She hadn't been able to reach Harry the previous night. It was already past twelve when she flooed number twelve Grimmauld Place and no one answered her call.

It tore at her to leave Severus like that, all alone in prison, but there was not much she could do. She was not about to go to the Ministry all by herself as Cavan suggested. He wouldn't know them like she did. Wouldn't be aware of the ploys and fractions within it, and their history with Severus, which was fraught with mistrust and misconception on both sides.

In any case, she had Miss Montague in the Hospital Wing overnight and the poor girl would need a check-up come morning. Hermione silently cursed Cavan and Severus for wreaking havoc in the Great Hall when so many things were precariously at stake.

Molly gladly let Rose stay the night at the Burrow. So when Hermione had seen to that Miss Montague would not suffer lasting damage, she wrote a note to Filius to explain parts of the situation and that the Infirmary would be unmanned for the following day. Fortunately, there were no other patients in her charge at the moment, as the first bout of flue for that autumn had calmed down by mid-November.

With her stomach twisted into a nervous knot, Hermione apparated to the abandoned telephone box at Whitehall Road, Westminster.

She ran through the twisting halls and winding stairways of the Ministry to reach Harry's office on level two. She wrung open a door into a corridor where a lopsided sign on the nearest cubicle read: Auror Headquarters. It was an open area, cluttered and buzzing with talk and laughter from the score or so wizards and witches who worked there.

Harry's was the third office to the right. She rounded the bookshelf that separated his cubicle from the one of 'Gawain Robards, Auror' and entered without knocking. Harry's head of untidy black hair jerked up and he peered at her through his round eyeglasses.

"Hermione?" He stood from his chair, frowning. "You look a ruddy mess. What's wrong?"

Just seeing him was an immense relief. He was her best friend after all, had been by her side through thick and thin, and would always be there. Hermione sighed. He was formal in his Auror robes, but beneath them Harry looked the same as ever: bottle green eyes, short and slender, and that faded scar on his forehead, reflecting the wand motion used to cast the Avada Kedavra.

"I'm sorry for bursting in, Harry," she said, still breathing heavily from all the running. "But this is an emergency. I do hope you have a moment for me?"

"Any time." Harry flicked his wand to remove a pile of papers from the guest char in front of his desk. "Sorry about the mess," he mumbled, "I'm mostly on fieldwork so the office is a bit-" He winced when the papers smacked down on the floor in a corner, upsetting a cloud of dust. "Well, I'm sure you can tell. Have a seat, Hermione."

"Thanks." She sank down in the chair with shaking hands. "I appreciate it."

Harry smiled, motioning for her to explain herself. She made a face, feeling frazzled and frayed. Now that things were coming to a head, she hoped Harry would take it well. He was bound to feel at least a little betrayed by Severus for going behind his back with something like this. She dearly hoped it wouldn't land him in trouble.

"It's about Severus," she told him carefully. She was glad the panic of the previous night had settled somewhat. She needed a level head to deal with this. "They've taken him to Azkaban and I have to get him out. Harry, can you help me? There's not much time."

"To Azkaban?" Harry searched around on his desk, eyes flitting over crumpled notifications and abandoned paper airplane messages. "Why wasn't I notified?"

"It only just happened." Hermione fought off the urge to tell him to hurry. "Yesterday evening. Two Aurors came to Hogwarts to apprehend him and they took him away. One was short and young, a girl. The other was an elderly fellow with a ponytail." Her voice cracked. "They said he'll be awaiting trial."

For a moment, Harry just stared at her. She couldn't tell what he was thinking. It was a long time ago that he learned to school his expression.

"That'll be Williamson," he said slowly. "He deals with the Death Eaters. Hold on Hermione, I have to talk to McFadgen." Harry stood from his desk and abruptly disappeared from the room.

Hermione waited anxiously for him to return. When he came back, he looked paler than before.

"You're right," he said, façade cracking. He thumped back into his seat and rubbed a hand over his face. "They have him. The charges were filed with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement early this morning. How did this come about?"

"It was Hern, the new Defence teacher. He saw the Dark Mark and thought…" Hermione shook her head. She wondered about Severus. Were they hurting him? Did he need the potion? What was he doing right now? Was he thinking of her at all?

Despite the kiss in the infirmary, Hermione wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't run for it. At some level he was probably scared about what they had shared, she knew she was. And she also knew Severus well enough by now to realise that his bravery was not the kind that allowed him to expose himself to others or proclaim his feelings in front of the world. Indeed, he might well decide to reject her, fearing rejection in turn, or out of some misplaced sense of nobility.

But she had to push those insecurities aside for now. Far more important things were at play than her feelings.

"Harry, this is all my fault," she said. "I was the one to ask Cavan to investigate the budget. It was all a gigantic mistake, I should have gone directly to you, but I didn't know it was him back then and now I-"

"Calm down, Hermione." Harry grasped her hand across the desk. "Don't worry. We'll figure something out."

Her breath hitched and she couldn't hold back any more. "Harry, I love him. I know it sounds insane, but I'm beginning to think he loves me back and now it's all falling apart."

"Of course he does. Hermione, you never seize to amaze me." Harry smiled gently. "He's loved you for a long time now, probably longer than you have loved him."

"Yes, but I-" Hermione frowned. "Wait, what did you say?"

Harry shrugged. "I've known old Severus for a while now, remember? I didn't want to say anything before, he's kind of shy, but…Well, I've seen his memories once, know the way he thinks. I've watched him and how he talks about you. You and Rose. It's obvious."

"Oh." A breath left her lungs, fluttering like a butterfly between them. She could have kissed him then –almost did– but then she shook herself.

"He's done something stupid, Harry," she said. "I don't even know how to tell you. And I'm the one who gave him away."

"Wait a moment," said Harry. He took out a battered notebook and chewed-on muggle pencil. "Let me get this straight. From what McFadgen told me, Severus made a lethal potion with illegal ingredients and now they seem to think him in on a Death Eater ploy. Is that right?"

"Yes, but that's all nonsense. At least the part about the Death Eaters. He's brewing an antidote, Harry. For himself, that's all. It's against Nagini's poison."

"Why isn't he conniving, the big git." Harry leaned over the desk and rested his chin in his hands. "I had no idea…"

"But that isn't all of it." Hermione rubbed at her face. "The ingredients. He bought them through the school, with the school's money. Harry…" Hermione watched him imploringly. "I need to see him."

Harry shook his head. "The Ministry isn't just out to get him," he said. "This is serious. It's politics. There's a fraction of them trying to put away the Death Eaters for good."

"I understand that." She had suspected all along, but that wasn't her main concern. "Where is he, Harry? How can I meet him?"

"You can't."

She fisted her hands in frustration. "Why?"

"There are no visitors in Azkaban." Harry sighed, but behind his glasses, determination glinted in his eyes. "At least not yet."

There was no doubt in her heart that she could trust him with this. Hermione blinked hard. "If you can pull this off, Harry, I'll-"

"Yeah, don't thank me yet." He stood. "We still have to convince him to come clean. Then there's the tiny matter of persuading the Ministry."

His cell was cold. Severus attempted to roll down the cuffs of his prison shirt, but gave up when his frozen fingers would not work properly. He sat and stared instead, into the darkness beneath his feet, eyes unfocused. Although the calls of the seagulls outside told him it was day, the gaps in the wall allowed for little light. Everything was blurry here, but he was used to it already. He was glad of the dark. How it suited his mood.

Severus knew he was out of luck. Not that he was a very lucky person to begin with, or that he believed that such a fickle concept determined his fate. 'It is our actions that define us,' Dumbledore would have said. But Severus preferred to avoid such ideas. They sat poorly with his nerves.

Those nerves were frayed these days. In the solitude of the dark, damp cell, he could admit as much to himself. He had gone on trying to hide himself for so long that he was unprepared for the shock of being discovered.

The game, long yet in the end ineffective, was over. He was exposed as a liar in front of the people who had forgiven his war crimes and no one were left that would aid him. He did his best to keep humiliation at bay, but it kept creeping upon him, telling him that this place was what he deserved, what he wanted. Here at least, in the darkness, he could hide himself away from them.

He smelled like dirt already. It had seeped into the tattered prison shirt, hundreds of years of dust and grime from the past occupants of his cell. Killers, traitors, and thieves. The torches in the hall behind him barely allowed him to make out the outline of a flea-ridden mattress on the floor. A rat sat in the corner near it, grooming its shabby fur, unafraid. He had spent the night on a rusty iron bench instead, avoiding the critters and biting insects that lived inside the cracked stone walls. Severus had been in Azkaban before. Although his back was more inclined to complain these days, he was familiar with the drill.

Some of the night he had spent pondering what gave him away, and it wasn't difficult to imagine that it had to be Hern. There were no one else suspicious of him and Severus knew with harsh, sobering clarity that Hermione would never do such a thing. Not because Severus was anything special; he was certainly no saint, but her willingness to see the best in everyone would simply not allow it.

The lost expression on her face when the Aurors took him haunted him. It wasn't anger, not even betrayal. He had made a dent in her heart that day, he knew. A fissure, cracking its way into the layer of trust that had been steadily growing between them. Ruin or be ruined. It didn't matter. It was his lot, it seemed, to destroy anything good that came his way.

The other Death Eaters were awake now. He could sense Rodolphus pacing on the other side of the corridor. Severus stirred upon hearing a sound close by, thinking for a split second of folly that it was Hermione before realising it was his imagination.

Proudfoot stood beyond the bars of his cell, a cracked, yellow bowl in her hand.

"Porridge," she announced coldly.

He got stiffly to his feet and crossed the narrow room. But when he reached out through the bars, Proudfoot snatched the bowl away. "You still don't quite look it," she said, eyeing him with disapproval. "Well dressed, well fed, groomed hair."

Severus chuckled quietly, leaning his hands on the bars. No one had accused him of that before. "I suppose that's true," he said, "in this company at least."

Proudfoot smirked. "It won't last." She placed the bowl in his hands and retreated a step, making Severus wonder if she were merely repulsed by him or afraid. The baton swung from a small loop of rope that went around her wrist. "I had that made especially for you."

She laughed to herself as she went to Rodolphus' cell and Severus brought the bowl back along with him to the bench. He was thirsty so he drank deeply from the water she gave him, not realising until it was too late that it tasted oddly. When he bit his teeth together, they crunched grit and sand. He couldn't see well in the dim light, but pulled a face as he traced a finger around the cup's rim and it came back stained. Mud.

He glanced at the gate. This was no mistake of course; the grime was there on purpose. A message from Proudfoot, perhaps to let him know she was muggle born. With a sigh, he sat back and put the cup away. If she had only known…

Maybe it hadn't been his smartest move to insist that Potter kept his memories out of the public eye all those years ago. It might have been easier for him in the years that followed if they had at least understood his motives. Now all they knew were his crimes and Potter's word of his loyalty to Dumbledore. But the thought of coming clean was unbearable, even today, and his reasons weren't easily explained. In any case, it was too late.

Expecting more of the same, he picked the bowl up from the floor cautiously and smelled it, his mind automatically rifling through an archive of ingredients that were potentially harmful. But the scent was familiar. Bland, yet inconspicuous porridge. He took a small spoonful and tasted it – there were no potions in it, as he had feared, but inside his mouth something crawled.

He was on his feet in an instant, instinctively spitting it out. In the sliver of light from the arrowslit, he could barely make them out. Worming white maggots.

Damn McFadgen for taking away his glasses.

"You like it?" Proudfoot asked from the gate. She was smiling. "I didn't think you'd actually eat it."

Severus handed the bowl back. "I need to send a message," he said, ignoring the way she was laughing at him. "To Granger. The war hero. I assume you know of her?"

"I know who Hermione Granger is," said Proudfoot slowly. She gave him a calculating look. "What in the world do you want with her?"

"I have an apology to make," he replied, finding that honesty might be what gave him the best chance at swaying this angry creature in front of him. "That's all. I did something I shouldn't have."

"That's rather the point now, isn't it?" Proudfoot frowned. "It's why you're here after all."

"No, not that." He shook his head a little. "This is something else. It's private."

"Nothing is private in here."

"This is for her." He sighed. "Not for me. She wouldn't want anyone to know."

"I see." Proudfoot looked around the hall for a moment. To Severus' surprise, she proceeded by leafing through her set of heavy keys and opening his cell. He felt rather than saw that Rodolphus watched their exchange with interest. Proudfoot closed the bars behind her, giving him a look that dared him to try something as she shackled one of his hands to the wall.

She needn't have bothered. Severus fought to keep the hope from blooming in his chest. He was so close now. Getting this message through was all he wanted. He could ask for nothing more. Then he would rest peacefully.

"You want to send a letter then, is that it?"

Proudfoot assessed him silently. The look in her eyes was somehow…playful. "So," she murmured, "how strongly do you desire this?"

He looked up at her. "Quite a bit," he said carefully, aware that it was showing.

"Ah," she said softly. "Power. What am I going to do with it?"

Severus shifted uneasily, making the chain around his hand rattle a bit. He didn't like the look on her face. "And you want what in exchange?" He tried to contain the suspicious scowl that threatened to break free. "A confession?"

"I already know that you're guilty," she dismissed him. "You have nothing I could possibly need. It seems I can do whatever I want."

Was she toying with him? Severus frowned, trying to gauge her intent. She did not like him much, that was clear, but he couldn't see a reason for her to hate him more than the other Death Eaters either. From across the corridor, Rodolphus was grinning at them.

"I see a problem," Proudfoot said. "You have no parchment."

Severus looked down at himself. With some difficulty, he managed to tear off a corner of his prison shirt one-handed. It was grey and dirty, but it would do if he wrote on the inside. "I have this."

Proudfoot's face was suddenly close to his, just a few inches away from skin contact. "Ah-ah," she said. "You don't control this." She caught his wrist in a punishing grip and pulled away. "I control this."

Before he could even flinch, her baton struck his hand once, swiftly. The pain exploded up his arm and he bent double from the shock, sure that at least one finger was fractured.

"Oops," she said. "How clumsy of you to move in my way. I hope you're not right-handed. Hold still." She picked the piece of cloth that he still clutched compulsively from his hand and dropped it to the floor.

"You still want to send you letter?" She smirked. "If you can manage to write one, I might even consider it."

He'd had worse done to him. Severus bit back a grunt and straightened. He held out his other hand, the chained one, palm up, and nodded at the quill in Proudfoot's breast pocket. "I do. May I borrow that?"

Proudfoot scowled. "If it's so important to you, you can beg for it."

"Oh, for Heaven's-" Severus strangled his words when a flash of rage passed through Proudfoot's eyes.

"I'll leave you like that," she threatened. "Ever been chained through the night before?"

He had. And he did not want a repeat performance.

"Please," he growled at her shoes. They were muddy with a steel tip. "Let me have my letter."

He saw it coming this time, but it was nothing he could do but brace himself. Her baton hit his chained hand, hard enough to make the iron cuff ring and it was impossible to hold back a groan.

To busy battling the pain, Severus barely heard Proudfoot whisper, "Oh, dear. Silly you. You moved again."

She wasn't being excessively cruel. Intellectually, Severus knew that well. He had been a minion of the Dark Lord after all, and he would have dealt out something far worse than a broken finger or two, just for having a less than stellar day. Such things could be mended by a simple episkey, a quick, painless few seconds of wand waving. But Proudfoot didn't seem inclined to help him with one and it took a little longer this time to compose himself.

"The quill?" he croaked, glancing up at Proudfoot while testing the failing dexterity of his unchained hand. He had paid the price now, hadn't he? And the reward would be worth it ten times over.

"Perhaps you've earned it." Proudfoot smiled and picked the quill from her pocket, allowing it to sail nonchalantly to the floor. It landed next to the piece of his shirt.

Seeming to take pity on him, Proudfoot released him from the chain. She locked the cell after her and Severus' heart pounded in his chest as he bent to pick up his hard-won treasures.

Hermione.

Had she forgotten about him? Did she no longer care? The question threatened to crush him beneath its weight. Even if he faced a lifetime in Azkaban, he would be a happy man if he could only talk to her. Just once, just long enough to explain himself. She deserved so much more, but at the very least, she deserved that.

But words on a dirty piece of fabric was all he had. With aching fingers, he tried his best to scratch his heart out onto the piece of shirt, but it was no use.

Somehow, the ink inside the quill had suddenly dried up.

Severus looked up to see if Proudfoot had been gleefully watching him in his misery, but she was gone. Across the corridor, Rodolphis was laughing.

The day dragged on and after it came another, just like the first. Severus lost track of time. Porridge came with uneven intervals. It was still disgusting. Yet at one point, he knew he would be eating it regardless.

Severus jolted awake, certain he had caught her scent. Apple blossom soap. Peppermint. He desperately turned his head into the phantom fragrance, only to scrub his cheek against the cold, unyielding stone of the wall inside his cell.

Where are you?

He stood, eyes still searching, but the trace of her was no longer there. The air tasted like salt and rotting fish and the westerly gale sent the raging sea crushing against the fortress and whipping through the arrowslit.

It must have been early morning. A storm raged outside, drowning out the sounds from his cellmates. Even Greyback's growls were muted today.

Severus tilted his head to listen to the set of footsteps that tapped along the corridor.

They weren't Proudfoot's; hers were both lighter and less stealthy. Yet they were not unfamiliar either. Severus had a strong sense of déjà vu; as though he had heard just these feet sneak around deserted corridors before.

And he had. He got to his feet. What was he doing here?

"Potter."

"Severus."

There was a soft tinkle of keys and the door to his cell creaked open. Potter closed the door behind him and inclined his head. They watched each other from afar for a moment and Severus felt decidedly on uneven ground. Potter's expression gave nothing away.

"I'm sorry it took so long," he said at last, "but this place is an impermeable fortress. The paperwork was hell."

"How long?" Severus' voice was gruff from disuse.

"Five days."

Severus nodded. Potter watched him curiously and he straightened, aware that those days had already done a number on him. He clasped his hands surreptitiously behind his back.

"So Severus," said Potter, once he had looked his fill, "what have you been up to? You've made me quite worried."

Severus was painfully aware of the tattered state of his dress and the lack of grooming. This block held only the cells of the Death Eaters and he was sure he looked just like one. "I'm here on false accusations," he said, managing to sound much more secure than he felt. "But you already know that, Potter…don't you?"

Potter frowned. "They tell me you're being obstinate and uncooperative," he said with a vague nod in the direction of the only exit. "The Ministry is busy construing some rather disturbing theories out there."

"That would be just like them."

"Well yes, but they obviously have a reason for keeping you here." Potter glanced around the cell curiously and moved to sit on the wrought-iron bench that was attached with chains to one wall. "Care to tell me about it?"

"I'm sure you've already read that in the case file." Severus scowled at him. "What more is there to add? I'm not in league with these - people." He nodded his head towards Rodolphus' cubicle across the hall.

"Are you occluding against me?" Potter craned his neck and leaned closer.

"Potter, get out of my head."

"I didn't – I can see it in your eyes." Potter heaved a sigh. "Severus, you have given me ample trouble already. My boss isn't exactly pleased to have you end up here on my watch. Please tell me what you've done."

"I am sorry about that." And he truly was. Potter didn't have to be here at all, Severus was well aware of the fact. And although he was famous for his generosity and sense of chivalry, there had to be a limit even to that. Severus was pushing it quite far this time and Potter didn't deserve any of this. But it was too late to do anything about it now.

Potter growled, exasperated. "I want to hear it from you," he said. "Hermione told me you were making a potion." He glared at Severus through his glasses. "I want the truth now. I would feel much betrayed if you were to lie."

"I haven't lied." He had, but not to Potter. Yet. Although those Auror sensibilities might see it differently.

"Well then, did you?"

Potter was getting angry now. His eyes were narrow and his body tense. And unlike his teenage self, Potter-the-adult was powerful in it. Somewhere along the way he had picked up the authority that went along with well-earned respect and grown means to back it up. Fuck his insistence. And even more his righteousness.

Severus knew it was time to give a little. "Yes," he murmured, looking away and feeling like he was committing his grandest mistake yet in this disastrous affair.

Potter leaned closer. "Come again?"

"Yes I did," he repeated, a little clearer. "I made a potion, but it isn't what you think it is."

"Oh, bloody-" Potter shook his head. "You're impossible," he growled. Then he heaved a deep sigh and stood. "Severus that shit, it's illegal. What on Earth were you even thinking?"

"Damn you, don't you think I know it?" Severus ran a hand across his face, wincing when the pain in his fingers flared. He hid them behind his back again before Potter could notice.

"But that ban. Potter, it is ludicrous. It isn't the brewing of a substance that makes it dangerous, it is the use of it."

"Then what were you using it for?" Potter stepped closer and lowered his voice. "Tell it to me plainly. I think you owe me that."

Perhaps he did. To Severus' astonishment, there was a flash of concern behind Potter's anger and it caught him off guard. Potter wasn't being unreasonable about it either, he seemed to just want the facts.

"Why do you resist me so much?" Potter paced the room once, examining the narrow space distractedly. "Severus, I'm trying to help you."

Severus couldn't hold back. "Why?" he blurted. "Why would you help me?"

Potter stopped to peer at him and blinked. "Why wouldn't I?" he asked, seeming genuinely befuddled. "I don't toss my friends away."

Friends? Severus frowned. The word was foreign to his mind. He was aware of having a…connection with Potter. They were acquaintances, of sorts. And over time he had learned to grow a grudging, hesitant respect of him. But he had never thought that it extended further on Potter's part than pleasantries in times of peace. Never once had he believed that Potter might go against an employer for him, much less the Ministry of Magic.

"You're an Auror."

Potter mirrored his expression. "You don't trust us much, do you?"

"No…" Severus watched Potter make another round through the room, not quite able to shake what he had said. Did he have friends after all? Was he just too daft or inexperienced to recognise them?

"No, not particularly."

"But you trust Hermione?"

Hermione. The name was like a punch to his gut. Severus grasped Potter's arm, ignoring the shot of pain up his own and making Potter jump in surprise.

He was being a little rough perhaps. Within a heartbeat, Potter had him at wand point and held his shirt with bruising strength. But Severus ignored that too. The thought of Hermione thinking him guilty had plagued him endlessly. He didn't dare hope for her forgiveness after all this time, but Potter would be his last chance to explain himself. If he couldn't get through now, he never would.

"I need to see her," he said urgently. "Please. Potter, she thinks I-" He couldn't quite make himself say it. "Would you- is there any chance that you could relay to her a message?"

Potter slowly lowered his wand. His eyes were round and startled. "I can do better than that," he said faintly, "if you only tell me what you've done."

Severus released him immediately. "I haven't made Angel's Trumpet Draught," he said. "I've made a potion for my own use. That is all."

Potter nodded. "Nagini's poison," he said. "It's making you ill, isn't it?"

"You knew?" Severus recoiled.

"I wanted to hear it from you." Potter shrugged. "But yes. I've already spoken to Hermione. That was her theory."

Severus swallowed. She was brilliant –in every way– too brilliant for the likes of him.

"So you do trust her then," said Potter. He released Severus' shirt and a corner of his mouth twitched knowingly.

"Of course I do." Severus turned his face half away, subtly rubbing the spot where Potter's wand had been digging in just below his breastbone.

Potter watched him. "Enough to rely on her to do everything within her power to get you out of here?"

Severus went quiet. Because the question still remained: could she forgive him? He certainly had his doubts. Not because of the potion, but because of his attack on Edward Lupin. For someone with her history, that had to be the single most wretched thing he could have done and he couldn't blame her one bit if she chose to cast him aside for it. And who was he anyway to tell her not to move on? He was no match for her in any case, for reasons he couldn't list in a reasonable amount of time. Heavens knew she could do better.

Every time she looked at him, it stole his breath. She was stunning, didn't have a cruel bone in her body. She drew his melancholy and emptiness away just by her smile, her very presence. Just from thinking of her, he felt lighter. She was everything he could ever have hoped for and more. He found himself questioning once again what it was that endeared him to her, but came out with a complete blank. How could she show such kindness, seek comfort, from him, of all people? It was unimaginable.

And that one kiss… He could live quite happily if that was all he got. It was more than enough for the likes of him and more than he had any right to expect.

"That right there is your problem," said Potter. He brought out a chain of keys and moved towards the door. "You don't really trust anyone."