O tempora, o mores!
Oh the times, oh the morals!
-Cicero, In Catilinam 1

--

It was three o' clock in the morning when all of the begging, pleading, politicking, and fruit baskets paid off. Ron and Hermione stood inside Azkaban, the release papers for the boy to be taken into their care clutched tightly in Hermione's hands. Technically, it was simply a transfer of his sentence - he was still a prisoner, but would be serving his term under the care of the compassionate Order instead of the coldhearted Ministry. Hermione fidgeted and hummed to herself, already mentally filling out the forms and doing the legal maneuvering to get him fully exonerated.

Ron was left there, rocking back and forth in boredom with his hands in his pockets as they waited. He finally voiced the question they both were thinking: "Where's Harry?"

"Outside, probably having another cigarette," Hermione conjectured correctly.

There was silence for a moment before Ron observed, "Isn't that his fifteenth tonight?"

"More like twentieth, I think." The silence grew increasingly awkward as they both became nervous, thinking of the way their friend had chosen to slowly kill himself. Hermione tried to justify it in a mutter: "I guess he's just a little jumpy here."

"Mmmn. Yeah."

The silence grew even more terrible and oppressive until it was finally broken by Harry rolling through the door, shaking himself off and glaring. He looked about as happy to be there as a long-tailed cat in a rocking chair factory's testing grounds. However, he simply locked his jaw and bore it, even if he was rather unhappy to be there. Hermione and Ron looked to him questioningly before he glared back at them and growled, "Let's get going."

It was barely half a corridor down before Harry was clawing in his jacket for another cigarette and a light.

Hermione lead the way, papers in hand and wand providing sufficient light. The strongest lumos spell seemed to be barely enough - not so much that its light was lacking but that the light seemed to be eaten by the very shadows it was combating. Right turn, left turn, after awhile they lost track. All Harry knew is it was just too long in such a place.

They knew they were nearly there when Hermione slowed down, shining the light into each cell. It was when she squeaked "Oh, God" and halted that they knew they had arrived. The lock rattled and shook as the cell squealed open. For a moment all they could really do was stare at the small boy sprawled on the floor - and not so much at him, but at all the blood. And then, very suddenly, they all silently started to work.

Hermione conjured a stretcher; Ron and Harry lifted the boy up onto it. It was a delicate operation as they were all aware that it was not a question of if he had broken bones, but which of his bones were broken. Hermione quickly crouched down and performed a cursory spell to staunch some of the bleeding. And with that, they were off - back to the Order, back to safety, back to peace.

And for some reason, Harry didn't light another cigarette on the way back.