This was supposed to be up yesterday, and then I come up with a chapter like this - I'm so sorry. Either way, I want to thank anyone who's reviewed/followed!

To the anon that said it took to long to find out it was Draco, and anyone else who might think so: Yes, to us, it wasn't a surprise - but it was a great surprise to Hermione, who had not expected such a thing at all.

Going into the rumours this week! Hope it's enjoyable.

Rumour has it he's killed old Albus Dumbledore, six years ago.

She was sure he hadn't. Harry had been there, had exclaimed it had been Snape, and she believed him. Yet he did have a role in all of it, and not a small one at that—what that made him, she wasn't quite sure of. She decided not to think about it too much, at least not now.

Rumour has it he was You-Know-Who's right hand.

Was he? After all the disgrace his family had gone through? After his father losing the prophecy and landing in Azkaban, and himself failing to kill Voldemort? She highly doubted it. Still, she knew better than to completely exclude the possibility. Who knew? Sometimes it were the most illogical suggestions that were the best.

Rumour has it he was planning on becoming a new Dark Lord.

But this could be excluded, couldn't it? This was above illogical, this was completely ridiculous. She thought of the little spoiled brat she'd met in her first year at Hogwarts, and the change she'd noticed in him during the sixth year and the few times she'd seen him during the war. He'd seemed so reluctant to do anything, almost scared. And that was supposed to become a new Dark Lord? She shook her head. He'd have to have played it very smartly if that was the case—because even if pretending to be scared and thereby undermining Voldemort's plans would have actually been the plan to destroy the Dark Lord (which she very much doubted, as only this could never have ended the man), why would anyone want to follow a new Dark Lord who didn't seem capable of doing anything remotely cruel? That didn't make any sense…

Only rumour had it that it had been Draco Malfoy who was the reason of Lucius Malfoy's eventual death, halfway during the war. Hermione hadn't heard of it until after the final battle, in which Narcissa Malfoy had lied to Voldemort about Harry so she could go back to the castle and search for the only member of her family left—her son. Of course, you didn't have to be a genius to know that people were saying it was all part of a plan. What that plan was supposed to be, however, no one seemed to know, only that it was one that conveyed previously mentioned rumours.

So many rumours, each more unconvincing (to her) than the other. She could confirm them for herself in an instant; the file had been lying on her desk for two hours now, but somehow she was reluctant to open it. What exactly she was afraid of, she couldn't say.

"Open it," she whispered to herself. "It's not that hard. You have the answers to all those questions right in front of you." But speaking to herself had never worked before, and it did not now.

And all of a sudden her body seemed to make a decision her mind had not yet reached, but instead of flipping open the file and starting to unfazed the mystery that was #907, she stood up and for the first time in her life did something out of bounds without a real purpose.

She entered block 12.

Hermione had never before been here on her own. It seemed all a lot colder now, and darker. She told herself she wasn't afraid. Do not look sideways into the cells. Keep in the middle of the corridor so they can't suddenly grab you. She'd heard a story about that once, someone who'd gone in alone as well, who'd been walking too closely to the cells. He'd been grabbed, pulled against the bars, and almost choked to death. (Whether this was true or just a story to scare her off, she would probably never know.)

No one grabbed her, however, even though she did see hands clutching the bars or the gleam of evil eyes from the corner of her eyes.

And then there it was, cell 46, and all of a sudden she had no idea why she'd come here. She stared at Malfoy's rigid back, still—or again—in the same place he had been the last time she'd seen him. She wondered what was on the wall that was so interesting to him. Projections of his thoughts, perhaps. She wondered what was happening inside his head.

"Good morning, Granger."

Hermione stared at the back of his head as if she was expecting two extra eyes to show. They didn't. She knew better than to ask how he knew it was her, though. When you worked down here, all questions you asked had to do with the convicted, and the reasons they were there.

'He doesn't respond to anyone', she heard Chris saying in her head.

"Good morning. How was your weekend?"

He didn't rise to the bait. To his credit, he didn't stay silent, either. "Oh, you know. I could add a few more x's to my count. Quite eventful."

She frowned, trying to figure out what he meant with that. "How many are there?"

He didn't answer. She had the feeling he was smirking, though she couldn't see. It was as if he wanted to taunt her. Yes, you would want to know that, wouldn't you? And she did. "Are you counting the days, Malfoy?" her voice suddenly came. She tried to imagine what he did with those days. Maybe he was actually doing the very same thing as all the others, only they crawled back physically as well as mentally, and he was keeping it all in his head. Or maybe he was brooding.

She needed to stop thinking. And she needed him to talk to her. "Till where will you count?"

Silence. She took it as a sign for her to have to figure it out herself. "Well, thank you for this… insightful conversation. I'll leave you now. I do believe you have… better things to do with your days."

Again that feeling, that idea that he was laughing at her, silently, secretly. As if he knew something that she didn't. Suddenly she understood why people felt so uncomfortable around him. In a way, he gave one the feeling that they were the prisoner, not him. Even behind bars, he had an air of being above everyone else. In some way, it was quite admirable. After all, all he could do actually was counting the days until he'd receive the Dementor's Kiss.

Hermione shuddered and tried not to think about it. Her mind effortlessly envisioned everything that she came up with, and even though this was something that just happened down here from time to time, she couldn't stand the vision.

She waited for a moment until she stepped away, half-hoping for him to say something, but he didn't. It was all a bit disappointing to her, yet at the same time bloody infuriating. She wanted to know, but at the same time she hadn't wanted to open the file yet, and for a long moment she wondered why. But the answer had been there all the time, even before she'd received the pile of paper. Because it was probably full of lies.

Either way, she knew her duties, and she knew the lies, especially, were important. She could figure out whether he was convicted for things that had actually happened, or not. She would fight for the knowledge as to why he hadn't fought his sentence more. She needed to understand, if this was all the case, simply why.

One question kept swirling through her head though: if she found out things were wrong… would she act on it?

Quietly, she went back to her office, all the while checking her way so she would encounter no co-workers who would ask difficult questions as to where she'd come from. It was time to stop being such an idiot and just read the damned file; she wouldn't get a useful word out of him, anyway, and the content should've been known to them two weeks ago.

She did meet Carter, though, who was entering the office right before her. He looked at her strangely, but for once in his life did not say anything, and she was grateful for it. But something was nagging her mind, and despite all the bullshit he exclaimed, Carter was the only one who would answer her questions about #907—she couldn't bear thinking about him as Draco Malfoy—in a way that he at least thought to be the truth.

"Say, James…"

He looked up, cocking an eyebrow, which told her he already knew what she was going to ask about. Well, she couldn't blame him, anyway.

"Well, you're in on all the… well, gossip, aren't you?"

He smirked. "Just get to the point, Granger. I've seen that file lying on your desk, and I'm pretty sure I know where you've just come from… What is it you want to know? If you'll believe me, anyway."

She did have quite the reputation of being sceptical; but then, she was the one mostly spitting through all those files, and it did require exactly that, as she was supposed to see the things that didn't quite fit. (She was sure someone went through the files after her as well, but that was during the weekend and she barely got to meet the employees who worked only then.)

As she opened her mouth to question him, however, she already had an idea of what his far-fetched answer was going to be; yet she wanted to try anyway. Maybe he'd say something sensible for once. "He's always in the same spot in his cell, isn't he?" she asked, slowly. "Was he like that when he was upstairs? Do you know why?"

"He's been like that ever since he arrived here, so I've heard," Carter whispered conspiratorially. "You want to know why, Granger? You want to know what they say?" He flashed her curious face a smirk and leaned further in. "It is said… he has no face."

He sat back in his chair, looking at her expectantly. He should've foreseen what happened next

Hermione laughed. Very loudly, at that. She couldn't help it. "So, what," she started, sniffing with laughter. "He just has a blank spot where his face should've been?"

But Carter, very unlike himself, seemed the very opposite of offended—his smirk grew, and his eyes shone in a way that would've made the Draco Malfoy she'd known in school fairly jealous. "Oh, no," he said quietly. "If only it were that."

And before she could even try to get an explanation out of him, he'd left the room, leaving his words hanging in the air with the desired effect:

She'd stopped laughing.

::

Draco was fuming inside. Of all people, Hermione Granger. Stupid, nosy bitch. He wondered if all that he'd done had been that bad, for karma to hate him so much. But she would regret it; she would be sorry to have ever chosen this profession, and even more to be the one to try and get him to do what no one else had successfully managed so far—speak.

Maybe if he stared at the wall long enough, his eyes would burn a hole in it. Only it would be no use, for he was underground anyway, and suffocating to death didn't really suit him.

So instead, he closed his eyes, and let the small smile creep back onto his face.

In his head, Draco Malfoy held lengthy conversations. People called it madness, but at least he wasn't clawing his own eyes out. He spoke of the past, and dreamt of things that seemed impossible, and sometimes he would forget that it was all not real.

"1281," he whispered into nothingness, and his body tensed.

He was Draco Malfoy, he was 22 years old, and if anything, he was not mad.

So... what do you think is true?