Hermione gazed at the sea, eyes tracing the waves as they surged forwards and peeled back from the cliffside. With each pass, only sand stared up at her. Foam sprayed and hissed. She rocked back, sitting on her heels, her fingers pressed into the scraggly grass. Somewhere in the stretch of blue sky, seagulls cawed and soared, swooping low over the ocean.

Footsteps approached, but she ignored them, even when a robed figure crouched beside her. A voice began murmuring low in her ear—a vaguely familiar voice, but not the one she wanted to hear. He asked her what happened, was she hurt, could she speak, could she stand. But a numbness had already set into her body, stuffing her ears like cotton wool, turning her limbs and lips to lead. There was only the sea, spread out like an oil painting she could not take her eyes off of. She was supposed to be looking for someone. She was supposed to be sad, sobbing, grieving. Hermione forced up one arm, lifting her hand to her cheek.

When she drew it back, her fingertips came away wet.

The sight of her glistening skin was like a jolt of magic to her mind, wrenching her away from the sea's hypnosis. Hermione twisted sideways, finding the grim face of the auror Proudfoot observing her. Hermione's lips parted to speak, but her mouth was so dry, she had to force herself to swallow first. "What happened?" she finally managed to choke out. When he rose to his feet, face lined with concern and a hand outstretched, she whipped around.

At least six aurors had swarmed the cliffside, their pinstripe robes billowing in the wind as they circled around something. No, not something—someone. Sirius. Two unfamiliar men had Sirius between them, gripping hard to his arms, which seemed to have been pinned magically behind his back. Panic shot through her as one of the others strode to the side, revealing Harry and Ron, visibly shouting at each other, though their voices had been silenced. Wands had already been drawn, but with another surge of alarm, she realized that all but one—Harry's—were pointed at Sirius.

Hermione scrambled to her feet, ready to run and help him. She made it one step before a hand closed over her upper arm, hauling her back.

"Miss Granger, you'd best not interfere," Proudfoot said sternly, pulling her around to face him.

Hermione gaped at him, suddenly confused by his presence. Like her brain held the answer to what was going on, and why Proudfoot of all people was here, but it was trapped behind an impenetrable fog. She remembered flying to this cliffside, destroying the door. And then…and then…"What's going on?" she whispered hoarsely, clutching a hand to her throat. She tried again to look at what was going on behind her, but Proudfoot held her fast.

The auror's bushy, auburn brows furrowed. "I was hoping you could tell me that, Miss Granger. Because from my perspective, two fugitives, yourself and Mr. Malfoy, and a wizard impersonating Sirius Black were just caught on the site which held catastrophic dark magic—magic we at the Ministry have been tracking for months."

Wind howled in her ears. "Mr. Malfoy," she echoed back.

Lucius .

The memories flitted through her mind like a film reel. Flying to this cliffside. Destroying the door. Then him , Lucius, saying goodbye. Saying he loved her. Turning. Hair fluttering back like a silver banner. Lucius stepping off the edge, into the dark.

Lucius, gone. Dead.

"Oh God, Lucius ." Hermione's knees buckled. Only the hand locked onto her arm kept her upright. The wind swirled harder, licking hair across her wet cheeks, obscuring the auror from view. He was talking again, louder, trying to get her attention.

A hand shot out, gripping her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Miss Granger!" Proudfoot snapped, his patience apparently gone. "Your wand."

"My wand?"

He pushed her a few steps back, then held out his hand, palm up. "I need your wand, Miss Granger."

Numbly, she drew it out of her back pocket, not even remembering when she'd stuffed it there. "What for?" Proudfoot let out a long sigh as he tucked her wand into his robe's pocket. Then, to her surprise, he drew out another—lighter in color and longer than her own. "Wh-what's going on? Why do you need my wand?" She tried to jerk away, but a flick of the auror's wand had her boots stuck to the ground. Hermione fought against the magic, trying to wrench her feet free, but the spell held fast.

"Miss Granger, if you'll just calm down…"

Hermione twisted violently, finally managing to flip her hair out of the way to see behind her.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! The aurors were disapparating. Harry and Ron were already gone. She scanned for Sirius—her wide eyes landed on him, caught between two wizards.

"Sirius!" Hermione screamed. A flicker of recognition swept over his face. His mouth opened to shout back.

CRACK! CRACK! The aurors holding him turned on the spot, and all three vanished into thin air.

Hermione's head spun back towards Proudfoot. "What in Merlin's name are you doing? Sirius didn't do anything!" she spat venomously.

The auror stalked towards her, wand raised. "Miss Granger, I must remind you to calm yourself, or things will get much uglier than any of us would like." He tried to reach for her, but Hermione threw her weight sideways—a mistake, she realized, as her body followed the motion, crashing painfully into the ground as her feet remained locked in place. Hermione yelped as first a bout of pain laced through her hip, then as ropes flew out, snapping her wrists together and yanking her arms behind her back.

"Proudfoot, stop this! We didn't—"

"Hermione Granger, you are under arrest for crimes against British and French wizarding society." His words stilled her thrashing, and Hermione managed to roll onto her back, spine twisted, chest heaving as she stared up at the wizard looming before her.

"Proudfoot, please," she whimpered, trying to catch his eye.

"You will be taken to the Ministry to await trial—"

"Please, what about Sirius?"

"I suggest you keep your mouth shut until your lawyer arrives," the auror said tersely. He reached down, grabbed hold of her upper arm, and hoisted her awkwardly restrained body to its feet.

Lawyer? And oh, Sirius! God, she had to help him—had to get to him. If they thought he wasn't actually Sirius Black, they'd perform all kinds of painful tests on him. If they do find out he's the real Sirius, they'll find out about the ritual. She really would be sentenced. Her future finally thrown away. She had known it would happen, of course, but now that the prophecy had culminated, and the final blows were beginning to fall…now that Lucius was dead…it was too much to even process, let alone think logically through.

Before she could collect her thoughts, or figure out how to explain to Proudfoot what he and the other aurors had just witnessed, there was a sudden hook of magic through her navel, ripping her feet off the ground and flinging her into the dark.

Seven days. At least, she thought it was seven. It was hard to keep track, with no light but the single bulb fixed to the concrete ceiling. The meals helped little to mark the time passing, as they served her the same bread, water, and stew twice a day with no distribution, no interruption to her silence except for the faint pop of magic when the tray appeared in the corner, then another pop when it disappeared, whether she'd eaten or not. Most days, at least one of the trays was left empty. Her appetite had abandoned her. Or maybe she'd abandoned it.

No one came for her. No one answered her pleas. She couldn't even hear others in the cell block, though upon arriving she had briefly glimpsed a few faces peering out through the rounded door windows. None were Sirius's, though. Her own porthole-like window faced only into more darkness—charmed that way, she was sure, to prevent her from keeping track of who came and went down the Ministry's holding cell halls.

After they had apparated away from the cliffside, Hermione's hands had remained bound, her eyes blinded as she was escorted through the cushy ash of a floo fireplace to what she assumed to be the British Ministry. The echoing of footsteps on marble was enough of a clue. Once thrust inside the cell, her bindings and blindfold had lifted, though it wasn't much better without them. The cell was of utilitarian design—a small cot, a wash basin, and a self-cleaning toilet and toilet roll. The walls were devoid of any fixtures or grooves, the floor smooth and unblemished. If anyone had survived long in these cells before her, they had left no sign behind.

At first, she had thrown whatever energy she had left to calling for help. For her lawyer, which Proudfoot mentioned but seemed to have forgotten. But no one answered, and no one came. On the third day, she poured her strength into escaping, but the cell had rendered her magic-less, and she found no means of digging, clawing, or picking her way free. On the fourth day, Hermione had resigned herself to logic-through the possibilities of her detainment and future trial. It had kept her occupied ever since. Only sleep dragged her mind away from its incessant buzzing, replacing her thoughts with nightmares, and the memories that were just as painful.

The length of her detainment confused her the most. Arrested wizards and witches ordinarily spent only a day or two in holding before their trial could be arranged. And their lawyer would arrive before that, though it was a much shorter process than in the Muggle world. But here she was, a week in with no sign of getting out. She could only assume that there had been complications, either with Sirius, the aurors building their case, or perhaps even the press. It wasn't unheard of for more famous defendants to stew up a media frenzy in the days before their trial, thus delaying the legal process. When the Death Eaters had been put to the stand last summer, the public had been enraged—some fighting for the release of those with lesser crimes, others set on ending each and every trial with a death sentence. The Ministry had been so flooded with those seeking entrance to the courts that the entire building had been shut down until order had been reinstated.

Hermione sank back onto her stiff cot, though her weary muscles refused to ease their tension. It made sense if the press was delaying her sentencing—her story was supposedly one of dark magic and darker romance. Her name had already been dragged through the press by Skeeter's most recent article, which had named her a victim to Big Bad Lucius Malfoy and his nefarious plots. To the papers and public, Hermione was no more than a weak young witch, foolish and love-sick enough to follow Lucius Malfoy to the ends of the Earth. The corner of her mouth twitched. At least that part's somewhat true.

Though the idea that her case had been reduced to a bodice-ripper romance novel, it was more likely that her act of necromancy and the Retinacula ritual was causing the delays. If the public found out that she'd brought a dead man back to life, there would be outrage. A demand that the details be released so others could do as she did. On the flip side, there were surely those proclaiming her a wielder of dark magic. She had used a highly illegal ritual on Ministry property without a care in the world…who was to say what else Hermione Granger might do?

She could see the headline now— HERMIONE GRANGER ACCUSED OF NECROMANCY AND DARK MAGIC. VICTIM, OR THE NEXT DARK LORD?

Hermione had long since decided that she would plead guilty to her crimes. She had done the ritual knowing it was dark magic, knowing it was necromancy, even if she hadn't been aware of the exact illegality at the time. She had kidnapped and experimented on a Hogwarts ghost. She had, for reasons she still didn't understand, worsened the strength of the door in France, killing all those poor people. She had stolen documents from an auror's office, let a wizard on parole free from his designated boundaries. She had brought Lucius Malfoy to his death. And to her, that was the worst crime of them all. It was her reason for pleading guilty. Her one chance at expunging, even just a tiny amount, of the grief and guilt she felt over his death. Fate had killed Lucius, in the end, but Hermione had led him there.

Hermione rolled onto her side. She drew her knees to her chest and stared blankly at the wall. Her hand stretched out, then with her finger, she traced the Retinacula rune into the rough surface. Over and over she drew it, until her hand was numb, and a fresh tray of food popped into the room.

"Lucius, I'm sorry," Hermione whispered into the quiet, her fingertip stilling against the concrete. She remembered Lucius carving it into arm so vividly, she could smell the sharp, metallic scent of his blood seeping from his rune. Could see the blood trickling down to his Dark Mark, his pale skin broken and red—it had remained that way for so long, when she had refused to fully heal the wound afterwards.

A sudden screeching of hinges snapped her attention away, and Hermione bolted into an upright position. The door to her cell slowly groaned open. Light spilled in, so startlingly bright she had to shield her eyes. Through her fingertips, she saw a man's silhouette, and a startled cry escaped her throat. Hermione knew that hair anywhere, but still, even with her eyes drinking in the dark outline of his curls, she remained in the cot, too afraid that it was just another nightmare, that Sirius would be ripped away from her too.

"Hermione?"

Sirius's voice broke her—she didn't care if it was her mind playing tricks, or the aurors trying to break her down. Hermione flew to him, knocking the wizard off balance as she sank into his chest. "Sirius!" she sobbed, as his arms circled around her thin frame, and they both sank into the floor.

"It's all right, you're all right," Sirius murmured, tucking her head under his chin as he pulled her halfway into his lap. "I've got you, kitten."

Merlin, he was so warm and real, and just the sound of another person's breathing was enough to shatter her resolve. Her sobs broke free from her chest, tears staining what felt like his leather jacket, so lovely and familiar, it brought on a fresh wave of crying. Hermione clung to Sirius as he whispered reassurances, telling her she was safe, that he had her now, that he was sorry he couldn't come sooner. And after what felt like an hour, and her cheeks were sticky with salt and snot, Hermione forced herself to pull slightly back and meet his eyes through the dimness. Without thinking, Hermione pressed her lips into his—only for a second, before lurching back. "I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, a strange mix of guilt and grief and warmth flooding through her. "I should have asked," Hermione said, even if she wasn't sure those were the right words. "I just…and you…"

Sirius chuckled and smoothed his hand over her hair. He cupped her cheek, thumb dragging across her skin to wipe away a track of tears. He drew her face forward, kissing her briefly before pulling back with a soft smile. It wasn't passionate or heated like most of their kisses, but it was sweet, and reassuring, and she longed for him to kiss her again. "I missed you too."

His words were like a knife, cracking her chest open. She did miss him. She hadn't realized how much, until he was here and pressed up against her. Hermione wiggled her arms free, looping them around his neck and burying her face into his shoulder. "Sirius, what's happening? I've been locked in here for seven days. Or at least, I think it's been that long."

Sirius's fingers glided down her spine; the gesture of comfort melted her deeper into his embrace, and she felt his other arm come up to circle her waist, keeping her upright. "Everything will be explained, love, but we don't have much time. The guards will be here soon to collect me, then to take you."

"I'm to be taken somewhere without you?"

"I'm sorry, kitten. I…well, it was the best Harry and I could manage for you. There's been public outcry about keeping you in these cells like a bloody prisoner," he said darkly, palm flattening against the small of her back. "But with your trial not for a few more days, you can't be released from custody yet."

As his meaning clicked, Hermione stiffened. She felt him sigh, felt one hand cup the back of her neck as she drew away to meet his eyes again. "They're setting you free?"

"The Ministry finally agreed that I'm not some Inferius. Only after six days of questioning, and Harry nearly rage-quitting his job, the bastards," Sirius said bitterly. "I'll be returning to Grimmauld once I'm through exit-processing."

Hermione ran her tongue over her teeth. She was happy he was being set free, of course, but the idea of standing trial alone, even if she was guilty…it terrified her. "You said I'm to be taken somewhere…"

The rest of her sentence stuck in her throat, but as if sensing her fear, Sirius reassured quickly, "I'm not completely sure, but I know it's not Azkaban."

Hermione blew out a breath. Not-Azkaban was something she could work with. Though the prison no longer kept Dementors, she had no desire to ever step foot in that cursed place. Likely, they were just taking her to some other official facility, perhaps where she could meet more comfortably with whatever court-appointed lawyer they had assigned. Merlin knew she couldn't afford to pay for her own, and it wasn't likely that Sirius had access to his vaults yet—if he ever did again, after marrying her and losing his last name. Lucius had explained that in giving up his name, Sirius would also lose his family's wealth.

Lucius . The memory of him handing her that letter to Draco—of her promising to deliver it—had her freezing in Sirius's arms.

"What's wrong?"

"Sirius, I—I need my bag." She scanned the room and Sirius, despite knowing the beaded bag she'd tucked the letter into was likely nowhere in sight. "I promised to deliver a letter to Draco from Lucius," she whispered, the other man's name barely leaving her lips.

Sirius's jaw stiffened, but he gave no other indication of his feelings towards the dead wizard. "I'll find it, kitten. Don't worry. I'll find it, then you'll deliver it yourself."

"But Sirius, if I'm to be tried and convicted—"

"I will deliver it for you," Sirius said firmly, holding tighter to the nape of her neck. His other hand came up, and as Hermione shifted off his lap, he cradled the side of her face. "I was there that day. I heard some of the conversation you and he shared before...before the end. And I…I know you loved him. But Merlin help me, I love you, Hermione. I do. I love you."

Her eyes welled up. Hermione covered his hand with her own. "Sirius…"

"I love you." His words hung in the silence, punctuated only by her quickening breathing, his deep breaths. Sirius's thumb brushed the corner of her lips. "I love you, and I'm going to do whatever I can for you now. Including delivering Malfoy's letter, if that's what you need."

"I…" She wanted to say she loved him too, but how could she, when the other man she loved was now dead?

"You don't have to say anything," Sirius said gently.

Hermione nodded at his understanding. Tears blinded her vision as she surged forward, lips crashing into his in a desperate, wet kiss. "I can't lose you too," she whimpered, vaguely aware of the footsteps growing louder outside the door.

"Then you have to fight this trial. Whatever it takes, do you hear me?" Sirius took Hermione's hands, helping her to her feet. "And no matter, you have me, kitten," Sirius told her, kissing her once more. He pulled away and squeezed her fingers before letting those go too. "Whatever happens, Hermione. You still have me."

Guards appeared in the doorway, taking Sirius between them. Hermione watched as he slipped away, as the door creaked closed, and she was again thrust into the near darkness. When her last tears had dried, Hermione moved back to her cot and sat with her head in her hands. She thought about that word that had dripped so softly from Sirius's lips.

Love.

It really was a terrible word. One that was supposed to bring joy, but so far had only brought pain. Would loving Sirius end any differently than loving Lucius?

She mused on that for minutes. Or maybe it was hours. Time had lost all meaning in this cell. Only when the door opened again, and two new guards appeared, did she pick up her head.

"Miss Granger?"

"Yes?"

"Follow us, please."

She went without any questioning, knowing it was just as useless as time in this dreadful place. Hermione followed the two wizards down the concrete hallway, up a set of stairs, down another hall, and into an empty office of sorts, quite similar to her own department's. A few closed doors lined the beige walls, but it was a window that caught her eye. Through the frosted glass, she could make out the back of a woman's head, and the crooked witch's had teetering above a knot of tightly-combed grey hair.

One of the guards stepped forward, knocking once on the door to the left of the window before pulling it open. "She's here, Headmistress. Once you're ready, please go back into the hallway and follow the signs for the transferal processing."

Hermione stood there, eyes wide and lips parted stupidly, as her old professor-turned-headmistress glided out from the room behind the guard. As the wizards departed, McGonagall stepped slowly forward, hands clasped at the waist of her emerald robes, spectacles slid halfway down her nose. She appraised Hermione with an air of inspection Hermione knew all too well from her school days of mischief with Ron and Harry.

"My dear, what has happened to your hand?" McGonagall said, her voice cutting through the quiet.

Hermione's shoulders fell down from where they'd been fixed near her ears; the witch's familiar, stern yet warm voice was immediately comforting, even if her presence was confusing. For a moment, Hermione only gazed quizzically back at the headmistress, before bothering to drop her eyes to her hand. To her surprise, the skin of her pointer finger had been rubbed nearly off, the shredded remains coated with dried blood. "Shite," Hermione muttered, flexing her fingers. She had been tracing that Retinacula rune into the wall for days, and apparently drawing it with more than just her guilt. Head snapping up, Hermione closed her hand into a fist and gave her old professor an apologetic look for her language. "Sorry."

McGonagall clucked her tongue, a small smirk twitching on her lips. "Oh no, Granger, shite is the only word I can imagine being applicable to your circumstances." The headmistress marched forward until she was standing just steps away. With a hawk-like eye, Minerva took a moment to study Hermione before settling a hand on her shoulder. "But just because we are in deep shite , doesn't mean we can't claw our way out."

"We?"

This time, a smirk slid fully over the witch's face. "We, Miss Granger, have a case to win. I've agreed to come on as your lawyer."

"My lawyer? What about the school, your classes…do you even have experience in the law? Sorry," she added, when McGonagall raised a hand to stop her.

"My business at the school is dealt with. And you should know I did have a life before teaching at Hogwarts, including acting as a barrister."

Though the explanation somewhat eased her, Hermione shook her head as she fumbled for her reply. "It's just…there is more to this case than I think you know, Headmistress, and I…I don't want you to waste time on me knowing I'll be found guilty." Hermione could not find it in her to admit she planned on pleading guilty.

McGonagall gave Hermione's shoulder a small pat before drawing her hand back into its clasped position. "This isn't the Hermione Granger I know," she said, not unkindly, her bespectacled gaze sweeping over Hermione once more.

"I'm not that girl anymore."

The headmistress caught her eye again, and though Hermione longed to wrench away from her old professor's piercing stare, the witch's air of commanding composure made it impossible to look anywhere else. "No, I suppose you're not," McGonagall began slowly. "I read your file containing what the Ministry has been able to glean from Black and Potter. And do you know what I see?" When Hermione didn't answer, the headmistress strode closer, forcing Hermione to lift her chin to keep the witch's gaze. "I see a young woman who has spent months refusing to ask for or accept help when she needed it the most. When she was in my school on Valentine's day, and was confronted by a prophecy. And I don't fault you on that, Granger. I know your situation with Malfoy, and later with Black, was delicate. That you were reluctant to even let Potter help, at the very end. But you don't have to go through this trial alone. You needn't suffer through the grief alone either."

She knows, then , Hermione realized, blinking furiously to keep the tears at bay. She knows what I did to Lucius. Hermione fixated on a doorknob on the far wall, like if she just kept her eyes glued to it, all her tears and roiling feelings would stay trapped inside her. "If you read my file, then you know I will most likely lose the trial. Why would you want to help me?"

McGonagall sighed. "Because Merlin knows you have been through enough, child. And much of that suffering occurred while under the school's…under my care. And despite it all, a bright, astonishingly powerful witch stepped out the other side." The headmistress settled her hand over Hermione's wrist, drawing her gaze back. McGonagall's eyes glistened as she spoke, more gently than Hermione had ever heard her. "I will not let you throw away what future you have left, Hermione. Even if you seem insistent on throwing it out yourself. Now," she said, clearing her throat and straightening to her full, imposing height. "I do still have classes to teach, if we can put aside this 'losing the trial' nonsense long enough to get out of this place?"

Hermione bit her lip. She didn't want to waste the witch's time saving a future that prophecy and Fate had already thrown out. But what choice did she have? Who was she to argue when McGonagall was so sure she could help? After releasing a trembling breath, Hermione nodded, just once. "Okay," she agreed softly. "I'll come with you." It wasn't a promise to follow through on any legal advice or plan, but perhaps some good would come of it. At the very least, she would be back at the only home she had left. Even if it was just for a few days, before she was sent to Azkaban.

"Excellent." The headmistress turned smartly on her heel and flicked her hand at the door, flinging it wordlessly open. "Now do try to keep up. I can't be bothered to have us flagged down for a chat with some dreadful bureaucrat," she said, striding briskly from the room.