Roses are red
Violets are blue
I don't own Harry Potter
This is sad, but true
My creativity seems to have been stretched by Chapter 10, so a massive thank you to my alpha/beta Littlered1992 who picked up the slack.
Although it had been refurbished after the war, Azkaban could not be described as anything other than hellish. The tall column of stone brick sat on a jagged rock in the middle of treacherous ocean, the sea often lapping up so much of the island it was difficult for guards to access it. The Dementors had not graced the halls since 1998, but the depressive air still hung about, invisible and suffocating.
Hermione had arrived in the cramped Warden's office via Portkey. It was a wooden room, panelled with stained oak. A rickety desk was squashed to one side in front of the only window. The grey sky outside allowed minimal sunlight to peep through, but the room was lit enough for Hermione to navigate her way to the door.
Outside, she found herself in a narrow tunnel which smelt like mould and stale urine. She wrinkled her nose and pulled her cloak tighter around her; the tunnel was also uninsulated. Slowly, she moved straight ahead until she found a door which would lead to the actual prison. A dim stairway led to the upper levels, where the prisoners were kept.
When she reached the landing, she checked the small piece of parchment she had received from Harry the night before. To find Narcissa Malfoy, she needed level eleven.
Magic was severely limited on the island, so Hermione had to walk up eleven flights of stairs before she reached the required corridor. She passed several Aurors on her way up, some arriving to take over from the night guards, and others leaving to get some much needed sleep. Harry had told her that there was a rotating roster to ensure no Auror had to spend too much time at the prison; even without the Dementors, the place was reported to be terrible for one's mental health.
She was standing in a long corridor, lined on either side with iron grills. Muffled noises rang through the heavy air; moaning, nonsensical rambling, and a low pitched whine that seemed to go on for too long to be completely human. A shiver ran up Hermione's spine as she took her first step into the darkness; it echoed off the musty walls and the moaning, rambling, and whining intensified.
Each cell had three solid walls of grey stone, no windows. The wall that faced the corridor was made from iron bars, affording the prisoners no privacy or warmth. The smell of primitive bathroom practices filled Hermione's nostrils and made her eyes water. She was breathing through her mouth in shallow bursts by the time she reached the end of the long hallway.
Hermione stopped in front of the last cell to the left. Squinting, she moved towards the bars and wrapped one hand around the cool metal. She pushed her face between the bars and looked around. A small moan was all that alerted her to the fact that this cell was in fact inhabited.
As her eyes adjusted to the dark, Hermione could see there was a thin rectangle of fabric in the far left corner; apparently, that's where the inhabitant of this cell slept. Opposite this, on the right hand side, was a small wash basin and toilet without a lid. Closer to the bars was a scattered mess of straw, giving Hermione the impression that she was in a poorly kept zoo rather than a prison for witches and wizards.
"Mrs Malfoy?" She whispered, her voice bouncing off the walls and down the entire corridor. Several other prisoners appeared to be shuffling in their small confines, if the rustling of straw and starchy fabric against brick was any indication.
Hermione licked her lips; they were beginning to tremble from the cold.
"Hello?"
"Dra-co?" The voice was low and hoarse, as if it hadn't been used in a very long time.
"N-no," Hermione's eyes flittered over the space, still unable to pinpoint where her charge was. "My name is Hermione Granger."
Though she was speaking softly, the words rang around the space as if she had shouted them. The noise that rose from neighbouring cells in response sounded like the inmates were rasping in tongues.
There was a noise like a rat running through a sewer, and then a hand latched around Hermione's ankle. She managed to suppress the squeal of fright that rose in her throat; instead, she gasped and reflexively stepped back.
At her feet, the tiny frame of a once beautiful woman half sat, half lay, on the cold concrete beneath them. Her once thick blonde hair had been butchered; Hermione couldn't describe the almost buzz cut as anything else; someone had hacked at the tresses until they'd drawn blood from sheer force. Dried patches of scarlet matter still clung to the roots.
Slowly, Hermione sank to the floor until she was crouching in front of the pathetic form of Narcissa Malfoy.
"Mrs Malfoy?" She asked again.
"Did you s-say…" the woman stopped to take a deep, rattling breath, "H-Hermione Gr-Granger?"
"Yes, Ma'am," Hermione nodded as she looked into the woman's face.
Her eyes were bloodshot and weepy. Her cheekbones stuck out prominently in her face, pale skin taut and translucent; she could have been made from wax. There was a nasty gash above her right eyebrow which was turning a foul shade of green. Hermione swallowed thickly as she tried and failed to count all of the cuts and bruises, starting from Narcissa's forehead, and disappearing down the neck of her flimsy prison robes.
"Merlin," Hermione whispered into the dark. Her breath appeared in front of her as a white mist; was it getting colder in here?
"Dr-Draco?"
"He's fine," Hermione snapped her attention back to Mrs Malfoy. "He was released in March."
The glassy eyes looked back, confused.
Of course, Hermione thought, like that would mean anything to a woman who probably couldn't tell you how long she'd been behind bars.
"Draco was released on the first of March," she explained. "Today is the fifteenth of April. He's been under house arrest for the past six weeks."
"Thank Merlin."
"Mrs Malfoy, I don't have a lot of time," Hermione glanced up towards the end of the corridor she had come from. She had to make sure she was back at the portkey before 8:55am; after risking so much to get here, it wouldn't do to be caught arriving late to work.
"I need to ask you some questions; questions about the Battle of Hogwarts. Do you remember the battle?"
Her question was met with silence. Hermione peered into the darkness, her eyes slowly adjusting. Narcissa seemed to have slumped over once more, and lay motionless at Hermione's feet.
"Mrs Malfoy," Hermione said. "This is very important; please, if you can, I need you to answer the question."
She tried to keep her tone neutral, but her words left her mouth through her teeth in a desperate whisper. Her hand clung to the cold iron bar for support and her heart was beating so loudly she wondered if that was the noise the other prisoners continued to react to.
"Of course I remember," Narcissa rasped, though she made no effort to move. Instead, she kept her face pressed against the floor littered sparsely with stale straw.
"Good," Hermione encouraged. "What do you remember?"
"I remember…" Narcissa paused for a long moment, until Hermione believed she has fallen asleep.
Before she could call Mrs Malfoy's name again, Narcissa continued.
"I remember Harry Potter coming to die," she said monotonously. "I remember the Dark Lord and Potter fighting; it was like a fireworks show. It wasn't a particularly long battle…"
The last sentence was said in a dreamy sort of voice, one that Luna Lovegood might use while speaking about Nargles.
"And then what happened?" Hermione prompted.
"He died," Narcissa whispered, her breath leaving her in a long, low rattle. "Well," she corrected, "at least, the Dark Lord thought he had."
Her voice was becoming stronger now, but she still had not moved from her position on the floor.
"The Dark Lord…asked me to check on him – Potter."
She was interrupted by a coughing fit, the sound of spittle and mucous hitting the concrete floor echoed around them and Hermione felt her stomach roll.
"He – " Narcissa gasped, "he was alive," she said hoarsely. "I knew it as soon as I looked at him…"
She once again paused as if she'd completely forgotten that Hermione was there, and that she had been in the middle of a story.
And once again, before Hermione could enquire as to whether or not Narcissa was still lucid, the battered woman continued as if she had never stopped.
"I asked him if Draco was alive…I needed to know if my boy – " Her breath hitched and dry sobs tore from her throat.
"Mrs Malfoy, with all due respect," Hermione whispered as low as she could. "I know this part of the story; Harry told me how you saved him, and that it was your lie that made our victory possible."
Narcissa continued to wheeze, her sobbing a culmination of crying noises and those akin to an asthma attack.
"What I need to know is what happened during that Final Battle; I'm not here to judge. If you fired a curse, I need to know. It's the only way I'll be able to help you…" Hermione paused and then added, "…and Draco."
Narcissa stopped crying at once. She raised her head and scrambled to force herself into a sitting position.
She leant heavily on her left wrist, her arm shaking as she half sat and half lay at an odd angle; it was all her strength would allow.
"I didn't fire anything at anybody," she sniffed, the sound echoing around the space and causing a few inmates to giggle insanely. "I didn't have a wand; nor did Lucius."
"You didn't have a wand?"
Narcissa didn't answer straight away, seemingly still entrenched in the memories of 1998.
"No," she whispered. "Lucius' had been destroyed, and I had given mine to Draco."
"Thank you, Mrs Malfoy." Hermione fought to control the swell of triumphant as it bubbled in her chest. "I have to go now, but I hope it won't be too long until we meet again."
Hermione stood to leave, but two small, scabbed hands reached through the bars surprisingly fast. They closed around the fabric of Hermione's blouse and held her in place as Narcissa Malfoy's face appeared between two metal bars.
Her eyes were wide and her chest heaved with obvious exertion, but her voice was controlled and the strongest she had sounded all morning.
"Miss Granger," she hissed. "Look after my boy. And tell him – " she swallowed thickly. "Don't tell him what I – what I've become…" she choked on the last word and then fell away, slumping with a thud back to the unforgiving concrete floor.
Hermione, slightly shaken, continued her ascent until she stood in front of the bars.
"I promise I'll protect your modesty, Mrs Malfoy." She whispered.
The sounds of the other prisoners, which she had allowed to fade into white noise during her desperation to get the information from Narcissa, now peppered the air with animalistic grunts and moans.
"Goodbye," she spared the blonde woman one last glance as the pitiful creature slithered back to the scrap of cloth in the far corner. Hermione then turned on her heel and hastening for the exit.
She took the descent quickly, the sounds of her footfalls cascading around her in clanging tones which mixed with the calls of underfed and mentally unhinged criminals.
The portkey was glowing as she arrived back in the dingy office, the Warden still nowhere to be seen.
She lunged for it in one movement, felt the hook behind her navel and was instantly tugged forward into a swirly nothingness, her mind reeling in much the same way after her visit with Narcissa Malfoy.
The small brick of plastic had arrived not by owl, but by an ordinary looking young man in a grey uniform. It was nestled inside a white box, taped shut with Muggle tape rather than magic, and at first Draco had assumed it was Blaise's idea of a joke.
When the brick had started shrieking like a metallic banshee, the blond confirmed that Blaise was playing a prank on him.
But then, in an attempt to silence the annoying contraption, Draco had pulled it from the box and flipped it open.
"Hello?" A familiar voice sounded from the device. "Draco? Are you there?"
It was at this point Draco dropped the thing with fright, effectively silencing it and sending chunks of plastic across the foyer floor.
Luckily, it was not difficult to put the cover back on. As soon as it was together, it began making that awful racket again. Draco copied his movements from before, and once again Blaise's voice, though more muffled than usual, could be heard from the foreign object.
"Hello?" Draco experimented, holding the thing up to his ear.
"Aha!" Blaise exulted. "Excellent, you got my gift."
"Yes," Draco said tentatively. "But what is it?"
"It's a mobile phone."
Draco could practically hear Blaise rolling his eyes.
"Oh."
"I figured, seeing as I won't be able to Floo regularly from Italy, I'd send you a little something so that we can keep in touch. It's a Muggle invention, but really quite ingenious."
"Hmm," Draco pulled the mobile phone away from his ear to look at it, but then Blaise was speaking again and he hastened to press it back against his ear.
"So how are things with Granger? Have you asked her about Narcissa yet?" His tone was jovial, with just a hint of accusation.
Draco cleared his throat. "Um…"
"Draco!" Blaise shouted and Draco winced, once again holding the phone away from him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"I don't know," the blond moaned, squeezing his eyes shut. "Every time I see her I just feel so angry; I just want to scream at her, Blaise and I don't even know why…"
Blaise snorted and Draco's eyes flew open. He began to pace around the foyer, the phone pressed hard to the side of his head.
"And you," he accused, "with your warning and all that bullshit! It's no wonder I can't seem to get my head straight when Granger enters the bloody room!"
Blaise chuckled and then sighed. "Draco, I did nothing but point out what was already going on in that painful head of yours."
"You – utterly – can't believe – " Draco spluttered.
"Look," Blaise said, his tone now firm, "you need to snap out of whatever funk you're in with Granger. She's your only way out of house arrest, and she's the only one who can help with Narcissa. Tell your dick to sit down and shut up, and talk to her like a normal human being."
"How do I do that?" The words were out of Draco's mouth before he could stop them, and he was suddenly very grateful for the mobile phone as it did not allow Blaise to see how red his cheeks had turned.
"Merlin above," Blaise tutted. "Like any other good looking girl who happens to be your only damn lifeline."
"Oh well thank you so much," Draco deadpanned. "What a load of help you are."
"Only to you, sugar lips," Blaise teased. "But seriously, just be polite. Ask her nicely, with a 'please?' at the end. Maybe make some tea – oh, I know!" Draco heard a muffled thud; Blaise had hit something solid as realisation dawned. "Take her to the library – and maybe invite her around outside of Ministry hours."
"That seems counter-intuitive Blaise, given your initial warning." Draco drawled.
Blaise made a noise of assent through his nose, but did not verbally agree.
"I have to get back to work now," there was a noise like shuffling papers and Draco winced as it rattled around inside his eardrum. "Next time we talk, I want to hear about how Granger's kicking arse with your mother's case, and that you're still a virgin. Capisce?"
"Well I can't promise the latter," Draco smirked, "but I promise Granger will be."
Blaise chortled at his joke.
"Ciao."
The phone beeped three times in quick succession, and Draco pulled it away from his ear to check the screen; Blaise had disconnected.
The blond rolled his eyes.
Prat, he thought to himself, there'll be no need to free my mother if he keeps this up; he's pretty much taken up the post himself.
He pushed that thought aside as soon as it aired; he'd never stop trying to free his mother, even if it was the last thing he did. Now all he needed to do was get Hermione Granger on side.
For real, this time, he thought as memories of wasted opportunities danced tauntingly in his mind.
He took the stairs two at a time, the phone still clutched in his hand. As he made his way to his office, he began constructing the letter in his head.
Dear Granger,
…
No, 'dear' was too intimate, it might give her the wrong idea. He'd always hated 'to' though – what an unnecessary waste of ink and parchment.
Just Granger, then?
Much better.
Granger,
I request you presence at the Manor…
It might once been the way he would invite a girl over, but 'requesting her presence' could be seen as a little forceful and a lot outdated.
Having finally made it to his study, he plopped down into his desk chair and pulled a piece of parchment towards him with a flourish. Draco licked his lips as he rustled in his top desk draw and retrieved an elegant eagle quill and emerald green ink.
By the time he had perfected the letter, his office looked as though a cyclone had ripped through it; crumbled up pieces of parchment littered his desk and the floor around it; scraps of it were spread like confetti amongst the larger balls, evidence of his frustration and subsequent tearing of several drafts into tiny pieces; ink was smeared across a stack of parchment to his left, still soaking through the pile and seeping slowly across his desk.
And Draco?
Well, the odd splotch of green ink could be seen here and there; on his hands, his cheek, and across the pocket of his button down shirt. But the determined smile now stretched across his face suggested that maybe an afternoon spent trying to pen the perfect invitation had not been a complete disaster after all.
On Thursday, Hermione once again visited Malfoy at the Manor. The encounter left her feeling confused and frustrated, on the verge of pulling her hair out and fantasising about strangling the blond wizard.
While she was not expecting a warm welcome from Draco, she had definitely not expected the awkward man who greeted her at the door and tripped over his words every time he opened his mouth.
The moods of Malfoy are giving me whiplash, she thought mirthlessly as she kicked her shoes off and headed to her bedroom; first she would dress down, and then she would set herself up on the couch with a tub of ice cream and reruns of old Muggle television shows.
Later that evening, several episodes in to a show she was embarrassed to voice the name of, Hermione was visited by a regal looking owl. She jumped as the bird tapped its beak against the window, frightening the brunette witch out of her chair.
"What in the world…?" she edged closer towards the window as the owl tapped smartly on the glass again and ruffled its feathers in an important sort of way.
Pulling her wand from where she had threaded it through the messy bun on top of her head, she waved it to open the window.
The owl swooped in and landed on the kitchen bench. It stuck out its leg and shook it once, as if suggesting it was in something of a hurry.
Hermione rolled her eyes and made her way towards it. She reached for the bird's leg and took the scroll. With one last wary glance at the owl, she read:
Granger,
I have a matter of the utmost importance I wish to discuss with you. It is not like me to ask for help, but I feel that I can trust you. In fact, you may be the only person I can confide in. Please meet me at the Manor this Saturday at 10am.
Sincerely,
Draco Malfoy
Hermione closed the scroll by letting go of the bottom and allowing it to spring back into a position.
I guess that explains Malfoy's odd behaviour today…she bit her lip and glanced back up at the owl.
"He wants a response, huh?" She queried.
The owl cocked its head to the side again.
"Figures," she muttered.
Grabbing a simple Muggle pen from the kitchen draw, Hermione scrawled on the back of the parchment and re-tied it to the owl's leg.
The bird spread its wings and soared back through the window and into the night as soon as the letter was secure.
Hermione watched it go, one hand on her hip.
Great, she thought to herself, what fresh hell has he prepared for me this time?