A/N: First off, thank you to those who tracked/favourited!
Bethan: Thanks you! I sort of forgot about the summary thing though, I used to write for another fandom where the characters did not yet have such a set history together so I tend to forget about it. I made up for it in this chapter though! As for how long it's been since the war, it's sort of implied in this sentence: "Hell, she'd looked horror in the face not three years ago, and she was still standing!" (But I do realise it isn't too clear.)
Tuesday brought a very distraught Night Watch, and even more paperwork than Monday, leaving Hermione no way to find out why (other than a particular number she knew of) the Watch had been so stressed. Hadn't the Watches seen the worst right after the war? The worst, who did no longer even seem human—the worst, Bellatrix Lestrange?
Hermione herself had been too busy for such things, but everything that she had had to work on in the aftermath had taken a toll on her. Almost three years of working and not doing anything actually for herself, and herself alone, was hard, not just on her, but everyone involved.
Sometimes she cursed herself for not going through Auror training with Harry and Ron, but to opt for what, in her position at the time, might have been the worst job possible.
Dementor's Queue.
But sometimes she realised that this was the first thing in a long time, the first time since Voldemort had returned, that she'd actually done for herself, without regarding anyone else's opinion, and she realised it had been the best choice she'd made in years. She was happy with it even though it had been the last straw to end her and Ron's relationship of three years—there'd been relatively little chemistry anyway, and with both of them working such different jobs on different times, there was no possibility of working out the relationship; they barely saw each other anymore, and when they did, either or both of them would be tired.
She missed Ron. Even though there was a lack of chemistry before they broke up, she still enjoyed spending time with him. She missed Harry, as well; even Ginny, whom she had never been as close to as to the boys. And sometimes, she missed the old life they connected her to, where they were the idiots that never listened to her and the ones who managed to loosen her up a bit.
She shook her head and bent over her paperwork once more. Never had she particularly disliked it—rather the opposite—but now, it meant she only had to wait longer to see #907. When the busiest times faded away a bit, she'd always do some rounds every evening before she went home; yet this was not such a period of time. It would forever be a mystery to Hermione why they couldn't just spread the work over the course of those months, but she'd just have to put up with it.
How she hated it now.
No one spoke of #907 anymore, at least not outright. She caught the dark looks the others sent each other, and the silent conversations that seemed to pass between them and that could have one subject only. Everyone except her seemed to know of him, even though they didn't know anything about him, and it annoyed her to no end. She was, after all, not particularly used to not knowing something. She hated it.
"Carter."
He looked up, looking like a deer caught in the headlights. She knew he'd expected her to ask him more, and that this was the reason he'd acted jumpy around her all day. She also knew he most certainly did not want to answer her questions, but he had to understand she couldn't be the only one in their department that didn't know anything—not even the biggest rumours—about the apparently most notorious prisoner in their block.
"You look like you've just seen a ghost," she commented lightly, gesturing for him to sit down. "Listen—I suppose you already know what I want to talk about, so it won't come as a surprise. But could you please…"
To her surprise, he nodded before she'd even finished her speech. "I get it." He averted his eyes. "It's my own fault, isn't it, for bringing it up in the first place."
She could not deny that, so she kept her silence.
"Okay." He tried to relax in the chair, but failed miserably. "So—So what do you want to know, exactly?"
"Everything." She folded her hands. "Anything. Just start with whatever comes up to you first." It didn't seem like a very good idea to push him any more than she already had.
Carter frowned. "The point is, there is no good point to begin with. I can't even remember how I first heard of him… It feels like he's been in Azkaban since forever, and everyone has just forgotten that he once had a life outside of the prison." His frown deepened at that, as if he hadn't considered it himself until this very moment. "That's the problem with society, isn't it? That's what we forget. That they're all humans." Then, he shuddered, and his face twisted into a scowl. "Still, it's like #907 is trying to do anything to make anyone forget that he is one."
Her thoughts flashed briefly in a direction that she immediately discarded again.
"Anyway—what was I saying? Right, it's like he's always been here. With the result that he seems like…" He trailed off, apparently now sure what exactly the prisoner seemed like. "It doesn't help that no one can find any information on him, either, of course."
"But what about the file?" Hermione butted in.
He raised an eyebrow. "Have you seen it yet?"
"Fine. Point taken. What else?"
"What else? What else." He shook his head. "I think we'd better talk after you've seen him, Granger. It would make it a lot easier… Although I don't think you'd feel the need to anymore."
Well, that hadn't taken her anywhere. "One thing, though," she said hurriedly as Carter stood up, ready to leave her office. "What exactly is it about him that scares everyone so much?"
He sighed and shook his head. "I'm afraid you'll have to see that for yourself. It's not—nothing in particular. He just… sends bad signals. It's not something to put your finger on, it's something you feel." With that, he walked out, leaving her feeling more sceptical than ever. Hermione had never been the girl to go with things she 'just felt', but exactly the one to want to pinpoint every single detail that bothered her.
It seemed she was up for quite a strange puzzle this time.
::
It wasn't before Friday that she first got the chance to know—well, at least something—and by then she wasn't so sure whether to be bursting with nerves, scared, or somewhat happy for the opportunity. She decided all of them would do.
The nerves settled deeper into her stomach as she waited for her other co-worker, Chris Bones (indeed distantly related to Susan, her former classmate), who also worked on weekdays only. She had to refrain herself from jumping from foot to foot, eager and anxious to get going. It was, however, the rule that they should not go alone, and Hermione had always been quite the stickler for rules. Besides, she could get killed if something went wrong—or lose her job.
Chris seemed the calm itself when he arrived, and it eased the nerves somewhat. Everything was probably completely exaggerated, in any case, as it always was with stories like this. True stories never were that interesting, and therefore needed the added details.
"Ready?" he asked.
"As always. You?"
"I'm never not ready," Chris answered, winking. She ignored that. Chris did not catch her interest in the slightest, and he knew that.
They set off.
She'd been in the block quite some times, logically following her job description, and most things seemed just as they always did. Most of the cells were occupied by people sitting in a corner as if trying to disappear into it, muttering incoherently to themselves, often probably a result of the Dementor that always preceded them. There were no longer Dementors stationed outside the cells each day, all day; but they needed their supply of human happiness. It was the one thing Hermione could not think of in regards to her job, which seemed strange as she was always going through files and reading the most horrible crimes.
She was used to it all, the cowering prisoners, and the quiet ones, she'd seen it every so often now. There were the worse cases—those who clawed at their own skins, trying to rip it open; or those with the terrifying screams. It had never stopped unnerving her, but at the same time, it was no longer surprising when it happened, and it did not scare her.
In any case, she had to do her best keeping her head on the job, to not look forward to the cell at the very end of the row. It was nervous anticipation, and she wasn't sure what to think of it.
It seemed to be getting colder with every step towards the end, although that might just be imagination. It probably was, she told herself. Nothing was wrong. The only thing different from usual, were the stories.
She swallowed.
Forty-six.
He was not muttering, nor screaming, and he was not clawing at himself. As it was, he didn't appear to be doing anything at all, not even breathing. He was standing in the back of the cell, facing the wall. Rigid, proud, even. She'd recognise it anywhere.
There was no way she could be afraid of him. She crossed her arms; staring defiantly at the back of his head as if he had eyes there. Still, the tension did not entirely leave her, and she wondered why. Maybe the stories had had their impact, or maybe it was—she didn't know, history maybe. All she knew was this would be quite the interesting puzzle.
"What are you doing here?"
He still did not move, or show any sign of recognising her voice. She didn't let it bother her too much. If anything, she was annoyed how the stories had gotten to her, and even more so at the extreme anti-climax they seemed to end in.
She raised an eyebrow at Chris, who mirrored this, as if to say, 'I didn't say anything'. As this was true, she returned her attention to the man inside the cell, who still hadn't moved an inch. The only thing indicating he was alive was the fact that he was standing up, for not even his shoulders seemed to move the tiniest of bits by his breathing. That (and that alone), was unnerving.
"Is he always like that?" she asked Chris, who shrugged.
"I haven't seen him in any other place than there since he's arrived. He's like a living statue—he doesn't appear to be drinking, or eating, or breathing for that matter—" That much she had noticed, "—and he doesn't respond to anything or anyone."
Hermione made a mental note of that, to think about later, when she was in her own quiet home. She knew she needed the time to fully comprehend this, and maybe then, she would realise that this was not an uninteresting development from the stories at all—rather, the exact opposite. For the fact remained that no one, not even herself, knew why he was here, of all places. Come to think of it—she couldn't remember his trial at all, although she was fairly sure it would have been all over the papers. That was what the Daily Prophet liked to do best, after all: to show that the Ministry did something that was deemed right by most of the population.
However, she was fairly sure that, would all the facts surface, it would not turn out to be so right. (Never mind that this probably wouldn't be seen that way by most people: she wasn't most people, and she had learnt, over time, to deal with facts, and facts only, and to keep any personal feelings aside in cases that involved the law, and breaking it.)
And then she realised that this might just be the most interesting case she'd ever had at hands. She realised that this was exactly the reason that she'd picked this job, out of everything. Hadn't she always said she wanted to make a change in the world? Wasn't that what she was doing all the time? She researched, she communicated, she relieved people from the worst fate the Wizarding World had to offer—the Dementor's Kiss—because despite some things that they might have done wrong, these were fates they did not deserve. And there was no way she would let her prejudice get in the way this time: If anything, it strengthened her resolve to find out exactly what was going on here.
She rubbed her temples, thinking of the amount of work that had to be done even without all this, and suddenly longed for her bed.
"Let's go," she murmured to Chris, who shot her a weird look, but then nodded. He had already turned away to leave, satisfied that there would be no peculiar things happening for now, but Hermione stayed in place for a little while longer. "You'll see me around… Draco."
The muscles around his shoulders tensed a little. It satisfied her immensely. Yes… Interesting indeed.
She turned on her heels and hurried after Chris.
A/N: I decided not to go for a long search of the identity of the prisoner, as this is after all a Dramione fic, and came to me as fairly obvious. (Therefore it is not the point of the fic and I'm afraid I'd screw up that way.)
Opinions are lovely.