Disclaimer: see chapter one. To all those who reviewed, I can only offer my thanks, and hope that you carry on enjoying.
Hermione Granger was an intelligent woman. Primarily that intellect came from one source. She loved books. She loved reading. And the older the book, the better. To her there was nothing that could compare to the feel of a well-worn book cover, the delicate nature of time worn paper, the look of old type sets. Even the smell was comforting to her. Hermione would always prefer researching in books, than using a muggle computer. The Internet might be a portal of information, but for what Hermione was looking for it was practically useless. Not that any of her books were proving much better at the moment. With Diagon Alley still closed, and Hogwarts unused, Hermione was very limited on resources for her current research project. It didn't stop her looking though. She'd even gone to her local muggle library in desperation, just in case it had something even vaguely useful. She was frustrated, and her frustration wasn't helping.
Hermione looked down at the Daily Prophet, sat propped up against a jar of marmalade, and sighed again, shaking her head. She had the same routine every morning- she got up at seven, made herself tea and toast for breakfast, and read the "news" as reported by the Daily Prophet. It didn't matter that she didn't have a job- she refused to wallow in self-pity. She might have been forced back to living in her parent's house. Even forced to look for employment in the muggle world out of desperation. But there were always people worse off than her, and one such person was never far from her mind.
Harry Potter. Her best friend. Once the celebrated saviour of the Wizarding world. Now condemned in Azkaban, the victim of an over zealous Ministry of Magic and a world that continued to live in fear of its own shadow.
Today the Daily Prophet's lead article was the same as it had been yesterday, and the day before, and probably the day before that as well: the upcoming trial of Harry vs the Ministry of Magic for the use of an unforgivable against another wizard.
Hermione closed her eyes, rubbing her temples with her fingers to try and ward off the coming headache. It didn't seem fair. Hermione snorted to herself at that thought. Scratch that. It wasn't fair. Harry had lived the prophecy since he was fifteen, sealed on a fateful evening of Halloween when Harry was just a year old. A prophecy that stated he was the one with the power to vanquish the dark lord; that if he couldn't kill Voldemort, then Voldemort would kill him. A kill or be killed kind of deal. And now he was the one standing trial for a killing he had basically been forced to commit.
Hermione finished her toast and picked up her tea to take through to the study. Whilst she didn't have a job, most of her energy was going into research into the coming trial. Because while she couldn't get close to Harry at the moment, it wasn't going to stop her doing everything in her power to help him out. The books had never failed her before, and she hoped they wouldn't fail her now. Or, more importantly, that they wouldn't fail Harry now. After all, the idea of how to finally kill Voldemort, the spell that had finally finished him off had come from deep within one of the oldest books Hermione had read. All she could hope was that the answers to their latest predicament were also lurking somewhere in a book as well.
She pulled open the tomb of a book currently resting on what used to be her father's desk, in her father's study. Hermione had gradually moved in, filling the desks with quills and bottles of ink and rolls of parchment. The bookcases groaned under the weight of hundreds of books. A vast collection, both Magical and Muggle, some she had collected throughout her years at Hogwarts, a lot from more recent months. She returned to a passage she had been studying yesterday, but found it harder than usual to concentrate her mind on the words before her. Instead her mind, as it frequently was these days, refused to leave Harry. Worrying about how he was coping, completely devoid of human contact, for Hermione knew that the rules of Azkaban meant only the Dursley's could rightly visit, and she couldn't see that happening any time soon. More importantly, perhaps, wondering how his magic was faring, without a release of any kind.
Hermione had found out about the shield in use at Azkaban by accident. An obscure reference, read in a report buried in the briefest of articles in the Daily Prophet had led to the discovery of the way the Wizarding world was currently controlling its prisoners in the absence of the Dementors. Mr Weasley had confirmed her idea, with the briefest of nods, his eyes betraying exactly what he thought of the shield, for all Ministry officials were sworn to secrecy about it.
Hermione being Hermione, had since learned everything she could on the containment of magic, and didn't like what she read. Magic was an energy, a living energy, that a witch or wizard could control to do some extraordinary things. It was there, right from birth, manifesting itself at a young age usually through accidental use. Heightened by emotions, the real power of magic only came into force with puberty. There were very few documented cases of what happened when the magic was forced to conform, against its will, if you like, inside a single entity. It was very rare, because the use of any type of shield powerful to contain magic was very rare (making Hermione wonder how the ministry had pulled off their shield, but that was something else entirely). Of course, over a couple of months, say for a school holiday in a child too young to legally do magic, the magic is contained in that it's not being used. But the magic still has ways to leach out, however subtlety. Being forced into a compact space, being forced to stay only caused the energy to build and build, until, basically, Hermione induced, it imploded. It could take years, of course, to build up to such a level. But the physical symptoms, an uncontrollable itching under the skin, loss of appetite, nausea, constant tiredness, lethargy helped by an insomnia not even the strongest of sleeping potions could help, could start in just a few weeks. The more Hermione read, the more Hermione felt ill at what her friend was having to go through, and the more she thought about it, the more she felt fuelled to search for any clue as to how to get him out of there.
It wasn't fair. This was meant to be the times when they could all get on with their lives- when Voldemort was dead and buried and just a horrible memory. And she and Ron could get married, and Harry and Ginny could be together, and they could all finish their schooling, and find their perfect jobs and…
Life wasn't fair. And, it seemed, life had a particular grudge against Harry Potter. She only hoped that Harry hadn't given up yet. Not like the rest of the Wizarding world had. That he was still fighting, however limited it was in Azkaban. He was possibly the strongest person she knew, but Hermione didn't know if anyone was strong enough to do this.
But whilst the rest of the Wizarding world seemed to have given up all hope, and maybe even Harry had, Hermione was certainly not prepared to do so. Not yet anyway.
Not till she got Harry Potter back home at least.
Life was broken down into a series of moments. Some so drenched in evil, in fear, in horror, that it made his stomach turn even now, even with time making them but mere memories in his mind. Of course, there were a precious few that were happy, some that, even now, could touch him in places long hidden, almost like a whisper caressing his soul. That could bring a smile unbidden to his lips. That could make his heart want to beat, his soul want to live. That could fill him with hope. A hope so potent that he could almost forget about the cell, about the continuous itching under his skin, about the upcoming trial.
Unfortunately those moments were becoming harder to recall. The bad memories, the evil that had so profoundly touched his life: that was always there, just under his skin, forever ready to fill his mind with doubt, with fear. A horror that made his breath come in short sharp gasps. For a cold sweat to break out making him shiver. For his heart to hammer painfully hard inside his chest all fuelled by the contained magic that would latch onto any emotion and amplify the affects ten fold till Harry Potter simply wished to die.
Of course there were times when his mind could be wrapped around an abject terror only to be brought up short by a single image, a single, overwhelming feeling. Perhaps the sound of phoenix song, so effective in the graveyard when Voldemort had risen from the cauldron. Perhaps the feel of wind whipping his hair, not as he stood on the hillside, waiting for the final call, but with a broom between his legs, and his eyes clamped on the snitch. Perhaps a flash of red, the colour of blood spread across many fields of dying, turning to a memory of sun flashing against red hair. And then, and then, for the briefest moment, for the longest moment, his heart slowed to normal, his breathing was easy, his skin felt wonderfully cool. And for a moment his magic would work with him, rather than against him, filling him with hope, filling him with desire, filling him with a longing to be alive.
A single moment, perhaps, but enough, just enough to get through another minute, another hour, even another day of the containment, the will to get through another moment.