Hermione lay huddled, alone, dirty and shivering on a stone floor. The room she was in was barely five feet high, five feet long and four feet wide. Her clothes had been taken, she had been given a potato sack to wear. Her hair had been shaved off a while ago, but it had now grown back about an inch.

Her lip was split, from an altercation from a few days earlier with one of her captors, which was why she had been put in isolation. She was a prisoner of a war that had long ended, she doubted if anyone believed her or anyone here, if anyone else was left, were still alive. She had seen some Ravenclaw fourth year about two weeks ago. But she hadn't seen or heard anyone since. The isolation chamber was magically fortified to block all sound from the outside world, so you really were alone.

She had been in this dank room for three days with no food or water, no one had come to check on her and no one had come to save her.

She couldn't remember the last time she had stood up straight, shared a word with anyone, or even used a toilet. The last thing she remembered before showing up in this hell hole was being jinxed after dropping her daughter off at Kings Cross. She had no idea how long she'd been here, she'd lost count of the days. When she first came, she could hear others fighting, yelling, screaming from torture.

She too had been tortured, but every time, the people wore masks and full robes. She never cried once, never screamed once, she refused to give them that satisfaction. She'd had a broken wrist, cracked ribs, a broken nose, and multiple black eyes and busted lips, but she never cried. She did her best to spit on their shoes and fight them. But, she was tired now. Incredibly tired.

A hand, a warm hand gripped her arm lightly, shaking her awake. She woke with a start, never fully asleep, and was met with another warm hand on her mouth and a shushing sound. She fought only momentarily, sensing the man meant her no harm. She had been so lost in her mind that she had heard the heavy steel door open, scratching against the cobbled floor.

From where she was laying she could not see her savior, but from the door she could see people. Good people. Guarding the door. Her eyes widened as she reached up and pulled the mans arm down, seeing the pale blond hairs on the back of his arm, she nodded deftly. She looked at his face, steel blue eyes looked back at her, high cheek bones covered in fine stubble, and arched eyebrows featured his finely sculpted face. His long hair was pulled back in a low pony tail, and Hermione screwed her face in confusion, "Mr. Malfoy?" She breathed, her voice cracked, and her chapped lips broke and bled from her dehydration. She could barely make a noise.

"No time for questions, Ms. Granger. We need to get you out of here, we don't know how much time we have." The elder Malfoy stood, lifting her tiny, malnourished frame with him. She walked in front of him, supporting her from the back as she made her way out of the isolation chamber, waling as quickly as she could. She saw Neville and Draco among the five wizards outside her cell. She didn't see any other prisoners with them. Was she the only one left?

With the help of Mr. Malfoy, she made her way down the stone corridor. Neville ran ahead and opened the door to the outside. Hermione felt a gush of fresh air and she breathed it in. She brought her hand to her eyes, shielding them from the bright light of the sun from her eyes that had been away for so long. The smell of salt entered her nostrils, heard the cawing of seagulls and as the glare began to fade, opened her eyes to the vast ocean. The prison had been built into the side of a cliff, there was a narrow pathway around the face leading up to the top. Down below, sharp rocks jutted out from the sea, waves crashing angrily into the cliff side from a three hundred foot drop. She stepped back, bumping Mr. Malfoy backwards into the door that had just been shut. Her heart pounded in her ears and her breath caught in her throat. She'd never been scared of heights before, but she had come so close to being free, so close to seeing her daughter and son again, so close to seeing her Ronald, falling off this cliff to her death seemed so small and insignificant compared to what she just went through.

"It's ok, Ms. Granger. It's alright, you won't fall. Calm 'll be alright, I have you. I have you." He kept repeating himself as, together, they crept up the side of the cliff. His hair whipped around their faces, the loose ponytail offering almost no help. Her hair, which was once long and would have none of this wind, flew lightly. She could feel the wind on her scalp, which was a sensation she wasn't accustomed to. Her eys watered uncontrollably from the wind and salty air, and finally she made it to the top of the cliff. She couldn't feel her legs, she could barely direct them and it felt like she was walking on balls of water. She saw a set of brooms hovering in the air about fifteen feet away and she was overwhelmed with relief.

She was going home.