheeks as he pressed his lips once more to the skin of her neck, kissing the bite marks he had made. Then he was pulling away and gathering his belongings in the dark, rather than light his wand. That should have been suspicious, but all she could think was that she was alive—not only despite the way this night might have gone, but also in comparison to the way she'd felt in recent months. The charred coals of her soul had been stirred into a fire once again, and he was why.

Her old professor slipped out without a word, leaving Hermione to stare into the dark, where the ceiling was, where he had been, and wonder. What did any of it mean?

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

I'd love to hear what you think!

:} llorolalluvia