I've been living so long with my pictures of you
That I almost believe that the pictures
Are all I can feel

Pictures of You - The Cure [1989]

Four walls and still no window.

Antonin was sat on the edge of the cot, his bare feet making imprints on the dusty floor as he remained otherwise still as a statue. He hadn't let himself regress into lying back on the bed for the larger part of every day, not yet, he tried
to save sleep for when he assumed it was night. The rough calculation of the passing day, being the only mental stimulus he had. Antonin had been there a year now. Three hundred and sixty-five days had dawned since he had entered the prison, since his ridiculous sentencing, he wasn't counting the months he had spent locked away before his trial, he doubted any of the Ministry bods would be stripping that time away from his overall term. It was best to expect nothing; then he couldn't be disappointed.

There had been some improvements made to Azkaban since the war, and meagre as they were he overheard the guards grumbling about the alterations continuing throughout the prison, but Antonin never saw much. There was still no daylight, the bedding was of a better quality, but damp still coursed through the walls. He was still left to shiver at night, though whether that was down to the temperature or his memories wasn't clear. The only change that affected him was the bars at the entrance of the cell, in place of the solid metal door that had been there before. Being able to look out into the lighter space of the corridor, meant he could track the guard routines, which he could use to mark the passing of time. Antonin found that it kept some of the demons at bay, for a while at least.

The dementors weren't there now, and Antonin was certain the Ministry would have paraded that act of 'incredible charity' for months on end, but it made little difference to him. Wizards that had spent over fifteen years at their mercy, didn't need the foul creatures to be there to be affected; the same environment was enough, the memory was enough, the cold was enough.

The bitterness ate into him more severely than he had ever felt before, everything felt rawer now. This time, those bars, the bricks, the sea, they were all preventing him from getting to something, getting to her.

Hermione, Hermione, Hermione.

Antonin said her name over and over again in his mind, spoke it from his chapped lips during the day and in his sleep. 'I'll wait' she had said, standing before the great and the good of their world, and she had meant it. She had squared her little shoulders, and held her chin high as if she was daring them to judge her. Antonin only had eyes for her in the courtroom, but he noticed the others too, the sneering faces from the benches above, how they seemed to be directed at her more often than him, like she was the one on trial. The girl who had committed the crime of being born to a father that had done unspeakable acts, of loving a wizard that had done the same.

Antonin heard whispers, innuendo from those meandering about the prison, guards the or dignitaries that they were showing around to lord their improvement programme. Overheard them talk about the fall of the 'Great Hermione Granger', it made him want to tear out their tongues, they weren't fit to speak of her. But more often, that surge of violence was directed at himself.

Antonin had marked her with his taint while they were together, as sure as if the welded ink from his brand had transferred into her innocent flesh. His greatest fear before the final battle, had been Hermione celebrating the victory with the side of the light, and then endeavouring to erase his existence from her life after his re-imprisonment.

This was so much worse.

Fifteen years they had said. I'll wait she had said.

Part of him had quietly muttered that if he were a better man he would have shook his head as she made her declaration, a better man would have desperately called at her to move on, to live her life with someone worthy of her.

Antonin had never claimed to be a good man.

He was no more capable of telling Hermione to give up on him, than he was of walking straight out of the solid cell walls. The only reason for seeing this through at all was her promise; she had said she would wait.

But fifteen years.

I've already done that, Antonin had thought when the sentence was given. By the time he got out this time he would have spent more time, inside the walls of Azkaban than he had out of it. He debated with himself daily as to whether knowing the term he would serve this time made it better. When he had been thrown in here after the first Wizarding war, there was never any suggestion that he would ever get out, Antonin could only imagine the intention had been that he would remain there until the end of his days. Now, though? Antonin knew he could live these years, he had done it before, it would eat at him physically and magically, not to mention mentally, but he would survive it, but he worried about how much of him would be left. Would there be enough that Hermione still recognised him, still loved him?

He had no mental stimulation, nothing to do with his hands, nothing to pass the waking hours except his thoughts and regrets, and a world of night plagued by twisted visions; Hermione at the manor, Hermione at the Battle, Hermione in the courtroom. All the worst memories he had. Some days if he struggled for long enough Antonin could remember her smiles for a moment, a brief reprieve before the comforting image would slip through his grasp like water.

Antonin had somehow managed to avoid his pictures of her being detected; they were almost completely faded now, he had touched them so often. Her delicate writing had been the first thing to go; he couldn't quite remember what it had said, though knowing it had been there still gave him comfort. There were so few certainties in his existence, everything over time began to twist, but Antonin never let himself doubt that the words had been there. Etched into the back by her delicate script. Soon they would just be worn scraps of parchment; he tried not to dwell on that thought, the sense of foreboding, the mirroring to the fading of his sense of self was almost too much to bare.

On bad days Antonin would see other things. Images would come without warning, would hover in the corner of his mind, resisting his persistence in attempting to banish them. He would see Hermione writhing beneath a faceless wizard, moaning in a series of breathy gasps that should have only ever been for him, the litany of forbidden sound falling from her, while her face screwed up and flushed in ecstasy. Antonin would see a grim glance into the 'future'; him, finally being allowed out of the cursed gates to find Hermione was not there, that she didn't want him anymore.

"You said you would wait," he would shout at her, desperation turning into rage at the sight of her impassive expression.

"I lied," she would spit back at him, her eyes cold and unfeeling, and he would reach for her, not kindly. His thoughts would tangle when his fists would smash against the bare walls; Antonin would pant, drenched in sweat, till he calmed down, then he would scream himself hoarse and refuse food, punishing himself for his thoughts. The behaviour wouldn't last long, once he had chased away his terror he would realise his stupidity, he wouldn't survive his sentence if he didn't look after himself, so he would resume eating his food, and try to sleep and remember her smiles.

Then the cycle would begin again.

Another week went by, another month, and then Antonin was collected from the front of the box as usual. As part of the Ministry's plans to improve Azkaban, he was subjected to the indignity of a monthly assessment of health, both
mental and physical. Antonin was usually as uncooperative as possible, he had so little control over anything, but he could exert some here, and so he wouldn't play along nicely.

Antonin was led into a little room and instructed to sit at the table, he sat impassively, staring at the wall opposite rather than looking around, he was not totally convinced he was unobserved during these moments, thereby missing that this was not his typical examination room. The door opened, and Antonin heard the shuffling of small feet, he tried to place who the healer was, he may have been facing away from the door, but his senses in this regard were advanced, however, dulled they might have been at present. There were three healers on a rotation that he had seen during his time, each more bothersome than the last. Antonin remained staring ahead, as the small figure of the unknown healer sat at the table in front of him.

"Hello, Antonin."

Everything stopped; time, the movement of the planet, the free flow of blood around his body, the compression and inflation of his lungs. What fresh hell was this?

Antonin immediately dropped his gaze from the wall to the surface of the table and gritted his teeth. "Is this what the Ministry have sanctioned to test my sanity now? I assure you, I am not mad, no matter how many tricks you employ to try to convince me otherwise," he sneered.

He was impressed that his voice didn't shake, he was using all of his energy reserves to keep himself still, how had they modified the healer's voice? Before coming into this Merlin forsaken room Antonin would have believed nothing would have given him more pleasure than hearing her voice again, but now he was here it felt like he was being mocked. Did they not know who he was, what he was capable of?

A tiny hand moved into view, a hand made up of delicate fingers, and sun-kissed skin, a hand that had chipped nail polish and the fading scar of another's words branded unfairly onto its skin. The hand, her hand, appeared in the small portion of the desk, that was his line of sight. Hesitantly it turned and laid gently over his own.

Rigidly as Antonin continued to hold himself, he couldn't hold back a pained gasp; it felt like all of his senses were being attacked at once. He could smell her, honestly, he thought he could almost taste her in the air around him, the perception of her presence was so overwhelming.

Antonin's mind was at war, one side screaming at him to look up, to look at this person and confirm the wildest dreams of his heart. The other protesting, just as vehemently, that he keep his eyes where they were, while he kept them down there was still hope. He clenched his fists; there was no telling what he would do if he looked up and it wasn't her.

Antonin didn't say anything. The silence in the room was deafening, until he heard the sound of a chair being scraped back, gentle steps seemed to get closer until a tiny body unceremoniously fell into his lap, delicate arms winding around his neck.

Hermione's limbs trembled as she wrapped herself around Antonin's hesitant form, he still hadn't acknowledged her presence, though she could feel his reaction. A whole new wave of wave of pain hit her when she saw how tightly he held himself, how little he could trust himself to believe. She moved her hands to wrap around his neck, her movements slow and deliberate, his head dropped to rest on her shoulder. She had to start talking; she didn't have much time, and a lot to get through. Maybe if he kept hearing her voice, he would start to believe?

It had taken a year, most of her sanity, all of her intelligence, every bargaining chip she had ever earned, a series of outright threats, and then some costly bribes to get here. Hermione would do it all again. Time had moved on; the papers had moved on. It was less sensitive now. Sure it would be no cakewalk, but it would happen.

She hadn't been able to sleep for a week, not that lack of regular sleep was a new issue in her life. Hermione had been equal parts excited and terrified to see Antonin, not having laid eyes on him since his trial. Hermione had walked into the room slowly, her unsteady legs causing her feet to shuffle, when she had sat down in front of him and saw the blank expression on his face it had dug fresh cuts into her heart. He looked the same, a little rumpled around the edges but the same, apart from his eyes, they looked cold and worn. That he was suffering wasn't in doubt.

Hermione pushed her tears back and forced some air past the lump in her throat.

"They are letting Rodolphus and Rabastan out; we have arranged their releases for next month. The Ministry aren't happy, and there is a list of parole terms longer than you could imagine, but I promised you I would try, and we are still fighting." She shuffled on his lap, holding him tighter. "It came down blood in the end," she huffed out a hollow laugh that she didn't feel, "like it always seems to, crimes or not they're both still scared twenty-eight, and the last of their line, legitimately. It would appear there are a lot of people in society that weren't that happy to let another family die out like the Blacks."

Hermione roughly inhaled as Antonin moved his arms slowly to circle her waist, she could feel the shoulder of her blouse getting wet as he pushed his forehead against her more firmly, and she held him tighter still.

"I'm so sorry I haven't seen you sooner Antonin," she said softly into his ear, letting her arms rub up and down his spine. "It has taken a lot of petitioning to be able to get this one visit. I wasn't sure they would grant it at all, but you know me, I wasn't going to let it lie."

Hermione closed her eyes as she let her fingers card through his hair. "I had to cause a little bit more disruption for you I'm afraid, they simply didn't want to listen. Those people forget that there is a whole other world out there, other countries that weren't touched by the war, and the Russian Wizarding community wasn't that happy with the imprisonment of one of their citizens for as long as you have been in here."

"Hermione?" Antonin rasped finally, and at the sound of his voice, a sound that she had missed every day of his absence, Hermione gave into the tears that had been threatening all day.

Her voice wavered as she continued, "I've got Draco's influence, I think it's his apology for everything, I don't care of course, as long as I have it, what he has left anyway."

"...I think it might be another year but then I can get you out of here, I can…"

"...And Kingsley is going to start improving the conditions…"

"...the house is fine, the elves barely let me do anything on my own…"

"...I have missed you so very much…"

"...I love you…"

"...I'm waiting... I'll wait… as long as it takes…"

Antonin looked up then, no one on earth would have been able to ramble on as she had, he could hear her voice, faltering as it was, feel her body, smell her skin. When he looked up and cautiously opened his eyes, he was rewarded by familiar curls and a pained expression that unfortunately was familiar to him too. Hermione was trying to keep talking, but he could see the fat tears trailing down her face.

"You came back for me?" he whispered. She nodded and began laying small kisses all over his face.

Had she always been that small? Convinced as he now was that she was there, it didn't help him to take in her appearance, she didn't look real. She looked so clean, so bright, so Hermione. Antonin couldn't quite take in everything she was saying. Was she getting him out? He gripped her wrists, "Hermione what is happening?"

"They're letting Yaxley out in six months, he would have been out sooner, you and he did more for the war effort after all, but some of the Wizengamot are still a bit gun-shy over his release as he was one of the key people behind the infiltration in the first place."

Hermione swept his hair from his brow, her hands coming to clamp on each cool cheek. "Then you six months later, if they stick to our negotiations. We have already started working through the terms, you will both have five years of parole, but I have petitioned that you will be able to keep access to your funds, and will be able to leave the country."

Antonin's mind was racing, he couldn't take it all in, a year, and he would be free.

He brushed the pads of his thumbs gently over her face to wipe away the stubborn traces of her tears, but she was smiling under them now, her eyes searching his. They stayed there like that for ages, just holding each other; he felt calm under her tender ministrations. Reluctantly he spoke, "How long do we have?"

Hermione shifted slightly to look at her watch, "Twenty minutes."

Antonin clenched his eyes shut, "Will you be able to come again?"

She buried her head into his shoulder, "I'm not sure, I don't think so, but I
have arranged to be able to send letters, you won't be able to respond, but I can send them to you."

Antonin felt the sting of a future visit being denied abate slightly, "Letters would help," she raised her head to beam at him "Could you send some more pictures?"

Hermione exited the doors of Azkaban and mechanically walked until she reached the apparition point, but instead of proceeding, she stopped to look out at the water. The harsh grey waves of the North Sea lapped aggressively against the jagged rocks, repeatedly soaking through her shoes, but Hermione paid the cold no mind. She had faced worse than this. Here, in this Merlin forsaken place she felt closer to them than she had since the trials, in some way she could imagine that they were breathing in the same air. She knew they weren't looking at the same sky. But somewhere on the island, their hearts were beating, and it made hers feel like it had restarted. She didn't want to leave just yet.

The Auror waiting for her made a jostling movement, stepping from one foot to the other while he glared at the water as if it would retreat when faced with his displeasure. Hermione ignored his deliberately audible huffs, she was tired of dealing with the exasperation of the Ministry and its employees.

It had taken three months for the shock to wear off, the shock of the cumulative weight of all the bricks that had been stacking up over the last three years of her life. The wall that was built fell on her after Antonin's sentence, and it took a long time for her to untangle herself from the rubble. While dusting herself down Hermione realised something, whoever she was now, whatever had happened to her, in essence, she was still the girl that had tried to sell S.P.E.W. badges in her fourth year. Even though she had known people would sneer at her, even though she hadn't been popular enough for the campaign to take much hold. She did it anyway, because it had been the right thing to do, once her heart and mind had been set on something she acted.

Her quest for their freedom was the same. Sure the moral case was very different, but that didn't matter. Hermione wanted them out, she felt they had served their time, and with enough pushing, she would get what she wanted.

When the initial public furore had died down, Hermione had received a letter from Professor McGonagall, or Headmistress McGonagall as she was now. Her favourite professor had extended her an invitation to come back to Hogwarts to take her N.E. , Hermione was fairly sure the offer had been sent with pure intentions, but given the general reception see had received of late it had felt like yet another plea for her to move on and forget her cause, to stop kicking up a fuss.

Hermione had thought about it, for a little while at least. She had considered that she would have to forgo education entirely to get a job, to be able to pay for herself and the legal proceedings, but had not come to pass. Antonin had not mentioned at the battle, not that he would have had time, but he had made provisions for her, ample provisions as it turned out. From the moment she had arrived at the townhouse she had been looked after by the elves and her every need had been seen too.

What free time she had that she did not spend pouring over books, was spent assisting Severus, her old Potions Professor was about to open his own supply store. He had asked if she would consider running it, in his typical nonchalant fashion, popping the idea in front of her one afternoon as if it had just that moment occurred to him. Hermione knew what he was about; he wanted to give her an occupation, something that would keep her busy, so she would not succumb to the negativity around her, plus it would allow him to keep an eye on her. Hermione didn't agree to run it, at least not full time, but while she knew she was being manipulated she did agree to come in a couple of times a week, she found the routine helped organise her thoughts, and she enjoyed his company. Not to mention Severus was very bad with people, and it was quickly apparent that many of his customers saved purchases they had to make for days she would be in. Social pariah, she may have been, but she was still preferred if someone had a detailed enquiry.

The public perception of her was beginning to improve, or at least people were beginning to forget about her. Which for Hermione, was better than any 'redemption'. The papers had hounded her for months after the trails, before they got bored, there was still the odd opinion piece or scathing letter, but aside from that, she was largely left alone. Her dealings with the press had left her paranoid; she had no idea who to trust anymore, her circle had become smaller as a result.

Once she had begun researching how they would get the ball rolling, she had gone to see Kingsley, seeking to arrange visitation with all of them for herself and Luna, she had been surprised when it was denied, Hermione scoffed slightly at the memory. How she had any indignation left at that point was anyone's guess, but they'd done it, tricked her again into believing that the good guys would do the right thing.

Hermione stepped back as a particularly large wave crept up the rocks, and threw her head back to look at the sky, feeling the wind on her face. If had taken such an extraordinarily long time to get there. She wanted to keep her feet planted on the rocks for just a little while longer. As if more time would prove to her that it was real.

At the beginning, there had been a lot of talk from patronising 'learned' folk that had no idea who they were dealing with. There had been lots of muttering of precedents, and other such nonsense, but ultimately it came down to the fact that the Wizarding world, and the Ministry, in particular, wanted to pretend the war had never happened. That was much easier to do if they left the nasty Death Eaters in their cages.

Severus and Luna had helped, they had sought possible grounds for appeal on everything they could think of, the length of the sentencing, the denial of rights to visitation, they put together information on a whole host of areas and got exactly nowhere. Then, unexpectedly, Draco Malfoy had asked to see her. The blond had been uncomfortable when he was invited to Antonin's home to meet with them, he seemed to brighten at the sight of Severus, but the scowl on his godfather's face clearly made him reassess that feeling of security. Her former professor was on high alert for any slight that would upset her, Luna floated in and out of the conversation, completely baffling Draco for the most part, but despite the less than conducive environment they did manage to agree on somethings. Hermione had been suspicious of his intentions, but Draco had come prepared for that, and seemingly prepared to offer assistance that might have an impact, something he referred to as the exploitation of the 'pureblood angle'. When Draco first brought it up, Hermione had cocked her head to the side in silent question, and he had smirked. The expression was so familiar it made Hermione blink, she had seen that twist of his lips, that mean glint in his eyes, a thousand times before, only this time it wasn't directed at her.

The next week she had attended 'society dinners' with the Malfoy heir, chewing the ear off of Lord and Lady whats thier face, about the plight of the sacred twenty-eight. Ample time with Slytherins had clearly rubbed off on her, and Hermione played her part well, whispers started at the Wizengamot, Draco reported conversations happening over coffee in the intervals, and then they started pushing in motions, first a parole plan, and then visitation, and so began the rigorous process of amendments.

None of this helped Antonin. While he was a pureblood he was still a foreigner. To most of the witches and wizards in the upper echelons of society, that made him no better than a half-blood, no better than Hermione essentially. While they would tolerate, and even support, her campaigning to assist her betters, they wouldn't grease the wheel that helped her equals. At first, the stumbling block had given Hermione pause, what would happen if she got them all out bar him? She wouldn't have been able to stand it. She had thrown herself into paperwork harder than ever then. If they managed to free Yaxley he would surely be able to help her; there was no way he would rest until his brother was free. And then Luna, in her usual unassuming way, chanced upon the solution. She had come to the Dolohov townhouse for her usual sleepover, to find Hermione had beaten her to it, and was already fast asleep, her head resting on the pages of one of her many open books. Luna had gently shaken her awake.

"Hermione, you have to look after yourself better, Antonin will kill us all when he gets out if you look like this."

"I know, I know I just… I don't know what to do," she replied despondently.

Luna had called for tea and sat herself down next to Hermione, idly rotating her friendship bracelet around her slim wrist. "If the purebloods don't care, you need to find people who do," she mused.

Hermione had sighed. "I know that Luna but who? He has a reputation all over this country; it's not likely to change over, oh… OH!"

Hermione had immediately fire called Draco, and they had begun working on a plan of attack for international assistance the very next day. The Malfoy's and the Lestrange's both had contacts in France, and using those Hermione got a meeting with the ambassador for Russia. It had taken time, but eventually, representatives from other European Wizarding communities began applying pressure.

Only a month previous Hermione had been granted an order that both of the Lestrange brothers would be released. She and Luna had celebrated with a lot of elf-made wine, much to Severus' bafflement when he came back to the townhouse to find them both huddled next to each other on the floor, crying their hearts out. Although the terms were onerous, they finally felt like the tide was turning, and then, not more than three days later they were summoned to a meeting which revealed the next block to their goal.

One of the hundred or so conditions to parole was that each of the released Death Eaters would need to have a parole contact for the next five years. In actuality, that person had to do very little but sign a piece of parchment, but this was where the Ministry were having one last go at trying to screw her. A person could only sign for one released prisoner, for the entirety of their parole period. Effectively meaning if Hermione signed for Rodolphus she would not be able to sign for any of the others until the period was over. Who was to say it would end in five years? She wouldn't have put it past them to arrange an extension.

Severus was unable to help as the wording expressly forbade anyone who had the Dark Mark to be a signatory. Luna was obviously going to sign for Rabastan, so Hermione had no idea what she would do in the event of being able to get the others out.

After a huge amount of deliberation and a knowledge of the lack of options she had Hermione approached Ron and Harry. Following the immediate aftermath of the trials she had kept her distance from the boys, but now they had managed to set up a standing lunch date, every two weeks they would eat at the same spot. At first, it was mostly awkward, but it was getting better, they wanted her to be happy, that much was clear, but they couldn't support her life choice, as such, they largely pretended it hadn't happened. Hermione had made her request in a series of fits and starts, feeling guilty the entire time for putting them, Ron especially, in that position. Although the refusal had been expected, and delivered softly, the kind delivery didn't make it hurt any less.

Help again came in an unexpected package, a knock at the door one day signalled the arrival of Ginny and Fleur Weasley. The latter apologised for not making her way over sooner, following the war herself and Bill had headed to Cairo, to get away from it all, and for her to complete her apprenticeship with Gringott's, Fleur was now a fully qualified curse breaker. Hermione had always respected the forthrightness of the French girl.

The blonde had clasped her hand as they caught up over tea. "I understand Hermione, when I first met Molly she did not care for me. But I loved Bill, I could not have chosen to love another, painful as it was, he was my choice, he will always be my choice."

"Thank you," Hermione had whispered in response.

Ginny had heard of her plight via Harry, she had been sheepish at first, but Hermione understood, Antonin had attacked her family, that she was willing to listen was more than she could ever have hoped for. When they embraced after fumbled apologies, Ginny whispered that she missed her into her hair.

Over many more cups of tea that eventually became glasses of wine, and a lot of tears, the two girls pledged themselves as signatories; Ginny would sign for Rodolphus and Fleur for Yaxley. When Hermione thought of introducing the part Veela to the Northern wizard Hermione laughed for the first time in months.

The laboured sigh of the disgruntled Auror broke Hermione from her thoughts, and she reluctantly pulled her eyes away from the grey prism, whispering a quiet goodbye that he would never hear, before she marched to the apparition point.

Opening her eyes Hermione regarded the little house shaped like a Rook as she bounded up the path, she had only made it halfway when the door was roughly opened widely, and Xeno barrelled out of the door. "Hermione!" he called, arms outstretched, and she all but ran into him and accepted his warm hug and warmer greetings, she moved inside to update both of the Lovegoods as to her day and progress.

Hermione regarded Luna's glassy eyes she locked gaze with her dreamy friend. "It's happening Luna; it's going to happen."