In the depths of Azkaban, not even Draco Malfoy was privileged.

Dark, dank quarters which reeked of unimaginable filth – this was the hole to which he was sent when the long chase was ended. His one consolation (if he could call it that) was his solitude. Early on in his imprisonment, his aunt Bellatrix had been a cell or two down.

He knew because he could hear her screaming.

At first, he wondered if it was merely a ploy to distract the Dementors, to make them think she was already insane, but somehow he gleaned that by the time of her trial, it was no longer pretence. Bellatrix was, quite literally, mad.

That didn't mean he couldn't hear the echoes of her voice in his mind, shrilly but coolly going on about Mudbloods and the service she'd given the Dark Lord. True to form, Bellatrix had never betrayed anything about the plans she was privy to, even under Veritaserum. The other side, as Draco had come to prefer thinking about them, was not so callous yet as to try Imperious methods of coercion, and so Bellatrix's death, to him, was meaningless.

At any rate, Bellatrix had come and gone, and now he was alone, nearly forgotten in the maze of prisoners and Dementors. His hair grew long, his fetters tighter, as the months and years stretched him into a feeble physical parody of Lucius. In truth, he was probably far better looking under the dirt and grime; murderous cold had taken a certain pleasantness out of his father's aspect.

But such things were rather trivial, in retrospect. His solitude gave him the necessary time to reflect, though he kept as neutral a face as he could on all his memories, good or bad, to hide them from the Dementors. They did not, at least, plague him as often as they'd plagued Bellatrix, towards the end. Draco had lain night after night on the slimy stone slab that called itself a bed, listening to his aunt's defiant shrieks trail off into pleading whimpers and moans – and then, finally, to nothing at all. It was her silences which disturbed him most, because he had to wonder if that was finally it, if they'd finally stolen every aspect of her away, leaving the empty, broken shell behind to wallow in its nonexistence. And then, too, to wonder if tonight was the night they would turn, and come for him.

Those nights, he tried to think of nothing at all; not Malfoy Manor and the spoiling affections of his mother, or the chilly calculation of his father. Not them, not Pansy, no one; he just tried to make himself as blank as possible, so that they would regard him as little more than a living wall.

Occasionally, they did feel him, when the fear or the unbearable silence got to be too much. Imagining himself out of Azkaban brought such intense relief it was akin to a homing beacon for the Dementors.

There were hours, days, missing from his memory. He wanted to know what the point of even having him in Azkaban i was /i , if they'd asked no questions. Was it truly to torment him until he went mad, like the rest?

The grip of the Dementors was almost too much to bear. It was at once fumbling on the edge of perilously thin ice and tumbling in, feeling the subzero first sting and then numb his bones, his organs. His heart slowed, and yet his brain was flooded with a constant stream of images that he could almost i see /i the Dementors consuming. He was powerless to stop them, powerless to help himself. Powerless to breathe or be.

When he awoke, there was always the reorientation process: the interminable state of not recognizing himself or his surroundings, the slow build-up, and then –

My name is Draco Malfoy. I am twenty-one years of age, and the last day I remember is June sixteenth. It has been three years since I was imprisoned here in Azkaban. In hell.

His reckonings on time and date were, of course, hypothesis, since Azkaban had no clocks or time keepers of any kind. Even what little sky there was to be seen provided no clue: it was always gloomy, always hovering between night and day.

What Draco considered the nights were worse, though. The thick stone walls could not muffle the cries of the damned, and he could only huddle against the wall where his bed lay. He had determined it to be an outer wall, because there was no noise through it, except faintly, the roar of the sea. (Unless, of course, that was pure imagination.) At times it was all he could do to not press his ears with his hands, hoping to stop the sounds that had become his lullaby. He dozed off listening to a litany of screams, and woke to the same, if slightly more muted.

If he'd been given something to do, he would gladly have accomplished it, however minor a task. There was little remaining Malfoy pride, in that. Draco was even willing to concede what his father wouldn't have: the Dark Lord was mad. Not for his Pureblood pride (Draco would never concede that), but because of his drive to champion the Wizarding world, reform it in his own image.

No one, Draco had learned (only too late), could do that. People were too different, composed of too many different ideals, virtues, and influences. The leaps and bounds made by the Muggle world (watched with careful disdain by his father) to unconsciously catch up with– and perhaps surpass – wizards had taught him that, though he'd never admit it.

Then, too, there were people like Potter around, and somebody was always willing to back an idealist, oafish and clumsy though Potter might have been. Good – and Draco did not use that word without trepidation – did not go down without a fight, and that he grudgingly gave them credit for.

What irked him, however, was that Potter and his ilk were considered 'heroes.' The other side had done just as much damage and killed just as many people, but because the victims were Purebloods or Dark Lord sympathizers, they weren't counted as i victims /i , as human beings.

Draco did not often like thinking of the war, suffice it to say, nor wondering how it was going. What the other side was doing to clear up the Dark Lord's mess. He especially did not like wondering when, if ever, they were to begin trying the remaining Death Eaters in Azkaban, particularly not himself. He had little doubt the other side had gone out of its way to vilify him before the public.

Potter would see to that.

There was, understandably, little love between himself and Harry Potter. It had begun out of simple bafflement: how did Potter manage to get away with half the things he did? Draco came to the understanding that Potter was Dumbledore's favorite, and because of that, the world revolved around him. Even McGonagall had coddled him.

He acknowledged that some part of it was jealousy; for an orphan, Potter received a great deal of attention and love from just about everyone, whereas Draco, no matter how hard he tried, would always be tried for his failures. He came to eventually accept that for what it was, and to force his triumphs to be acknowledged, but there still remained a trace of envy.

He was mulling that over the first time she appeared.

He'd assumed it was delusion. Hermione Granger, standing at the mouth of his cell, having moved no further than that in five or six minutes. He knew because he'd counted them off in his head. If she was waiting for him to speak first, he decided, she had another thing coming.

He merely remained still, all too aware, suddenly, of the defenselessness of his position: knees to his chest, hands resting loosely atop them. Those once elegant white hands, now begrimed, the nails chipped and battered.

Appearances had been once of Lucius Malfoy's dearest lessons: appearances could deceive and betray. It was always to be kept immaculate, his body, except when circumstances rendered it otherwise; and even then, there had better be good reason.

Well, Father, Draco thought. i This counts, I hope.

He studied Granger with coolly dismissive gray eyes; it was as if he were the superior still, not she. Time in Azkaban should not have changed their positions; but it had.

He had changed. Four years running from the safety of the world he'd once known as real had changed him. He had always held such disdain for everyone outside his circle, such confidence in what he was doing –

Things had changed, all right. First with Lucius's imprisonment, and then under the Dark Lord's service.

And then with Dumbledore's death.

He had failed, that night. Snape had had to step in and finish it. Draco was all too cognizant of what he owed his teacher, and what he owed Dumbledore.

The headmaster had taken pity on him. Had shown him mercy.

Draco was shot through with a bolt of loathing and shifted, attempting to cover his emotions before Granger picked up on them.

She had come closer, he realized. Her brown eyes were disengaged, yet hesitant, and he did not like the unease they inspired. His lip curled into a ready sneer, almost on reflex. "I'm not a circus freak, Granger. Quit staring."

The strength of his voice pleased him, though it was lower now, and raspier still from disuse.

Her lips pursed, and he knew that he'd won a partial victory, though he'd broken the silence first.

Granger came closer still, enough so that he had to look up to her. She'd grown taller, and the war had provoked an angularity about her features, a gauntness he hadn't been expecting. If anything, he'd have thought Potter would keep her at safe houses, using her for brains rather than brawn.

But he should have known she wouldn't choose to stay: it was all that Gryffindor stupidity about sacrifice for noble causes.

She reached out, and Draco could feel but couldn't stop the flinch when her fingers impacted on his skin. It was the first time in three years that anyone had touched him. He tensed, unsure of whether or not to pull her hand away.

She made the decision for him. "Understand me, Malfoy," Granger said. "if you so much as sneeze in the next ten minutes, I won't hesitate to kill you."

He cocked a brow. Her voice had sounded remarkably level, as if she meant it. "Been doing a lot of killing lately, Granger?" he taunted.

There went that tightening look in her eyes again, the grim mask falling over her face. It shocked him enough to make him demand, "Who?"

"It's none of your business," she said sharply, and touched the jagged cut on his forehead, withdrawing her wand from her robe.

That fast, Draco yanked her hand away, closing his fingers around her wrist.

They stared at one another, locked for an endless moment in a struggle neither could win.

"Did it please you, killing someone?" Draco said, voice acerbic and silky at the same time, deliberately toying with her. "To kill a Death Eater? Knowing that i creature /i could never hurt anyone again, did that i comfort /i you?"

Granger's pulse was increasing beneath his fingertips, though nothing betrayed itself in her features.

"Or did you deem it simple justice?" He tried to be calm, cold, but couldn't quite manage the ice of his father's tone. Always, his own anger betrayed him; he wanted to demand that she tell him. Which of his number had she personally slaughtered? Did the killing curse feel i better /i , when it was shouted by the other side?

Dumbledore had been his first and only mistake in the list of lives he'd personally taken. He'd had to endure the horror of killing, its necessity and its draining toll, without anyone to comfort him. He'd never relished in the killing, as Bellatrix had.

There was no comfort in the Death Eater word. Comfort was a weakness few indulged in.

Doubtless, Granger had been mollycoddled for her efforts, afterwards. And for that, he hated her. He wanted her to bleed, as he had.

"Release me," Granger said; she ignored his questions and pointed her wand at him.

He smiled, amused by the tremor she was fighting to hide. "How much of your ten minutes is left, Granger? You can still kill me, if you choose."

"And you'd love that, wouldn't you, Malfoy?" she retorted contemptuously. "Your blood on my hands. Do you really think I'd stop to feel sorry about it?"

"If you didn't," he replied, eyes never leaving her face, "then we'd be more alike than you think." As repulsive as the idea was, he knew it'd sting.

Granger froze; he saw the struggle in her eyes. The want, the desire to kill him – it was the primitive undertone to her expression, the current of hatred and dislike spoiling the loveliness of those eyes—and they were lovely, at least in color. If she ate and slept regularly, Granger might actually be decent to look at, instead of the buck-toothed wonder she'd been in school. Such a thought was not traitorous, because it was detached from his feelings about her, in comparison with other women.

There was also the restraint, in her eyes; the self-doubt and criticism, the horror associated with the dirty work of killing. Bellatrix relished the torture and death of her victims; Draco had deigned it necessary evil and got it over with as soon as possible. He disliked seeing the life fade from someone's eyes, the way the body collapsed woodenly to the floor.

He saw it, sometimes, in his nightmares, each death replaying in his head one he couldn't fight or stop or even turn away from. He sensed that as much as Granger hated him, she was loath to add to her own.

He laughed, a short, bitter sound, and let go of her. "Pathetic, for someone who didn't hesitate to slap me, once. I suppose you've changed."

"You were the one who let go," Granger returned, and there was something curious in her tone. "Perhaps you're the one that's changed, Malfoy."

His expression hardened. "What I'm capable of, you can't imagine." Draco turned from her, staring resolutely at the stone.

She lowered her wand, finally, still standing there, the weight of her gaze upon him. "I meant to help you." The words were a concession, another sign of that damnable pity.

He knew what she meant; he could feel the blood trickling down his face. Sometime during the night, he'd slammed his head against the ground—perhaps his dreams had been too tempting to a passing Dementor. For whatever reason, he'd woken with gaps in his memory, with a reopened gash at the temple bleeding slowly more and more during the day.

It wasn't a new wound, though he wouldn't inform Granger of that. "I don't require your aid," he scorned.

"No one else is going to look at it," she reminded him, as if he didn't know.

Draco looked at her; in her eyes he could see his own, dead gray orbs that held nothing, expected nothing. It was the way he felt, more and more often, since he'd come here. "What part of 'no' isn't comprehensible, Granger?"

She tilted her head, studying him. "The part," she answered, after a moment, "where you didn't call me Mudblood."

He rolled his eyes. "Must I resort to childishness to make my point clear? I have no intentions of letting you show off, Granger."

"I find it hard to think of as 'showing off,' Malfoy," she returned mildly, "when there's no one who cares."

"I care," he snapped.

"You claim to not want to resort to childishness. Yet you are, in not allowing me to help you," she admonished; she hadn't moved, fingers resting at the end of the wand almost indolently. He wasn't fooled by the posture, though.

"It's not childishness," Draco defended himself. "I owe you nothing, Granger, nor do I intend to owe you. It's just that simple."

She said nothing for another moment; perhaps he was being judged, weighed. Given that his whole childhood had been spent dealing with judgment, he shouldn't have cared. Draco had, at one point. Judgment had bothered him, had always made him feel uneasy. Everything in his life was scrutinized and criticized, and nothing had been right. He'd always had to try harder, do better, shove himself to the edge of his very best.

For the first time in a long time, he didn't care about Granger's judgment. He was just tired. Tired, cold, dirty. Too much time in prison and in the darker cavern of his mind had rendered him defenseless, but unwilling to deal with the weight of another hurt. There was too much to bear already.

"You're wrong," she said at last.

Draco shrugged, glancing back at her before moving to his bed and sitting at its edge.

Granger seemed to be waiting for another response from him, but when none was forthcoming, she gave up, turning around and heading to the door. She did not glance back, but he knew.

She'd return. She'd be the only one that did.

Was it better that it was her? Easier, because she was female? Because she was a Gryffindor and they held such…compassion?

Compassion, that alien identity. Slytherin house was a snake's den; loyalties were built slowly but firmly, and compassion did not often tie in. One did for another because it served one's interests. In those terms, what good did healing him do Granger?

He leaned back against the wall, listening hard as he closed his eyes. In the dark, past the screams, he could almost see the sea, almost see Granger leaving. Her freedom made a spurt of jealousy go through him, something that he quickly dampened.

What was he, for Granger?