Chapter 6

The lift ascended past the many levels of Azkaban prison, creaking excessively. Hermione shivered at a particularly loud and jarring noise from the walls, but tried her best to hold her composure as she stood next to the guard. Everything felt claustrophobic about this place. The building specifically designed to make you want to be anywhere but there and Hermione most decisively did not want to be there. Thankfully the ministry had banned the use of dementors in the prison, but it was as if the gloom had seeped into the walls and permeated through the building. The lift groaned to a halt and she followed the guard out. There was another gate she had to walk through and she was checked for the third time that she definitely wasn't carrying a wand.

"Miss Granger, my name is Derilt I'm head guard on level seven." Derilt was a man of around forty years old, wearing the dark grey Azkaban guard uniform in a size too small for his protruding beer belly. Hermione assumed the guard didn't involve himself in a lot of skirmishes in the prison, and probably delegated his punishments to the younger guards. "As you know no magic is allowed on the premises and any casting of spells is prohibited. You signed a paper upon your arrival agreeing to these terms, correct?"

"Yes, sir." Derilt seemed to eye her for a minute as if he didn't believe or trust her.

"This isn't Gringotts bank, miss Granger. There will be no break-outs or fool-hardy half-thought out plans. Is that understood?"

Hermione pursed her lips. "Of course." Naturally that was being held against her. As if she were stupid enough to try to orchestrate a break-out of Azkaban prison.

"Good," Derilt said, picking up a baton from his guard post and walking ahead of her through the doors of level seven. "Visiting times are strict and there will be no extensions and no exceptions. You will stay at least six feet away from the prison cell and two guards will be present at all times." He stopped in front of a gate and waved to a guard on the other side. Derilt knocked on five bars in what seemed like a random order and whispered something to the guard on the other side. The guard, a dark skinned young man probably around Hermione's age, opened the gate.

"Good luck miss Granger," Derilt said, nodding to her. "I will be escorting you back after your visit." He then gestured for her to go through the gate.

Hermione only nodded and passed through, letting the dark skinned guard guide her through the maze of halls and cells. She couldn't see the occupants of the cells, but the further in the hall they went the stronger she could smell them. It seemed the prison guards didn't hire any cleaners because the floors were blotchy with grime and blood. Spiders and insects scuttled on the floor into nooks and crannies in the brick walls. The guard stopped by a door and knocked on it in a sequence. Another guard opened it, glanced at Hermione, nodded to the guard and gestured her through.

Walking down this new hallway where she could see the prisoners in their cells was uncomfortable for Hermione. As if she hadn't been nervous enough. As if the whole air to this prison wasn't suffocating on its own. She wondered if the prisoners got to bathe, and if they even got to use soaps. She glanced to the side at an elderly prisoner who sat on the floor staring at the opposite wall. He sat cross-legged with his arms stretched out rubbing the floor in front of him. He was muttering to himself and Hermione wondered how long the man had been in Azkaban and suspected he had been here while the dementors still roamed free. Hermione shivered at the thought and was glad at least for the fact that those creatures no longer lurked these halls.

The third cell from the back wall was Malfoy's. She halted her steps in front of the bars, keeping behind the painted white line on the floor indicating the six feet distance. Malfoy was standing in his cage and he reminded her of a dog, listening for sounds. When the clicking of her heels on the stone floor ceased, his head twitched as if to accommodate for the silence. He did not turn to look at her, but kept his gaze on the pathetic little cot in the corner. His cell was like everyone else's, the size reminding Hermione of her room at Grimmauld, except without the bars… and the… unpleasant bowl tucked under the bed. There was little else in the small space; a cot with a single blanket and a flat pillow, a sink and an empty food tray lying on the floor.

Hermione glanced at the guard standing in the corner and the other guard that stood at a small distance further up the hall, both with their hands clasped in front of them with stony gazes. They weren't watching her, but Hermione had the sense that her conversation wouldn't be very private.

"Malfoy?" She said, moving her gaze to his thin form inside the cell.

"Granger." He replied, his voice gruff.

Hermione swallowed around the lump in her throat. She had wrung her brain about how to approach him after what happened last time. She had decided on what to say, wrote it down like a script and memorised it. But now, facing him, it was as if it all disappeared to nothing. "I'm sorry," she blurted out. "I have…" she took a deep breath, realising she was about to admit to this not only in front of two prison guards and a bunch of prisoners, but to Draco fucking Malfoy of all people. "I have episodes sometimes. I can't control it. I'm sorry you got caught in the crossfire of that. But I'm trying to sort it out now. It was a misunderstanding and hopefully we can be back in interrogation room two by next week." She puffed out the last of her breath, glad to have gotten that all off her chest in a hurry.

"Okay," Malfoy said.

Hermione stared at him, having expected a lot more. But, she supposed, expecting anything from Malfoy might be a foolish endeavour. Up until now all his actions had been random and erratic, definitely not predictable.

"Right," she said, clearing her throat awkwardly. "That's what I wanted to say."

"Okay," he said again.

"Yes." Hermione rubbed her arm. Her green wooly coat felt itchy and she was doubting her choice of clothing for the visit. Perhaps it had been a conscious decision to wear green, to try to have Malfoy feel more at ease with the old Slytherin house colours, but Hermione wouldn't admit that to anyone if they asked. Sadly, the only green coat she owned was a wool one gifted to her by her aunt who meant well but didn't know about Hermione's intolerance to the fabric. So it had stayed in her closet and eventually found its way into a box at Grimmauld place. During a good hour of digging around in boxes Hermione had found it and hastily put it on before her departure.

"I've gotten some guidelines to prep for the psych eval, and I've written my own report that I'll hand in tomorrow," she said, wanting to fill the uncomfortable silence. She didn't want it to look like she wasn't prepared for the visit. She was a professional, or at least trying to be. "Should be all done and dusted by Friday next." She glanced at the guards before she carefully edged her toes to the white painted line, the tips of her sensible black heels grazing the paint. "Is there anything I can get you for our next meeting at the ministry? I noted you weren't much interested in stew."

Malfoy still hadn't moved or torn his gaze from the small cot. Hermione watched him for movements and wondered if he had turned to stone since she arrived. His hands seemed tense by his sides, although they were not clenched. His whole frame reminded her of the string of a bow being pulled taut, still but ready to strike in a sense, all he needed was an arrow. In the silence that followed she tried to remember what he had looked like back in school. She thought back to the haughty boy he had been, with his aristocratic nose turned up at the people around him, not worth his notice. His shoulders would have been pulled back, but he always seemed laid back despite it, as if the weight of his family name could never push him down. Until sixth year, when his frame had bent forward and the mischievous glint in his eye dwindled and turned into purple bags weighed down from sleepless nights.

"Do you sleep?" Hermione hadn't meant to voice her wonderings aloud, but it rang out loud and clear anyway. This seemed to jolt Malfoy a little, bringing a twitch to his fingers.

"Not really," he replied and his body slowly sunk to sit on the cot that creaked under his weight.

"Visiting hours are over!"

Hermione jumped at the sudden loud announcement. The dark skinned guard walked over to her and gestured for her to leave. Hermione took one last look at Malfoy's bent form, sitting on the sunken cot staring at the ground, and then walked back through the hall and gate to Derilt.

"Hope your visit was satisfactory," Derilt said with a drip of derision. "We won't have that one in here for long." He smirked and nodded to the dark skinned guard as if they were in on a joke.

"No," Hermione agreed. "He won't be."

When Hermione stepped over the threshold of 12 Grimmauld Place she wished for nothing more than a steaming cup of hot cocoa and to throw her green woolen coat in the fire. She settled on the former as the latter would be too messy to deal with. Azkaban prison was not a place she wished to frequent or ever go to again. Once through to the living room she shed her coat and threw it carelessly onto a sunken-in armchair and briskly walked to the kitchen. But her plans for a cup of cocoa were quickly snuffed out.

In her kitchen stood a man, his brown hair was cut short and neat leaving the back of his neck exposed. He wore expensive wizards clothes, a waistcoat and shirt, almost casual without a jacket or robes. The man turned round, moving a mug to his mouth - HER mug. He didn't seem at all surprised or fazed by her presence and merely leisurely sipped from her mug, eyeing her with an air of someone always at ease wherever they went.

"Good to see you again Granger," he said and it seemed to jolt Hermione's brain to work again.

"What on earth-" She shook her head. "Why…" She simply couldn't seem to fathom what was going on or how she should react. Was she supposed to pull out her wand and be scared for her safety? Or simply baffled that Theodore Nott was in her kitchen? "What are you doing in my kitchen?"

"Ahh, such lovely greetings," he said, taking another long sip. "I'm having tea, would you like some?"

Hermione opened her mouth but nothing came out except a childish: "That's my mug."

"So it is," Nott agreed. "Quite a lovely one as well. You have good taste."

"What is happening, did I fall down a rabbit hole without noticing?"

"Funny," he said, and actually gave a smile like he meant it, even if his tone of voice said otherwise. "Though I imagine it would be difficult to fall down into rabbit holes as they can be quite small."

"It's a muggle reference…" she said lamely.

"That would explain it."

"I found it!" Came Harry's voice from the stairs. "It was behind the boxes in that room on the second floor." Harry came into the kitchen holding a dark blue knitted scarf. "Oh Hermione," he said and she saw his cheeks redden. "I uhm… hi."

"Hi," she said cautiously. "Is that… Nott's?" She gestured to the scarf.

Harry cleared his throat. "Uhm n-"

"Yes actually," Nott said, cutting Harry off and taking the scarf away from him, deftly wrapping it around his exposed neck. "No need to compliment me for it, it was a gift." Nott seemed to give Harry a deliberate look while Harry refused to meet his gaze.

"So Hermione," Harry said quickly, absently rubbing at his forehead. "Can I talk to you?" He then strode across the kitchen, grabbed her arm and yanked her away into the living room before she even had time to answer.

"Harry James Potter explain yourself," she said once he had let go of her arm. He had started pacing, still rubbing his forehead near his scar. Hermione crossed her arms as her eyes followed his pacing form.

"It's not what it looks like," he started and then cringed. "Or… what does it look like?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know Harry, it looks like there is a stranger in our house, that you let in and seem familiar with?!" She rapidly waved her hands about. "He seems completely at home here as if he's been here multiple times. So you tell me what it looks like Harry Potter."

He winced. "Can you please not use my full name…"

"Harry."

He sighed. "Fine. I… This is hard for me okay? So, you know how Ginny and I split up two years ago?"

"Vividly," she said. It had been a big deal at the time. The tabloids had so much stuff to write about, slandering Harry one day and Ginny the next for whatever made-up reason sounded the most scandalous. Not to mention Ginny's absolute stony demeanor, denying any hurt feelings and saying she was fine and it had been a completely amicable break up when she was obviously not fine and eventually broke down after a particularly bad quidditch match in front of a talent scout that lost her a place with the Holy Head Harpies. Hermione had been there to comfort her friend as she finally opened up and cried and asked her why Harry didn't love her and she couldn't give her an answer.

"Right," he said with a painful wince. Hermione knew Harry had also had a bad downward spiral at the time of their breakup. Making a habit of staying up for days at a time, then crashing and having depressive episodes and maniacal rants about evil wizards waiting at the door. It was overall an awful time for all of them.

"The main reason I broke up with Ginny was that I didn't love her anymore, at least not in the way she loved me and wanted me to love her." He sighed. "I've felt guilty about this for a long time and I'm finally learning to forgive myself but I didn't know how to broach this subject with you or Ron…" He seemed terrified of the thought of having to tell Ron.

"Harry, you're my best friend, I'll support you no matter what you do. As long as it's not world domination or horcrux making."

He chuckled. "Thanks, I think." He stopped pacing and rubbing his forehead. Instead he ran a hand through his hair, tousling it even more than usual. Hermione could see the courage building up in him, always able to see it start in his fingertips and travel like lightning to his heart where his chest would swell with certainty before taking a great big stupid leap of courage. She loved that about Harry, how certain he could be and brave to stick with it.

"Hermione," he said. "I'm gay. Or at least, I think I am."

She blinked. Perhaps it wasn't exactly what she expected but then again, had she ever really thought about it before? She turned the scene from the kitchen around in her head again. "You're dating Nott?" She asked, her tone more confused than anything else.

"Wait, that's the first thing you say?" He chuckled. "God Hermione I was kind of expecting a reaction there." He shook his head. "But uhm, yeah I guess so? Although I wouldn't really call it dating." His hand went to rub the back of his neck, obviously uncomfortable with the conversation.

She nodded slowly. "Alright. Well, Harry uhm… I don't know what kind of reaction you want from me. I'm a little surprised, obviously since you know… actually now that I think about it every time you've talked about your previous relationships there's always been a slight tone in your voice, something off. Like when you talked about the kiss with Cho - and I get it, she was crying, that's weird and all, but still it's kissing you know? And- oh my god!" She covered her mouth. "Cedric Diggory invited you to take a bath with him! Did you-?"

Harry shook his head. "No, no, he didn't invite me he advised me for the task Hermione. I didn't have an illicit affair with Cedric."

"Oh, okay then." She shook that off. "Well yeah, I guess I'm happy for you. That you're figuring out what you want and all." She hesitated. "And Theo Nott is what you want?"

"Well," he said, shrugging. "Kinda, I guess. He seems so casual about it, you know? Like it's always been obvious and the right thing to do."

"Wow, that's a nice way to put it," Hermione ventured a small smile. Then she let out a breath, as if the heaviness in the conversation was finally off her shoulders and Harry's chest and something opened up between them again, like a new type of bond. "I'm glad you could tell me that Harry, even if you were sort of forced to share it."

"Yeah, sorry I couldn't uhm… that I didn't tell you about it. I don't really know what it is or what it means to me and-"

"Harry it's fine. I don't need to know everything that happens in your life you know. As long as you feel happy." She went in for a comforting trademark Harry Potter hug and it did not disappoint. All the stress and awful things she had been feeling from her morning's trip to Azkaban melted off her like snow in sunlight.

"I don't wish to intrude on this loving moment," Nott said as he walked into the room. "But I must take my leave. Potter, we still on?" Harry nodded, letting his arms fall from around Hermione. Nott turned his attention to her. "Heard you were on Malfoy's case."

She nodded, slightly wary. She had a vague recollection the two Slytherins had been friends in school, or at least amicable classmates. She knew their fathers had both been Death Eaters and loyal followers of You-know-who. However, she did not know whether Nott had the same inclination, but couldn't recall seeing a court file on the younger Nott now stood in her living room.

"You're his best shot at getting out," Nott said. "In my opinion, he couldn't be in more capable hands."

"Wow," Hermione breathed. "Thank you Nott, that's very kind."

"Don't mention it. Like really, don't, I don't need my impeccable reputation as an emotionless, witty aristocrat tarnished." Hermione glanced at Harry to see if Nott was being serious or sarcastic but it seemed Harry didn't know either. "Toodle-oo children." Nott waved and went out the door.

"Is he always uhm… like that?" Hermione tentatively ventured to ask.

"Yes," Harry said. "And if anything, more confusing than that most of the time." He then smiled. "It's grown on me."

Hermione laughed and pushed his shoulder. "I'm making some cocoa, you want some?"

Harry shook his head. "No I should get through the stack of paperwork on my desk. Head Auror is throwing every scrap of paper he can find at me and telling me to sort through it." He sighed. "When I could be doing more meaningful things with my time, like catching criminals."

Hermione gave him a sympathetic look as he bounded up the stairs. For a few seconds she stood still in the living room digesting all the information. Her eyes caught the green coat on the armchair and she wondered how the two of them, Harry and herself, had gotten so tangled up with Slytherins. It was a mystery. She let her mind wander as she made herself a cup of hot cocoa and walked up to her room. At her desk she pulled out the blue folder with Malfoy's information in it. Every week, and every session she added things into the folder, not only to keep track of things for the eventual trial but for her thesis as well. The report she had taken of the alleged guard assault from Draco's perspective wouldn't help much in court but it fit perfectly into her thesis. Hermione reached behind her for an empty piece of paper and started to write: Prejudice against prisoners grows so deep that the guards seem to take pleasure in creating punishable crimes and incidents within the confines of the prison walls. Their abuse of power is corrupt by their bias.

She sighed and set the pencil down, looking at the words on the page, dissatisfied as always with whatever she wrote down. She then turned the page over and wrote: Draco Malfoy, age 25, is a victim of prejudice wherein criminals (in this case Death Eaters) are looked at as less than human.

Again Hermione set the pencil down. She opened the blue folder to Malfoy's picture and absently watched his movements as the camera flashed. At the time of his arrest and subsequent mug shot he was well put together. The image had appeared in the local newspapers with slandering words like: Another Death Eater Jailed. The Malfoy line ends in Azkaban. Anything to discredit, to knock the so called noble-blooded line of Malfoy down off its pedestal. But to Hermione he was still just a boy of nineteen, arrested for crimes he was forced to commit by a psychopath living in his house. What would she have done differently were she in his shoes? That's the problem she had with the media, they were never sympathetic because sympathy didn't sell. The general public too would not be sympathetic to criminals and Death Eaters, no exceptions. But Hermione knew that everything wasn't so black and white, if only she could get the rest of the wizarding community to see it.

She flicked the blue folder closed, shoved her pathetic excuse for writing in a drawer and drank the last dregs of her hot chocolate. An owl tapped at her window. She let it through and saw that the letter was addressed to a Ms. Granger on a letter with a ministry seal on the back.

Ms Granger,

It has come to our attention that you, as a law student not yet graduated, have taken on the case of prisoner 8-4-7. This decision must go before committee before it can be accepted and is highly unorthodox. We do not take this indiscretion lightly. Report to the Ministry, sub-level 12, Wednesday the eleventh of July at 7am sharp.

Formally,

B. T. M.

Ministry of Magic

Auror offices and co.

Hermione read through the letter twice, then let it fall deftly to the desk as she felt numbness spread from her fingertips all the way up to her chest, encasing her heart in worry. "Fuck."

-Five weeks to trial-