A/N Hi guys, as it's Halloween soon, I have been working on this fic, a special edition of The Mixtape with spooky song choice inspiration for some Deathmione one-shots. All chapters will be posted today. This was going to go up on the day but I don't think I will be around so am posting now.

Big enthusiastic hugs to Kreeblim Sabs who alpha read this series and helped me get all of these out on time!

Enjoy, and HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

TRACK 1: Heathens

[Hermione Granger x Evander Avery (Avery Jr)]

All my friends are heathens, take it slow
Wait for them to ask you who you know
Please don't make any sudden moves
You don't know the half of the abuse

Heathens / Twenty One Pilots [2016]

Fan casts: Evander Avery (Avery Jr) - Colin Morgan / Thorfinn Rowle - Alexander Skarsgard / Rabastan Lestrange - Colin O'Donoghue / Ade Selwyn - Donald Glover

Hermione's head tilted back as she stared up at the imposing grey prism dominating the bleak skyline, she felt nothing.

She was numb, physically, mentally and emotionally. It felt like being in suspended animation, waiting for the reality of the last few months to hit, sometimes she wondered if it ever would. Pulled from her blankness by an aggressive tug on her arm, she moved in compliance with the guards shepherding immediately, without question or hesitation; it wouldn't do any good, there was no procrastination time left for her.

Hermione hadn't been sure what to expect from the inside of the prison walls, but somehow what she found was worse than she had envisioned. The muted greyness that had swamped her vision on the outside of the rock was magnified here. It was darker than she could ever have imagined and colder, so much colder, she had barely made it over the threshold before she could swear she sensed the ingrained damp from the floors running unhindered up her legs.

The sober man at her side directed her to a desk manned by a woman with a mean looking face and flaxen hair pulled into a severe-looking high ponytail; she regarded Hermione with a slight quirk of her lips that didn't meet her hard eyes. The guard gave her name to the witch, the first words he had spoken since collecting her, and Hermione was ushered behind a curtain to her right, thin grey fabric was stretched over a concertina wire frame reminding her of visits to the muggle doctor when she was little.

She was commanded to strip in harsh tones and Hermione, having experienced processing before now, didn't so much as blink in protest as the woman made no move to leave; she hadn't expected her to. Her belongings were taken from her, what little things she had left, nothing of particular consequence. Under the watchful eyes of the woman she sacrificed one unflattering set of robes, which were not her own, for another, thinner set, and then moved back from around the curtain ready, or not, for what was to come next.

As the little lift chugged up the shaft Hermione focused on the sounds it made, the clanging of rusty metal against stone, the chaffing sound of the guards too-tight uniform as he stretched forward to begin writing up his report. She should be scared she thought blankly, Hermione Granger, a member of the Golden Trio and Hogwarts prefect would have been scared. But she wasn't, whoever she was now. Not because the situation wasn't dire, it very much was, not because she had any hope of making it out of there alive, she didn't, but she felt nothing.

When the lift came to a shuddering halt, she placed a hand on the wall of the metal box to stop herself from toppling forward. She had never quite gained back the weight she lost during that last year of the war, and she still struggled with her balance, it didn't seem like she would ever look like herself again now. Why should the outside revert? The inside certainly had not.

As she once again got lost inside herself, the guard became impatient and gripped her upper arm tight enough to bruise. Hermione didn't say anything; no reaction even crossed her features, she just followed alongside him trying to avoid the dampest patches of the floor, so as not to soak her standard issue canvas shoes.

No laces… that was... interesting.

Hermione kept her eyes forward as much as possible on the walk down the narrow corridor, though she detected flickers of movement in her peripheral vision on either side, from the inhabited cells. She could have probably named everyone in this wing on sight. She would certainly be recognised, or maybe she wouldn't be, she didn't recognise the person in the mirror anymore.

They reached the very end of the dank line, and the guard muttered something under his breath waving his wand around the bars, and they moved open slowly. He jostled her forward, but before she could move entirely away, he caught her wrist in a cruel grip, his fingers tightening to the point where he could have crushed the bone.

"I'm going to make your life miserable Granger" he spat lowly before producing a metallic looking bangle and forcing it onto her hand. As it fastened around her wrist, she felt a stabbing sensation move straight from her arm up into her core ripping a gasp from her throat, before she stilled panting to get her breath back.

The guard appeared angered by her lack of response and let go of her arm not bothering to hide his complete revulsion before pushing her roughly away from him by her shoulder and slamming the bars shut.

Hermione quietly stepped over to the grey mattress that was lying in a darkened corner, and sat neatly, with her legs folded around herself. She shut her eyes until the humming from her centre adjusted then she let her head fall back against the war behind her and wished tears would fall.

'The cold… Don't make me go back there'.

The words she had heard Sirius call out in his sleep, so many years before, came back to her that first night, at least she assumed it was night. There was only a small opening in the outer wall of the cell, no more than a couple of missing bricks allowing her to see the sky, but the visage was so muted it was hard to tell what time it was.

She had been walking back up to her room while staying at Grimmauld Place, over Christmas in their fifth year and she had heard mumbling in the study. Hesitantly creeping forward she had spotted him, the last of his noble house, sprawled inelegantly on a time ravaged sofa, it's once opulent fabric as tattered as the rest of the decaying house, more like a crypt than a habitable dwelling. Hermione had moved to stand next to him as his face contorted in pained expression after pained expression, as he unknowingly whimpered out his fears of being sent back to the place that had robbed him of himself.

Up until that moment, Hermione had wondered why he never made improvements to his childhood home, why he hadn't at least attempted to turn the place into something that would resemble a haven, though she thought she understood now.

The dementors had tortured Sirius, hovering over him for twelve long years they had stolen away his reason, his happiness, and his youth. They weren't here anymore. Hermione supposed she should feel grateful for their absence, but she could not. The cloaked figures would have made it quicker.

The bars to her cell opening made Hermione sit up; she wasn't sure of the last time she had moved, it could have been hours or even days, her perception of everything, including time, seemed to blur here. She had been tracking the progression of a small bug along the ceiling for a time, but she couldn't perceive how long ago that was now.

"Get up Granger," the guard barked, and Hermione stepped to her feet and moved to the opening.

Once she was within his grasp, a white metal collar was fastened around her neck, tightened to the point where it was biting into her skin and made puffing in air difficult; she said nothing. As she turned her head, a long pole was attached to the back of the restraint that was like a choker, it was then used as a handle of sorts to force her down the corridor. She had seen something similar used on dogs, or dangerous animals, she supposed that was what she was now.

Hermione idly wondered where they were heading for a moment but then she recalled a conversation with Kingsley, she had sat before him in thin robes and uncomfortably felt like she was getting his room dirty just by being there. 'Changes to Azkaban' he had said, what he had gone on to explain was meaningless rhetoric, but there were some specifics, notably, showers and exercise.

"Are you excited Granger?" the guard whispered into her ear, and Hermione dropped her face to the dirty floor instinctively concentrating on her now tatty shoes. "You'll get to meet your new friends, they have all been dying to meet you" his voice was low and dripping with malicious glee.

Hermione didn't raise her face, and he jerked forward to grip her hair tightly, so tight her eyes watered involuntarily.

"Always did think you were above everyone else, well you'll talk soon enough" he threatened, before he let go of her hair and readjusted his grip on the pole at her neck. He pushed it forward before she was ready, making her feel as if the front of the collar would crush her windpipe before he increased his pace, forcing her the rest of the way at double speed.

When it seemed as if they had walked the entire length of the building, they came to a heavily vaulted door. The guard roughly detached the pole from the back of her neck, but the collar remained, it must have more magic suppressants than the bangle she reasoned before the door was ripped open and she was pushed inside.

The room revealed was about ten times the size of the cell where she had spent her time so far, the walls were a muted cream, though it was apparent that the original colour was probably a white that had long since aged, judging by the peeling of the walls. She blinked. Muted or not, it was the lightest colour Hermione had seen for days and her eyes took a little while to adjust.

The door behind her slammed shut, and she heard the clanking of several bolts followed by the dim pressure of wards being applied. She moved away from the entrance and as she began to see more than the brightness she detected dark shapes that were clinging to the edges of the room, nine in total. Hermione wasn't sure if this was all who remained or whether ten was the maximum capacity of the chamber.

She was filled with the urge to retreat, to make herself smaller, old Hermione would have backed herself against a wall, but survival had been critical to that girl. Taking careful, slow steps she moved passed a rickety trolley with a few, sad looking books resting on top. She grabbed the one closest to her hand and debated her next move. There were tables, three of them, but they were all on the other side of the room, where they were.

It wasn't self-preservation that made her wish to keep her distance, those instincts had been long suppressed, it wasn't even the expected taunting or probable violence, she just had no desire to be anywhere near other human life. There were bars where she was kept now for a reason. Instead, she made her way to the nearest wall and dropped down in front of it to crouch on the floor; it was no cleaner than anywhere else, but it did at least appear dry. As she opened the book in her grasp she could feel all nine sets of eyes on her, but she didn't flinch, she was well used to eyes on her by now, eyes that held all emotions and intentions.

After tense moments passed the Death Eaters resumed whatever it was they had been doing before she arrived, she occasionally spied them over the top of what she discovered was a compendium of poetry. A small cluster were around one table, conversing in low tones while the rest were fanned out, standing either alone or in pairs.

In one of her quick eye darts, she spotted Ade Selwyn; standing alone, mumbling to himself; his insufficient robes hung off his diminished frame, exposing the gaunt lines of his neck and collarbone. Skin that had once looked like darkened caramel now looked sickly and marbled though it was his face where you could see the real extent of the decay that had begun to set in. His eyes were blank at first glance but now and then there was a gleam there that was maniacal, she could see twitching spasms by his right eye and trembles in his hand.

She averted her eyes and tried to concentrate on her book, or at least give the appearance that she was doing so. She heard murmurs, her name being gritted out through clenched teeth, 'mudblood' being excitedly whispered but she kept looking down, counting in her head to one hundred and then turning a page to at least appear properly engaged.

A shadow fell over her some time later, the darkness creeping up over her shoes and crossed legs till the shade seeped into the parchment of her subterfuge prop. She mentally comprised a list of the worst possible scenarios before looking up to meet the scrutinising gaze of Evander Avery. His aristocratic head was tilted to the side, regarding her quizzically, there was no trace of fury or even disgust in his features, on the whole, he was calm, assessing. Despite their positions, him looming over her, she felt no threat, at least not one that was immediate and so she waited, remaining still until he would make his move.

Hermione had never seen him this close up before, their interactions during the war had been limited, nothing more than swirling robes and slight glimpses. She had heard him talked of though, the quiet Ravenclaw, a gifted boy in his day, solely focussed on academic pursuits and one of the highest achieving students Hogwarts had ever seen, before her.

Hermione belatedly realised that she had read some of his poetry. There had been a set of verses framed on the fourth-floor corridor, that she had found herself lost in one day. Professor Flitwick had found her, giving her a wan smile as he regarded her face almost pushed against the glass, he told her about him, how he lamented that they had lost Avery to the other side of the war.

There is beauty where ever you seek to find it in this life

Be it in the delicately carved handle of the knife in your back

Or the mottled pattern of bruising against your skin

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice cool and crisp.

Hermione thought he sounded intelligent which was illogical; you couldn't detect acumen from such a sentence. It suited him, though, his voice, matched the piercing nature of his eyes and the sharpness of his cheekbones, that was a perfect word for this one, sharp.

She held up her book, in lieu of any answer, though she knew that wasn't what he was referring to.

The dark matted hair that framed his face fell forward as he swept his gaze over her to the book and back again and his soft lips broke into a smile.

Hermione laid back on the thin cot; she tried to shut her eyes a few times but they just fell back open, sleep wouldn't come here. She could hear noises from the neighbouring cells, though only quiet shufflings, it was probable that it was still daytime. Nighttime, from what she had been able to discern so far was much louder, she hadn't managed to get into to the rhythm of the place yet, mainly as she wasn't trying.

As she had been straining to listen to the prisoners around her, she detected a dripping sound, but couldn't ascertain whether it was from inside the cell or not, it could have been coming from anywhere; the rock was perpetually damp.

'Drip… drip… drip… drip… drip'

The consistency of the noise felt like beats against the side of her brain, the steadiness working her up and agitating her senses.

'Drip… drip… drip… drip… drip'

It was just like that, the blood, it dripped too, she had never thought about it having a sound before, but it did.

'Drip… drip… drip… drip… drip'

As it fell from the bedside table onto the hardwood floor, pooling there, staining, remaining.

Hermione threw a hand over her eyes to keep them shut. Remember… REMEMBER, she commanded herself, but she couldn't, it was only ever just flashes. When she was still at the Ministry, being held, she could piece together more, but the noises here interrupted her thoughts, she couldn't hang on to the impressions. She couldn't even be certain what was real.

Somewhere down the corridor, a guard must have been on patrol, they were never far away here, they liked them all to feel their presence, everything was a mind game. The war never really ended, the enemy just changed.

'Thunk… thunk… thunk… thunk… thunk'

The repeated heavy footfalls grated her nerves, and she tried again to block it all out, but it was too much.

'Thunk… thunk… thunk… thunk… thunk'

Her heartbeat, beating right out of her chest, so fast it sounded like an accelerating train. It pounded in her ears so loud she couldn't think, couldn't catch a breath.

'Thunk… thunk… thunk… thunk… thunk'

The pounding on the door, they were back, and she was there and Ron… he wasn't moving, why wasn't he moving?

Hermione gripped the edges of her robes in frustration, giving in and opening her eyes to stare impassively at the ceiling in defeat. The rats were back again; they were spelled away often, but it wasn't enough to dissuade what must have been an entire colony housed within the walls.

'Scratch… scratch… scratch… scratch… scratch'

She could hear them scuttling across the floors, hear their tiny, clawed feet as they searched out their food. The vermin didn't just exist here, they flourished.

'Scratch… scratch… scratch… scratch… scratch'

She attacked her hands, her arms, everywhere, the blood, his blood was all over them, and it wasn't coming off, why wouldn't it come off?

'Scratch… scratch… scratch… scratch… scratch'

That first set off robes, so stiff they made a noise when she moved, whenever she moved. So harsh they made her skin break out in rashes, pulling the blood to the surface, she didn't feel it.

Evander was waiting at the back of the dirty room again, standing amongst his brothers. He had forgone the offering of books they left on the side having already almost memorised every ill kept page. Shaking the tension from off his shoulders, he sat in his usual spot, at his usual table and tried not to watch for the door. She wasn't here yet, though there was no doubt she would be back, the guards had looked delighted when they had pushed her through the door the last time, what they anticipated the assembled would do, who knew?

Did they think any of the doomed men here were interested in enacting revenge on someone who had been little more than a child during the war? Well maybe some amongst them would, but then again some of them weren't in charge of their faculties anymore. Anyone who had any of their cognitive processing ability would have been able to recognise that the shell that was deposited in the room was not the same girl that had been fighting for so long.

For himself he harboured no desire to cause her harm, he was much more moved to study her. His eyes had regarded her almost desperately, taking in every tiny detail and committing it to memory. The tightness of the collar they had pressed around her throat, how it made her breath rasp as she tried to draw it in and blow it out without drawing attention to herself. How she blinked when she entered as if she was bathing in the moon's glow for the first time, how she averted her gaze till it settled on the tips of her tiny feet.

He had watched her pick up the poetry book absently and slide down the wall, landing in a small, tidy heap on the floor. He wasn't the only one watching, they all were, there wasn't much in the way of 'new' around here. She was small, too skinny and incredibly detached from the whole world around her. She should have been terrified walking into the room and yet he had detected no fear from her. Instead of cowering Hermione Granger had turned the pages of the tattered book in front of her systemically, rhythmically, too blankly to be reading.

In this now defunct game the broken princess was left lying amongst the ashes.

What had she done to wind up here?

He remembered when he was five or six finding a bird in the gardens at the Manor; it's colouring had stuck out in the crispness of the winter day. Bright, exotic blue plumes had sung against the snow that blanketed the ground. Its body was slumped, with one wing badly broken and Evander had lifted it gently into one hand, resolving to take it inside. His Father had belittled his behaviour, aggressively taunting him for his bleeding heart and Evander hadn't bothered to enlighten him, rather, he let him believe whatever he wanted about his actions. Despite his conduct he hadn't expected the bird to live, he had spared no thought of nursing it back to health or any other such nonsense. The mercy he had offered was simpler in intent. He couldn't have bared the idea of leaving a creature so beautiful to die in a place so harsh, so foreign to its existence.

With my hand, I do not offer salvation, eternal life or peace, but hope, abstract and blissfully uncertain.

He had watched the girl with the glazed eyes, her once exuberant curls falling around her face like a shroud of withered feathers, and he had made the decision to speak to her. She had held up her book, offering what had, at first, seemed like a vacant answer to a probing question, until he had studied her, then his countenance changed, she had done as much as she could, probably more than she had for a long time.

Hermione had known it would come to this eventually. While she was largely numb to the world around her she was still aware, she still had a keen mind, it was a curse in a way, being less lucid would have been a blessing. She had seen the guards, sensed their simmering fury; it had started when she had first been brought into the holding cells at The Ministry, and she hadn't expected anything different here.

Ron had been popular at Hogwarts and then even more so afterwards. Always had time to stop for a drink after training with the guys, always happy to share another tale of the adventures of the Golden Trio. What she had done, whatever she had done, had taken away one of their own, she was going to have to pay. Though her lack of reaction wasn't affected she knew they wanted more from her, they needed her to suffer.

There were three of them that day when they came to take her to the shower block; she had eyed them slowly, moving her gaze from face to face. She saw it there, on the set of their jaws, in the tension in their shoulders. If only she could have given them what they wanted, maybe then this would never have had to happen. Then again she had never been one for pretence, even when her life was at stake, she had never been an actress, and right now she couldn't have screamed or begged if her life depended on it, which in a way, she supposed it already did.

When they made it into the outer room of the shower block, she was roughly pushed down into a hard backed chair. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead as the door was warded, kept it straight ahead as the scissors were produced and kept it straight ahead as the long strands of her once vibrant curls fell to her feet.

Once they began brandishing the reflective metal in front of her face, she averted her gaze. They may have spoken to her; she couldn't be sure, she got lost again, staring at the worn tiles and tracking the fluttering brown strands. It took an age, but eventually, once her head felt impossibly light, the two male guards left the room leaving her with the mean looking woman she had seen upon entry.

She was stripped and pushed into the nearest shower to stand under water so hot it instantly burnt her skin, she was pulled out again after a few minutes, and left to stand naked in the cold room until the clothes she had been wearing were thrown at her. Typically they would be issued 'new' things, but Hermione was pretty sure as far as she was concerned there would be very little protocol being followed. Once she was dressed she was taken back to her cell, none of the guards said another word.

Hermione waited until they were entirely gone, not just in sight but in noise too, all her time in the dark was forcing her to rely on her other senses. In this place just because you couldn't see a threat, didn't mean it wasn't there. Once they were far away, she raised a hand falteringly to her head to feel the shorn, uneven crop that was left behind. The downy fluff felt so foreign against her skin that she moved her hand away. Instead, she ran her fingers over the top of her worn robes, where locks of her hacked hair gripped among the fibres. She pulled out the longest strands and delicately laid them side by side next to her cot as if they were cut stem roses.

When she had been told she had a visitor Hermione had sat in the room she was taken to and straightened her robes, she couldn't think of a single person that would have wanted to see her. She didn't move when the door opened behind her, not until her vision was filled with familiar bright blonde hair and pale skin.

"Hello Hermione," Luna said calmly.

For the first time in months, maybe for the first time since that night, when she felt eyes on her she lifted her face and met them directly. Words wouldn't come, maybe they never would, but she could do this, offer some small semblance of her forgotten humanity.

Luna didn't stay long, didn't ask any questions, she just spoke. Her words soft and light bathed Hermione in a gentle kindness that she found harder to deal with than the more common abuse, Luna's demeanour remained open as she filled her in on the news from outside. Harry was going to get married; Hermione felt her throat close a little a that but no sound would come out. Before she left the blonde deposited a large box on the table, filled with books, lots of them and even a couple of decks of muggle playing cards.

"You'll have to share these I'm afraid," she said "you can't have anything in your… room, but I am told you are allowed these in the shared spaces."

Hermione said nothing.

She stood to go, and Hermione sucked in a long breath as Luna reached forward and twined her hand through hers. The moment the other girl's pale flesh collided with hers something inside Hermione broke, she hadn't been touched since… since...

Back in the cell, she curled up on the dirty cot as silent tears streamed down her face.

The third time he saw the girl her hair was gone, not trimmed, not shortened, gone. Hacked. As she slumped down the wall clutching a book, he regarded the uneven strands and the closeness of her hair. He felt more than saw the reactions of the room around him. While no one from the side of the so-called light, let alone someone as prominent as her, could have been considered welcome there was an us and them that came into force, the traditional rules didn't apply. If they had done it to her, they could attempt to do it to them. He looked at the skin on her arms and could see faint burn marks, whatever it had been it hadn't been enough to blister, just sufficient to leave swathes of unusually red skin.

His eyes skimmed along her flesh to her hands; they were clear, no knicks or bruising.

She had let it happen.

Her first thought as she jolted awake was one of mild surprise that she had been asleep, it took a moment to register the absolute pain in her throat, it was raw, ripped to ribbons. Her heart rate was not just accelerated it was pounding, the violent beating in her chest making her torso heave unnaturally.

She had been screaming.

Her dreams, a pastiche of shaky bloody hands, too white flesh and spell fire, undercut with pressuring anxiety faded.

She settled her body back into the cot, reaching for the insubstantial blanket to cover her now damp robes. It was moments before the other anguished yells permeated her panic attack, the noise ripping through the brick.

Was this the first time her wails had joined the lost soul's chorus?

After Evander had come over to her that first day, he made a point of coming to sit next to her for a least a few minutes of their stretch in the room. He seemed pleased with the additional reading material and would often finish a particular page or paragraph only to push the paper into her hands for her to read also. She would nod her head when she was done, and he would take it back. Sometimes he would talk to her, little things about the routine, like how they came to the room once a week, Hermione couldn't be sure if she had assumed it was more or less time passed between stints.

Sometimes others would come over, mainly to just take a closer look at her before they walked away, though Thorfinn Rowle would stay a little longer at times, sitting down next to Avery so they could whisper among themselves.

Hermione was struggling to finish an unfamiliar verse Evander had pushed in front of her when quick steps sounded in front of them. "Stay still" he whispered into her ear.

Rabastan Lestrange came to a halt in front of her, and Evander circled a hand around her wrist, she suppressed a flinch at the warm touch; it was different to how it had felt when Luna reached her, her friend's hand had broken some of her walls down, Evander's fortified them.

"Out of the way, Avery" Rabastan snapped aggressively, moving forward, his canvassed feet almost on her crossed knees.

"Fuck off Lestrange" a voice sounded from the other side of the room, and Thorfinn moved around the stationary observers to settle on her other side, arms folded and leaning, relaxed against the wall.

Rabastan looked down at her with a sneer lighting his lips. "What the fuck are you doing here Granger? How did The Order's pet genius manage to get herself thrown in her with the damned?"

She didn't respond. Rabastan looked like he would froth at the mouth.

"Come on, fair's fair, you know why we're here" he called mockingly and dropped to his knees in a quick movement that made Thorfinn reach an arm forward that he battered away.

"Fuck you Rowle" he spat before ripping up the sleeve of his thin robes and shoving it under her nose "see Granger you know our secrets."

The Dark Mark there was faded a little now, the lines around the skull, and snake marginally blurred, the entrenched ink looking like a child had painted slightly outside the lines. The body of the tattoo was no longer black, more of an off colour, murky grey, just like everything else.

"It still hurts" he muttered, falling back to sit on his bum and folding his legs in front of him.

Hermione moved her hand to cover Evander's fingers, gently pulling them apart and releasing her wrist from his solid grasp. Never taking her eyes from her forearm, she moved up the thin material of her sleeve and exposed her scarred lettering, laying it upturned against her knee. Mirroring his pose.

"Still hurt?" Rabastan croaked.

She nodded.

The route to the shower block took him past the cell that housed her. He would turn his head, against the force of the collar, just in time to get a glimpse of her folded up on the cot, staring blankly at the ceiling. But, today she was sat in the very centre of the floor, resting on her knees, holding her hands out in front of her and away from her body.

Like she was afraid of them.

It took months, maybe longer, but finally, with some gentle coaxing from Evander she moved to sit at one of the tables when she came to the room now. He sometimes looked over what she was reading or invited her to swap books with him; there wasn't a lot to pick from. Luna had not been back. Hermione barely took in words but, it was something to do. She often wondered how old Hermione, whole Hermione, would feel about her now. Even reading was lost to her, the words scattered and danced about the pages, mocking her blankness.

A chair in front of her was dragged across the floor, and Louis Travers dropped languidly into it.

"Slow" Evander whispered in her ear, and she softly placed the book she was holding on the table in front of her, before instinctively moving her arm towards Evander. Without any further word between them he gently circled his warm fingers around her wrist, in a secure loop, and she raised her face to the man in front of her.

"Your screaming" he began, approps to nothing "you should start practising Occlumency."

She looked up at him her face revealing nothing.

"It helps with some of the darker thoughts" he explained looking at her intently.

She pondered that for awhile, not sure whether she could even be considered as having thoughts at all anymore, regardless of their spectrum. Her brain now only seemed to list things rather than think of anything, though she supposed she did expend most of her mental energy trying to separate reality from either imagination or hallucination, that didn't leave much for high-level reflection.

"You don't need a wand" he continued before he looked at Evander, the two men stared at each other for a few moments, silent communication moving between them until Evander nodded and Travers looked back at her.

"I could help you."

When Evander woke from a dream, it was to the bizarre sensation that he felt peaceful. He couldn't remember all of it, only dregs, like the bottom of an abandoned coffee cup, remained.

The little blue bird was still broken, still lost and in the wrong place but it rested on the ledge at the crack in his cell wall and looked out. In the dawning light, he could see how its feathers had been cropped close though they had looked better, healthier than Evander had remembered seeing before.

All things in good time.

Images fluttered behind Hermione's eyes at regular intervals, when it wasn't that night it was snippets from the days and weeks afterwards. Kingsley's concerned frown, Luna's absent gaze and worst of all Harry's disbelieving expression.

As painful as it was to see them sitting in silent judgement of her it was worse when they were gone, and she was alone again.

Hermione wasn't sure when he had noticed that she wasn't reading, whether it had been obvious when she was totally faking or only now when she was trying but failing. Either way, he did. He was the most attentive person she had ever known. At some point he started reading to her, his voice would be softer at these times, and he would sit closer. He wouldn't say anything else, just recite the words on the pages in a low register, a steady timber.

It wasn't any easier at first, to process the words that were spoken. Where the ink lines on the parchment had fluttered and scrambled in front of her, Evander's words floated independently of each other as they left his lips, the sentences got out of order, and she couldn't follow the meanings, but the emotion somehow permeated her shell.

Even though he spoke quietly, he spoke beautifully. His delivery was crisp and earnest, and Hermione was left in no doubt that he felt whatever overture he was absorbed in. Over time they came back to her, his glistening words, if she concentrated hard enough, she could get them to lay straight. They didn't help her to feel, but they hinted that one day, there might be a possibility she could emote some semblance of their meaning.

Evander would drop his inflexion lower when he slipped his own words into those he recited; he could see how she struggled. How he would place a picture in front of her, and it would somehow break as it reached her fingers, how she would faltering move to piece it back together again.

He knew if she were whole she would suss him in an instance, one day she would. Maybe it would be a game then, a real exchange, for now, it was a one-sided volley, but he didn't mind. He couldn't mind; he had no choice but to air the words that climbed this throat.

The atmosphere was different that day, a slight weight to the air around them might have been imperceptible to anyone else, but to the occupants of that room, stained by war, it was all too clear. Evander sat his chair closer than ever to Hermione as two guards walked into the barren room, halfway through their allotted time, when two more arrived and stood by the door as the first to enter walked forward he glanced at Thorfinn who nodded.

The focus of the invading forces was entirely on Hermione; you would have been forgiven for thinking that she was a lone person in the room from the way they ignored the serial sinners around her. He felt his lip curl into a sneer as he watched the look of contempt flash across the face of the guard that was the closest to their table.

"Look at that Stephens, didn't take her long to ingratiate herself here did it," the first man said staring down at Hermione with a hungry glint in his eye.

"Even evil has use of a whore" the other guard spoke, and they both laughed at his quip.

Spare me, if there is such a thing as the divine, spare me. Give me boredom, give me eternal damnation but do not make me suffer fools.

"Don't know what he ever saw in you, and you killed him in his sleep, he deserved better than that" the guard continued.

Hermione for her part, ignored their taunting, though he saw her wince as they mentioned the death. It had been the first indication any of them had gotten as to how she had ended up there. He had assumed murder, why else would they put her here? Though murder in his sleep? Not a chance.

He reached under the table to circle her small wrist in his hand.

"Always thought she was above where she was from."

"Obviously not happy with her little slice of the fame pie."

They moved closer now, their tones heightening as their anger clouded their judgment, Thorfinn walked through them purposefully to sit at the table in front of himself and Hermione, and he tightened his grip on her arm.

"Uppity bitch" the guard hissed, spittle flying from his mouth. Thorfinn sat forward to wipe the saliva that had connected on her cheek. Hermione didn't move.

"Serves you right that they would put you in here."

"Only thing more suitable than death is to live knowing and being punished for what you have done."

Louis moved then, stopping to stand behind Hermione's chair. An action that didn't surprise him, Travers had been quite taken with the little witch, devoting much of their shared time to helping her with Occlumency despite her reticence, Evander had thought it was for the sheer fact of having something to do, but maybe it was more than that. Her silence was comforting in a way that nothing else here was. Though it was more than her lack of speech, whatever she had done, not that he had honestly ever cared, she was still inherently good, and it shone from within her. Had she been truly what the guards thought of her she wouldn't have been so broken. It was their loss. He hoped it was his gain but it was to soon to tell.

They spat at her before leaving. Evander didn't let go of her wrist until they were broken apart.

Selwyn made a move on a day that was like every other, with no idea of time or season or without any possible catalyst that she could think of. Not that he would need one, all of them showed signs of mental scarring, most of them had been fighting before she was even born, but Ade had apparently lost his faculties a long time before.

When Hermione walked up to get a book from the rickety trolley he pounced, shoving her against a wall his hand pushing hard into her shoulder as he looked at her wildly, she didn't fight against him; rather she became limp in his hold. Her lack of reaction seemed to confuse him at first before it enraged him and he lifted an arm to wrap a hand around her throat, with the angry touch something in her entire being shifted, unlocking her survival instinct that she had long thought buried.

As he hissed at her in a series of nonsensical ramblings the pressure increased against her windpipe and she lifted her hands and pushed her thumbs into his eyes, just enough so that he dropped her. Without his body pinning her she slumped to the floor, and it was only then that she realised how everyone else was on their feet. Evander rushed forward and was clutching at her chin, moving it this way and that, looking at her neck, saying something, but none of it registered, it had all come back, all of it, tears ran down her face to fast she could barely see.

Her and Ron, broken and bloodied standing amongst the rubble at the final battle, he reached out his hand and looped it through hers, and she gave him a hesitant smile, now they could live.

Her and Ron as he gave her a ring, as she said yes. Him lifting her off the ground and twirling her body as they both laughed in the orchard of The Burrow.

Ron buying her flowers when she got her first job at The Ministry, 'I'm so proud of you, even if it's just for now'.

Her and Ron buying their first place, smaller than he had been expecting, but cosy and warm.

Her and Ron fitting out the flat, arguing about each other's stuff, little squabbles, the stuff of life.

Her and Ron in a heated staring match across the table as he complained about dinner, again, 'why couldn't you just get back earlier, I'm so sick of eating the same thing all the time'.

Ron holding her in the night as she woke up screaming, crying, the shadows of the past still clawing into her.

Her and Ron being followed by the press everywhere, her hating it and him taking it all in his stride.

Ron coming home after an argument holding ice-cream through the kitchen door before he walked in, making her laugh.

Her rushing home after work to make him one of his favourites for their anniversary, him smiling and kissing her pastry mix splattered face as she whooped when she pulled the meal out of the oven.

Her being knocked over by an enthusiastic photographer and Ron not noticing as he posed for pictures.

Their warm little home was becoming colder.

Ron being made Auror, a change in shift patterns, coming home later and later.

The first time she had found a number in his trousers when she was doing a wash.

And the next…

And the next...

Her teaching Ron to drive, screaming as he mounted a roundabout and quick, frantic sex in the backseats in an unobserved lane.

Fucking and fighting, fucking and fighting, fucking and fighting.

The alcohol, first a few drinks here and there and then always a drink.

Her hiding out at work, requesting extra projects and putting in more hours than she needed.

Slurring words and lingering touches, unwanted touches.

Ron blaming her, blaming her for her lack of maternal instinct.

Her looking at Ginny running around the baby clothes store, wondering if she was broken because it didn't excite her.

Then that night, the night it had all gone wrong. Ron was there, and he was drunk, so much more drunk than he had ever been before. He thought she was having an affair, something to account for her hours of work and she laughed at him, laughed, she told him all about the numbers, and he blanched.

'Why didn't you say anything?' he screamed.

'Because I didn't care' she replied without thinking, and the silence was deafening.

He raced towards her then, his eyes glazed, clouded by hurt and whisky; he grabbed her throat, his thick fingers coiling there as he pushed her against the wall… the pain… the anger… the suppressed hurt and humiliation…

"I snapped," she said into the aged cream room, and she felt all eyes on her, she hadn't spoken since that night; the words felt foreign on her tongue.

She looked up at Evander who was staring at her wide-eyed, he dropped down to sit on the ground next to her and pulled her against his side, not firmly or affectionately but safely, she didn't say anything else, he didn't ask her for anything else.

She felt safe. It was the first emotion she could register having felt for the longest time.

When she was back in the confines of the cell, Hermione dried her eyes and looked down at the thin bangle on her arm contemplating. When Selwyn had grabbed her, she had felt a surge in her core. She was sure old Hermione would have said it was time to make a moral choice, but old Hermione wasn't there.

When she sat at the table, the next time Rabastan was there. She read her book warily until he chucked a set of cards at her. "For fuck's sake teach me a game I don't know." She nodded and set up the deck to teach him how to play poker.

Her speaking did not go back to normal straight away; she had gotten used to saying little and the habit stuck, it wasn't as if there was a great deal to discuss where they were. So when she moved her lips to Evander's ear, he stiffened in surprise before she dropped her metal clad wrist across his poetry volume.

"I may have found a way."

His hand reached up to loop around her wrist holding it tightly, his eyes search hers in silent question, and he nodded before signalling Thorfinn from his side of the room.

Words were unnecessary when people already understood what you were trying to say.

Hermione stepped over the temporarily incapacitated guard and walked over to Thorfinn cell; it had been decided that while they were without magic, he was the biggest asset. Once the bars clanked open, she released his bracelet, and he pulled her into a firm embrace before walking past her to go to the guard's side. She moved to Avery's cell repeating the process.

In the end, it was all done with very minimal fuss, bar herself and Evander having a silent conversation outside Ade's cell before she pushed ahead and released him.

"He's a liability" Rabastan whispered as he stalked past, dropping a thick coat over her shoulders.

"Aren't' we all" she replied, and he smirked at her.

Now they were stood at the edge of the crumbling rock looking out across the raging sea, Evander leant forward and circled her wrist with his delicate fingers.

"Hermione?"

She looked up at him, the man she knew to be detached enough from life's experience to be a monster, a man that had now become her anchor and nodded. His face broke into a warm smile, the kind of smile that made her feel heat in the tips of her fingers, made her feel like she might be able to return it one day.

He stepped forward and laid a kiss on her forehead, running his empty hand through her shorn hair.

And now they're outside ready to bust
It looks like you might be one of us