Antonin Dolohov was lying rigidly, flat on the permanently damp cot at the far side of the cell. His body was completely straight, his eyes staring at the outside wall, imagining there was a window. Not that it would have made much difference, stone grey wall or characterless grey vista. He focused his mind on work through his exercises. My name is Antonin Alexei Dolohov; I was born in Sochi in 1956, I moved to Britain in 1961, I was put here in 1982. My name is Antonin Alexi Dolohov…

He did what he could to keep his mind active, and given his lack of resources, the task was not an easy one. The absence of a window made it more problematic; he couldn't determine the duration of days without the passing of light, making it nearly impossible to set a routine that would save his mind and body. Antonin often wondered if that had been an intentional design component of the cursed rock, or perhaps purely a happy coincidence. He flexed his fingers, not moving his gaze from the offending wall. The world around him was quiet, not silent; it was never silent. Though he had largely managed to block out most of the cries over the years, whether they were coloured by anguish, madness, fury or even death. It was years now, wasn't it? Being able to impede the noise from the other inmates had been his first project when he was put in the cell. If he was to die there, he didn't want some unknown wretch's mania to be the soundtrack.

Seconds, minutes or maybe even hours later, Antonin thought he heard a noise. A new noise. New noises were hard to come by, and he strained to hold on to the sound long enough to identify it. To his immense frustration, the perplexing vibration slipped through his mind like water, and he blinked, cursing his deterioration before resuming his staring at the imaginary window. A while later he heard a noise again. The same noise. It was louder, closer? It was a bang, a loud bang; it sounded like? Antonin tried hard to think, squeezing his eyes shut, in an attempt to force himself from his mental lethargy. It was something banging against stone, like an explosion?! He fought the urge to jump up and investigate further, there was little he could ascertain from the cell, and you don't want to hope, the voices taunted. After debating it in silence, Antonin allowed his head to rise from the cot, but he would go no further.

After the first two crashes had broken Antonin was conscious there were more. The sound like popcorn cooking, the pops and the roars started off few and far between and then suddenly seemed practically constant.

Indecision over, Antonin moved and slumped against the door to the cell. Pulling up his knees to his chest and dropping his head onto them, his fingers scraping harshly against his scalp. It wasn't long before another of his senses was assaulted. He could smell smoke, was this happening? Or was this just his psyche finally submitting to cold, deprivation and futility? His desperate tugging at the roots of his hair was paused by a loud crash, the loudest one he had heard yet. Antonin removed his head from its resting place on his knees and looked up. His vision was completely blurred. Smoke filled the tiny cell, grey clouds billowing up in every direction. He shivered, suddenly aware of a drop in temperature, that before that moment he would not have thought possible. Antonin tried to focus, but his senses were too jumbled. He closed his eyes and reopened them, but it made no difference to the scene in front of him. He moved away from the chaos until his back was pressed against a wall, where he sat, perfectly still, and started repeating his exercises again to calm himself; I am Antonin...

When, finally, there had been several minutes of uninterrupted silence, Antonin risked raising his head again. The smoke had started to clear and there, on the outside wall, was a considerable hole, blown into the brickwork. Antonin unconsciously walked towards it, briefly he considered the possibility that he'd had a burst of accidental magic, for the first time in over thirty years, reasoning it could have been an involuntary surge, acting on his forceful desire to have a window. He scoffed derisively at his delusion; his magic would barely be strong enough to cast a lumos at present, accidental or not. As he was lost in thought, regarding the wall carefully, another sudden blast rung through the cell. Antonin instinctively scrambled back towards the door, away from the harsh sound. When the smog lifted this time, the hole was much bigger. In fact, 'hole' was no longer the right word, almost half the cell wall was gone. He ventured forward, tentatively, fearing another explosion, with every step he could feel more of the wind and rain that was attacking the cursed island, lash against his form, his meagre Azkaban robes doing nothing to shield him from the savagery of the elements. Antonin didn't mind; every step made him more confident that he was not insane, more sure that this was happening.

Falteringly, Antonin pushed one arm through what was now the side of the building; the wind was so strong it pressed against his arm, making it difficult for him to hold out straight. As the rainwater coated his hand he snapped the limb back intuitively, as if it were flames that licked his skin. Antonin held his hand in front of his face and watched, mesmerised, as water rolled down his grime covered fingers. He advanced further, out onto one the stone ledges that wrapped around the prison and raised his head to the heavens. That was when he saw it, the green spectral skull with a cruel serpent twisting into its mouth. He could taste freedom for the first time in... No idea?

Antonin looked back across the water and his eyes crinkled as his lips tugged into a very faint smile.

One minute Antonin was staring across the abyss of the North Sea, and the next he was standing on the grounds of Malfoy Manor. He would have been hard-pressed to indicate which was a more depressing site. After being side-along apparated to the ornate gates in the dead of night, he was met by a scrawny wizard he didn't recognise and led down the ridiculously long driveway into the manor itself. The other wizard did not try to speak to him, Antonin was sure that even after all this time, his reputation as a man that did not appreciate small talk had preceded him. Once inside he was directed to a room, and opening the door the wizard spoke for the first time. "This will be your suite for the duration of your stay, clothes have been provided, and the elves will be bringing up food shortly," he hurried out, without making eye contact, his hasty steps giving away some of his discomfort.

Antonin moved into the room cautiously, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer amount of space around him. Although he was sure the room was modest by Malfoy standards, the intense green of the walls and the crisp white of the bed sheets was staggering. He felt like he was going into sensory overload. Slow and steady. He breathed in deeply through his nose and willed himself to concentrate on one decision at a time. Antonin opted to move into the bathroom, and once inside the soft sea foam walls, that were reflected in the pristine white suite he was even more aware of his filthy state.

An ornate mirror hung above the sink, on the other side of the room, but for dozens of reasons, he did his best to avoid it at all costs. Instead, he reached into the shower to turn it on, letting it heat up while he removed his clothes, he had no desire to feel cold water ever again. Antonin stripped the thin robes from his form, so old and tarnished they were virtually disintegrating, and after waiting a little longer, just to be sure, he stepped into the confines of the shower, feeling instantly more comfortable with the closeness of the walls and stood forward to allow the jets to hit his body.

It took a while of standing under the cascade before the muck on his body started to shift, the grime having formed determined layers through years of neglect. Minutes later the water was still running brown, but Antonin was able to get a clearer view of his body. He dropped his hands to his stomach and hips and pinched questioningly, he was slimmer than he should have been and his muscle mass was low. Not that he had ever been a big man, he was tall, standing around 6' 2'', and he had a rapid metabolism, so food burnt off quickly, something that hadn't helped him survive while in Azkaban. There had not been a lot of food, and what there had been was of poor nutritional quality.

Antonin continued to run his hand over his body, twisting himself appraisingly. His limbs all seemed ok. Raising his hands to his face he could feel his beard was full, considering he needed to shave daily when he was going without it, he wasn't surprised. His hair had been charmed when he entered Azkaban, not to stop it growing entirely, but the spell suppressed its growth, not letting it fall below his shoulders. He had thought it was a strange care to take when he was 'processed', but after a long time staring at the walls with nothing else to think on Antonin speculated it was so it wouldn't grow long enough to enable a person to strangle themselves with.

Body inspection over he knew he had to do the same for his mind. Understanding his environment was imperative for survival, now, more so than ever, and that started by having a full comprehension of his own mental wellbeing, or lack thereof. Antonin leant forward, pushing his hands against the water warmed tiles, and splaying his fingers, fixating on the jets blasting into his overgrown hair. He hadn't tried reaching into his mind the entire time he was in the cell. Not having wanted to find anything missing, or to face the possible reality of losing his sanity. Antonin ran through exercises he had learnt when he began Occlumency training, consulting stored memories and his recollections of people and events. He didn't find anything that would give him pause, he still felt balanced, but the real test would be when he had to function.

After over an hour of nonstop scrubbing, Antonin removed himself from the shower, and finally faced the mirror, to be met with a face that was horribly altered. Antonin couldn't tell if it was the ravages of time, his incarceration, or both, that had affected his skin so harshly. He found everything he needed for shaving on the side of the sink and swiftly removed his beard entirely. It was unusual for him, typically preferring to leave a light smattering of hair, similar to two days growth lining his face, but to be able to feel his skin at that moment was like an unimaginable luxury. He chanced another look in the mirror, and there was a little improvement, but his hair was a mess, falling in dark waves down to his shoulders, emphasising the pallor of his skin and his sunken face.

Sick of his reflection he moved into the bedroom, heading to the wardrobe in his towel. He found a set of simple black robes and forced his fingers to remember the movements required to do up a shirt. He noticed that the robes were a size smaller than he would have brought, but they still hung loosely off his frame. Yet even lax the clothes felt too close, after years of only being attired in the slim rags of the prison. Antonin was beginning to grow frustrated with himself; they were just clothes, he couldn't believe he was so bloody sensitive. He walked over to the dresser towards a familiar looking box lying on the surface, opening it he smiled instinctively. Inside the ornately carved, dark wooden box was a wand, but not just any wand, his wand. His hand reached to grab it, and immediately his magic thrummed under the surface of his skin in response. Antonin had no idea how this was here, innocuously lying on the gold silk inlay of the box he had been gifted by his grandfather before they moved to England. Antonin had thought it would have been snapped after his arrest. Another question to add to his ever growing list.

A knock at the door made Antonin freeze before shaking it off, palming his newly returned weapon. He opened the door carefully to be greeted by a tall witch, with soft red hair that was tied away from her face in a loose pony. Her light green robes hung almost as loose as his own did, obscuring her body entirely. She was stunning, he observed blankly, scanning her alabaster skin, with a smattering of freckles across the tops of her cheeks, he tried to remember the last time he was in a room, a bedroom, alone with a pretty witch. "I'm here perform any hair charms you might require," she stated dully, her eyes staring straight ahead. Antonin regarded her carefully, he wasn't that happy with the idea of a stranger pointing a wand at his head, but eventually, he obliged, opening the door wider in silent invitation and she directed him to sit down in a chair in the centre of the room.

He expected questions but she was wordless, so he watched her cautiously, from the corner of his eye, wand clutched firmly in his hand. She waved her wand three or four times, and Antonin felt his head get lighter. "All done," she finished in the same blank tone before conjuring a mirror and holding it up before him. It was the way he normally had his hair it cut, keeping it relatively long, stopping around the bottom of his ears, the natural waves always made it look silly short, but how had she known? Antonin looked at her askance. "They provided us photos from before," she explained, before aiming several cleaning charms at the carpet and then at his robes. He thought about asking her another question but then he noticed a familiar glint in her eye, she had been imperiused, suddenly the whole encounter made a lot more sense. It explained her ease at being in the room with an infamous Death Eater and her muted state.

Once the cursed witch left, Antonin sank into a comfortable looking chair in the corner of the room and attempted to adjust to the feeling of seat cushioning. Simple food had been laid out on an adjacent table, and he knew he should try to eat something. What he really wanted was to get in the bed, the straightforward act of having a shower had left him completely depleted. But he couldn't give into lethargy, not yet, he needed to find out what was going on. He resolved to let himself have ten minutes in the chair before he would go in search of answers. Just as he let his head rest back, the door began to open. Only this time Antonin didn't jump or palm his wand. There were very few people that would walk into his room without at least knocking, most would wait for express permission. With both of his parents dead, and the Dark Lord being an unlikely visitor he was not at all surprised when he saw Reuben Yaxley taking up the open door frame. "Something you need Yax?" Antonin rasped out; he didn't recognise his voice, which was unsurprising, as he couldn't remember the last time he had used it.

"Oh, how I have missed you, the King of the understatement," Reuben drawled, stepping into the room and shutting the door behind him. Antonin managed a faint smirk and waved his hand in front of the chair next to his in unnecessary invitation. Yaxley walked up to him and placed one of his large hands on either side of Antonin's face. "It's good to see you brother," he said, his voice holding a sincerity that the man used very rarely.

Antonin put his hands on Yaxley's shoulders in turn. "It's good to see you too." Yaxley had been right; he was downplaying it, it was more than good to see him, in many ways it was positively miraculous.

Yaxley dropped from his great height into the offered chair, a momentary spasm flittering across his face displaying his own issues with comfort. "Well, let me be the first to say you look like shit" he laughed out.

"You to Yax, you too," Antonin replied dryly.

It wasn't true, though, well, at least not in Yaxley's case. His friend looked aged, and a little too thin but he was still an attractive man. He'd obviously already had a visit from the cursed witch, as his hair was tidy, though it was long, longer than Antonin's, and darker, almost black in shade. His face was pale but that was fairly typical for him. He stood slightly taller than Antonin and was more broad, a physical difference that had existed since they were young.

"How long before we don't look so," Yaxley questioned, looking for the right expression.

"Hollow?" Antonin supplied, the memory of his reflection taunting him slightly.

"Yeah, I suppose, that's a good a word as any."

"I have no idea, hopefully in a couple of weeks we will look more human." Antonin hesitated before asking, "How long?"

Yaxley turned to meet his eyes, his hands gripping the arms of the chair reflexively. "Fourteen years," he breathed out. His declaration was met with silence. Antonin tried to ascertain how that number stacked against his expectations. He had no answer to give himself right now.

"I saw Travers on the way in; he had a bit of information. Said I would pass it on, I think he's still nervous around you after that failed kidnapping in Hogsmeade the year after we were marked," Yaxley said, obviously trying to lighten the mood. Antonin scoffed in response. Travers was no more afraid of him than Reuben was, he was, however, exceedingly wary, but that was what came when you broke a man's arm. It was a mild punishment compared to what Antonin had received for the oversight in the mission he had been leading. It had been the first time he was ever disciplined by their Lord, and it was not an experience he was ever likely to forget.

Yaxley dropped his head to the side, eyeing Antonin critically. "Are you mad? I suppose one of us should bring that to the table. That's the real question, isn't it? I'm not, at least, I don't think I am. I'm diminished but still... mainly whole." His voice was unusually anxious, though Antonin considered it would be awhile before any of them would seem like their usual selves, if they ever would.

"I'm not sure," he answered honestly, with the only person he could do so with. "I don't think so, and right now I'm just tired," his friend nodded. "So," Antonin continued, "what now?"

"We are to attend briefings for the next couple of days, the information we have missed, etc. The first full meeting with the Dark Lord will be in a week," Yaxley replied, absently picking at some of the food Antonin had left on the side.

"That's something then; I don't think I'm fit to kneel yet. How long do we have to stay in this shithole?" he groused.

Yaxley beamed, the expression looking twisted on his sunken face, "Don't let the Lord of the Manor hear you talking like that Antonin."

They laughed together and attempted eating, working out who was still around and what the next few days would look like, it was too soon to think any further than that. It wasn't long before Yaxley returned to his room and Antonin gave in to his mounting exhaustion and climbed into bed. He slipped into his first dreamless sleep for over fourteen years, even before his head had come to rest on the overstuffed pillow.

By specific instruction all of the trio were in the Great Hall for breakfast, Hermione had started to crack the whip on exam prep, and she had decreed that today they were spending time in the library. She had scarcely sat down when the post started flying in, and her copy of The Daily Prophet landed haphazardly in front of her, knocking over Ron's pumpkin juice. She paid the bird, ending its intense stare off with her outraged friend, and moved to push the rolled up parchment to the side, but before she could do so the stillness of the room permeated her sleepy mind, and she whipped her head around regarding the quiet murmurings from the house tables. The last time Hermione had felt the atmosphere shift like that was during the fourth year when the whole hall had been pouring over details of her imaginary love life. She swallowed back her mounting anxiety and unfurled the paper, by this time Harry and Ron had become aware of the tension in the air beyond them and watched her carefully. Pushing the front page flat Hermione gasped, the entire sheet was dedicated to news that ten of Voldemort's most faithful Death Eaters had broken out of Azkaban, as she glanced down the page a frisson of fear ran down her spine. The story showed bios on each of the Death Eaters, details on the crimes they were imprisoned for, as well as pictures of them taken at the time of their arrests. A picture of Rabastan Lestrange stood out first, his light blue eyes blown wide as he scowled out of the frame. He was fighting against the Aurors holding him, bearing his teeth like a cornered animal. She saw a resemblance to the one taken of Sirius when he was captured, though this did not look like a man protesting his innocence, the look on Rabastan's face did not speak of desperation, but sneering superiority.

Hermione read sections of the article aloud, very quietly, to the boys, and they listened, sitting forward with rapt attention. She flicked her eyes over to the moving picture of Reuben Yaxley, his broad shoulders and dark eyes giving him an intense look, when offset with his unaffected smirk, and slightly raised right eyebrow, the effect was quite unsettling.

"This must be it, the Ministry have to admit he's back now," Harry exclaimed, and Hermione suppressed a wince at the level of desperation in his tone.

"It would appear," she paused, bracing herself, "that the Ministry have suggested that Sirius is responsible for the breakout, their rationale being that no one had broken out before, so it must be him," she said anxiously.

"But Barty Crouch Jr. broke out too, so it's not just him!" Harry shouted back, enraged.

"I know Harry, but he was assisted by a Ministry official, they were hardly going to print that in the paper." She tried to reason with him, and it wasn't as if she didn't have her own issues with morality and justice, but Harry's inability to see the greys of their world frustrated her at times. He should know by now that the press and the government would never do anything to incriminate themselves, and while one belonged in the other's pocket, that protection worked both ways.

Harry stood abruptly, shaking the table in his haste, and marched out of the hall without saying another word. Ron made to stand, but Hermione placed her hand on his forearm. "Not yet," she requested softly, he looked back down at her before slumping back into his seat. "I think he needs a minute to work it through in his head. This whole year has been like screaming in the wind for him. No matter how logical his argument, people still think he's mad or saying these things for attention, and now Voldemort is growing bolder, it's not going to be long before people, a lot of people, start getting hurt. You would think following the events of last night, that the Ministry would admit defeat, but no, ten Death Eaters break out of Azkaban, and they blame Sirius, the only family that Harry has left in the world. There is nothing that we can say that will make it better. Let him go, run, yell, do something to work it off."

Ron was silent as he processed her words, absently picking through the remains of his breakfast until, eventually, he turned to face her again. "I might go get some flying time in, not long until try-outs," Hermione ignored the obviously lie, Ron could never hide his emotions well. None of them could, and he looked afraid. But she let him go, like Harry he wouldn't want to dissect his feelings just now.

Surrounded by empty seats, Hermione turned back to look at the article, but a crunching noise caught her attention. Neville was sat at the table, just to her right, the food in front of him remained untouched as he held his eyes tightly closed, teeth clenched, compressing the article into a smaller and smaller ball in his palm. She abandoned her breakfast and walked to the other side of the table, laying a hand gently on his shoulder, he made no reaction. "Neville," she said, dropping her voice into what she hoped was a soothing tone. There was still no outward sign that he had even heard her. "Neville," she tried again, this time squeezing his arm. His face didn't react, but she heard the faint trace of his breath hitching.

He opened his eyes slowly and turned to regard her, his face completely shuttered, his expression was so wholly unlike him it made Hermione pause. In a flash, she became aware of rising noise levels from the Slytherin table and reasoned it was probably the time to abandon breakfast. "Come on Neville, let's go somewhere else for a little while yeah?" Neville was still completely unresponsive, but Hermione tugged on his arm until he was on his feet. She looped her arm under his, and all but dragged him into the corridor, which was not easy given their respective heights. Briefly, she was stumped for where to go, Neville should not be on his own, but she didn't think he would want people to see him like this. Without a better idea, she headed to Professor McGonagall's office.

Her head of house opened the door quickly, and her eyes reflected immediate understanding when she saw Neville. She opened the door wide for them to walk through and Hermione led him to a comfortable chair, having to push him down into it physically.

"He's been like this since breakfast, I'm sorry if I've disturbed you, I wasn't sure what else to do," she explained in hushed tones, not that Neville seemed aware of what was happening around him at that moment.

"It's ok Hermione; I believe it will not be an hour before Neville's gran requests that he go home for a short time."

"Ok," Hermione said, feeling slightly anxious, "I'll say goodbye then." She walked over to Neville who was staring blankly ahead. "I'm going now ok? I think your gran is going be here soon, owl me if you need anything."

Remembering what brought them there, Hermione reached over and tugged at his wrist, pressing her fingers against the pulse point and slowly turning his palm over, before using both hands to pull his fingers apart, and grasping at the tightly pressed ball of paper and lifting it out. When she closed Neville's fist she squeezed both her hands over it, dropping the parchment in the bin and exiting the office.

As the morning had been completely derailed Hermione was certain she would not be able to concentrate in the library. Instead, she decided to head back to the common room, hopeful that an hour in front of the fire, with a non-school book, would make her feel a little better. She had only just sat down when the portrait hole swung open, and Harry entered, give a girl a break! He moved in her direction, and she risked asking how he was feeling. He shrugged, "I don't know, not sure of anything anymore," sitting dejectedly on the small sofa next to her, and after making a production of taking off his outer robe and shoes, he finally continued. "Hermione, I know I've been difficult this year, but I am grateful to you, you know that right? You're a pretty amazing person to have in my corner, and I'm fairly sure if it weren't for your revision schedule you would have taken out Voldemort yourself by now so that I wouldn't have to worry about it."

She scoffed, but her heart lifted to hear a teasing tone in his voice. She missed this version of Harry so much, her sassy, sarcastic friend that made her laugh more than anyone else. His face turned serious an instant later as he seemed to be thinking very hard about something. "You and Luna, you've become close this year, right?" he asked hesitantly.

Although slightly taken back by the change in direction Hermione answered quickly, "Yes, why do you ask?"

"Well, when I left breakfast I didn't know where I was headed. I ended up walking past Hagrid's into the start of the Forbidden Forest and came across Luna who was feeding the Thestrals. She err, she talked a bit about her mum and stuff," he trailed off.

"Oh, was she upset?" Hermione asked concerned.

"No, she was just... Well, Luna about it. Said she still saw her, her mum I mean, and frankly I'm not sure my brain could process that so I left it but... That's not what, what I mean to say is-"

"Spit it out Harry!" she implored, her anxiety rising.

"It's, well, she wasn't wearing any shoes," he finished looking up into her face for the first time since their odd conversation began. Hermione looked at him blankly, trying to decipher the code the teenage boy in front of her was speaking in so she could get to the subtext of this conversation before nightfall. She looked beseechingly at him, and he sighed. "She was barefoot, and it's cold, really cold, out there, when I asked about it, she said something about Wargles or something."

"Nargles Harry," Hermione corrected automatically, "please for the love of Merlin get to the point."

"Ok, ok I'm sorry, when I pressed her she said that her shoes were missing… like all of them. From the way she described it I'm guessing it happens a lot. I think someone's picking on her."

Hermione was gripped by a spike of rage in her chest that she hadn't felt so strongly since Harry showed her his hand following his detentions with Umbridge. "They're stealing her shoes? Who?" She asked.

Harry's eyebrows rose, and she knew he had picked up on the deceptively calm tone of her voice. "I don't know, you know Luna, she talked in circles and acted as if it was perfectly normal to be out in the middle of January without so much as socks on her feet."

"Thank you for telling me, I know you need someone to talk to right now but I need to find Luna. Did she come in with you?"

"No, she stayed out, its fine Mione, just you know... Try not to kill anyone today yeah?" he said with a mirthless laugh.

"Of course not Harry," Hermione answered with false cheer. He gave her a relieved smile. "It will take me longer than one day to find out who's responsible, and I'm hardly the type to kill indiscriminately." Harry made to interrupt, but Hermione ploughed on, "sorry Harry need to go, Ron was heading out to get some fly time in earlier if you want some company, I would suggest finding him."

After a quick stop in her dorm, Hermione headed to the edge of the Forbidden Forest, using the route Harry had described. Despite having not been there before, she quickly spied Luna, facing away from her, and headed to meet her. "Hi Hermione," Luna breathed out, in her normal dreamlike tones, Harry was right, she certainly didn't sound upset.

"Hi Luna, what are you doing out here?" she asked lightly, trying to keep her eyes away from her friend's dirty feet.

"Feeding the Thestrals, there are about six right in front of us," Luna replied, pointing into the seemingly abandoned clearing.

Hermione shifted uncomfortably, eyeing the ominous woodland. "I'll take your word for it."

Luna grinned, "That's it, you'll just take my word for it? No cross examination, no going to the library to check?"

"Yes, improbable as it seems, I now no longer question everything you say, even though I worry that it may indicate I've had an aneurysm in the last few months and not noticed," Hermione sassed. "Though in this case, it is not complete blind faith. I saw you toss a piece of meat as I approached that seemed to disappear in mid-air."

Luna smiled, "You know you are not as ruled by logic as you think, anyone can spot that you're a romantic at heart Hermione."

"Well," Hermione stuttered slightly, not sure why such a remark had affected her so deeply. "I didn't come here to talk about me, I brought you some shoes," she reached into her bag and handed over the dark pink chucks. "My mum bought these for me over the summer, that shade of pink is her favourite. When she met my dad, she used to wear pink lipstick and matching nail polish, every day. The thought was nice but they're a bit loud for me, she's always trying to get me to wear more colour. I don't know if they will fit, but you can just transfigure them," Hermione prattled, before placing his shoes in Luna's hands. She always shared more than she expected to when speaking to the quiet blonde, but it was such a nice feeling to be able to talk and know there would be no judgment.

Luna looked down at the shoes in her hands, "Do you mind if make the laces sparkly?" she asked eagerly.

Sometimes Hermione wondered if Luna hid behind her apparent dottiness to avoid showing discomfort or hurt. "Go ahead; they're yours now." Luna smiled and sat on the forest floor to slip them on, it turned out the shoes didn't need to be adjusted to fit, and Luna charmed the laces to sparkle with bright silver shimmers. "They look great," Hermione said, keeping her eyes fixed on the glittering laces. "I've also spelled them with an anti-theft jinx, no one, apart from you, will be able to remove them from your dorm without getting a bit of a nasty burn on their hands." Hermione tried to sound as nonchalant as possible but she wasn't much of an actress, and Luna was bloody perceptive, so she knew ignorance wouldn't hold up.

"Do you think your jinx would work on Nargles?" Luna said, her voice small.

"No," Hermione replied, willing herself to be patient, compassionate, and as calm as possible. "But I think it would work pretty well on whoever it is in your house that's doing this." Hermione crossed her arms to fight off the chill in her fingers, the biting sensation just making her madder, "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm not one of your projects you know, I don't need you to campaign on my behalf, and anyway, all my stuff gets returned at the end of the year, it's never damaged," Luna argued, though her voice stayed serene. She stared blankly into the clearing and Hermione wished she could see what she was seeing, just for a moment.

"You're not one of my projects Luna, you're my friend, my best friend," Luna's eyes raised then and Hermione felt her stomach clench at the tears forming in the younger girl's eyes, her face didn't look right with a sad expression. "I'm sorry, I didn't come out here to make you more upset," Hermione continued, scolding herself for her harshness, "but I want to help, and that doesn't mean I think you're a house elf or something like that, it's just my way. I've spent all of my school years thus far practically waging war on Harry's behalf, and you don't think he's one of my projects do you?"

"No," Luna's agreed, her voice so quiet Hermione could barely hear her.

"Ok, well," Hermione continued, raising her sleeve to rub away the tears that had dropped to her cheeks, "I think it's time to head to the kitchens, get warmed up and I will teach you the anti-theft jinx. I want you to promise you will put it on all your stuff. Then I will attempt to get some studying done before another crisis develops."

"What crisis?" Luna asked as she patted her own sleeve against her face.

"You mean you don't already know?" Hermione asked teasingly, and Luna rolled her eyes, "I'll tell you on the way come on."

"Ok," Luna agreed, waving her hand at the clearing in front of them, "thank you, for the shoes and for well, everything." Hermione nodded, and the girls made to walk back towards the castle.

"Luna, you know I'm going to have to do more than the anti-theft jinx right?"

Luna breathed out a laugh, "I don't want you to, but I understand why you feel you have to, you're my best friend too."

"Well, I won't tell you anything about it, just consider it taken care of, and now can we just talk about Snarkle Fells or Blithering Humdingers or something, after the events of today I could do with a dose of your brand of normal."

A/N Fancasts: Antonin Dolohov - Michiel Huisman (from the beautiful mind of Thrifty Crimson) and Reuben Yaxley - Richard Armitage.