AN: Lots of theories in the reviews page...but no right answers. *mystery music*

Muchos thanks for all your support! I love all your reviews (and all of you, sweetlings). P.S. Voldyboy is back in this chapter and frustratingly sexy as ever.

Yums.

The Noble Blacks' numbers weren't terrible – they were complete dog shit.

Voldemort had Malfoy recount the information again, did the calculations, and swore fantastically. Between their partners in Las Vegas, the sum of the loan sharks' collections, their gambling pools, and the lacking drug supply, they had made five percent less than last month's earnings. Less than.

That does not happen, he thought numbly, breaking away from the tiny black print on the stack of reports to rub his face.

Less than.

It was because of the rats, Voldemort speculated, as well as a contribution from Detective Kingsley, who was eating up every word traitorous informants fed him like a starved shark, and throwing his men in the jailhouse faster than Voldemort could replace them. Imprisonment was not the issue here – sentences were short and bail money was virtually nothing to the family – but their untrustworthy members were starting to become…problematic.

How was his enterprise to hold up when all the nails and glue of that enterprise were falling apart? One shift of wind and they were finished; the whole house was about to go tumbling down in a gust of defeat and unearthed skeletons.

This is exactly how the five families went out, he thought darkly. The five families were the most famous and feared American Mafia organizations of their time, precious to the mob, and scorned by the CIA and FBI – or at least, they were before an increase of government intelligence and technology made them bite the dust in the late 70s. They still existed in their small, discreet ways, but La Costra Nostra nowhere near its former legendary prominence.

This was precisely why he needed to take command of the Noble Blacks. Now.

But Cygnus wants to wait until my birthday. Voldemort briefly wondered if his foster father's cancer was affecting his cerebral cortex yet. It was October, his birthday still more than three months away on December 31st. The Noble Blacks only had to hold out until then, when he could take the reins of the corporation.

And what plans he had for their family.

Voldemort picked the phone back up off the hook and rapped his fist on the glass, calling back Malfoy's attention from where he'd been checking out the rear of some inmate's visiting fiancée. Malfoy was one of the family's oldest and trustworthy capos, he ran a handful of dealers from multiple locations in Queens and the Bronx. Basically, Voldemort told him what he wanted done and Malfoy made sure the button men didn't mess up while doing it – if they did, Voldemort schemed their consequences. Consequences were disastrous…for the ones at fault, at least.

To the public eye, Malfoy was simply Voldemort's attorney.

"Boss," Malfoy greeted. "Any ideas?"

In response, Voldemort gave Malfoy a What do you think? look, with more than a hint of superiority and his typical condescension. The perspicacious lieutenant was one of those rare people who could do just as much with their facial expressions as others could do with their mouths – if not more – and he knew it. This talent was in part ascribed to upbringing, but mostly blamed on plain good genes.

With styled black hair the shade of chimney soot, a soft mouth, and piercing eyes like blue lightning, Voldemort's delicately molded features narrowly missed femininity. The result was an inevitable sex appeal, the exact kind of deadly allure a strawberry dart frog used to persuade predators to touch its vividly-colored, poisonous skin. From the confident set of his shoulders to a slow blink of cold, heavy-lashed eyes, the young man could have a prince willing to follow him to the ends of earth and back with nothing but five cents in his pocket, just as easily as he could make hearts pound in sincere fear for their livelihoods.

At that moment, Malfoy was leaning toward the latter.

"We'll need to double the protection payments, firstly," Voldemort said finally, "to make up for some of the loss of our…unsatisfactory earnings." Reclining until the front legs of his chair hitched off the floor, he waited while Malfoy made a note. "Make sure you send in an auditor to see that everyone is paying us what they should be," he went on, "and specifically to check on the super market in Harlem – one of our general store managers is taking more than his fair share and needs reprimanding. Get someone to shake him up and fire the staff. I want all brand-new replacements by tomorrow." Small businesses were good distractors, helping explaining away Cygnus Black's freakishly high income to the federal government every year – and the stores were also excellent for selling innocent black market items, such as pirated DVDs, music, and fake IDs for adolescents.

"Should I send Lestrange down?" Malfoy questioned.

Voldemort thought the possibility over, but ultimately decided it would be an overreaction to use Lestrange to handle the situation – not setting an example. After all, Lestrange was one of their…looser cannons, to put it delicately. The lower-ranked men called her Beezlebub, and it wasn't because she had red horns and a spaded tail – not visible ones, at least.

"Just shake him up," he repeated.

Again Malfoy nodded. "Should I see about setting up new connections with some more lotto partners, or opening new spots downtown-?" He stopped when Voldemort waved him off, not listening but squinting pensively at a guard standing on the perimeter of the room. The eavesdropper noticed, blanched, and didn't only avert his gaze, but turned his entire body in a different direction.

"He looks familiar," Voldemort murmured. Turning back to Malfoy, who was staring perplexedly at the guard, he said, "No more gambling, we're having enough trouble pulling in a sustainable profit as it is. And I don't care about national connections. I told you, we're going to expand our influence outside of the U.S., that's how we're going to do business from now on. The supplier in Cuba, did he agree to my proposal?"

"He wants to meet you in person before agreeing on a price."

He licked the inside of his front teeth, making a single nod. "I'll arrange that. What about the shipment from Thailand?"

Now, Malfoy paled slightly and dropped his eyes. He muttered, "There's been a…situation…with that actually, sir."

"Fucking bandits," Voldemort replied, dropping his chair with an unceremonious smack! and jerking forward. Into the phone, he hissed, "You tell them, I'm not paying one cent if they lost our delivery to a couple of goons with guns-"

"No, no, it's not that," Malfoy hastened to say. "They have it, but…" He frowned in confusion, which irked Voldemort more. What had the man so tongue-tied? "Haven't you seen the news?" he asked.

"It's seven in the morning, if you haven't noticed, so no," Voldemort said curtly. Early morning parole had just ended, as well as breakfast, and he'd been reading a fantasy novel was what he didn't say. "Why?"

"An earthquake hit Thailand last night in Nonthaburi." Nonthaburi. The location of their lead heroin supplier. Voldemort's stomach twisted. "It did huge damage, a 6.8, with a death toll of thousands." Malfoy spread his hands beseechingly. "The closest airports are down for the week, our shipment is stuck there, and the suppliers are nervous because of all the media coverage. Helicopters and newscasters are all over the place down there. There's just too much attention, we need a back-up plan to get the shipment out of the country."

"Where is the shipment now?" he inquired.

"Hidden, for now." Malfoy lowered his voice conspiratorially, not that he needed to – after all, no prison guard was stupid enough to try to listen into one of Voldemort's conversations. "But with all the aerial footage the media is broadcasting, they're worried someone will spot the fields. They want to get rid of the shipment as soon as possible, in case they get searched and are found with it. If we don't get our cargo out soon, they're going to demand more money for hiding it."

Well, 300 keys of heroin was a lot of loot to be caught red-handed with. It was also worth 945,000 thousand American dollars. Approximately.

"And there's one more thing," Malfoy added before he could lose his nerve, discreetly sliding an envelope through the slot in the window. Voldemort picked it up, giving him a questioning cock of one black eyebrow. "It's from your father, he said it's safe to read now," the capo explained before he could ask.

That meant Cygnus. Voldemort blew out a hot breath through his nose, ripped open the envelope, and found his letter inside. Safe it was, indeed, since there were only two words waiting for him. All the message said was,

Fix this.

Cygnus Black wasn't referring to the Thailand dilemma. He was referring to everything, the entire empire, the crummy income, their traitorous ranks, the fuck-up with being accused of first-degree murder and Voldemort being careless enough to almost be caught in the act. He crumpled the letter in one fist.

"Er, and another thing," Malfoy said tentatively across the line, drawing Voldemort's death glare onto his unfortunate person. He cleared his throat. "You might want to give some thought to setting an example for the others when you come back. After the slip with Wormtail and the rest, there have been some…doubts…about your capability."

He raised his brows. "Are you one of these 'doubters'?"

Malfoy's eyes widened. "Of course not!" he sputtered, reddening. "You know I've been with your family for years, I would never even entertain the thought-"

"I know," Voldemort said icily, "that some sneaky little shit has been leaking my information to the police left and right. I know that I don't give a damn what any of my men think, so long as they're doing exactly what I say."

He leaned closer, so that Malfoy was ridiculously grateful for the window dividing them, but simultaneously felt it could be made of steel and Voldemort could still reach his hand through it and throttle him with one flick of his wrist. "I know that if you value your life or your family at all, you'll get out of my sight right now and put an end to this bullshit instead of talking my ear off about it. You know the procedure for rats. Follow it."

"Yes, sir," Malfoy said instantly. He hung up the phone so hard the plastic cracked, grabbed his coat without bothering to put it on, and exited the visiting room. Voldemort stared at Cygnus's crumpled message, his temple throbbing. Fix this. How? Doing what? With what resources? By what means?

Didn't matter to Cygnus. It was on his head now.

Of all the stupid things I could be arrested for, Hermione thought, staring glossily at the untouched Styrofoam cup of coffee the officers left her over a half-hour ago. She'd had one sip of it too soon and nearly vaporized her taste buds. I get charged for illegally downloading music. Which everybody does. Another thought occurred to her, scarier than the last: what would the police do if they knew about Gryffindor?

She really hoped she would never find out.

Hermione had been sitting alone in the interrogation room the officers dumped her inside for forty-five minutes. She knew the police were just trying to play mind games. To leave her alone with her paranoid, fearful thoughts, so that when the interrogator finally did arrive she would just burst into tears and confess everything, from the first mp3 download to the keychain she shop lifted from CVS pharmacy when she was four years old. She knew this, because it was exactly what happened when she was sent to the principal's office in elementary school for kicking some fifth grader who wouldn't let her play on the monkey bars and didn't know what a shower was in the shin during recess. She had never cried so much in under five minutes – and that was just to the main office secretary.

Yep, she was a girl made of steel. Hardcore was her middle name.

She looked out of the window overseeing the department. The enormous office was much bigger than the one in Queens, filled to the brim with blue-suits and skyscraper-high piles of paperwork. Employees manning desks for 911 calls picked up and slammed the receivers fast, tapping away at their keyboards and yammering into their headsets as they worked to save the day. She snorted, whipping her gaze back to the cold coffee.

The interrogator came in.

Hermione straightened, pulling back her shoulders and assessing the new arrival. The man who entered the interrogation room was tall and wore a classy navy blue suit, with wavy silver hair, blue eyes, and a bumpy crescent-shaped scar the size and shape of a nickel under his left eye. It looked like a bullet wound to her.

But, strangest of all, was the golden badge gleaming on the man's lapel and declaring him Chief Inspector.

What was the Chief doing interrogating a high school kid?

Whatever the reason was, when the Chief saw her a knowing gleam lit those surprisingly blue eyes and he clasped his hands behind his back, smiling to reveal large white teeth. The smile relaxed Hermione somewhat, despite what her better instincts said about police. Thank God, she thought. He's not the bad cop.

"Hermione, my dear, it is an absolute pleasure to meet you." The Chief came around, arm outstretched, and they shook hands – she with bewilderment, he with an equally shocking amount of strength in his grip. "I'm sorry I took so long to get here," he began in apology, pulling away to seat himself on the edge of the table. The foldable chair on the other side went unnoticed. "But you know all about New York traffic, I'm sure. It's endless." He winked at her, stunning Hermione. He didn't seem like most old men she knew, who were either excessively grouchy or too outdated to talk to without encountering multiple racial slurs. He was almost even…cool.

Coolish, anyway.

"Now I have a meeting soon, so I can't talk for long," he went on, like a mentor about to quickly give his protégée some important advice, rather than a cop about to ruin her life. Hermione prepared for the blow. "You see, Hermione, I have my hands tied with your case here. I understand that you're only eighteen and that you must be very…freaked out, what with being called down to a police station and charged with a serious crime." He paused to give her a stern look. "Piracy."

She nodded, trying to look ashamed. Maybe he would take pity on her if she played up the role of the innocent girl, or turned on the waterworks? That works for speeding tickets, she thought then, chagrined, not prison sentences!

Suddenly, Hermione was snapped out of her chasing thoughts when the Chief said something that caught her off-guard completely. "This isn't the first time you've been here," he said, folding his hands and levelling a solemn stare at her. "Is it?"

So the interrogation begins. Hermione, who had been expecting this, looked the Chief dead in the eye. Avoiding eye contact was a tell for liars, and she took care never to lie – but if in the rare instance that she did, she always took double care never to be caught for it. "Actually, it is," she said coolly.

"Well, perhaps you've never been here before." He studied her. "But you have been to a police station more than once; the one in Queens, correct? That is where you live, isn't it?"

Wordlessly, she nodded.

"I don't say this to intimidate you, or insinuate that you're responsible for other 'illegitimate pastimes'," he continued, a fond smile twirling the lips under his groomed silver goatee. "I knew your father when he transferred to this department actually, and on his first day, he brought you to work. It was the one time I met you, and I'm not surprised you don't remember me, since you were very young." He held up his hand, just below the height of the table. "You were about yay high, maybe a hair shorter," he said reminiscently.

Hermione wasn't concerned with her childhood shortness, however. Staring at the Chief, she tried to recognize some part of his merry, lined features, but her memories didn't hold a lick of him. "You knew my dad?" she asked.

"Yes, we worked together a few times." He frowned. "Before he passed away, of course."

At the reminder of Dad's death, Hermione stiffened. All at once, she remembered just who she was talking to, and exactly what type of person the Chief was. She'd had a grudge against cops, ever since Dad got shot trying to protect one. "Listen, I don't mean to be rude, but I don't remember you at all, and usually I'm very good with faces," she said, making no effort to strain for civility. "So who are you?"

"Oh, I forgot to introduce myself, didn't I?" The man smiled, chuckling good-naturedly. "I'm Chief Grindelwald." Grindelwald didn't offer a nickname. He must be foreign, Hermione thought, although she detected no accent in his speech.

"Well," she said, crossing her arms, and acting much more self-assured than she really felt. "Why are you here interrogating me when you've probably got much bigger things to do than deal with high school girls?"

He blinked. "That's right, I've got a meeting in ten minutes." Grindelwald checked his watch discontentedly, and Hermione saw with surprise that he was wearing a golden Rolex. Police salary must pay better than it did ten years ago, she thought, brows furrowing. "And you have school tomorrow," he added as an afterthought, tugging his sleeve back down when he saw her staring.

"School?" she echoed vacantly. "But aren't you going to…?" Throw me in the slammer? Bring me to justice? Forcibly take my fingerprints? She trailed off into silence.

Grindelwald smiled, a decidedly mischievous wink in his eye. He had a wonderful sort of smile, Hermione realized, the kind she imagined F. Scott Fitzergald had in mind when he wrote up Jay Gatsby. "Here is where my proposal comes in," he said smugly.

"Proposal?"

"By law, I have to arrest you," Grindelwald began. She stiffened. "You'll have to appear in court and pay a fine decided by the judge."

"How much could the fine be?"

"Anywhere from five to one-hundred fifty thousand dollars." Hermione blanched. He continued, "Now if you're unable to pay the fine, then you're sentenced to six months of imprisonment at best and three years of imprisonment at absolute worst."

Her jaw having dropped at six months, Hermione's blood started to rush when she heard three years. Three years? How am I supposed to live in a prison for three years? Plus, there was no way she could pay a fine that massive. What would happen to Mom without her there to pay the bills and remind her to change outfits? What would become of her education? She doubted even a community college would take her in with that ugly black mark on her record. What about her high school diploma? She wouldn't be able to get anything better than a GED. No, she'd probably end up with a desk job, or have to go back to McDonalds to defrost chicken nuggets until she keeled over from the fumes of the deep-fryer in her late sixties.

In less than a terrific thirty seconds, Hermione had seen the scholarship to Hogwarts she worked so hard for and all her dreams of starting a dentistry practice in Venice sail right down the toilet. Her life was over.

"Now, now, don't look so down so fast," Grindelwald said hastily, searching around as if there was something in the interrogation room that might stop an 18-year old girl from having a mental breakdown. All he found was the cup of stale coffee, which he sighed helplessly at. "Look, you're a bright girl, aren't you? The top of your class?" he said, taking her hands in his weathered, calloused ones. Hermione nodded, although she was confused how he knew that.

"Well, that's why I've created another option for you-" Grindelwald smiled. "-so all your talents don't have to go wasted."

She blinked, taking back her hands so she could wipe at her face hastily. The proposal. "What is it?" she demanded. "What do I have to do?"

Grindelwald, appearing relieved the threat of tears had passed, straightened and folded his hands. "Volunteer work," he said firmly. Hermione was floored.

"That's…that's it?" she said, bewildered.

At her astonishment, Grindelwald laughed. "This isn't the easiest form of volunteering," he informed her, deeply amused. "First of all, you'll need to go to Azkaban Prison. That's a maximum-security correctional facility on Staten Island, and it requires you to spare a few nights out of your week, and three community service hours each day you go. It's not a terribly demanding schedule, so you'll have time to work on your studies as you see fit."

"And what part of it is-" She sought the wording the chief had used. "-'not the easiest'?"

"That would be the inmates probably," he admitted, wincing. He touched his beard in consideration. "They're known to be rowdy, especially around young women… but there is one inmate in particular, who I need you to keep an eye on."

Hermione looked up. "You want me to spy on someone there?"

He chortled sharply. "Oh no, not at all," Grindelwald reassured through his heart laughter, but his pleased smile said now you're onto something, Hermione! "I only want you to keep tabs on the inmate – not even that. You see, we're talking about a…person… who is a notorious criminal and, unfortunately, increasingly difficult to keep behind bars. Anything that might help us keep him where he belongs would be highly appreciated by the entire city, and," he added tactfully, "well-compensated for."

Well-compensated for? But Hermione didn't ask what he meant by that yet. She said, "Who exactly are we talking about, Grindelwald?" She almost said Chief, but it felt wrong in her mouth, like calling a teacher by their first name – it was just too weird, even if she was outside of school.

Grindelwald grew serious. "That's confidential. I can only tell you that information if you agree to my terms."

"Terms? What-?"

"The contract is in my office," he interrupted. "If you would like to consider my proposal, I'll give it to you on your way out." He stood up with a regretful sigh, glancing down at his watch. "Unfortunately, that's about all the time I have to spare tonight, however."

"What? But- I mean-" Hermione stopped, organizing herself and roughly skimming the details in her head. "Isn't this – well – dangerous?" she asked.

"It's true, what I'm asking you to do is a little…dangerous," he agreed. He assessed her, not like he was trying to estimate her face value, but as if he already knew it and was impressed enough to put her to the test. "Police work is in your blood, isn't it?" the Chief said, smiling now. "And you care about your future enough to fight for it." The latter was an assumption, but a correct one.

"How long do I have to think about this?" she said, instead of answering.

"You're going to consider it?"

She looked at him dubiously. "Well, duh."

The chief laughed out loud. "I like you," he declared, waggling his finger at her, and reaching over behind him to put a phone call that had been ringing on hold. "You've got this fiery spark thing going on. I wouldn't have seen it at first, but after talking to you for a time… Well, you're more than meets the eye, aren't you?"

"Thanks," Hermione said, frowning. She wasn't sure what else to say to that statement.

"I'll give you a week to consider. Follow me, please, and I'll get you that contract." Grindelwald waved her out, plucking the untouched coffee cup off the table and dropping it in the trash before going after her. Hermione looked around at the blue-suits weaving in and out of the fluorescent-lit hallway, her eyes narrowing infinitesimally, but Grindelwald noticed. He tried his utmost to come across as comforting – the hardened girl looked like she needed an ally.

Placing his hand on her shoulder, he said, "I should also mention that if you work with us, you'll be paid despite the volunteer job description. I'll gladly discuss just how much with you at another time."

Hermione nodded, eyes now not on the officers, but on his hand. He removed it awkwardly. "I'll keep that in mind," she said.

"Hermione, is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me," Hermione called back, dropping her messenger bag and shucking off her blue Converses. She carried a bag of cat litter and tuna cans inside, skirting past Mom where she sat watching teenage reality shows on TV and disintegrating into the couch cushions. Mom grunted in reply. Hermione half-wished that for once, she would say how was your day? or do you need help with that? But she'd learned a long time ago to let go of stupid fantasies.

"What's that?" Mom said, seeing the PETCO bag. Her sardonic smile was brittle. "More stuff for that Satan cat?"

"Crookshanks is not Satan's cat," Hermione growled. "He's mine."

Mom barked out a laugh, choking on it halfway through and sounding like a chain-smoker. Hermione rolled her eyes, mouthing exactly the same time Mom triumphantly exclaimed "Exactly!" It was a joke her mother told a thousand times, but she never seemed to remember that, so Hermione never failed to humor her.

However, Mom tired quickly of laughing and slumped back into the mold of herself she'd created in the couch. "Did you get any people food?" she said, changing the channel from Animal Planet to a wrestling show to two white women showing off the benefits of a chrome toaster oven. It didn't matter what was on though, Hermione knew no one was actually watching.

"Um, some pasta, tomato sauce, soup, granola bars, and Fruity Pebbles." Disgusting, but no matter how many cookbooks she read, Hermione couldn't make anything more advanced than boiled water. She started shoving said things into the cabinet. "Oh, and I got your favorite, Mint Cookie Crumble ice cream."

Mom hummed, caught up in whatever trash was on the television. "Yeah, whatever."

She didn't say anything more and started dinner after picking up the mess Mom somehow managed to make by solely sitting on the couch all day. She stirred the pasta mechanically, studying charts from Calculus II over the stove, and contemplating the alternative proposal Chief Grindelwald had offered her. She still hadn't signed his contract. What if something bad happened to her while she was at Azkaban? There were dangerous men in prison. Criminals. Murderers. Rapists.

And just who did Grindelwald want her to spy on? Because although he had said otherwise, they both knew what he really meant by keep tabs on the inmate. But why would he want a teenager to do what a FBI agent could do one hundred times better?

Hermione left the second plate of ziti in the microwave (if she left it on the counter, Crookshanks would devour it) and was about to carry hers to her bedroom when the front door suddenly groaned open, followed by an unpleasant, familiar deep voice booming through the apartment. Hermione gritted her teeth at the sound.

The loser had returned.

She closed her eyes, sighed, and put down the ziti. It was a Friday night, so maybe this didn't break the No Mundungus on School Nights rule,but she would much rather Mom dumped his sorry butt, so the rule could be No Mundungus on Any Nights. The guy was a creep and a total tool to boot, the only reason Mom was with him was because he supported her fix. No better way to keep yourself supplied, after all, than through your stupid drug dealer boyfriend.

The trouble was, drug dealers were the shadiest of all hustlers. All they wanted was money money money – and they didn't have any qualms about how they got it. Twice, Mundungus had already tried to do dealings in their apartment. He would've succeeded, too, if Hermione hadn't phoned the police and scared him off for almost an entire month. Mom hadn't spoken to her for weeks after that.

And now he's back. Whatever was left of Hermione's appetite completely disappeared at what she found swaggering into their living room. Mundungus, in his outdated 1990s blue jeans and clinking dog tags, was backed by a crowd of two other junkies dressed similarly. Hermione could tell they were junkies, because they both had the vacant eyes and stupid smiles of someone hooked on H – plus, the scruffy blonde with a bandana tied around his head and black eyeliner was already nodding off. The other junkie, a Hispanic woman who was so skinny her collarbones stuck out like shelves, seemed hostile.

"Jane, baby, you lookin' fine," Mundungus greeted with a sleazy smirk, plopping down on the couch and kissing Hermione's mother deeply. She saw their tongues twist in the air between them and wished dearly for a pick-axe.

God, she hated Mundungus.

"It's good to see you, too," Mom slurred when Mundungus pulled away. She once had candlelight-hazel eyes, but now the cloudy orbs were shrouded in weary lines and yellowed skin. Those dark eyes fell on the strangers standing in her living room with vague recognition. "Who's this, babe?"

"Some friends." Mundungus made himself comfortable and picked a nail, flicking what he found underneath it onto the floor. Hermione's temper sparked. She would be expected to clean that up later, not to mention the mess his crowd would leave after they left. Hell no, she thought, balling her fists.

"You can't deal in our house," Hermione snapped, coming forward. Mundungus looked up in surprise and Mom groaned, slinking down into the cushions like a teenager embarrassed by her overprotective parents. The irony of the situation was not missed by Hermione. "I'll call the cops again-" she started to threaten, but was cut off by the thunderous laughter of Mundungus's friends.

"Ooh, 'the cops'!" the blonde man squealed in a high-pitched voice, wriggling his fingers mockingly. He rolled his kohl-rimmed eyes at Mundungus. "Don't listen to this chic, G-Man, I bet you she wants some H too."

Hermione, knowing better than to communicate with any of the people she didn't know in the room, directed her retort at Mundungus. "Tell your losers to get out," she commanded. "Now."

It appeared everyone was too far gone to recognize an insult. Mom started to say, "Hermione, this is adult business…" But she cut her off with a disbelieving snort.

"You heard your mother," Mundungus said, grinning at her the way a wild dog might greet a kitten. He had five gold teeth that gleamed like doubloons against his dark skin, and despite what his horrendous fashion sense suggested, it was no secret Mundungus had serious dough. He ran with some sort of behind-the-scenes crime syndicate no one respectable knew about, which paid him excessively well for his dirty deeds. "Run off to your room, Hermione. Let us do our-" His fingers crept up her mother's thigh. "-adult business."

"I know the police chief," she threw out, her last ditch effort. At that, the other two junkies seemed to suddenly take her seriously, shooting subtle glances between their leader and the door. Mundungus rolled his eyes.

"Yeah right. And I'm BFFs with the president." He rolled his shoulders with a series of cracks, popping his neck. "Don't you worry, I'm not doing any business here tonight." He sniffed. "I take care of that shit elsewhere. I'm just here to see your beautiful mother."

Hermione's lips retracted from her teeth. "You're a scumbag who doesn't deserve the mold growing underneath the toilet."

His shaded eyes slid into slits. "I'd watch my mouth if I were you," he growled, half standing up, and ignoring Mom when she attempted to tug him back down beside her. "I've got connections, little girl, and even if I did want to sell something outta your house, what would you do about it?"

"I'd kick your ass."

The junkies cracked up. Mundungus's face colored with rage and he balled his fists, raising one and moving toward her with a violent creak from the couch as he leapt off of it. Hermione thought for a stunned moment that he was going to hit her, but then Mom cried, "Stop! Just stop and cut it OUT, damn it!" She grabbed her temples, groaning. "You're all giving me a headache."

Hermione gaped at her. "Mom, he's trying to-"

"Enough, Hermione." Mom reopened her eyes, glaring at her. "Go to your room."

"But you don't understand, he's using you and you're just letting him-"

"Hermione Jean." Mom's voice was unnaturally cold. Hermione stopped. "Go to your room. You're embarrassing me and I don't want to see your face anymore."

Furious and more hurt than she'd ever let on, Hermione hissed, "That's just because I look like Dad, and you're too- too weak to handle it." Mom's mouth opened – it was the most alive she'd looked in the past eight years, Hermione thought – and she screamed at her, but she didn't stay to hear it.

Hermione slammed the door to her bedroom shut and jammed the chair under the knob, in case anyone tried to get in later. She sat down on her twin bed, accidentally squashing Crookshanks' tail, who hissed and fled under the bed. She buried her face in her hands, sitting very still. One hot tear darted out of her eyes. She pressed the back of her fists into them until the rest went away and a blinding white pain filled her skull.

It's not fair.

Why did her life have to be like this? Why did Dad have to get shot? Why did Mom start stabbing needles into her arms and why did she love that loser in their living room? Why couldn't she make more money? Why did she have to commit crime to pull them through? Why did she feel so angry all of the time? Why, why, why?

A claw hooked in the back of her right sock distracted Hermione. She bent down, gently extracting Crookshanks from her foot and muttering "Sorry, Crook." He gave her a superlative look before licking her hand with his sandpaper tongue and shooting off into the hamper. At least, her bedroom was still clean. Mostly.

Hermione reached down for her messenger bag, then remembered she'd left it by the front door outside – as well as her ziti. She would have to go past Mundungus and his creeps again, if she wanted to get it. That figures. She sighed and laid back in bed, but sat up quickly when something ripped underneath her. Pulling it out, she found Grindelwald's contract, now torn down the side and wrinkled. Mom hadn't even realized it when she went to the police station last night.

Azkaban Prison, Staten Island. Three days and nine hours per week. Cash. Hermione found a pencil bag underneath her bed, yanked it open, and pulled the cap off of a pen with her teeth. Spitting it out, she found every line with a x, signing each with a flourish that left harsh marks on the back of the page.

When all was said and done, she dropped the rumpled contract into an orange envelope and punched a stamp on top. Pulling over her IKEA desk chair until it bumped against the wall, she stood on it and slowly cranked the single bedroom window open.

In the mid-1900s, their apartment had been a basement, a basement with very small windows set high up on the walls, and so while it was easy to shove the envelope through the slit-like gap perpendicular to the ceiling, it took Hermione a few tries before she could get herself up high enough to wriggle through the opening. Once she had, she rolled onto her back on the black asphalt of the alley, gasping in the smell of dumpsters and greasy food, looking up at the porches of a hundred more apartments dazed.

A dandelion wriggling through the broken rubble by her head had an ant crawling on one of its powdery yellow petals. Two spindly black antennas cycled toward her curiously. She hoisted herself up and crammed the envelope in her hoodie pocket, jumping up and down until all the grit had fallen off her back like a dirt shower.

A minute later, her envelope was in the mailbox.

That's it, she thought. I'm going to Azkaban.

AN: Thoughts. I know your brain produces them, and I demand you give them to me. Now!

Me want chyo brain. (And barefoot sandals.)

Kisses!
ImmortalObsession