"Grimmond!"

Every auror in the common area flinched. Harry would have been pleased by the sight if he weren't so furious.

He stormed right to the back of the department, into the hallway where the offices of the higher-ups were lined up. Grimmond's was just down the hall from his, and the door was ajar when he pushed his way in.

"What the fuck was that?"

Grimmond and Felicia were standing by his desk, and they both turned when he entered. Felicia wore a look of pain, but Grimmond looked absolutely murderous.

"Bursting in on my friends and my partner, wands blazing, arresting him—!"

"You sound so surprised, Potter," Grimmond said tautly. "Shacking up with a war criminal, did you expect him to keep breathing free air?"

Harry lunged, every muscle in his body whipcord-tight and ready to attack. Felicia threw herself in front of him and grabbed him by both shoulders.

"Stop! Harry, stop!"

"Grimmond, you treacherous piece of shit!"

"I'm treacherous? I'm treacherous, Potter? You're fucking a Death Eater and I'm treacherous?"

"He's my lover!" Harry roared, clenching his wand. "He's my partner, you knew he was, you knew and you did nothing!"

"Harry, stop!" Felicia entreated. She was strong on her own right but Harry was several inches taller and half-again her weight.

"You're right, Potter," Grimmond said, his voice low and dangerous. "I did nothing. And do you know what? I'd do nothing again. Bottom-feeding, Muggle-hating, purist scum like him deserve Azkaban."

Harry was shaking with rage. He could barely see through the red that had flooded his vision. "Grimmond, you son of a bitch—"

"And however many times he's sucked your cock won't make a bit of difference, Potter, not even you can protect him, not anymore. Justice is bloody well coming."

"Do you think you're frightening?" Harry hissed. "Do you think you make me nervous? Do you think I'll bow and break just because you're making empty threats?"

"Harry," Felicia begged, but Harry couldn't hear her.

"Draco Malfoy is my partner and I will do anything, kill anyone it takes to protect him," he continued. "I killed Voldemort, Grimmond, the most powerful dark wizard of our time. I cast the spell that stopped his heart. Imagine what I could do to a petty little back-stabbing rat like you."

Grimmond's nostrils were flared, his face set. But underneath the veneer of impassiveness, Harry could see traces – just traces – of a lingering, growing fear, and Harry took a deep, profoundly dark satisfaction in seeing it.

"Is that a threat?" Grimmond said.

"That, Grimmond, is a fucking guarantee," Harry snarled. "And if you dare to fucking show your face to me again, you'll find out for yourself why exactly the Dark Lord feared me so much."

Grimmond bared his teeth. "I don't have time for this," he said, and he shoved past Harry and Felicia both, leaving his office with a rustling of his robes.

"Harry," Felicia whispered, "you shouldn't have done that."

"Yeah, well, he shouldn't have fucking arrested my boyfriend, so let's just call it even."

"Harry."

He looked down at her. Her face spoke of fear, alarm, worry – her hands were still on Harry's shoulders, as though she was scared that he might snap at any moment and she'd have to hold him down.

"I know you're angry, but that wasn't the way to handle it."

Harry realized belatedly that he was still trembling with anger. He clenched and unclenched his hands, willing himself to calm down.

"Did you know?" he asked her.

"Not until the eleventh hour," she sighed. "I think they knew we were friends and went out of their way to hide it from me."

"They must have known you had a conscience and would try to do something. Who even cleared this? How did it happen?"

Felicia hesitated a moment and Harry frowned.

"Have you heard of Vincent Vaughn?" she asked

"No. Who's that?"

"He's a member of the Wizengamot. He has a kind of – a sort of speciality."

"I don't understand."

"He hunts down former Death Eaters," she explained reluctantly. "The ones that managed to avoid conviction one way or another. Then he brings them to trial for war crimes."

Harry felt very cold, and it was a terrible sensation after so much white-hot rage. "What's his track record like?"

"I looked into it," she said, "when I found out. It's – Harry, it's not good. So far as I can tell, everyone he's gone after was found guilty, save for one."

"Who?"

She looked at him sadly a moment.

"Lucius Malfoy," she answered. "He killed himself before Vaughn could file the arrest warrant."

Harry gnawed and worried his bottom lip, rubbed his hands together. His heart was starting to beat in the side of his throat. He wondered how many of the Death Eaters Vaughn had put away had been given the Dementor's Kiss, and at once he pictured Draco, supine and limp, his soul being drawn through his mouth, the light in his eyes fading—

He shivered and banished the image from his mind. That would not happen. Harry would not let it.

"I have to go," Harry said. "I have to see him."

Felicia nodded gravely. "Be careful, Harry," she said, but he was already leaving.

Draco awoke when a bucket of cold water was thrown on him. He inhaled too quickly, choked, coughed, doubled over, and immediately began to shake from the cold.

"There he is. Good morning, sunshine."

When he'd expelled the last of the water from his lungs, Draco looked up. He was on his hands and knees in a nine-by-nine-by-nine stone cell, and staring down at him through an open barred door was a man in tough, magic-resistant leathers. His skin was yellowing and papery, and the expression on his face as he regarded Draco could only accurately be described as contemptuous.

"My name's Corbin. I'm going to be your new best friend."

Draco was freezing. The air was cold enough, but now that he was drenched with water he could already feel creeping numbness in his fingers.

Corbin crossed his cell and crouched down in front of Draco, staring at him with a penetrating black gaze.

"So," he said. "Draco Malfoy. What a crazy coincidence."

He dared not speak, which turned out not to matter because Corbin went right on talking:

"Say, I don't suppose you remember meeting my wife, do you? Annabelle, her name was. Prettiest thing under the sun. Loved to sing and watch Quidditch. Long brown hair, blue eyes. Ringing any bells?"

Draco swallowed.

"No? None at all? Well, that is odd. Because as I recall, Annabelle was tortured to death by you and your father."

"I – I didn't have a choice—"

Abruptly, Corbin seized Draco by the hair and slammed his head against the back wall of his cell. Pain blinded him and he screamed. Hot blood pooled at the back of his head and ran down his neck.

"Don't lie to me, now," Corbin hissed into Draco's ear. "Standing rule with prisoners. You lie, you get pain."

Now that he was closer, Draco could smell the bitterness of his breath, see the blue veins along his neck. He grit his teeth and willed his mind to overcome the pain.

"You could have stopped. You could have just stopped. Done something. Anything. Left. Maybe if you had, my wife would still be alive."

His chest was hurting more than his head wound. Draco's eyes burned with shame.

"I'm sorry," he choked.

"Don't lie!"

Corbin's knee jerked up and landed against Draco's jaw. At once, his mouth filled with blood and he collapsed on the stone floor.

"Annabelle is dead because of you and your father, may he rot in the foulest pits of hell," Corbin said, standing over him. Draco's vision was blurred, but he could see his outline, fists clenched, shoulders shaking. "That's what I want you to think about, scum. I want you to think about Annabelle."

And he did. He thought of nothing but Annabelle, with every kick to his ribcage, every punch, every slam into the wall and floor, he thought of Annabelle, thought of her screaming and writhing under his cruciatus curse, thought of her dying.

He thought about Annabelle, and it hurt more than wounds ever could.

When Abigail Twine left her office and set out for Azkaban, she had not been sure what to expect – but somehow, the sight of it ground what little expectations she had into the dirt.

In a tower on a rock in the middle of the frigid, windswept sea, it stood like a terrible dark sentinel against a gray overcast. She felt at once chilled to the bone at the sight of it, and the thick woolen cloak she'd brought to fight the November wind felt no thicker than tissue paper.

When she trudged up the steps – rough and uneven things carved from the rock – she passed through a layer of warding so thick the magic crackled against her skin and she shuddered. The heavy iron doors were almost too big for her to open, and she needed both hands to open them wide enough to let her inside.

The main foyer, though she could hardly call it a foyer in good conscience, had three doors on each wall and a single desk in the center, where a young man sat arguing with Harry Potter.

"—he is family, damn it, he's my partner."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter," the man said, his patience straining, "but under wizarding law, you are not his family, and only family are allowed to visit."

"You don't think I'd marry him if I could? The only reason he's not legally my family is because marrying him is against the law!"

"Be that as it may—"

Abigail cleared her throat. The man at the desk didn't seem interested, until he saw that her presence made Harry doubletake.

"Dr. Twine!"

"It's actually not just family that's allowed to visit," she said, approaching the desk and fishing through her small messenger bag for the right roll of parchment. "My name is Dr. Abigail Twine, and I am Mr. Malfoy's physician."

She handed him the papers she'd brought with her – signed, sealed, and notarized paperwork proving that he was under her care. The man at the desk frowned when he saw it.

"It is my professional opinion that his mental state will deteriorate to dangerous levels if his sessions with me are discontinued."

Harry stared at her like he wanted to kiss her.

"We can't just let him out so you can continue your sessions—"

"I would not expect you to," Abigail said shortly. "However, I would expect that you would reasonably accommodate for his mental wellbeing. After all, in the history of this establishment, Azkaban has never legally driven anyone insane. And wouldn't it be a shame if I were forced to report otherwise, when my patient inevitably deteriorates?"

The man at the desk flinched.

"Dr. Twine," Harry said, "when this is over, I'm going to have to come up with a good way to thank you."

She turned to him and softened when she saw he was on the verge of tears.

"I'll arrange to have you escorted in," the man at the desk said reluctantly, rising and heading through the door to the right.

"Thank you," Harry said. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me," she answered. "He's my patient, and I swore to do everything within my power to help him."

To her surprise, he pulled her into a tight, crushing hug.

"Tell him—" he began, voice thick, close to cracking, "—tell him that I love him."

"I'm sure he knows," she returned, "but I'll tell him."

"Tell him that I'm going to get him out of here," he continued. "One way or another, I'll get him out. If I have to rip down the walls of Azkaban, I swear I'll get him out."

"I'll tell him," she repeated.

"Thank you."

"I'll owl you when I'm done."

"This way, Doctor," came the voice from the man at the desk.

She extricated herself from Harry's grip, gave him a reassuring smile, and followed him through the door into an adjoining corridor with several layers of doors and a long row of lockers.

"You have to leave your things here," he said.

"Not even paper to take notes?"

"You'll have to use ours. Your wand, please, Doctor."

She handed over her wand and bag and personal possessions and he stored them in one of the lockers. She was given a magical search, declared clear, and was escorted by a guard further into the tower.

Even between layers of heavy gray stone, the screaming was still audible – vacant, horrifying shrieks of agony and madness. Abigail had spent her entire professional life working with the mentally unstable, and she was used to hearing screams, but this was different. There was a tenor to the shrieks that spoke of a more terrible darkness and pain, one that chilled her.

She was shown through to a small, cramped room – one door, one table, two chairs, and a single candle, which her escort lit with a spell.

"Sit," he said. "I'll bring the prisoner."

She sat. The room was dirty and cold and spartan, and far too small. Her old case of claustrophobia clawed at the edges of her mind, but she shoved it down. There was no time for old fears. She had a patient who needed her.

When her escort returned, he was dragging Draco – shackled with irons, clothed in a ragged uniform that was far too large – by one shoulder, and unceremoniously threw him into the chair opposite her.

She stood up abruptly. "What the hell is this?" she demanded.

"Your patient," her escort said sourly. His skin was yellowing and his eyes were dark and angry.

She hurried to Draco's side and rolled him over. He was bleeding from a head wound, and there were bruises on his shoulders and arms. Rage flared in her gut and she briefly considered hexing the man until she remembered she didn't have her wand.

"What in God's name happened to him?"

"He tripped and fell," came his cruel, casual response.

"Into your fists?"

He smirked, and Abigail's anger only intensified.

"You've got half an hour with him," he said. "Good luck."

The door closed and the lock clicked decisively. Abigail bit her lip to keep herself from screaming in frustration and looked down at Draco. He was unconscious and the chances of waking him were low.

She pushed aside the chair and table and arranged him carefully on the floor. Her skill with wandless magic was better than most – as a mediwitch, she was expected to be able to heal even when she was otherwise disarmed – but she doubted her ability to repair all the damage in half an hour.

Still, there was nothing else for her to do. She couldn't very well have a therapy session with an unconscious patient. And even if she could, physical wounds took preference.

She closed her eyes, pressed her hands to his chest, and gathered her energy.