A/N -Warning : This chapter is graphic in its depiction of self-inflicted violence.

Chapter 4

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It wasn't long after Granger left that Draco was once again dragged by two Aurors as they led him - none too gently- to his cell. As was customary in that dark and dreary hole, one guard yanked open the cell door while they both pushed him roughly into his cell. Draco staggered, losing his footing before straightening up to hear the cell door slam closed behind him. With quiet snickers, the guards left him to his own devices.

Out of pure habit, he looked up to see that one window that was always so very far away. The evening had approached fairly quickly; the atmosphere becoming dark, dank and cold. He had hoped, or rather wanted very much to keep sparring with the most unlikeliest interviewer he had ever hoped to receive. The moment Granger had walked through that door, he had felt hope. It was brief and fleeting, but it was there. She was the righteous one out of the three; annoyingly so. Potter wouldn't have given him the thought of day if it wasn't the 'right thing to do'. But not Granger. Her moral centre was her everything. And he found himself becoming insanely disappointed with every passing minute when he realized that the one person who he was sure wouldn't let him rot in Azkaban due to pure principle, was simply there to interview him, and not anything else. The very thought of returning here had caused him to lie to her, make her return to hear his true story.

Part of him wondered if his actions would even bring her back. Her presence reminded him of so much. It reminded him of the time when his left forearm wasn't inked with a fading scar, a time where all he had to worry about was the next jink he would send Potter's way or the next insult he was going to hurl to any passing Gryffindor. He wanted her back because she reminded him of his carefree days in Hogwarts; of who he used to be. He missed it so much that it ached within him; his lost childhood and his lost opportunities. Granger was the presence he needed to remember his old self.

Draco suddenly felt a gust of chilling wind as it burst through the stone halls of Azkaban. That happened sometimes, on an occasionally freezing night. It somehow gave the illusion that there was an exit nearby, a doorway that could let wind in, and allow anyone out. He hated that illusion.

Looking up once again to that small window high up in his cell, Draco started to feel the first feeling of restless fatigue. It had been difficult, sitting on that chair for several hours spouting out nonsense. He felt his eyes begin to droop tiredly and knew he had to act fast. Looking over his shoulder to ensure that no Auror was currently walking the dark halls, he made his way over to the lumpy straw mattress on the floor. Bending down, he lifted the sorry excuse for a bed, and picked up a sharpened stone. The mineral was a curious thing. He had found it lying close to the cell door on the dull stones of the hallway. Reaching out one long, pale arm, he nicked it before any guards to see, wanting to examine this marvel; this stone that was shaped so differently from all the other stones that he had seen. Having been in this cell for several months made him privy to every stone; its shape, its touch, and its texture. He would have remembered a stone that had a rounded tip and a jagged edge. He hadn't discovered its true merits until a few weeks ago.

Nights like this, he knew that he would have that same dream, which he had to come to hate with his very soul of his every waking hour. Each time the dream would become more vivid, and he would awake with his lungs bursting with the need to breath. It was becoming increasingly difficult to go to sleep knowing that he would have such a harsh awakening. Nearly every night he would dream things that he would rather forget; the pleading cries of Muggles, blood on the usually pristine floors of the Manor, red slit eyes encased in rubbery skin that caused terror to travel down his spine. He had too many of these dreams, each one even more detailed than the last. His only salvation was the fact that once he awoke, he could try concentrating on something else, something mundane, and consciously put it out of his mind. But not the recent dreams. Not the sudden and utter hopeless feeling of suffocation. That memory was always burned into the back of his eyelids, his breath always hitching at that very thought.

Looking once more to see if he was truly alone, Draco sat down, his back leaning against the cold stone of the wall. He then placed both feet flat on the ground and raised both knees, a poor attempt to hide what he was about to do. He looked up once more, his head snapping up in panic when he heard the distant mumbling of the mad man who inhabited the cell four cells down from him. His heart beating a medley of panic, Draco lifted the sleeve of his prison robes over his left arm, folding it haphazardly near his elbow.

Under the light moonlight, he could see the Dark Mark; or rather, the remnants of the Dark Mark as it started fading into obscurity. Almost as if it was dissolving into his skin. A mark that no one would see, but he would always feel. A mark he would never be able to escape no matter what he did.

Draco flexed his left arm, his fingers tightening into a pale fist while he observed the new markings he had made over the old. The rough cuts in his skin were healing splendidly. So well in fact, that he hadn't felt that burning sensation whenever his filthy robes rubbed roughly against his open wounds. Raising the stone he held clutched in his right hand, he gritted his teeth and pressed the jagged edge against the tainted part of his smooth skin, on an expanse of skin which was yet uncut. Bracing himself for the pain that was about to come, he pushed and pushed, the sharp sting from the breaking of the skin coursing through every nerve of his body. He gritted his teeth harder, unable to stop a low grunt from escaping the moment he saw blood. Immediately, he stopped, relishing the feeling of prickling pain that proved that he was very much alive.

Breathing hard with quick, deep breaths, he braced himself once more before pushing the stone back into his torn skin. The pain that suddenly surged through him was unbearable. Almost without thought, his feet pressed down firmly and his back straightened in an effort to hold down the cry that needed to tear painstakingly from his throat. He blinked rapidly, a barely successful method to keep the tears in his eyes at bay. Through the blurry liquid in his eyes he could make out the crimson stream of blood started rushing through slowly; one tiny stream travelling over the pale skin of his forearm before it circled over and fell with tiny droplets on the black stone between his feet.

Waiting a bit longer to catch his breath, Draco pushed against his skin once more, tearing the skin across the fading Dark mark in a vertical cut that was anything but straight. Having accomplished that, he closed his eyes, gritted his teeth and dropped his head against the wall in defeat.

Each time, it got easier. The pain was becoming more bearable, and his cuts were becoming cleaner. He shuddered to think of the first time he had cut his arm. The sudden gushing of blood had made him sick to his stomach. So much so that if he had anything to eat that day, he would have vomited all the contents with no effort. Instead, he had wretched pathetically as he kept his arm away from his eyesight for fear of puking up a lung. But it had been worth it. He hadn't dreamed at all that night, the pain being the last thing he thought of before his eyes closed and the first thing he thought of from the moment he woke up.

Opening his eyes, Draco once again stared up at that lonely window where he could see the silvery stream of moonlight. He hoped with all his being that he wouldn't dream again this night. If he did, he would have to find something else to occupy his mind.

Hermione found herself pacing back and forth along the length of her modest apartment in frustration before she finally decided to give up and call Harry. He was the person who gave her Malfoy as an assignment after all, so why shouldn't she let her findings be known to him? Although, technically, there were no findings. Just a sore back that was so unused to sitting stiffly for hours.

Going to her small fireplace, which was the sole cause for her Muggle apartment to cost her an arm and a leg, she kneeled down on the carpet before the fireplace, picked up a handful of floo powder and threw it in the grate. Once the green flames engulfed the burning orange, she placed her head strategically before she said in a clipped, clear voice, "Grimmauld Place."

Immediately the flames roared to life around her before she was able to see the hazy image of the kitchen in Grimmauld Place. As she had accurately guessed, Harry sat at the kitchen table amidst piles and piles of documents as he scratched his quill studiously on a parchment; no doubt writing another out of a long list of statements he had to hand in. He looked tired and haggard; his robes rumpled and his head hanging unusually low as he concentrated painstakingly on the task at hand.

Hermione almost felt bad for burdening him further with what she was about to tell him. Almost.

"Harry!"

Harry's head snapped up before his eyes landed on her and his lips split in a welcoming grin. "Hermione!"

She shook her head, reprimanding him with a simple rise of an eyebrow. "Do they even know that you're no longer in Hong Kong?"

Grinning widely, he made his way towards the fireplace and sat down in front of it. "I'll be back before they even know I'm missing."

She narrowed her eyes at him kindly. "You can't keep doing this. The Ministry is bound to find out that you keep coming back to Grimmauld Place when you're out on missions."

He shrugged before he raised his gaze to appraise the room he was in thoughtfully. "You know I don't like sleeping in different places every night."

"I know," Hermione replied softly, knowing that months of being on the run and sleeping in a tent made her best friend wary of sleeping anywhere but in his Godfather's old bed. It had been a habit that she and Ron had tried several times to break only to be unsuccessful time and again. At some point they realized that he would move on when he was ready to move on.

Having fallen into a sullen silence, Harry suddenly asked her, "How did it go with Malfoy?"

It was all Hermione could do notto roll her eyes, groan loudly and state childishly that she was never going to speak to the prat ever again. Instead, she calmly let him know all that had happened with a few colourful statements thrown in just to convey exactly how much he had aggravated her.

Harry stared at her incredulously. "He lied? Why?"

This time, Hermione gave in to her impulse and let out a low sigh of frustration. "He wants assurances." When her best friend looked at her questioningly, she continued, "His mother to be able to visit his father and to get Daily Visitor Access for him."

Harry scrunched up his eyebrows in thought. "He does realize that he's a convicted criminal who can't dictate terms, right?"

"He's Malfoy. Since when does he ever have an accurate impression about his life?"

"Good point," Harry said nodding. "Andromeda was so sure that he was onto something," he mumbled to himself thoughtfully.

Hermione sighed. "I highly doubt it. These are disasters created by Mother Nature, Harry. I somehow find it hard to believe that fate would choose Malfoy of all people to be a convenient Seer."

Harry looked at her seriously. "Maybe you should go back."

"What?" she asked incredulously. He can't be serious. This was obviously a hoax of some kind.

"I think I can work on the Daily Visitor Pass for Narcissa, but anything to do with Lucius will be impossible."

"Harry," Hermione tried again, "you can't be serious. We don't negotiate with mad men!"

Harry simply looked at her pleadingly. "People are dying, Hermione. If there's a way we could stop it, shouldn't we take it?"

He seemed to be holding on to a memory, and not a pleasant one at that. "What happened?"

He let out a tired sigh. "We were still in the middle of a briefing when we received a Patronus that another natural disaster had taken place, this time in India. It was horrible. By the time we got there, we found thousands dead, mostly Muggles. Mudslides," he said answering her unasked question.

"Kingsley is still adamant on keeping all this quiet, I see," Hermione mumbled dryly.

Harry nodded. "He says that the last thing he wants, is to create mass panic. Before we know it the Daily Prophet would probably make up the news that Voldemort is back."

She hated it when he did that; acting all righteous and selfless, holding all the problems of the world solely on his shoulders. It always made her feel somehow inadequate. Again, she sighed. "What do you want me to do?"

He smiled hopefully at her. "Try again."

Hermione shook her head, knowing that simply going in without a tactic won't give them the desired results that they needed. "We need a plan."

"We don't exactly have one."

"Maybe I should take Ron with me," she mumbled half-heartedly, "for muscle."

Harry looked at her curiously. "Have you spoken to Ron recently?"

His tone caused an unnatural fear to go through her. "No. Why?"

Her fear increased ten-fold when Harry looked down. It was a tell; something he did when he was about to convey bad news. "He gave his resignation to Kingsley a week ago. There were Chudley Canon try-outs in Manchester." He watched her carefully, his tone becoming gentler with each passing word. "He left this morning."

Hermione simply stared at him. Not knowing how to react or what to say. "He didn't tell me," she said softly.

"You know how it is. Ever since Fred's death, he's being doing one thing or the other trying to distract himself. This is just a phase."

She could tell from her best friend's tone that he didn't believe the words he spoke. Anything else could have been a phase, but not this. She couldn't believe that he had told Harry and not her. Especially after what happened between them during the last battle- "I have to go, Harry. Let me know once you come back from Hong Kong."

"Hermione," he said quickly, stopping her before her head could disappear from the green flames. "Do you want me to come over or something?"

She looked at him kindly. His offer was sincere but not fully committed. She could hear the hesitation in his voice as he offered his comfort and she could understand why. She could see the pile of work he had to do, and knew that he had to be somewhere in the morning. She couldn't demand something of him now. "It's fine, Harry. "I'm fine. You get some rest. And say 'hi' to Ginny for me."

Her best friend smiled gratefully at her. "I'll let you know about Malfoy's case."

Nodding, she waved somewhat sheepishly before ducking her head and reappearing fully in her own apartment. As the green flames turned orange once again, she collapsed onto the floor thoughtfully, lying down as her eyes looked at the ceiling unseeingly.

He didn't tell her. He left, and he didn't tell her.

She waited in that lying down position for quite some time before she sat up and with determination that was reserved for her O.W.L.s picked up Malfoy's file and began to study it, sentence by sentence.

If she couldn't control the men in her life, the least she could do was control the annoyances.

TBC