Thank you all for the lovely reviews and for your support! This was originally intended as a Oneshot, but I realized that it wasn't finished, so I am going to play with it until I'm satisfied. I hope you enjoy it, and if you do, Please Review!

:} llorolalluvia

…~*~*J*~*~…

The ceiling was a vaulted stone structure of crossing arches that Hermione could stare at for hours—and often did. Before her confinement, she had never paid much attention to the ceilings of the castle. But now she wondered if all of them were like this one or just the dungeons, or just the bedchambers, or just this one.

This gloomy, beautiful ceiling was hers now as much as it was his. Or perhaps even moreso because she now knew every curve and crevice of the overlapping stone. It was ironic to her that the Professor's bedchamber would have such a Gothic crown. After all, Gothic architecture had always seemed so dark and cruel to her. And yet, the scholar in her knew that this aesthetic originated as a movement to bring in more light.

But there was no light here. Not in the dungeons, beneath the Black Lake, the bowels of the castle, the den of the Serpents. No. Here the only light was the flickering warmth of the tiny candle beside her, rising up to meet the shadows of the arches; shifting alongside them like a dance or a war. And as she watched the inconsistent shiver of their battle, she remembered another ceiling in another time—a ceiling which, like this one, she had studied for long hours when she had nothing else to do.

Grimmauld Place was as damp and dusky a place as she had ever known. And wherever a crack could creep so did the spiders. Every surface was stained and dusty and broken. And the ceiling of the library was not an exception. She could still picture the ugly, jagged cracks crisscrossing each other at random with nary a pattern to be found. It was a sharp contrast to the smooth, symmetrical, curving arches of her current prison, and yet that molding hell had been much more of a home to her.

Thinking back on it now, she remembered a particular day when she'd stretched out on the floor between the shelves, just staring up at those foreboding cracks. It had been a day near the end of the summer, right before the start of their fifth year at Hogwarts. And as she lied there, resting in the pleasant solitude of her sanctuary, the creak of the door alerted her to the arrival of a visitor. She remembered thinking it was Ron and couldn't imagine how she'd ever been annoyed by such a prospect. But the whispering softness of his footfalls belied that assumption.

It had been the Professor, she remembered, back when she had felt sorry for him. Back when she had admired him. "Granger," he had growled in that deep dark tone of his, "imagine my surprise at finding you here." She remembered blinking up at him, unsure of what to say, and the way he towered over her where she sat on the floor. She remembered wondering if she should move for him, or stand to greet him, or… something. But she had remained frozen to the floor, a flush filling her face as he sneered down at her in that wicked way of his.

Who could have ever guessed that we would end up here? she thought. Her naïve fifth year mind never would have believed him capable of treating her as he had the other night. Hell, she hadn't believed it only an hour prior. And sometimes, late at night when she was half asleep, or in the quiet early morning when he had already gone, she wondered if it really had happened. So far two weeks had passed since that night, if her counting was correct, and he hadn't touched her once. In fact, curiously enough, he hadn't so much as glanced in her direction at all.

But he was there in her dreams now; at the edge of her consciousness at all times like a shadow on a sunny day. Now, even when she dreamed of Hogwarts she could feel his presence disturbing the illusion of peace and calm. And as she tangled herself in the sheets each night, she was aware of how close his own sleeping form was to hers; just a few meters to her right. But when she woke in the mornings he was always gone.

Sometimes she found herself wondering if he ever glanced upon her sleeping form and remembered the girl she used to be. Or if he thought back to that night. And if he wanted to do it again. The thought sent ripples of nervous fear across her skin and her stomach tightened in an aching anxious sort of way. But it was the most excitement she ever had passing the days in utter boredom and waiting to die.

And sometimes she found herself wondering if she wanted him to do it again. As much as her logical mind screamed NO, she couldn't help the desire for a spot of color in her bleak life. Even if that color was red. In truth, she hadn't bled overly much when he had taken her, though the pain had been like nothing she could have expected. But it had been her first time, and Hermione sometimes wondered what it would feel like without the pain.

Lucius came by again that day and Hermione pressed her ear to the door once more, desperate for some news from the outside world. But their tones were too hushed to distinguish words. And yet, the sound of human voices seemed to soothe an aching tension deep inside of her and she closed her eyes as she rested against the door. Lucius's vain drawl was an utter contrast to the low velvety baritone of the Professor. Its rumble made her heart beat faster and she found herself wishing he would use it to speak to her, just as she used to wish that he would bestow his seldom-given praise on her in Potions Class. But she was a Gryffindor, and a Mudblood at that. Why would he ever deign to speak to her?

When he returned to the bedroom that evening (she had come to use his comings and goings to tell the time), she wrestled with herself for hours, wanting to ask him a question—any question—that might lead him to say something to her. At this point, she didn't even care if it was a reprimand or if he punished her for speaking out of turn. She just wanted to hear his voice. But she could not make herself say a word.

It came as a surprise. She had been having another dream about Hogwarts; the ones where the shadow of his billowing robes seemed to line the peripheral. Even now she could not say what had roused her from her sleep. He was so quiet. But perhaps being alone in the dungeons with no other living being around had sharpened her senses to the sounds of life: breath, movement, voice. She had long ago learned that the dungeons were not completely devoid of light. And life down here had taught her to see in the dark. And that night, what she saw made her freeze with shock.

The Professor never wore clothes to bed. At first, that had made her uncomfortable and embarrassed. But she always averted her eyes. He was very modest man in truth and it would not do to provoke his temper. Even now, in the dead of night, with every reason to believe that she was fast asleep, he kept the sheets pulled up to his waist. But his knees were up, his feet planted on the mattress, and one hand was buried between his legs, the arm jerking anxiously. His eyes were closed, she saw. And his mouth was open, relaxed as he panted quietly from the exertion. Hermione couldn't look away.

She took note of the quick pace and the way he would occasionally slow down just for a moment. She noticed the way his knees jerked and his back arched and his lips moved, though he remained remarkably silent. And when he came, the tiniest hint of voice accompanied his gasp of pleasure. His back arched and his body stiffened as his features twisted in agony. And for a moment, she even thought that he had somehow hurt himself. But then he collapsed back against the bed and sighed contentedly as one knee dropped lazily to the mattress. And suddenly she could see the bulge in the sheets where his hand still toyed with his spent member.

It didn't make sense. Why would he pleasure himself when he had a slave expressly for that purpose? Was he that revolted by her? It sure hadn't seemed so the other night. Maybe he was embarrassed or shy. Maybe she had displeased him. Maybe he felt guilty. But each possible answer seemed less likely than the first and she returned her focus to the Professor's heavy breathing. The display had left her flushed and anxious. Strange emotions swelled in the cavity of her chest and the pit of her stomach, fighting for her attention. She could not give them a name, but they made her body tense like anxiety and her blood hot as if with rage.

And suddenly his head turned toward her and Hermione hastily shut her eyes before he could see that she was watching. And when she peeked through her lashes she could see his gaze focused on her form. He turned onto his side and made himself comfortable, but his eyes never left her face. And she didn't know what to think or feel besides confusion.

And as they slowly drifted back to sleep, the meters between them seemed to blur and melt away and they seemed to be sleeping beside one another. And just for a moment, they were not alone.

…~*~*J*~*~…

:}

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