A/N: I'm a bit later than I planned to be. Freya and Canimal distracted me *winks* I hope you're ready for this one. Teehee. Much love! xx-Kitten.
Jailbird Blues
By Kittenshift17
Chapter 6
She laid in her cot as darkness fell, ignoring the way Lestrange nagged her for hours to further detail the type of things she'd let Fred and George do to her. Ignoring the way Thorfinn continued to smirk at her across the row, watching her move about her cell as though he was just waiting for her to give in to the urge to crawl through the bars and join him in his cot. She also ignored the tingling, throbbing place between her legs that suggested doing so was a fabulous idea.
She laid in the darkness too, long after they'd been fed – a meal that consisted of hearty stew and stale bread for her and George after so long spent living on next to nothing, while the rest of the inmates were given roast beef and vegetables. Proudfoot had also given her a number of extra phials of potion with her dinner, telling her in a low voice that Madam Pomfrey had suggested she'd be needing them with every meal for the next few months to stabilize her menstrual cycle. Something the poor Auror had blushed through telling her, but endeavoured to pass on the message just the same.
At least, that's what the medi-witch had told the Auror about the potions. But Hermione recognised the pale pink glow of fertility potion to help boost her chances of falling pregnant and thus get her out of prison faster. She'd downed the sweet tasting concoction along with her meal and she'd been laying in her bed waiting for the guards to hand over and then waiting longer as they did their first round of checking to ensure all was well – as though any of them were actually likely to be about to get out of Azkaban unaided. Hermione had ignored the way Auror Savage had checked her out, obviously having been told by Entwhistle that she was willing to shag them too, if need be, in order to get out of this place faster.
After listening to Lestrange nag her and try to reach her through the bars in attempts to touch her all afternoon – not to mention being constantly watched by Rowle and Dolohov – she'd had been a little bit too cranky to bother with the handsome Auror. Hermione had ignored them all, whiling away the hours by subtly using her magic to better clean her cell and waiting for everyone to get bored of staring at her. Something she'd still been waiting for when the guards doused the lights for the evening, leaving them all in darkness and making it so that Hermione didn't have to see the way Antonin Dolohov had continued to stare at her all afternoon.
"Granger? You still awake?" Rabastan Lestrange asked from the cell beside hers.
"If I say no, will you stop talking, Lestrange?" Hermione asked, making a few of the other prisoners snort in amusement.
Even Lestrange chuckled at her words, obviously on his cot on the other side of the wall to where Hermione was curled in her own cot under the blankets.
"I'll shut up in a minute," he told her quietly, "Just to ask you something."
"What is it, Rabastan?" Hermione asked, staring at the ceiling and watching the vaguest flickering of the torches from the Aurors watch-station casting long dancing shadows on the stone of the prison.
"Given that potion I saw Proudfoot slip to you," he led off quietly, "I'm figuring that your plan for getting out of this place is the same plan my sister-in-law had for escaping. So my question is, if you manage it and one of us former Death Eaters is the one to... shall we say, assist you?... If it's one of us, what do you plan to do?"
"I'm not sure I understand the question," Hermione said, her brow furrowing slightly as she frowned.
"Well, Carrow might've been a cunt about it, but you have to know what you're in for in this hellhole with eleven men, love. Not to mention the guards too, if they feel like it. And I know what that potion was," Rabastan said quietly, "So let's say that something takes root and you can keep it up long enough to matter... What do you plan to do if it's mine? Or Rowle's? Or Dolohov's?"
Hermione realised he was asking her if she'd still go through with the pregnancy, should she manage to avoid miscarriage, if it was one of theirs.
"Why do you want to know?" Hermione asked, trying to figure him out.
"Well, you'd have to keep it if you wanted to avoid being locked back," he said quietly, "And I've got to tell you love, the idea of you getting out this place with my bastard and leaving me locked in here... it don't sit real well."
"You want to know if I'd come back and rescue the rest of you idiots as well?" Hermione said, realising what he was getting at, "What's the matter, Lestrange? Feeling fatherhood pangs?"
"No," he replied, "Just don't much like the idea of staying locked in this shit hole for the rest of my life without a witch around that I can fuck. I'm thinking that if you look like you're on your way out of here and you're going to leave the lot of us here, I'd probably be... compelled… to do something so that you've got to stay too."
A chill ran down her spine at the threat in his tone. He meant that if he had to stay here without a witch to shag, he'd do whatever he could to make sure she lost the baby so that she'd be forced to return to her cell alongside him and the rest of the inmates who intended to take advantage of her body.
"Not really a question, then, is it Lestrange?" Hermione said coldly, "You just want to threaten me again."
"Oh, it's a question, love," he assured her, "I want to know if you plan to let us all rot in this place when you get out, even if you're having one of our kids; or if I'm going to have to take steps to make sure you don't get out."
"Let me ask you something, Lestrange," Hermione retorted, her voice turning icy, "I can do wandless blood-magic despite not having had anything decent to eat in about a year and a half. How do you think you'll fare when I call in your blood debts and watch all your lifeblood spill across the cold prison floor?"
"I don't owe blood debts, little Mudblood," Lestrange retorted, "The only people I owed them to are all dead."
Hermione narrowed her eyes in annoyance.
"I can still take your life if you mess with me, Lestrange," she informed him.
"You won't have to if you're willing to get us all out of here."
"Because that would be such a safe environment for a child," she rolled her eyes to herself, "I can see the headline now: 'Pregnant witch pulls prison break. Lifers at large. All are armed and dangerous'. You think that if I actually managed to have a kid, I'd be a good mother if I were to go on the run for the likes of you?"
"You'd do it for you Order buddies," Lestrange argued.
"In a heartbeat," she confirmed, "But you see, they've bled for me. They'd die for me. What have you done for me, Lestrange? Other than threatened violence and backed the guy who murdered my best friend's entire family?"
"You told Malfoy you'd bust him out," Lestrange argued.
"Draco saved my life," Hermione retorted, "You, Rowle, Dolohov and Lucius all tried to end it in one way or another. And Carrow's a cunt."
"You do know what we'll do to you if you look like you'll be getting out of this place and leaving us behind, don't you, Granger?" Thorfinn Rowle's low voice asked from across the corridor.
"You do know what I'll do to you if you try, don't you, Rowle?" Hermione retorted.
"Better a quick death than rotting in this place forever," he retorted.
"Well, it's a pointless discussion anyway," Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes to herself, "The likelihood that I can fall pregnant at all, let alone carry to term, is extremely slim."
"What? Why?" Rowle asked, sounding slightly concerned at the idea.
"Take it up with Dolohov," Hermione replied.
"Me?" Dolohov asked, his voice scratchy as though he didn't use it to speak very often, "How would I know anything about your ability to be a mother?"
"You're the one responsible for taking that ability from me," Hermione said softly.
"You're barren?" Lestrange asked, his voice sounding closer and Hermione glanced sideways to see he'd sat up in his cot and was peering through the bars, his silhouette illuminated by the torchlight flickering in the guards watch-station.
"So much worse," Hermione replied coolly.
"Worse?" Rowle asked, "What do you mean worse? Antonin, what did you do?"
"I haven't done anything to the bloody witch since... oh," Dolohov's voice trailed off suddenly and Hermione heard his cot creak before he too sat up and peered at her through the bars and the darkness. The torchlight caught his face just so, and Hermione rather hated the way the stubble lining his sharp jaw and his direct gaze actually looked rather handsome as he frowned at her in concern.
"You're all threatening violence should I possibly get out of here, or should I not bother letting you lot shag me," Hermione chuckled bitterly in the dark, "You're all labouring under the delusion that anything you could possibly do to me would be worse than what I already endure every month."
"Every month?" Lestrange asked, "You're a werewolf."
"Don't be so fucking thick, Rabastan!" Draco Malfoy's drawling sneer came out of the darkness down the row, "What do women do every month when they don't fall pregnant?"
"Oh... Oh..." Lestrange said, and Hermione could almost hear the blush in his voice, "What's that have to do with Dolohov and whether we can threaten her into fucking us?"
"I'm beginning to see why Voldemort was so furious all the time," George spoke up dryly, "You're all fucking idiots."
"My curse still burns you, Solnyshko?" Dolohov asked her quietly, and if Hermione didn't know better, she'd swear he looked contrite and concerned for her wellbeing.
"I haven't been allowed to menstruate since a month after you cursed me, Dolohov," Hermione replied evenly, "The effects are... well, with time you'll all witness those effects in all their wretched detail."
"Why are you taking fertility potion then?" Lestrange wanted to know.
"Like I said, the likelihood of being able to fall pregnant or carry to term is slim. But it's a better alternative than sitting in this place for the rest of my life being repeatedly raped by you lot," Hermione said, "So it's a chance I'll have to take."
"And if it takes, Princess?" Rowle asked softly, "You going to walk out of here with my kid planted in you and let me rot?"
"He says, labouring under the delusion that he'll get the chance to knock me up," Hermione laughed again, trying to put her concerns over her ability to fall pregnant at all from her mind.
"I see how you look at me, Kitten," Rowle replied smugly, "You'll fuck me. I know it. And I wasn't kidding about you carrying on my bloodline, witch. If you're getting out of here, it's with my spawn festering inside your womb."
"A rather apt description for it if you're involved, Rowle. But, with luck, George will knock me up before you do," Hermione replied.
"That's cold, Princess. You'd rather ginger-haired rugrats instead of Viking descendants?"
Hermione chuckled.
"Viking this, Rowle," George spoke up before farting loudly.
A high pitched giggle of amusement tore from inside Hermione's chest at the rudeness, and she wasn't the only one laughing. Throughout the cell block, everyone chuckled at the break to the tension and the heavier conversation surrounding the idea of Hermione getting pregnant, carrying to term or being forced to miscarry by her less than pleased fellow prisoners
"You better watch yourself, Weasley," Rowle retorted though there was no heat in the threat, "Cheeky little shit. You haven't changed since school."
George stayed silent, but the disagreement in his silence was clear. Without Fred, he was completely changed.
"You coming over, Beautiful?" George asked instead of mentioning it.
"With all these gits still awake to listen in? I don't think so," Hermione scoffed.
"You do realise that with all of us intending to fuck you, it's hardly going to matter if we hear you, right Princess?" Thorfinn asked from across the row, "We'll all see you and hear you when you're riding each of our cocks? What's it matter if we hear you riding his too?"
"Still got those delusions then, Rowle?" Hermione laughed, "You'll have to forgive me if I don't jump at the chance to be eavesdropped on during my reconnection with the man I love after more than a year apart."
"How long did the three of you date anyway, Hermione?" Neville asked curiously, "I had no idea you were dating the twins."
"We didn't advertise it," Hermione replied, "But we got together at the end of fourth year and dated throughout most of fifth. When Fred and George bailed before their exams, things were rocky for a bit, what with the distance and me nearly being murdered – thanks for that, by the way Dolohov. Anyway with them not at school anymore and me being away most of the year, we agreed it would be better if we weren't exclusively dating. But we were still shagging whenever we saw each other right up and Harry, Ron and I fled Bill's wedding to hunt down the horcruxes."
"That's what you were doing that entire time?" Thorfinn asked from across the row, "You lot were hunting – I don't even really know what Horcruxes are."
Hermione opened her mouth to explain it to him, but Dolohov beat her to it.
"They're objects with pieces of a person's soul inside them," he explained, "The Dark Lord made a number of them – beginning when he was still at Hogwarts, I believe."
"Moaning Myrtle was used to create the first one," Hermione confirmed, "When Voldemort was at school he opened the Chamber of Secrets and set the Basilisk from the chamber on the muggleborns. Myrtle was the first to die. He used the murder to create a rip in his soul – which through a thoroughly disgusting process can be completely severed and removed from within the body to be stored somewhere else. It's the Darkest form of magic on record. He stored the piece inside the horcrux – the vessel to protect it – which happened to have been a diary. Lucius slipped it into Ginny's cauldron at Diagon Alley before our second year, Neville. She mistook it for a book that wrote back to her when she poured her then unrequited love for Harry and all her girlhood woes into its pages. With enough access to anyone holding the horcrux, the soul piece can grow stronger and eventually manifest by draining the life and magic from the host carrying it."
"But Harry destroyed that book in second year, didn't he? Seamus called, "Didn't he stab it with the fang of the Basilisk after slaying it?"
"He did," Hermione nodded, "It's what prevented Voldemort from returning then."
"Potter slayed a fucking Basilisk in his second year?" Lestrange asked, sounding shocked.
"Potter was fucking saint," Draco threw in snidely.
"Saved your butt a few times, Malfoy," Hermione reminded him.
"Nearly got me killed a bunch of times too," Draco retorted, "How many horcruxes were there in total, anyway?"
"Seven," Hermione replied, "The locket we stole from Umbridge at the Ministry when we impersonated Ministry workers to get it. The ring of Marvolo Gaunt – which, incidentally contained the Resurrection stone of the Deathly Hallows. Dumbledore destroyed that one, it's why his hand was cursed and withered in our sixth year. He was actually already dying when Snape took an Unbreakable Vow to protect you, Draco, from having to rip your soul by murdering him."
"Fucking Snape," Dolohov muttered, "That fucker was always slippery."
"Don't speak ill of the dead, Dolohov," Hermione chided, "It's bad manners. Anyway, there was also the Cup of Helga Hufflepuff – which was stored in the Lestrange vault Gringotts."
"That's why you lot busted in there?" Lestrange asked.
"Yes. I had to impersonate the bitch who tortured me to get it too, but we got it, in the end," Hermione sighed, "The fifth horcrux was the Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw which was hidden in the Room of Requirement at Hogwarts – we were in there after it when you, Draco, busted in with your goons nattering on about taking us to Voldemort and nearly got us all killed with the Fiendfyre."
"Sorry about that," Draco replied evenly, "Crabbe was a fucking idiot."
"You don't say?" Hermione snarked, rolling her eyes and making everyone laugh, "The sixth Horcux was Nagini."
"I knew there was something wrong with that fucking snake!" Dolohov exclaimed, "Too smart for any beast, that fucker."
"The final Horcrux was one Voldemort never intended to make," Hermione went on, "He only meant to have seven soul bits, including the piece still in his body before he went to Godric's Hollow and murdered the Potters. When the Killing curse he aimed at baby Harry rebounded from the protection shield Lily Potter had sacrificed her life for, his soul was so tattered and so broken that it split a final time, leaving a wraith part of him – the one that eventually was resurrected at the end of our fourth year, to flee. The other half of the split latched on to the only living thing still in the room. Harry. It's what caused his lightning bolt scar and it's why his scar pained him so much and how he could tap into visions of what Voldemort was doing."
"Is that why they both died in the Final Battle?" Neville asked, after everyone was silent for several long minutes.
"No," Hermione admitted, "When Harry went to Voldemort willingly and laid down his life to save the rest of us, Voldemort's spell destroyed the Horcrux piece instead of killing Harry. When they faced off in the final battle, they simply both struck with Killing curses and neither was quick enough with their shields."
Hermione felt tears well in her eyes at the memory of her best friend falling down dead – having so recently proved he wasn't dead at all – and she closed her eyes tightly on the pain she felt at the memory. Gods, she missed Harry right now. He'd likely be sitting in a cell alongside hers, but what she wouldn't give to have him alive and well to weigh in on matters. She'd gladly suffer out her sentence in this wretched place for the simple chance of Harry being alive.
"Well…" Thorfinn Rowle's voice came through the darkness over the sound of her soft sniffle, "That was fucking depressing. Anyone got a more cheerful story to tell before bed so we don't all have nightmares?"
In spite of the dull ache in her chest, Hermione snorted in amusement.
"That a yes, Princess?" Thorfinn asked, "Course, if you were willing to climb on out of that cell and into mine, I reckon no one would mind listening to you moan as they fell asleep while I fuck you. Or Weasley does, if you're still scared of my cock."
"We agreed that I didn't want you lot listening in on that," Hermione reminded him, "And that you were delusional if you think I'm shagging you."
"Have it your way then, Kitten," he told her quietly, "But if I wake up later, screaming in my sleep, you'll only have yourself to blame."
"The guilt-trip, Rowle, really?" Hermione sighed, "You really are reprehensible, do you know that?"
"You only think that 'cause it's working," Thorfinn replied knowingly.
Hermione hated him for being right. She hated the idea that they were all listening and likely would keep listening for as long as they could hold out on sleep just to be able to hear her. Even if she waited all night, there was no guarantee that they would all fall asleep. Her insides twisted uncomfortably. She wanted to escape her cell and go to George. She wanted to crawl into his familiar arms and breathe him in, to lose herself in his touch and completely let go of her pain and her anger, knowing he knew way to make her do so.
But she didn't at all want to listen to the catcalling, the jokes, the sneers or the suggestions she didn't doubt some of the Death Eaters – most likely Thorfinn, Lestrange and Carrow – would have to say on the matter.
"Whenever you're ready, Beautiful," George voice was low and intimate through the dark from across the walkway, obviously thinking he needed to reassure her that he didn't care if they had to fuck for an audience.
"The guards do another round at midnight," Kingsley warned quietly, "And then not another until dawn. If you wish to avoid being caught, you either need to go now and leave him when you are done. Or you need to wait until later when you are less likely to be caught and punished."
Hermione sighed to herself.
"Anyone have any idea what time it is?" Hermione asked.
"Just gone ten o'clock," Draco said quietly.
"How do you know?" Hermione asked curiously, frowning at his certainty.
"There's a clock on the wall in the watch-station," Draco replied, "I can see it from my cot if I lean at the right I angle."
"What do they do on their midnight round?" Hermione wanted to know.
"Make sure we're all still alive," Thorfinn replied, "Though Savage and Cunningham don't usually even both checking on us. Might tonight, with you here, Princess."
"Doubt it," Lestrange threw into the conversation, "They don't care if we scream ourselves hoarse at each other or if taunt her all night. They only have to make sure we're alive and still in the prison."
"In other words they're not likely to catch me, no matter where I go?" Hermine discerned, sitting up slowly and beginning to remove her outerwear until she sat in just her knickers and her thermal shirt. She even removed her sports bra before putting the shirt back on to fight against the chilled wind howling in off the North Sea far below the top of Azkaban's towering structure.
Nibbling her lip, Hermione climbed to her feet.
As much as she wanted to joined George in his cell, Hermione hoped that if she waited a little while longer, she would be able to avoid being eavesdropped on by everyone. Slipping between the bars of her cell, Hermione padded the length of the cellblock towards where the others had been taken earlier for their showers. There was a room at the end that she suspected was the washroom. Silent in the dark, Hermione listened to the sounds of the wizards around her as they breathed.
The idea that she could slip into the cell of whichever one struck her fancy intrigued her and scared her in equal measure.
Slipping past every cell, Hermione entered the washroom, wanting to get a feel for it. She didn't want the first time she'd see it to be when she was led in surrounded by three or more wizards who would likely be intent on raping her when the time next came that she would have to shower. She didn't like the idea of being naked in front of them all, or of having them force themselves on her.
Squinting in the dark, trying to see by just the limited moonlight peeking through the clouds and slanting through the bars on the windows in the washroom, Hermione realised that Rowle hadn't lied to her. It was nothing but a big open room with several showerheads and taps mounted along the walls. There were no benches, no racks, no sinks. Just shower heads along the wall. That, and a big expanse of floor that Hermione suspected she was likely to get to know rather intimately in her near future.
The idea made he shudder. It was bad enough conceding to the idea of shagging so many different wizards to begin with. It was bad enough that at this point, she wouldn't even care which one of them knocked her up if it meant that she would be able to carry the baby to term and get out of this wretched place. Lestrange had given her something else to think about too. If, by some miracle, she did fall pregnant, she would need to get out of prison before any of them could do anything to her that would prevent her from leaving. She didn't doubt that he was true to his word.
She also doubted very much that they would believe her – now that she'd been threatened – when she said she would come back for them once she was out. The entire thing was a mess. She would, of course, perform a prison-break and rescue her friends if there was no other way to free them. But she was thinking that if she got pregnant and managed to get free, she would be able to petition to the idea that their trials had been a farce.
Of course, that really only applied to her, Neville, Seamus and Kingsley. The rest of the men in this place had been Marked Death Eaters, all of them baring the wretched image upon their flesh that had so linked them to their Dark Lord. They belonged in here, except, perhaps, for Draco and Theo – both of whom had been pressured into the ranks by their fathers. The rest were killers. But then again, so was she.
Hermione tried to tell herself that it made a difference that she'd been fighting for good and they, for evil. That the lives she had taken meant less because of the allegiances of those she'd killed. And perhaps, had she been the one to murder Bellatrix or Voldemort, that might be so. Had those people she'd killed been as evil as Umbridge, she'd feel less guilt over killing them. But the fact was, she was as much as killer as the Death Eaters in the cells surrounding hers.
Sure, they had killed and hurt people that she cared about, but the same could be said by them about her. Did it matter so very much, now that they'd all been sentenced, that they had killed for their beliefs and she had killed for hers? Many of them had undoubtedly fought in the battle to defend their own lives as much to obey their Dark Lord. It wasn't inconceivable that some of their crimes could be forgiven just as she hoped to be forgiven for hers.
Frowning to herself, Hermione slinked back up the length of the corridor, counting the cells until she reached George's. She didn't want to accidentally climb in with Carrow or with Rowle by stopping too soon, or overshooting too far. Hermione could tell that George had been lying awake waiting for her when she slipped between the bars of his cell, and crossed to his cot.
In the moonlight through the window, Hermione could make out the way he laid stretched out on his back, his hands pillowed behind his head as he stared at her through the dim light.
"Hello, Beautiful," he whispered to her very softly when Hermione reached his bedside.
He peeled back the blankets covering his lanky frame with one hand, opening them wide and holding his arms out to receive her. Hermione didn't hesitate before crawling in on top of him, burying her face in his neck and sinking into the familiar feel of having him hold her so close. He crushed her to him tightly, pressing her close, holding her like she was the only anchor amid his sea of grief.
"Merlin, I've missed you," Hermione whispered against his neck, pressing soft kisses there as she tunnelled her hands around his shoulders, holding him in return as best she could.
The shuddering sigh that escaped George spoke louder than anything he could have said in that moment. He clutched her to him even tighter and Hermione felt tears fill her eyes, overflowing to trickle down her cheeks as she held him to her so close, as though hoping that if he pressed her to him tightly enough, she could fill the place in his heart that she already occupied and would spill over into the hole left by Fred's absence.
She didn't know how long she laid there with him, simply holding him to her and being held in return. Everyone else on the cellblock was silent until finally the soft snoring of some – and the not-so-soft snoring of others made itself known.
"Beautiful, I'm not sure I'm up to full-out sex," George murmured in her ear very softly, "I feel like I can barely breathe without pain."
"Do you need me to move?" Hermione asked just as softly.
"No," he replied, "But I know I need to knock you up as soon as possible."
"You won't be able to until my cycle regulates again anyway," Hermione whispered to him, shaking her head, "Anything we do before then will simply be for the sake of closeness and physical satiation."
"Closeness, eh?" he asked, his voice tight, "How close will you let me get, Beautiful?"
"How close do you want to be?" Hermione asked, lifting her head from his neck to peer into his eyes through the sim moonlight filtering through the bars of his cell.
Tilting his head until his lips brushed hers, Hermione's heart clenched inside her chest until she was sure it was shattering once more when George spoke.
"I want to climb so deep inside you that I lose myself… so that I can't feel this pain anymore."
