Disclaimer: If you recognize it from HP or another source, I don't own it, and I didn't intend plagiarism. If you recognized it from elsewhere in my story, congratulations, you've been paying attention. If you recognize it as a plot contradiction, message me and tell me so I can either explain or fix it. Enjoy!

September 02, 2018

Harry walked down the hall, his hands folded behind his back. He watched the students running towards classes, chattering, completely ignoring the prefects… He smiled to himself. Hogwarts was his safe haven, always had been. Now it was his to protect and control, to love forever.

He smiled as memories from his own school days returned to him. Pranks he'd played with Ron… confrontations with Malfoy… moments he'd shared with Ginny… even memories of Alana floated through his head this morning. They all melded together into one all-consuming contentment as he made his way through the halls of his beloved school.

Slowly, he walked down to the Slytherin common room. He stood before the expanse of blank wall, wondering for a moment if he wanted to enter her lair.

"Salazar," he said.

The wall slid back, revealing a set of stone stairs that led down into the Slytherin common room. It was dark, grim and hard, completely unlike the Gryffindor common room. It was a room that definitely fit the personalities of many Slytherins he'd known. But not her. It had always been easy to imagine her surrounded by the most luxurious furniture and accoutrements. She had always been one of the most elegant, aristocratic women he'd ever met.

He looked up to the fireplace and looked at the portrait hanging there… and there she was.

It was a portrait that Draco had had commissioned after their marriage, Harry dimly remembered. Professor McGonagall had told him that it hung in his study. It was strange, really, to think that they had both loved this version of the woman and not the face the rest of the world knew.

She sat straight-backed, not leaning against the back of the chair. That had been a trait of hers; her grandmother had trained her to be a perfect lady. Her raven-black hair was pulled back into a loose bun at the nape of her neck, a much more casual, messy hairstyle than she ever wore in public. Her black robes were simple, with long sleeves and a V-neck that revealed the heavy locket she'd worn, but absolutely elegant and luxurious. Her clear, fair-complected face was peaceful, thoughtful. One corner of Harry's mouth rose in a cheerless smile; the artist had captured not the woman the world knew, but the one Harry did, the one Draco did.

Her jade green eyes, her beautiful slanting cat-like eyes, met his gaze. Like all wizard portraits, her was animated, but, as in real life, her portrait was very still, moving only when it was warranted. She held Harry's gaze for a long moment… and then a small, secret smile that would make Mona Lisa proud graced her lovely mouth. She didn't speak; she didn't need to. Everything she needed to say was contained in the journal in Harry's quarters.

He let his gaze drop to the placard below the portrait of the woman he'd once loved.

Lady Alana Sinclair Montblanc Malfoy
Portait donated by Narcissa (Black) Malfoy

Sighing, he turned and walked out, blinking at how bright the hall was after the gloom of the Slytherin lair. He walked through the castle, avoiding going back to his office. He knew that the moment he went to his rooms, he would reach for the journal, would search for more, would devour the story Alana was laying out for him.

But finally, he could bear the suspense no longer. He returned to his rooms and sat in his armchair, reaching for the journal once more.

Five years. Five years in Azkaban. Five years of constantly reliving the worst moments of my life (I know, I know- what bad memories could the spoiled rich girl possibly have?). Five years of being forgotten.

The isolation didn't bother me. As a matter of fact, I welcomed it. After everything I'd done, all the pain I'd caused, I deserved to be locked away. Keeping me in Azkaban protected the world from the curse of me, Humanity's Bane.

Harry looked up from reading, a thoughtful look on his handsome face.

Alana had always hated her special abilities. She was a Star; she could grant wishes. And the man who held her heart could control her magic. She'd always been careful to guard her heart. She said nothing was so dangerous to humanity as the ability to dream and wish. That's why she called herself Humanity's Bane; she could be the catalyst for the destruction of mankind.

He looked back down at the journal, his mind creating images for him as he read on.

April 21, 2013

"Who are we going to see?" Hermione Weasley asked her superior, Alastor Moody, as she stood before his desk at the Ministry of Magic.

Moody had been called out of retirement immediately after Dumbledore's death. He had been reinstated as the Head of the Auror Department, and had personally trained Hogwarts' Golden Trio when they entered the Auror program.

Moody stretched out in his chair, easing his wooden leg out. His face was more scarred than ever, and he looked far older, but he had lost none of his genius.

He took his time answering Hermione's question; for a moment he just looked at her. Twenty six-year-old Hermione looked older than her years, but given everything she had seen, that was hardly surprising. Her bushy brown hair was pulled back off her face, her hazel eyes surrounded by the beginnings of age lines. Her pale, tired face hinted at her great strength; her eyes betrayed her fierce intelligent. Her work robes, were worn but not shabby, and her plain gold wedding band sat on her left hand proudly.

"Prisoner number 7318973," Moody replied, handing Hermione the prisoner's file.
"There's no name," she commented, flipping through the file.

Moody knew perfectly well that there was no name. He had been the one to obliterate the prisoner's name, all hints of the person's identity. 7318973 was a highly sensitive case. If Hermione and Ron couldn't extract the information the Ministry needed from this prisoner, it was very likely that Voldemort would never be overthrown.

"No, there's not. The prisoner's name was obliterated from all records upon admittance into Azkaban," he answered.
"What's the prisoner in for?" Hermione asked, suppressing a shudder.
"Several murder charges. But the most important- and the subject you need to get the prisoner talking about- is the accomplice to murder charge," Moody said. "Will you take it?"

Hermione nodded upon seeing the details of the charges, upon realizing who it was that she was being sent to talk to.

"Of course I will," she said, steely determination lacing her voice.

It was the least Hermione could do. She would much rather kill this prisoner, this person who had caused Harry's death. But no, she would go and get the information Moody needed. She owed it to Harry.

Prisoner number 7318973 was sitting on the chair in her cell, staring blankly at the wall. There were no windows in her cell, which suited her just fine. She spent most of her days sifting through her memories, anyway.

Five years. Five years she had been rotting in here. She amazed the guards who came in to check on her when they brought her her food. After five years, almost all of the prisoners who had come into Azkaban had long since gone insane, driven mad by being forced to constantly remember all of their worst moments. And though she had certainly been forced to relive her most painful memories, she was still as sane as she had been the day she was brought in. The guards were astounded by this, and compared her to Sirius Black, who after twelve years in the prison had still been sane.

But that sanity gave her no comfort. The charges against her still stood, and as far as she was concerned, they were true. She had certainly murdered plenty of Aurors, members of the Order, and Ministry officials since Voldemort took over. And she did consider it her fault that Harry Potter had been killed.

Several times during the past five years, she had dully wondered whether the Dark Lord would get her out of Azkaban. But then she would come back to her senses and would sink deeper into depression. In some sick way, she preferred Azkaban. Being locked in here kept her from being sent to deal death and pain to the rest of humanity. It kept her from hurting people she had once loved. And it gave her a chance to seek retribution, even though she knew absolution for her sins would never come.

Being forced to live was a better punishment for her than death. Death would have mercifully released her from the memories, the charges, the guilt, and her many secrets. But she had been condemned to life.

She didn't turn her head as her cell door was unlocked.

"Get up," the guard said, roughly but not rudely.
"Why?" she asked, no emotion in her voice.
"There are two Aurors here to see you," he replied.

He didn't touch her- he was probably afraid to- but it was clear that she had to obey him. What he would have done if she did not obey him, she didn't know, but she didn't press him. She stood and straightened her robes, then made a move to tidy up her hair. But she stopped herself; what did it matter what she looked like?

Automatically, her head lifted until her chin was parallel to the floor, a remnant of her aristocratic Pureblood upbringing. Her eyes sparked in challenge and defiance of the world. Her stride was long and secure as she followed the guard out of her cell.

Ron and Hermione Weasley stood in the interrogation room, not daring to look at the door or each other. Neither of them wanted to see her. Both of them knew that they had to see her, that for their own sakes they had to be the ones to question her. They needed closure, and this was probably their only chance to get it.

The door opened, and Alana Montblanc walked back into their lives. Ron watched her, five years' worth of anger and hatred boiling in his veins. But he couldn't help but compare the woman before him to the one he'd known five years ago, before she had been shut away from the world.

Her smooth, gliding walk was the same. Her entrance into a room still commanded one's attention. She wore her ragged prison uniform as if it were made of silk. Her outward demeanor was unchanged.

But she was so very different. Her skin was so pale as to be translucent, and she was absolutely skeletal. Her jade green eyes had once sparkled with a fierce intelligence, had once been commanding and arresting. Now, despite the sparkle, they were empty, dead. Hollow. She seemed to be an empty shell, a hollow covering. There was no personality or life left to her.

The indomitable will and fierce spirit of Alana Sinclair Montblanc had finally been broken.

She walked, without looking at either Ron or Hermione, to the table situated in the middle of the room. Without saying a word she lowered herself into the hard wooden chair, crossed her legs, and placed her clasped hands in her lap. She kept her head up, her gaze focused on the stone wall opposite her. The only light in the room came from a single harsh lightbulb that hung directly above her head, unrelentingly shining down on her and creating dramatic shadows in the hollows of her face. Still she didn't move or speak.

"Do you know why you're here?" Hermione finally asked.
Alana didn't look at Hermione as she answered in her low, well-articulated voice, "It's either because you need information, or you're going to kill me."
"While I'd like to take the second option," Ron said harshly, "we're here for information."
She didn't respond to Ron's first statement. "And you're talking to me because?"
"Because you're the only one who can help us," Hermione said.
"Don't lie, Hermione. You never were very good at it," Alana said, almost drawling the words.

Her speech had always been a little lazy, slow. She had always known that everyone would hang on her every word, that there was no need for her to rush.

"I'm sure you can get the information from anyone else," she said.
"No, this time we can't," Hermione said.
"So, what, I just give you the information? No recompense?" Alana asked.
"No, we can give you terms," Hermione said. "What do you want?"
"The Kiss," she said, evenly, quietly.

Hermione stared at Alana, stunned. Whatever she had been expecting, this obviously wasn't it.

"I want the Kiss," Alana repeated. "And then I want my body euthanized."
Ron shook his head. "It goes against your sentence. You're supposed to stay in Azkaban until your natural death."

Alana's expression didn't change, nor did her gaze shift from the wall. But her voice became sterner, the voice of a woman long accustomed to giving orders, and having those commands obeyed.

"If you don't get me the Kiss, I don't cooperate," she said.
Hermione put her hands on the table and leaned in. "Let me tell you what the Ministry had in mind. They were going to let you out. If you helped us, they'd acquit you of all charges, and you'd be free."
Alana still didn't look at Ron and Hermione, and she was still unnervingly still. "The Ministry must be desperate if they'd let a convicted murderer back out onto the streets."
"Then you don't deny your charges?" Ron asked.
"They're true," she said with no hint of emotion in her voice. "It didn't happen the way the courts thought it did. But they're true."

Hermione sighed; this was harder than she had expected. She had thought that Alana would be ecstatic to have a chance to get out. She had always hated being restricted. Yet here she sat, asking for death. Truly, she had changed.

"Don't you want to live, Alana?" Hermione asked.
Alana shook her head. "As long as I'm alive, I'm a threat to the human race. If I'm let out, I'll go back to the Dark Lord."
"That's what we want, Alana," Hermione said.

For the first time, Alana showed a bit of interest in what the Weasleys had to say. She turned her head to look at them, but didn't say anything.

"After you gave us the information we need, we were going to send you back to Voldemort as a double agent, if you agreed," Hermione continued. "If you helped us defeat Voldemort, you would have been free forever. You would've been put under probation and supervision, of course. But you'd have been free."
Alana's gaze went back to the wall opposite her, and she slowly shook her head. "What makes you think you can defeat the Dark Lord? Potter couldn't even do it. So much for your precious Chosen One."
"If you hadn't betrayed him, he wouldn't have failed," Ron said through clenched teeth, his temper rising.
"I did what I had to do," she said quietly.

Ron banged his hands on the table before Alana, snarling. She didn't move, didn't even bat an eyelash. But she did bring her icy, dead gaze up to meet Ron's flaming glare.

"Damnit, Alana!" he roared. "We wouldn't have handed you over. Harry never would have betrayed you! Why did you sell him out?"

Hermione laid a retraining hand on her husband's arm, though she agreed with everything he said. This wasn't what they had come here for. They couldn't risk offending Alana. They needed her if they were going to kill Voldemort.

But Alana didn't seem offended. She looked back at the wall. "It won't make a bit of difference," she said quietly.

Not answering Ron's heated question. She had never explained herself or her motives to anyone, and she didn't care to begin now.

"Nothing I do will change the past," she continued. "It won't change what I did. You'll both still hate me. I'll still hate myself. It won't bring him- it won't change anything."

Hermione threw a sharp glance at Alana. Her gaze had dropped to her hands, and she seemed to be fighting to not lose control at the phrase that Hermione was sure was meant to have been It won't bring him back. Alana stayed in this position for a few moments, but when she looked up she was as controlled as ever.

"All right," she said quietly. "I'll tell you what you want to know, I'll be your agent. I'll do whatever you need."

Hermione sighed in relief, but Alana cut off whatever it was that Hermione had meant to say.

"And when it's over, you will talk to the Minister or the Wizengamot or whoever you need to, and you'll get them to change my punishment. You'll get me the Kiss, and you'll have them euthanize me."
Hermione nodded. "All right, Alana. If that's what you really want."

It was a small price to pay. Besides, the world would be a better place if Alana Montblanc was given the Dementors' Kiss.

Author's Note

: Okay. I realize that Alana being sane after 5 years in Azkaban wouldn't really happen. I know that she would have been driven insane by the constant repetition of her worst memories. My only explanation for her sanity (such as it is) is that she kept herself sane by sheer willpower.

Additionally, I realize that it makes little sense to have a functioning Ministry of Magic and Auror Department if Voldemort is in control of the government. Explanation: it's a secret, rogue government; a warring faction, if you will. Kind of as if the Order of the Phoenix had taken over the government.