That night Hermione dreamed about Dumbledore again, but this time, when she woke up, she didn't remember it. Once again, her screaming and cursing made Draco yell at her until she woke up.

"I'm fine," she said when he asked. She got up and began pacing in the darkness. She did not like confined spaces under the best of circumstances, and this was far from the best of circumstances. "I'm fine," she said again, not sure if she was trying to convince him or herself.

"You know," Draco said conversationally, "you've got this hate thing for Dumbledore that I just don't understand, Granger. I thought he was like the Gryffindors' shining emblem or something. But you act like he . . . Well . . . Care to explain that to me?"

She paused in her pacing. "He got us into the war," she said at last. "Him and that fucking Tom Riddle. They killed off our parents' generation, then sat around biding their time for us to get out of nappies and . . ." She stopped and took a deep breath, then said, "He stole our childhoods. He stole my childhood."

"Granger, that may be the stupidest fucking thing I have ever heard you say."

She whirled in his direction and angrily marched right up to where the vent was. "How dare you? What the bloody hell would you know about it Malfoy? All safe and sound with your Death Eater friends. Protected by your richer than God daddy and—"

His arm shot through the bars and he grabbed the front of her tunic and pulled her up against the wall. Her face was pressed against the iron bars and she could feel the moisture of his breath on her mouth. "You've never had to lay in your room at night waiting for your father to sneak into your bed," he said softly, and with such anger that his voice was shaking. "You've never had to lay there clutching your pillow, hoping he wouldn't, just this once, and knowing that he would. Your father's never touched you the way you're only meant to be touched by a lover or a willing friend. His mouth on you, his fingers inside you, his—"

"Enough!" Hermione gasped. She wrenched out of his grasp and stood shaking, trying to wipe the hateful images from her mind, and almost certain that they would stay with her forever. "Enough."

"Then don't give me any of your shit about your stolen childhood, Granger," he growled. "Don't go telling me what I know and what I don't. You're not the only one who's suffered."

"Were you ever really a Death Eater at all, Malfoy?" she asked him softly.

He gave a bark of laughter. "Don't go thinking that just because my father used me like a whore that I'm a good person, Granger. I'm not."

"Is that a yes then?"

"No Granger, it is not a yes," he said. A while later he asked, "Would you believe me if I said I wasn't?"

She thought about it. "You have the Dark Mark, don't you?"

"I did. It's gone now. Just a scar."

"I don't know, Malfoy," she confessed. "Maybe."

"Yeah," he said. "And maybe not."

"Look, you asked, I'm just telling you—"

"Forget it," he said.

"I'm sorry," she said, not sure if she was apologizing for not believing him or feeling sorry for him because of what he had told her.

He didn't say anything and she heard the sound of his footsteps retreating from the vent.

It was probably an hour or so later that she heard him say her name and cautiously moved back to the vent, wary in case he grabbed her again.

"What?" she asked.

"Who was your visitor?"

"Mad-Eye Moody," she said. "But—"

"Moody! That bastard's still alive?" he said. "How the hell old is he?"

"I have no idea."

"He put me in here, you know," he said. "When they first started catching Death Eaters at the beginning of the war."

"How long have you been in here?" Hermione asked him.

"I don't know exactly. I was put in here about two years after the war started, so that would be . . ."

"Ten years," she said, feeling a little sick.

"Really? That long? Feels longer in some ways though."

She could imagine.

"So what did he want?"

"He thinks I'm innocent. He had some idea about a fire—"

"Him too?"

"What?"

"He thinks you're innocent too," he said. "It sounds like your getting quite the little pack of supporters, Granger."

"Look, if you're going to be an asshole, I'll just—"

"No, no, sorry, Granger, but old habits die hard, you know," he said quickly. "What else were you going to say?"

"I was just going to say that I have a hearing next week. Zabini said that—"

"Who did you just say?" Draco asked sharply.

"Jesus, Malfoy, will you let me get one fucking sentence out without inter—"

"Granger, damn it, who?"

"My lawyer, Malfoy," she said patiently.

"Blaise Zabini is your lawyer?"

Hermione went still, her eyes widening even in the dark. "Oh my God," she said. "You know him, don't you? I forgot. He was in your house at Hogwarts, he—"

"Listen to me, Granger," he hissed, gripping the bars of the vent in his excitement. "You have to talk to him. You have to tell him I'm in here. That I need his help. Can you do that?"

"But will he—?"

"Please, Granger, will you do it?"

"Yes, of course I will," she said.

He sighed and let go of the bars. "Thank you," he said. He knew hope was an awful, terrible, useless thing in Azkaban, that the ones who hoped were the first to go mad, but he couldn't help it; for the first time in a very long time he had hope. "Hey Granger?"

"What?"

"Looks like I might be collecting on that deal of ours pretty soon."

She didn't have anything to say to that, so she sat down with her back against the wall to think.

He laughed into the silence and moved away from the vent. For the first time in ages he fell asleep and did not have nightmares.