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Unlike her previous visits, this time the Atrium was full of people.
It was a dizzying sight. There was an extraordinary variety of color and garb, many elaborately-styled beards, and some of the most absurd hats she'd ever seen. A true convention of wizards, in all their eccentricities.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Please be prepared to present your wands and papers for inspection. The line begins here!" the harassed-looking watchwizard shouted over the din of conversation. A group of neatly-uniformed house elves stepped forward, repeating his message in a dozen different languages.
Behind the watch-wizard's desk stood a group of Ministry officials, warily scanning the crowd. Hermione spotted Tonks among them, and guessed that they were Aurors assigned to prevent security-breaches tonight.
Breaches like the one she was currently plotting.
Herded by the house elves, the wizards and witches slowly began to form a queue. Hermione watched them anxiously, wondering how she would possibly make it past the checkpoint without being noticed.
Pretending to be a foreign dignitary was out of the question. This plan was supposed to have involved Polyjuice, but it was now impossible to get one of the candidates alone.
She skirted the edges of the crowd, invisible, looking for an easy target or an unguarded entry point. There were none.
Just then, she heard it: the unmistakable, self-important drone of Percy Weasley. He was standing in the corner with a clipboard, bestowing his wisdom upon a small crowd of bureaucrats.
"As I was saying to the Minister, this summit is the biggest step forward in international cooperation of the last century, at least! Arranging the proper paperwork with the Wizengamot was certainly a trial, but fortunately I had the foresight to start months ago-"
This pronouncement was met with a chorus of "Certainly!"s and "Absolutely!"s. Percy's audience seemed to be a group of young Ministry hopefuls, apparently starstruck by his fancy new title (written for all to see on a gilded name-tag pinned to his chest).
So this is what you walked out on your family for, Hermione thought with a twinge of disgust.
After regaling his listeners with a few painfully dull anecdotes about the Minister, Percy excused himself. As he walked away, Hermione raised her wand under the cloak.
"Confundo," she breathed. For a long moment, he stood as though frozen in time. Then, slowly, his eyes began to glaze over.
"Come with me Percy," she whispered, taking firm grasp of his forearm and leading him away from the main hall.
"Hermione?" the redhead demanded in confusion. "What are you doing here? Where are we going?" His voice had a vague, unfocused quality.
"To your office, of course. You forgot some very important paperwork," she improvised.
Genuine horror crossed Percy's face. "NO! Not the press releases! The Minister will kill me-"
"Be quiet!" she whispered furiously, concerned that Percy, who seemed to be talking to himself, was drawing attention.
She dragged him all the way to the eighth floor men's toilets, convinced him to enter one of the cubicles, and Stunned him. Next, she plucked a few strands of hair and dropped them into her Polyjuice vial, and put on his gray work robes. In the pockets, she found a few galleons, an expensive pheasant quill, some type of guest roster, and a vial labeled "Sleekeazy's Hypogryff-Strength Hair-Gro Formula."
Less than a minute later, Percy's pale, freckled face stared back at her in the mirror. Impersonating someone else though Polyjuice always gave Hermione an uneasy feeling, as though her limbs were too loose and didn't really belong to her body. Running her clammy palms over her new features, she realized that, in a certain light, Percy looked like Ron. The thought unsettled her.
Before she left, she charmed a sign to appear on the door of the cubicle where Percy's unconscious body was hidden. "Out of Order," it read.
Hermione made her way back to the crowd and tried to look as inconspicuous as possible. All around her, the attendees were chatting in small groups, and she wondered whether she should try to strike up a conversation or just stay quiet. Just then, someone grabbed her shoulder.
"Weasley! There you are! Come along, come along." It was Fudge.
He pulled her right into the thicket and turned on her. "Alright. Tell me," the pudgy wizard demanded.
"Oh, ummm..."
"The names, boy, the names! How am I supposed to remember what to call all of these wretched blighters if you don't tell me?"
Panic seized Hermione as she realized that she - or rather, Percy - was expected to know all of these people. While scrambling for the roster in her robes, she frantically scanned the crowd for a familiar face… until her eyes settled on a pale wizard whose photo she's seen a couple of months ago. It was Fleur Delacour's father; Mrs. Weasley had pointed out his photo in the Prophet and had made some snide comment about the French.
Steering the Minister in the man's direction, Hermione whispered: "That's Auguste Delacour, French Auror. He's got two daughters, both went to Beauxbatons..."
Approaching the stern-looking wizard, Fudge grabbed his hand in a too-enthusiastic grip. "Auguste, my dear chap! Such a pleasure, give my regards to your lovely daughters, will you?" he gushed.
This exchange gave Hermione a moment to pull out the guest list and tack it onto Percy's clipboard. Fortunately for her, the Junior Assistant had filled the margins with notations: what each was wearing, their various titles and accomplishments, and other miscellaneous facts.
The next wizard they approached wore a beautifully-embroidered robe and a braided beard that would have put Dumbledore to shame.
"Atul Gupta, Indian Ministry of International Affairs. Recently divorced," Hermione whispered.
"Gupta, old boy! Women, eh? Can't live with 'em, can't afford the alimony! Ha ha!" Fudge barked.
Hermione pointed out a stately-looking witch dressed entirely in black, except for a pair of golden pince-nez perched precariously on her long nose. "Fernanda Diaz, Mexican Trade Commission. Sister passed last year."
The Minister's face took on a comically mournful expression.
Gravely, he bent to kiss the witch's hand. "My dear lady, so sorry to hear about your tragic loss."
On it went, until they'd made the rounds of a at least three dozen guests, and Hermione became increasingly concerned that her potion was quickly running its course.
"Excuse me Minister, I need to use the facilities," she told him.
Distractedly, Fudge nodded his assent. Then, remembering something, he shot his assistant a meaningful look. "Weasley... did you get it?"
"Sir?" Hermione asked, confused.
"IT... my special potion?"
Ohhhh, Hermione realized, staring at the Minister's balding head, now partially hidden by his lime-green bowler hat. And now we know who the Hypogryff-Strength Hair-Gro is for.
"Of yes, of course, Minister," she replied, fighting hard to keep the amusement from her voice.
Making her way to a secluded corner, Hermione surreptitiously took out the polyjuice bottle. She sipped as she pretended to study the pamphlets laid out on one of the side tables: Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to British Wizarding Customs, Spattergroit: Read the Early Warning Signs!, and The Quibbler's Top Ten Places to Spot a Crumple-Horned Snorkack.
"Percy!" called a familiar voice.
Turning around, Hermione saw that it was Tonks, looking very much unlike her usual self with her tied-back black hair and Ministry robes. Had it really been months since they'd spoken last? Unfortunately, she was still lovely.
"Hello, Auror Tonks," she said stiffly, unsure whether Percy and the witch were on good terms.
"Just Tonks is fine," the witch snapped, eyes roving over her with disapproval. "Where is your Pendant?"
"I … don't have one." At least, she was reasonably sure she didn't.
"Yes, I can see that." Digging through her bag, Tonks pulled out a large silver medallion on a thick sash. It was stamped with the Ministry seal and seemed to glow faintly. "Here. Put this on. We don't want a Dementor to corner you for a snog, hmm?"
The Auror passed over the Pendant, and with one last contemptuous look, turned on her heel and walked off. Hermione barely caught the witch's parting words.
"Well, some of us might."
Occasionally, Hermione had imagined what another meeting with Tonks would be like. Would she be able to disguise her crushing disappointment? Carry on as though nothing had ever happened - and really, nothing had - giggling over some new gossip, lending a sympathetic ear as the Auror recounted her turbulent relationship with Remus Lupin? It hardly mattered now.
She put the medal on. It shimmered faintly against the drab wool of her robes, and released a cool wave of energy, as though she'd been wrapped up in a passing breeze. It was an odd sensation, not altogether unlike the oozing magic of the Disillusionment charm. But instead of invisibility, she was overtaken by a feeling of extreme tranquility, as though her emotions had receded into a deep mist where she could see them floating lazily by, but couldn't reach out and grasp ahold of them.
The watch wizard, voice hoarse with barely-controlled irritation, was shouting for everyone to gather around for their Portkey assignments. After presenting her wand for identification, Hermione was informed that she would be travelling with Boot Group, which, given the Ministry's characteristic humorlessness, turned out to be a pack of wizards gathered around an old leather gardening boot gradually losing grips on its sole.
As the most senior Ministry official in Boot Group, Hermione was responsible for re-checking everyone's paperwork and informing them of the code of conduct expected of Azkaban visitors… all of which she did with gleeful officiousness, in an effort to stay in character. She could tell that her charges already despised her, which was all the better since she'd soon have to foist them on one of Percy's unfortunate colleagues.
When they fell out the old boot's vortex, the cold, hard ground climbed up to meet them. The biting smell of the sea was overwhelming, and when Hermione rose she could see that they had landed upon a desolate coast, barren except for a rare stunted shrub. The wind seemed to blow right through her cloak, freezing her down to the core and leaving its salty traces on her hands and face.
Around them, groups of wizards and witches were tumbling out of the sky, picking themselves up and making their way to the pier in the distance. As she neared the water, she noticed that dozens of small wooden boats were docked, waiting for them, buoyed precariously by the moonlit waves.
All along the quay, they lined up, two groups to a boat, waiting. The white mist lay low and heavy, and the ashen faces of her fellow-travelers seemed to float in it, not quite corporeal. Hermione couldn't help but imagine that these were all lost souls, waiting patiently for the ferryman to take them to Hell.
"Well if it isn't Weasley," a familiar voice jarred her from these thoughts. "Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic himself!" He said it as if Percy's official title was Glorified Errand Boy and Arse-Wiper.
"Mr. Yaxley."
"Looks like we'll be shipmates tonight," the wizard observed. "You've got the left boot, and I've got the right, see?" He was holding out the twin to her own pitiful Portkey.
Not knowing what else to do, Hermione took the boot from him and stared at the pair in irritation. "So it seems," she huffed.
They boarded. Everyone kept silent as the little launch took off across the water, guided along its unseen route by magic. The black tumultuous sea spread out in every direction, and, while it merely rocked them now, it could have easily swallowed them up. Hermione watched its rhythmic chaos, and tried to let it lull her.
"You know, I've heard that a bloke falls into these waters, he'll freeze to death before he's even got time to scream," Yaxley remarked ominously. "Nothing survives out here."
"Fascinating," Hermione snapped, infusing her tone with as much disgust as she could muster to discourage the man from speaking to her.
"Ain't it?"
Oblivious to her disinterest, Yaxley told her the story of the first delegation to ever travel to what would later become Azkaban. Several Ministry officials escorting about a dozen criminals were lost at sea, rumoured to have become the prey of the Colossal Squid which haunted these waters. So terrible were their deaths that their souls could find no peace, and remained trapped on this plane, fruitlessly searching the dark water for their human bodies, for decades. Folklore had it that these were the first Dementors.
"Do you really believe that?" Hermione asked, having been unwittingly drawn into the wizard's tale. None of this was mentioned in any book on magical beings that she'd ever read.
"It's probably a load of codswallop," he chuckled. "Makes a great bedtime story though, doesn't it? But look! There she is!"
Following the wizard's gaze, Hermione caught her first sigh of Azkaban prison. Massive and unyielding, it was an enormous obelisk rising from the violent sea to touch the clouds, where shadowy creatures circled its peak.
"She's a beauty, eh? Takes only a hundred Dementors to keep the whole fortress in line. Now if that's not enough to impress these foreign twits, I don't know what is," Yaxley whispered conspiratorially, shooting a glance at the twits in question, all of whom were transfixed by the sight before them. But it wasn't awe or admiration upon their faces, Hermione noticed. It was dread.
After disembarking, Hermione took Boot Group to the foot of the grand staircase leading up to the tower. The entire journey was eerily reminiscent of her arrival at Hogwarts as a first year, but in this bad horror-movie version, Hogwarts was a torture-chamber and the Professors were soul-sucking monsters.
She looked on as Fudge posed for a couple of photos before launching into a speech about brotherhood and cooperation. Everyone's eyes were on the podium. It was now or never.
Sidling up to her erstwhile companion, she put on her bossiest demeanor, and said: "Yaxley, there is an urgent matter that requires my attention. I need you to take over my group."
"What?!" the wizard blurted ."On no, you don't, you little ginger bastard! You think that just because -"
"I'm sure," she cut him off loudly, "that the Minister would be so very disappointed to hear that you're not the team player Lucius Malfoy seems to think you are."
Yaxley's eyes widened. "What do you know about that?" he demanded menacingly.
Hermione smirked."I shan't be more than an hour. You'll hardly notice I'm gone." Giving his shoulder one last condescending pat, she wandered into the crowd until the furious wizard lost sight of her.
Spotting a young guard standing alone by one of the side-doors, Hermione approached him. "I'm Percy Weasley, Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic," she introduced herself. "I need to check the premises to make sure that everything is in order for our guests."
The boy seemed confused and uncertain. "I, uhh...I'm not supposed to…" he stuttered, eyeing her Ministry badge with apprehension.
"Look, if anything goes wrong tonight, it's both our necks on the line. Is that what you want?" Hermione snapped, looming threateningly over the guard as Snape had done to her hours earlier. Between the Potions Master, Umbridge, and Malfoys Jr. and Sr., Hermione had a rich bouquet of inspiration to draw from when it came to acting like a power-hungry, pompous git.
"No, sir," the boy replied earnestly, shaking his head for emphasis. "I just started last month."
"Good. There's a few things I need to examine. We can start with the high-security ward."
The guard (named Perkins) led her up a flight of stairs and down a dimly-lit corridor, to the foot of another staircase, which spiraled high up into obscurity. "It's a bit of a trek," he told her apologetically.
As they climbed, an announcement came on the loudspeaker. "Welcome to Azkaban Prison, the world's premier magical detention facility," the soothing, mechanical female voice declared. "Remember to follow the simple guidelines in your Visitor's Pamphlet to ensure that your visit is safe and educational."
"That sounds exactly like the voice in the phone box at the Ministry," Hermione said to no one in particular.
"Does it? Don't think I've noticed. But then, I haven't been out much."
Although it was probably better not to engage in conversation, curiosity got the better of her. "Do you live on the premises?" she asked.
"Tha's right. We've all got to stay here year round, 'cept Christmas. Though, I hear that after a few months, nobody even wants to leave anymore."
"Really?" Hermione asked, glancing at their bleak surroundings in disbelief.
"It's the Pendants. They keep you feelin' calm and easy while you're here, but once you're back in the Civs, you take it off, and everything comes crashing back."
"The Civs?"
"That's what we call the mainland here. You know, the rest of the wizarding world."
"I see."
"My bunkmate took a day off to visit his mum last week: came running back cryin' in a couple hours' time. Couldn't take it."
Hermione was saved from having to respond to that disturbing pronouncement by the automated voice overhead.
"All visitors must keep their Ministry-issued Pendants on their person at all times."
Perkins chuckled at that. "You know, usually she's just tellin' us if it's beef slop or chicken slop for lunch that day. Didn't think she could say much else."
"Visitors must remain with their appointed tour-leaders for the duration of their visit. Anyone who fails to comply with this requirement will be subject to arrest and detention."
"Is it much further?" Hermione asked, trying to hide her impatience. She only had one more dose of Polyjuice and it had to last her until they got back to the Ministry.
"Nah, it's on the next floor, but we've got to walk round the Well first. That's what we call Minimum Security."
In a minute, Hermione realized why. The Well was a cylindrical hollow in the middle of Azkaban's main tower. It was ringed by cells and stretched so far down that the bottom was entirely enveloped in darkness. Far below, she could see Dementors gliding from cell to cell, no doubt looking to sate their hunger.
"Don't worry," Perkins reassured. "Just keep that medal on you and the Scabs won't ever know you're there."
Surmising that "Scabs" were Dementors, Hermione nodded and said nothing.
"Visitors are advised that giving food or water to prisoners is strictly forbidden," the automated voice informed unhelpfully.
"Here we are," Perkins said as they neared a set of enormous barred doors. "Supermax. This is where we keep the worst of 'em. Killers and Death Eaters."
He tapped his wand on the complicated set of knots in the ironwork, and slowly, the doors creaked open. Hermione didn't know what she'd been expecting - a torture chamber, maybe - but the room which greeted her was pristine and well-lit. Halls stretched out on either side, lined with little doors, each marked with a painted number. On the wall across, she noticed a rack hung with dozens of black hoods.
"Perkins. You seem like an upstanding fellow," Hermione said. Laying it on a bit thick, sure, but definitely the sort of thing Percy would try. "I need you to help me check on the prisoners. Make sure that they're all going to behave themselves when the Minister's guests come through here. Do you think you could do that?"
"Oh! Yes, sir. Absolutely!" the boy trilled.
"Excellent. You can take these cells on the left, and I'll take those on the right. Meet me back here when you're finished."
They walked in opposite directions; but, while Perkins diligently stopped at every door, Hermione was only interested in one. A moment later, she was standing in front of it. Number 49.
She tried the handle. It was locked.
"Alohomora," Hermione whispered, feeling the spell flow lethargically from Percy's unfamiliar wand. The answering click of the sliding bolt seemed unnaturally loud.
The room beyond was dim, and for a moment Hermione thought that she'd made a mistake, had stumbled upon an empty cell. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a twitching form.
"Are...are you Judith Mintumble?" she asked, unable to keep the quaver from her voice. If it was fear or excitement, she couldn't say.
The figure seemed to curl in on itself even more.
"Can you hear me?" Hermione said, louder now. Approaching, she reached out her hand and laid it on what she assumed was the woman's shoulder.
Her skin had hardly made contact with the coarse wool when a vise grip clamped around her wrist and a sudden, sharp pain seized her hand.
Shocked, Hermione wrenched it away. She looked at it and saw a little crescent imprinted between her thumb and forefinger. Teeth marks.
The woman had bitten her.
She looked on numbly as the figure - and it was indeed a woman - rose and approached. Drawing near to Hermione, she sniffed the air, turning her head as if to catch the scent on the breeze.
Bars of light from the window fell on the woman's face, and Hermione could see that her eyes were glossy and white.
"You're blind…" she whispered in horror.
The woman didn't seem to hear her. "How long have I been here?" she croaked with obvious effort. Her white hair framed her face in matted pelts and the smell of stale urine was unmistakable.
Shame and disgust washed over Hermione, and she struggled to speak.
"Almost forty years," she forced out, at last. The words felt obscene on her tongue.
The woman nodded jerkily and turned her back on Hermione, walking towards the wall where a single window up high let in a steady drizzle of rain. It dripped down the grooves in the stone, slowly growing the puddle beneath. She wondered if that puddle had been there for forty years too.
"Longer, I bet," the woman muttered.
Hermione drew a sharp breath. Had she said that out loud?
Shaking off the thought, she continued: "I need to ask you some questions. About your research."
The woman's head jerked sideways. "Who sent you? Rockwood? The Minister?" she demanded.
"No. I'm...not from the Ministry, I-"
Hermione stopped, unsure how to explain.
"I'm from Hogwarts," she said at last, "I'm writing a book about your mother."
"Mother? Mother's been dead a long time. Best leave her that way."
She took the opening.
"I don't really understand how… how she died. I read that her body deteriorated, but -"
"Don't believe the propaganda. That's just what they want you to think."
The woman paused, staring over Hermione's shoulder as though she'd caught sight of something in the distance.
"They had her up at St. Mungo's for a year, doing Merlin knows what to her. In the end, she killed herself."
Hermione gasped. "My god, that's awful."
"It happened on my eighteenth birthday," Judith explained bitterly. "Nobody came to tell us. We had to read about it in the Prophet. Things were... never the same after that."
She grew silent as Hermione's thoughts rushed with sudden understanding. "That's why…"she muttered, more to herself than anything. "That's why you went back… you were trying... you wanted to -"
Bring her back, she thought, but couldn't say.
"Maybe. Maybe in the beginning. But things don't work that way, you know."
"What do you mean?"
"The hourglass - it's got two parts. Because there has to balance in everything."
"Balance?"
Judith nodded. "It took me my whole career to understand that. But all this is ancient history. Better left forgotten."
On the verge of demanding a better explanation, Hermione was stopped short by a scream in the distance. It rose to a shrill peak, wavered, and died.
In a moment, another scream rose up, but it seemed to be coming from another direction. The air grew palpably colder.
"They're coming," Judith rasped. "Oh no, no, no, no…not again…"
She shrunk back into her corner, and wrapped in on herself as though trying to disappear.
"They won't come in here, I've got a pendant. Please, I have more questions..."
But Judith wasn't listening. She rocked herself frantically, muttering: "Go away, go away... go away… "
The echoing sound of footsteps approached and faded, and Hermione realized at that moment that she couldn't be caught in here.
With one last look at the witch in whom she'd placed all her hopes, Hermione left the cell.
The click of the door closing behind her broke the silence in the corridor. Mist seemed to have crept in from the outside, blanketing the stone walkway so that Hermione couldn't make out the tips of her boots. Judith was right: Dementors were certainly near. She wondered if she should leave.
"If you are confronted by a Dementor, please remain calm and wait for assistance from Ministry personnel," the loudspeaker droned.
The screaming had started up again and more and more prisoners seemed to be joining in, like a chorus of demented feral cats. Hermione had no idea what the hell was going on, but she was acutely regretting having come.
Up the corridor, a door burst open. Two figures emerged.
Hermione realized their robes were Azkaban guard uniforms, but they didn't noticed her, too focused on dragging something from the room they'd just left.
At first she'd thought it was a sack of some kind. Then she realized it was a body. A body with a black hood over its head.
They had it hoisted up by the arms, half-carrying, half-pulling it along as its feet bounced clumsily on the stone.
She couldn't say what it was - fear, concern, or morbid fascination - that carried her feet forward, but before she knew it, she was following them. The guards rounded a corner, and when Hermione caught up with them she saw that beyond the corridor was some type of strange chamber pitted with holes in the ground.
The older guard took out his wand and began a series of incantations, while the younger tried to fit wrist and ankle shackles on the body. Hermione saw it struggle and with great relief, realized that it was still alive.
"Don't waste your time, McDowell, just put her out," the older guard instructed.
But his colleague wasn't quick enough, and the prisoner managed to wrench free of his grasp. With a strange manic agility, it leapt up on his back, and dug its clawed fingers into his eye sockets.
"Aaaaah!" the guard screamed, "ger' off!"
A red jet blasted the prisoner across the floor and, like a frightened animal, it scuttled away on all fours before another Stupefy knocked it cold. The black hood had got lost in the scuffle, but Hermione couldn't see the prisoner's face amidst the enormous mass of tattered hair.
"Morgana deliver us from rookies," the older guard groused, coming over to help his fallen comrade.
"Sorry, sir. I didn't know she was gonna do that," McDowell said, shamefaced.
"Well now you know why they call her the Eye Collector. Next time just use a body-bind, eh?"
"Absolutely," the younger guard agreed enthusiastically. "So what happens next?"
"Well, we put the cuffs on and chuck 'er in the Hole. Maybe an hour or two to wear her out. So she won't make a fuss when the visitors arrive."
"But…"McDowell hesitated, looking at the crumpled figure, "Isn't that a bit... won't the Scabs, you know, get her soul if they've got a whole hour?"
"Oh no, they don't get close enough for that. They just sort of...feed. Why don't you cuff her, and I'll open the ports, eh?"
Still looking quite dubious, the younger guard summoned the four-tailed shackles and magicked them on the prisoner while his companion set to work opening a skylight in the ceiling. Beyond, Hermione caught a glimpse of a shadow obscuring the moon. They were already up there. Waiting.
"We have to bring the troublemakers out here once in a while to keep em' docile," the senior guard explained. "But 93 here gets a weekly playdate. Ain't that right?"
Having regained consciousness, 93 answered him with a growl.
"Go on then, you know what to do," he directed, pointing to the nearest pit.
Just like that, all the fight seemed to go out of her. She started to crawl toward the hole, her movements small and jerky. A dessicated hand reached for her from above, hungrily grasping the air, as though trying to fish the last cookie from the jar.
The prisoner reached the lip of the pit, and was about to pitch herself into it when Hermione finally lost control of her better sense.
"STOP! Stop this instant!" Hermione shouted, storming forth from her hiding place and descending upon the flabbergasted guards with a look of such fury it could have incinerated them on the spot. "What exactly do you think you're doing here?"
Of course, a pair of wands were at her throat in a heartbeat, but Hermione remained unphased. Her righteous anger was overwhelming.
"And who the bloody hell are you?" the older guard demanded.
"Percy Weasley. Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic. Is this," she pointed at the cowering prisoner, "what you want our delegates to see tonight? What kind of ship are you running here?"
The answering glare was positively arctic. Recalling what Perkins had said about the long-term effects of the pendants, Hermione realized that all the guards here seemed to have one thing in common. Dead eyes.
"It's standard protocol," the guard declared, defensive. "This is how we prepare the prisoners for inspection."
"Well not today, you don't!"
"I'm afraid it's the only thing that works to keep them quiet, short of Stunning them. And this one tends to recover quickly."
Looking down, Hermione noticed that the woman was breathing hard. It could have been anger or fear; she couldn't tell because the prisoner hid her face behind her ratty mane.
"I have medical training," she lied. "I will take responsibility for sedating her."
The older guard seemed to consider, and then agreed to let Hermione have her way in a tone that suggested he wanted to wash his hands of the entire mess.
"We have foreign officials here, you understand. We need to make a good showing," she offered by way of explanation.
"Right on. National reputation and all that," McDowell chimed in.
Hermione refused to let the prisoner be dragged, insisting that they levitate her all the way to her cell. At the door marked 93, the older guard left them, saying he needed to finish his rounds and asking McDowell to escort " Mr. Weasley" downstairs.
"Perkins was helping me make sure everything was in order," Hermione called as he was walking away, having remembered her hapless guide. "Please tell him that the Ministry is grateful for his assistance."
"All this is a bit new to me," McDowell admitted when they were alone. He sounded almost ashamed.
"There seem to be a lot of new recruits around here," she observed.
"Yeah. The new Advisory Board sacked a bunch of people last month. Apparently there was some kind of black market going on between the guards and the prisoners."
Her interest was piqued at the words "Advisory Board". She noticed that the prisoner had also turned her head to listen.
It was only at that moment that Hermione got a proper look at her: it was the woman from the painting in Grimmauld Place. The one Sirius thought had been born without a soul.
She gaped at the woman while the guard opened the cell and ushered her inside. Her mouth felt ashen and the hairs on her arms stood on end, as though a ghost had just walked through her.
"Wait outside, please," she said at last. "I need to examine her injuries."
The guard shrugged and backed out of the door, leaving it open by a hair, "just in case".
Dazed, Hermione looked at the woman sitting before her on the floor, still chained, still hiding behind her hair. She was nothing like the proud pureblood heiress in the painting, but a cowed, jittery animal.
"Are you being tortured?" Hermione whispered.
The woman licked her lips nervously, and continued her careful examination of Percy's boots.
"They just take me to the Hole," she muttered tonelessly. "Sometimes I'm there for days."
Unsure how to respond, Hermione instead took out Percy's wand and cast a few simple diagnostic spells on the other woman. She was no Mediwitch, but she'd picked up enough from the library to get by (and by anyone's standards, it was really quite a lot).
Carefully healing a few fractured ribs and a minor head wound (likely side-effects of the earlier Stunner) Hermione noticed that the woman was absolutely skeletal and seemed to have a perpetual tremor in her hands.
She could have cried right then - the pity and anger and helplessness were so overwhelming - and probably would have, were it not for the the magic of the pendant weighing on her emotions like a heavy blanket. But there wasn't anything she could do, was there? Neither for this woman, nor for Judith.
Perhaps having sensed her despair, the prisoner finally looked up at Hermione. Her eyes turned round with surprise, and she reached her hand out and gently fingered one of her long brown curls.
Wait, her curls? How could she not have noticed herself transform back? My god, what if the guard walked on in them like this?
For an impossibly long moment they were frozen - looking at each other as though the other's gaze contained some deeper truth - and then the spell was broken, and Hermione pulled away.
She stumbled back, filled with an inexplicable urge to run, but the prisoner didn't let her go. Kneeling now, she clenched at Hermione's robe and pleaded: "Take me with you!"
"That's crazy! I - I can't -" Hermione stuttered, shocked at the request.
"Please, I can't go on like this. If you won't take me, then kill me," the woman went on vehemently, and though the idea was insanity, her tone was deadly serious.
Hermione shook her head. "I...I have to go."
Carefully, she pried the woman's clammy hands off of her cloak, watching her draw back upon herself, face a mask of absolute despair.
She didn't know what made her do it. Maybe it was this madhouse she'd wandered into. Maybe it was that she, herself, had finally lost the plot.
But Hermione found herself lifting the pendant off her neck and pressing it into the prisoner's shaking fingers. "Take this. Hide it from everybody. It will keep the Dementors away."
And without looking back, Hermione downed her final dose of Polyjuice, and left the cell behind.
