May 1999

Draco hadn't lived in darkness for very long. Even though it was almost impossible to determine the duration of this torment, he could swear that it had been rather short.

Within a few months of being sent to Azkaban, he'd been moved to his permanent cell. Unlike the darkness-infested cell from before, this one had a small window overlooking the sea, and a magical torch that was constantly lit.

Every night, when the others were finally asleep and the screams of the other prisoners had died down, he would sit by the window and watch the moonlight reflected on the sea. He would remember that his mother had once taught him that there was a word for this: mangata. It came from Marathi, an Indian language.

He still remembered vividly the nights he'd spent as a child watching the moon reflect on the small stream that ran alongside the grounds of the manor.

Still, the days passed slowly. Even with his living conditions having improved, Draco was still suffering from his imprisonment. At least he didn't have to share his cell with dementors, he often thought.

He hadn't heard from anyone close to him. This was one of the punishments added to his sentence. He received no mails, no newspapers, no magazines. The only human contact he had was with the Azkaban wardens, the repressed aurors as he liked to call them.

Draco was careful not to provoke them, knowing that the beatings he would get would only make his situation worse. It didn't take a genius to know why these men had been assigned to Azkaban; it certainly wasn't because their skills as an auror were par with those working within the ministry. This was his inner revenge. A way of putting things into perspective, perhaps, to help him reconcile his punishment, that these wizards were almost punished as much as he was.

The meals hadn't changed, of course, nor had the fact that his cell was empty. He hadn't seen a single other prisoner. The only thing that allowed him to determine that he was not isolated were the screams that echoed through the prison, seldomly, during the day and, worse and much more often, at night.

That day was one of them. As soon as he returned from the ward, he heard a scream of pain. He was startled and raised his hands to his face to hide. He waited for several seconds, only to be disturbed by the mocking laughter of the man who was escorting him to his cell.

"Come on, you moron," the warden's voice snapped, as he thrust his wand between Draco's shoulder blades.

Draco swallowed and resumed his walk, shaking and cowering.

It was rare that the cries of the other prisoners echoed during his daily outings, and each time he panicked.

The warden pushed him into his cell and the door slammed shut.

He was alone again.

oOo

January 2000

The Ministry was empty, the corridors mostly dark and the silence of the night reigned. Only Blaise Zabini walked around, glancing at each hallway before entering. He had no right to be here, especially not at such an hour. He was risking a lot.

Pansy would have his hide if she found out what he was still doing here.

He walked along the last wall that led to his destination and checked one last time that the open space on the floor was empty before knocking on a door.

It opened the next second and he hurried in, closing it behind him. He then allowed himself a deep breath, leaning against the door to calm his heartbeat.

"You're being ridiculous, Zabini."

Blaise glared at his interlocutor. He told him so every time, but Blaise always ignored him.

"I got here as fast as I could, Potter. Closing time has been delayed again tonight."

Harry rolled his eyes, settled behind his small desk. He'd been lucky enough to be promoted to Auror as soon as the trials were over - the privilege of the Chosen One, no doubt about it - and given a desk.

If Blaise was to be honest, it was more like a rearranged broom cupboard.

But Harry was happy with it. He could work in peace and quiet and bring his friends into his office after midnight to hatch plans against the Wizengamot. It was his own little victory.

Blaise sat down opposite him and took out his packet of cigarettes, which he handed to his partner in crime - as he liked to call him. The latter shook his head, having already smoked enough in the last hour, given that he had been in charge of the day's paperwork.

"What's the news?" asked Harry as he leaned back in his seat.

"The bill concerning visits was rejected. The one for reading publications, and personal letters too, but they've finally managed to pass the one that allows prisoners to get something to write with."

Blaise was tired, Harry could hear it in his tone. After one year of hard fighting he had been exhausted considerably. In addition to studying law, he spent the rest of his time fighting for justice for the more innocent Death Eaters. The members of the Wizengamot would not retract their decision, no matter the prisoner in question. Those civilians who had thought that their social status –Muggle-born for the most part, half-blood for others– and supporting testimony for reduced or probation in lieu of sentences, would benefithave benefited the prisoners, so that they would not be discriminated against as much as they had been in Voldemort's time, were sadly mistaken.

Instead, the new members of the Wizengamot, most of whom had been placed by Kingsley Shacklebolt –Minister since the end of the war– were ruthlessly using their position in the Ministry to take revenge on all Death Eaters still alive. No distinction was made, except for the crimes committed by the Death Eaters.

The minimum sentence for each marked individual was fifteen years in prison. The years of penance were accumulated according to the crimes committed by the individual. Some would end their days in prison, while others would be released after their lives were well underway.

A fitting sentence for their role in the war, some felt. Such was the hatred towards Voldemort's army that none of the survivors could be swayed.

Some members of the Order of the Phoenix, such as Arthur Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Elphias Doge, who were part of the Wizengamot, had tried to do something about it. They wanted to make their colleagues listen to reason and to refine the judgements to better punish Death Eaters who embraced Voldemort's ways, versus Death Eaters coerced into joining or forced while under age - to avoid any injustice. Sadly, to no avail.

Kingsley being the Minister had not changed anything. Democracy, the Wizengamot said.

The majority always belonged to the vindictive.

"What about you? Still nothing?"

"I've applied again, but as you know, with Robards as leader, who is on the anti-Pardon side... Besides, given my role in the war, they'll never accept me as a warden there," Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"Using the 'Chosen One' card doesn't work?"

"Not anymore mostly because, I've already given everything I've got to get the Wizengamot to remove the Dementors, they'll start to find it suspicious," he replied wryly.

Blaise nodded gravely. He felt nauseous. He couldn't believe that things had turned out this way. How could those who had been victimised during the war turn around and do the same to their persecutors? All morality was gone.

Even those whom Blaise would have thought a modicum of sanity had turned out to be completely warped by the hatred of the events of the last five years.

"Any news from Granger? Still determined to stay in France?"

"I'm afraid so," Harry sighed. "In her last letter, she said she'd bought a small bookshop with her savings that she wants to renovate to work in. She's not planning to come back, that's for sure."

"Even to testify?"

"She made it clear that this would be the only time," he replied, shaking his head. "She still refuses to be helped and her letters are getting fewer and fewer. I doubt she'll be back any time soon."

"If she ever comes back."

The sad look Harry gave him almost made Blaise regret saying those few words. He knew how lonely he'd been since the war ended.

With Granger gone, the Weasleys in mourning - who had closed themselves off, especially Ron who had fallen into alcohol and hardly left his apartment - and the grief of most of the survivors, Harry was left with nothing.

Probably the hardest part was that the man he loved was locked up in Azkaban for fifteen years. Blaise was well aware of how much this had destroyed Harry. He had not been the same since.

Theodore Nott, who Harry had been secretly dating since the end of his sixth year, had been forcibly branded by his father a few months before the final battle and had ended up locked up with no chance of discussion.

Harry had been destroyed by it.

After a year spent away from him hunting horcruxes, during which they had exchanged hidden and coded letters, they were now separated for an unfairly long time. Several people had tried to lure him away from Theo, to charm him into forgetting him, but nothing had ever worked.

It had taken Harry months to accept Ginny's attention, shortly after she had confided in him that she was attracted to women. They had faked their relationship for several months after that, from the beginning of the year, until they were ready to tell their loved ones. They had never really dated in reality. It had all been pretend, save their friendship.

It had been such a long journey for Harry to finally accept that he could love Theodore, but the latter had been there every step of the way to support him.

Until he too was imprisoned. And Harry was left alone again. Ginny had tried to support him, but her grief had quickly caught up with her as well.

"I'm sure she'll come back," Blaise said, still regretting his words. "She'll come back, Potter."

When Blaise left Harry's small office an hour later and slightly drunk, he promised himself that he would do his best to support his new friend. It didn't matter about their past. He would do it for Theo. And if it happened to help Draco, so be it.

oOo

February 2000

Hermione closed the door of her muggle bookshop behind her and took out her set of keys.

The building was like new. She had spent weeks cleaning, rebuilding and beautifying it. The pale blue paint that covered the front stood out against the more rustic paint of the other shops. She was proud of her accomplishment, despite everything she had gone through to get there.

Anguish. Loss of motivation. Endless seizures.

But she had made it. Her bookshop was running smoothly and filling her days.

As she locked the door, a few footsteps were heard behind her.

Unable to help herself, she turned abruptly and clutched her wand in her coat pocket. Her heart rate had quickened.

Someone was close to her. Someone had approached her back. Her old reflexes told her this could on be dangerous. Constant vigilance had remained her motto.

"Forgive me, Madame Granger, I didn't mean to frighten you!" gasped Roxanne, a little girl from the village.

Hermione knew her well, as she often came to her bookshop where she spent hours reading and discussing literature with her. Roxanne was one of her most loyal customers and Hermione would be lying if she said she had no particular affection for her. Roxanne reminded her very much of herself at the same age: eager to read and with a head full of knowledge.

A real know-it-all, she often thought bitterly.

She relaxed as soon as she recognised her and released her wand into her pocket. Although her hands were still shaking and her heart rate was still rapid, she forced herself to smile, before turning to the door again.

"No harm done, Roxanne," she said as she tried to push the key into the lock to secure her bookshop. "Shouldn't you be home at this time of the evening?"

"My mum's allowed me to go out for some fresh air, to enjoy the few minutes of good weather we've had all week," she explained cheerfully.

Hermione merely nodded, only half listening to her answer. The key wouldn't fit. Her hands were shaking too much.

She was starting to get annoyed. She gritted her teeth and forced the key into the lock, without success. A ball of stress began to form in her throat. What if she couldn't close her bookshop? What if someone broke in during the night to rob her? What if she was attacked on her way home?

Here we go again, she thought briefly before her brain continued to loop. She couldn't think of anything else. Her hands were still shaking and she was hot. Terribly hot. Even though February was starting and the temperature was close to zero.

What if someone found her? What if someone broke into her house?

And the key wouldn't fit!

"Would you like some help, Mrs. Granger?"

The little girl's voice startled her again.

"No!" she snapped sharply.

Roxanne took a step back, surprised by her abrupt tone. She would have no reason to understand this sudden aggression.

Hermione felt bad and turned to apologise immediately, but before she had the chance, the girl had run off. She let her forehead fall against the glass door of her bookshop, trying to calm herself down.

It's alright. It's alright. You are alone, the street is empty. You're safe, you're safe.

She repeated these words to herself every day, every night, every week. Every time her heart and brain were racing. Sometimes it calmed her down. Other times– things were more complicated.

She turned her head towards the street to check that there were no muggles and drew her wand as quickly as possible. It took two tries before she managed to close the shop door magically. If even the simplest spells had become complicated, she wondered if she would ever regain her old magical skills.

Once she was sure the door was locked, she disapparated. She hadn't even taken the time to check again that no muggle was around. That was the least of her worries.

Hermione apparated directly into her bedroom and had to hold onto a wall to keep from collapsing to the floor. She took a deep breath to recover from the trip, before rushing to the bathroom.

She flung open the cupboard above the sink wide and searched it anxiously. A few bottles fell from the shelves and crashed to the floor, without her even noticing. She was in a trance. In need.

A wave of relief ran through her when she finally got her hands on what she was looking for. She hastily opened the vial and swallowed its contents whole.

She let it fall to the ground and stepped over the few metres that separated her from her bed. The potion was already beginning to take effect.

The clock showed eight o'clock when she fell asleep. A dreamless sleep.

oOo

August 2000

Daylight tickled Theodore's eyelids, causing him to stir in his sleep. The cold walls and floor of the cell were enough to wake him up. He could feel that it had rained during the night.

The air was much heavier and more humid than usual. His cell smelled musty, even though there was a window directly outside. The August heat was back, despite the fact that the prison was on the open sea. And Theodore was suffering greatly from it.

Suddenly there was a knock on the iron door of his cell and a tray of food slid to the floor. The mere sight of its contents was enough to make him nauseous. It was disgusting.

Yet, knowing that he would have no choice but to swallow it if he did not want his health to deteriorate, he pulled the tray towards him, grabbed his fork and swallowed hard. The horror of every day was beginning.

He would eat, then spend the morning exercising in his unsanitary cell. Then he would have his second meal of the day, which he would eat while plugging his nose, and then spend the afternoon watching the sky through the bars of his cell. Dinner would come and he would finally be able to sleep. His dreams would be haunted by memories of the war, he would wake up several times to the cries of the other prisoners and go back to sleep until the next morning.

It was the same every day. Without exception. He didn't leave his cell, except for routine checks and showers.

Theo was close to going crazy.

He tried to escape with his thoughts, reliving in his mind the few happy moments of life he had experienced.

Meeting Harry, their first kiss, their first time sleeping together, the day he had promised Harry he would marry him...

His first bender with Blaise, Pansy and Draco. The day he'd stolen Veritaserum from Snape's storeroom for a Slytherin drinking game. His first flight on a broom. His last flight on a broom. The first potion he'd made. The last one.

He was reliving them all. One by one. It was his way of entertaining himself. To escape. To feel free.

Sometimes he wrote verses or drew with the wooden pencil provided by the prison. He did his best not to break the pencil as he sharpened the lead on the stone floor, knowing that the wardens would only willingly give him a new one when they decided.

He wrote down descriptions of his dream life, his dream home, the family he would like to have with Harry one day. Sometimes he even drew them together.

He had often been told that he had a talent for it.

All to the point of exhaustion. His body was drained and he rarely lasted more than four hours at a time awake, despite the exercise he did to keep himself fit. Sometimes he felt that it exhausted him more than anything else.

He had tried to count the days. He estimated that he had ten years left in prison. Ten years of nightmares, madness and boredom.

Thanks to missmary, Shreya, VMarsTrek and MissKaitlyn for their support!