Hermione did not know the man who walked into the room a few minutes later. She had been expecting Harry, or even one of Ron's brothers—well, hoping really, more than expecting—not some tall, dark stranger. Though he did seem a little familiar.

"Hello," she said. She cocked her head to one side and studied him. He was very tall, though most men were taller than her, so she wasn't really in much of a position to judge. He was impeccably dressed in deep navy blue robes that looked like they cost more money than she had ever seen in her life. Not that she was complaining, but why the hell was he visiting her? "Do I know you?"

He crossed the room and for the first time she noticed he was carrying a leather parchment tube on a strap over one shoulder. Without a word to her he set it down on the table and settled himself into the seat across from her. It was only then that he looked at her, and that feeling of familiarity increased.

"I do know you, don't I?" She asked. He had the blackest eyes she'd ever seen, almond shaped and tilted, with thick dark lashes that were, quite frankly, better suited to a woman. "I'm sorry, I can't remember."

"Yes," he said, and his voice was deep and smooth, like poison and chocolate. "You would seem to be having that problem quite a lot lately."

She narrowed her eyes on him, trying to think where she had seen his face before—and that accent, surely she would remember something like that if she had ever met the man before. "I'm sorry," she said, finally giving up. "Who are you?"

He leaned back in his chair, as much as it would allow, and steepled his fingers. "My name is Blaise Zabini, and I am your attorney, Miss Granger."

"You were in my year at Hogwarts," she said, suddenly remembering. "Slughorn always invited us both to those silly little dinner parties of his."

"Indeed," he said. "Well, I am glad to see your memory finally returning, Miss Granger. Perhaps you could tell me what exactly happened."

"I already told the Ministry, I don't know," she said. She eyed him sitting across from her, looking cool, expensive, and catlike. Completely unmoved by her or his surroundings. "What do you mean, you're my lawyer, Zabini? I thought you were a purist."

He merely lifted an eyebrow at the disdainful tone in her voice.

"And anyway, I can't afford a lawyer. I couldn't before, and I certainly can't afford one now," she said. By now, the Ministry would have confiscated everything she owned, right down to her silk knickers. "And you'll excuse me for noticing, but I seriously doubt you do pro bono work."

"Pro bono?" he said. He waved the muggle term away with one of his long fingered hands. "You do not have to worry about payment, Miss Granger. It has been taken care of."

"By who?"

"Your wonder-boy Potter, who else?" he said. He sat forward and began opening the leather parchment tube he'd brought with him.

"Harry?" she said. "But he didn't believe me, why would he—?"

"It appears that he has had a change of heart."

Or he was feeling responsible and guilty for letting her go to prison, even if she did kill Ron. "He believes me then?"

Zabini's eyes shifted from the scroll of parchment he'd been looking at to lock with hers. "Right about now Miss Granger, I'd say he's probably one of the very few who do."

"Oh," she said. She felt a little ashamed for thinking badly of Harry, who had probably paid a fortune for the man sitting across from her. Even if it was true.

"I will need your signature on a few things," Zabini said, turning the parchment toward her. "If you're accepting me as your council, that is."

Hermione ran her fingers through her hair. She picked up the parchment and began reading it. It was a contract. Her hand snagged on a tangle and with a hiss, she removed her fingers from her hair. "You're going to try to repeal?" she asked, looking up from the paper to his face.

"That was the idea," he said, passing her a quill and a bottle of ink. "Unless you'd prefer to stay here? Granted, it's not fancy, but I could see where one might find it charming, in a rather dungeonesque sort of way."

She paused in the process of lowering the quill to paper and stared at him. "This is not funny, Zabini."

He smiled and shrugged lazily. "Don't worry about it Granger."

"That's easy for you to say," she snapped. "You don't have to spend the night in a cold stone room with the guy a couple of cells down screaming for his mother."

He chuckled. "I'm a good lawyer, Miss Granger. If I can get you out of this, I will. So don't worry about it and sign the damned papers."

Grumbling to herself, she put her signature on the contract, then again when he unrolled it further and pointed to the place. When she was finished, he rolled the parchment back up and returned it and the quill and ink to the tube.

"Now, is there anything I can get for you?" He asked as he stood up. "Is there anything you need?"

"How about a blanket and some clothes that don't feel and smell like someone has recently died in them?" she asked, looking down at the dirty striped trousers and tunic she was wearing. It was so filthy that it was yellow and black with patches of brown that looked and felt like dried blood.

Zabini grimaced. "I will see what I can do. Anything else?"

She met his eyes across the table. "Just get me the fuck out of here, Zabini, before I go crazy."

He gave a curt nod and turned to leave.

"Zabini?" she said, and he paused. "Do you believe me?"

He smiled, and suddenly she remembered something about him that she had forgotten. His mother. His lovely, seductive, deadly mother, who had been married eleven times, and become a rich woman when each of her husbands mysteriously died soon after and left her everything. She had never been convicted, or even gone to trial for any of their deaths, though the entire wizarding world knew that she had killed them.

"I don't have to believe you Granger," he said, "I just have to defend you."

With that, he swept from the room with his parchment roll over his shoulder. A few minutes later, a guard came and took her back to her cell.