Disclaimer: Okay, we're all well aware that it's not mine...
And now--let the show begin!
"Frankly, I'm amazed that he's still able to speak," confessed Hermione. She was strung-out, having been unable to sleep the night before. Actually, she probably wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight, either. The resistance movement would be raiding another jail in a few hours time, and she would be needed for her skills in speaking to prisoners. Of course, it wasn't like she hadn't assured everyone that the psychology books she'd studied were readily available.
"The rest of the prisoners are still able to speak," Harry pointed out rationally. He, too, was on edge, but in an entirely different way than Hermione. Harry was itching to get back into the fight, to end this war once and for all. Voldemort's empire, as far as he was concerned, had to be taken out from the top, and Harry was the one the prophecy proclaimed had to face Voldemort. "And they've had it just as bad as Malfoy."
Hermione rubbed a hand across her worried face, possibly to relieve some of the weariness etched there. "No, they haven't."
Puzzled, Harry asked, "What do you mean?"
"Visits once a day," Hermione informed him, sitting down on Gaoler Lincoln's desk. Harry had pulled her in here to discuss the current state of affairs, opting for the suitably-decorated office. Gaoler Parkinson's, next door, was covered in more pink than should have been allowed for a servant of the Dark Lord. "Jinxes and curses with each one."
Harry started. "Did Malfoy--?"
"No, he didn't tell me that, I learned it when the head gaoler was interrogated. However," said Hermione gravely, "Malfoy did tell me about physical violence."
Harry gawped. "Physical violence?"
"Apparently, they broke his arm. And I shouldn't be surprised if--"
Suddenly the door thudded open to reveal Ron in a full, flushing, red-headed rage. "What is Malfoy doing here?" he demanded.
"Close the door, Ron, people are staring," said Hermione. Whereas Harry had jumped at Ron's entrance, Hermione had merely brought a hand up to rub her temple. To Harry's surprise, Ron shut the door behind him and inquired, a bit more quietly,
"What is Malfoy doing here?"
"Serving his time for crimes against Lord Voldemort, obviously," said Hermione. No one flinched at the name--they'd all had far too much exposure to it to do that.
"But--what could Malfoy have done against Voldemort?" said Ron. "From what I figured, they were best buddies."
"Call him Malfoy in here, Ron," said Hermione. She was looking past him, to the door, and, in her mind's eye, beyond, to the disheveled prisoner sitting quietly and being examined for medical problems. "But call him Draco to his face. He reacted very defensively when I called him by his surname."
"I don't know why he's here, Ron," said Harry, jumping in to answer Ron's question. "But he must of done something bad. He's been getting cursed every day," he informed him, darting a glance to Hermione to confirm this. She nodded.
"They probably just got sick of looking at his ferrety face," said Ron, with half a bitter smile.
"Now is not the time for schoolboy grudges, Ron," admonished Hermione. "And I'm sure you'd feel the same if it'd been you in that cell and Malfoy dragging you out."
Ron was deprived of his chance to respond when there was suddenly a yell from beyond the door.
Draco looked at his surroundings, confused, while the red-haired woman looked up and down his arms, holding them out gently for inspection. This wasn't right. There was no world outside of Hell, he'd decided on that...long ago. There was no room for argument. No world outside of Hell.
Then where did the gaolers come from? queried a voice from deep inside him.
Nowhere, Draco told himself, filled with uncertainty.
As the red-haired woman carefully made her way across his face, occasionally swiping some dirt off with a thumb, Draco tried to puzzle it through. Hermione had told him to believe her, and he had. He'd trusted her--she hadn't kicked him at the last minute or anything--but then she'd left. You'll be safe here, she'd assured him, and left.
Draco still trusted Hermione, but he wasn't so sure about this red-haired woman.
Ginny had vowed never to think about what each prisoner went through--it hurt too much--and this one was no different. Instead of making them relive what they'd been through, she made it a point to keep up a friendly patter. This man wasn't as responsive as some had been in the past--last week there'd been one, who, at the first question, had proceeded to chatter away ceaselessy about his life before he'd been taken away, and refused to stop even when she was all done with the examination--but Ginny pressed on anyway. It was important to keep up a healthy atmosphere, so the patients themselves could flourish in it.
"You look vaguely familiar," Ginny informed the man, who held still as she searched through his thick, clumped hair for lice (Ginny had long ago lost her fear of bodily substances and the like). "But, then, nearly everyone I meet does. See, my mum's always had this habit of introducing me to nearly everyone in the wizarding world. Only daughter, you know, she tends to show me off. I swear I've met thousands of people. Of course, I only remember about thirty names--say 'ahh,'" she told him.
"Ahh," said Draco, shifting his eyes to continue his search for Hermione. She'd come back, he told himself.
"But you really do seem familiar," continued Ginny. She often gave people the impression that she was a mother of some-odd children, but her looks never fitted the equation. The truth was, Ginny was in her early twenties, and quite attractive. It was only when she spoke to her patients that she seemed older. "You're about my age. Did you go to Hogwarts?"
This attracted Draco's attention. "'Er-ioee 'ehd 'Ohwarss," he tried to croak around the tongue compressor.
"You probably did," concluded Ginny. "I bet you were even in my year and I just forgot you. Oh, well. Take off your shirt, dear?"
Draco complied, but persisted in scanning the faces of the people around him. Other prisoners were being inspected by other people in brightly-colored robes, and there was a person with a clipboard going from the person to person. Everything seemed rather haphazardly arranged, though. And there was no sign of Hermione.
"Oh, dear, they really didn't feed you very well here, did they?" said Ginny sadly, remarking on Draco's protruding ribs.
Draco stopped looking around for a moment, considered, and shook his head.
"Well, we'll soon have you healthy, no need to worry," Ginny encouraged him. "Now I'm going to need to listen to your heartbeat."
Draco raised an eyebrow.
"Please, what do you think I am?" inquired Ginny, smiling. She muttered an incantation under her breath--Draco tensed for a moment--and leaned her ear a little closer to his chest. When she drew back, Draco relaxed and looked at her, forgetting about Hermione for a moment.
She's nice, he was thinking. It was contrary to all he had experienced. Maybe he was safe here.
"Now, the only thing that really worries me is this arm of yours--has anything happened to it?"
"Broken," Draco told her, then froze, looking at her suspiciously. She wasn't going to break it again, was she?
"How long ago?" asked Ginny, looking his arm over again. She poked at the place where it had been broken.
Draco shrugged.
Then it happened.
Reaching behind herself, Ginny pulled out her wand. She was only taking it out to fix the irregularity in his arm--but Draco didn't know that.
What Draco knew was a forever of pain, usually brought about by wands.
What Draco knew was instinct.
Right before he moved, Ginny caught the look in his eyes, and saw it was thousands of years old: the look of the hunted.
"NO!" Draco shouted, jumping back and knocking over his chair. He continued stumbling backwards, running into another prisoner, then a desk, and finally hitting the wall with his back.
Harry, Ron, and Hermione came charging out, holding their wands, expecting a gaoler broken loose, or perhaps an invasion of Death Eaters, or the Dark Lord himself--instead they saw a group of confused prisoners and MediWitches, and a very frightened Draco, growing slightly more panicked by the second and pressed against a wall.
Well, that's not entirely true.
Harry and Ron saw a crazed, beastlike version of their teenage nemesis, on the verge of attack.
Hermione saw a frightened victim of years of abuse: a person in need.
Thumping her arms across her friends' chests to prevent them dashing forward, Hermione hurriedly handed Ron her wand and made a beeline for Draco. On seeing her, his fearful stance immediately softened, though his eyes still remained wide and frightened.
Touching Draco's shoulder, she caught his eyes, asking him silently, Are you all right? Without words, he answered her, and she turned to Ginny, who was standing at the other end of the room, holding her wand, looking completely bewildered. "What did you do?" asked Hermione, a little more forcefully than was required.
"I was going to fix his arm," explained Ginny. "I just pulled out my wand, and--" She shrugged helplessly.
Staring intently at Ginny, Hermione paused, and said, "Can you teach me how to mend a bone, Ginny?"
Having no memory of ever really being glad of anything, Draco couldn't be glad that Hermione was back. He could, however, be satisfied. Everything was right with the world.
There. He'd said it. 'The world.' It existed now, he was sure of it, otherwise how would Hermione be holding his arm so gently now? And how could she be learning how to fix a broken bone from the red-haired woman? Of course, it could be that he'd gone off the deep end, and this was all an elaborate delusion he was having...
Draco was brought out of his thoughts when Hermione drew her wand. He jumped, but not as much as before, since she told him, "It's okay, I'm just going to fix it, all right?" Draco nodded slowly.
It was good to have someone to talk to, wasn't it? "Yes," Draco answered himself and Hermione.
And then it was done. Hermione said a funny little word and it was done. Didn't feel weird or hurt at all. Just--over with.
This required some thought.
After Hermione fixed his arm, she disappeared back the way she'd come with the red-haired man and the black-haired man. Draco was left alone with the red-haired woman, who Hermione told to "Just let him alone." That was fine with Draco. He needed to muddle through this.
There wasn't just Hell, he knew that now. He'd admitted it: there was a world. But just how far this world extended, he didn't know. He didn't remember. Why couldn't he remember? A person should be able to remember, shouldn't he? Maybe he'd ask Hermione later, when she came back. If she came back. No. When she came back. She'd already come back once, why wouldn't she again?
The question was...what was the question?
Nothing was working straight in Draco's mind. It didn't make sense.
What did he know for sure? Okay. Hermione existed. He existed. Hell existed. He couldn't go back to Hell. There was a future.
There was a future?
Draco didn't know how long it was until Hermione came back, but come back she did. Sitting down in front of him, she spoke. Draco drank in every word she said.
"We're going to be moving you." Where? "There's a...a safehouse. You'll be able to rest there."
"Are you coming with me?"
Hermione paused, and glanced back at the two men she'd come in with. "Yes," she said to Draco.
"Good."
"Is there anything else you'd like to know?"
Draco thought, then shook his head.
"Then let's go," said Hermione, standing up.
"Now?"
"Yes," said Hermione. There was a dark cloak on the desk behind her. She unfolded it and draped it over his shoulders. It almost swallowed Draco up. "Well," said Hermione, glancing back at the two men again. They nodded at her. The black-haired one looked a little worried, and the red-haired one seemed angry. At least, that's what Draco thought, and he couldn't really be sure if he remembered what being angry looked like.
The two men left, and somehow Draco found himself being led down a dark passageway by Hermione. This was okay. Anything he did with Hermione was okay. But she seemed to be trying to stop him from looking at something to his right. Curious, he craned his neck to see.
It was the gaolers.
They were in two cells: a big group of them in one, and just one in the other. Draco twitched at the sight of Gaoler Lincoln's blond hair, and then stopped walking when he saw something in the other cell. A glint. It wasn't on water.
There was a man in that cell, rather tall and rotund, with short, dark hair. He was wearing the uniform of a gaoler--and something around his neck.
"What?" asked Hermione, darting her gaze from Draco to the gaolers. "What is it? What do you want?"
Draco raised a finger to point at the rotund man in the cell on his own.
Hermione's brow creased. "No...no, you can't have the guard."
"No," said Draco. "That's mine." He pointed more insistently.
"Sir," called out Hermione, after a few seconds' hesitation. "Come closer to the bars, please."
"I'll do nothing for you, Mudblood," spat the plump man. He'd obviously heard what they were talking about, clutching the glinting object to his chest.
Mudblood. Something stirred in Draco's memory.
"You will," said Hermione dangerously, drawing her wand. Draco forgot whatever it was, flinching away from the wand. He couldn't be too careful, around wands. Never knew what could happen--even if it was Hermione. "What's around your neck?" she demanded of the gaoler-made-prisoner.
"It's mine," said the man protectively.
"No," declared Draco firmly. Still frightened of the wand, he huddled into the enormous cloak.
"Accio," said Hermione, and Draco flinched once again. The glinting object escaped the man's grasp, flew through the bars, and into Hermione's hand.
Forgetting about the gaoler, Hermione held it, in her palm, closer to her face to see it. It was a silver ring, on a chain of the same metal. At the top of the ring the metal was formed to look like the head of a large cat--a cheetah, probably, Hermione thought. Or a leopard. There was black material in a few dents in the metal, and the ring was a little grubby. Hermione looked to Draco, putting away her wand. "This is yours?"
Draco nodded, eyes wide and glancing between Hermione and the ring. He remembered it from...somewhere...before Hell...there was a before Hell?
It can't be anywhere worse than in the hands of that...bad man, she thought, glancing back at the cursing gaoler. Hermione carefully placed the ring in Draco's outstretched, grubby palm.
Tilting the ring upward to catch the light of the torches, Draco watched it gleam, and smiled.