THE AFTER

Alexia Riddle

Summary:

"But the truth is, most monsters walk among us, Hermione. And they don't bear marks."

Hermione is tasked with investigating reports of abuse at Azkaban. She will turn to Draco Malfoy, who has just served his sentence, falling in love with the blonde, in the process of saving him from his own darkness.
Drama, suspense, and romance intertwine in this dark tale to expose the lights and shadows of human nature.

DARK DRAMIONE, POST-HOGWARTS. ROMANCE, EXPLICIT SEX, AND SENSITIVE THEMES.

WARNING: First of all, I want to warn you that my native language is Spanish, so my English is not perfect. I do the best I can.

Characters are from Harry Potter, thanks to J.K. Rowling. I only use her characters for my entertainment.

Chapter 1: AZKABAN Chapter Text

"Let us consider that virtue,
knowledge, and a love of freedom are the qualities
that unleash the inquisitors' fatal vengeance."
- DAVID HUME

Hermione took the burnt coffee cup from the hands of the young, overly made-up waitress. The woman gave her a hostile look, one she'd been wearing ever since Hermione suggested replacing the Ministry's unwelcoming cafeteria with vending machines. Hermione believed vending machines were a more cost-effective, faster, and better source of coffee than the brew made by the girl. Unfortunately, the waitress seemed to disagree, placing job security over efficiency and quality.

The proposal hadn't been well received, forcing Hermione to cut back on coffee purchases. Still, today she needed the extra caffeine.

"Thank you," she said with a forced smile, stepping aside as the girl grumbled and motioned for the next customer.

While searching the nearby counter for a spoon to stir the bitter concoction, Hermione reflected on her lack of widespread appreciation for her wartime heroism. She didn't expect people to ask for autographs or hand her a position in the Department for the Defense of Magical Rights, but a simple smile after buying coffee seemed a fair trade for risking her life—and the horrendous scar on her forearm.

She was about to cast an anti-spill charm on her coffee when her gaze fell on the front page of The Daily Prophet in the window. The headline, "Six Months in Azkaban for Son of Death Eater," caught her attention. Such headlines were common, even three years after the war's end, as delayed convictions trickled in. But the subtitle clarified that Theodore Nott had received six months for possessing an unregistered Time-Turner.

That's sensationalist, Hermione thought. As far as she knew, Nott hadn't taken the Dark Mark or participated in the war. He didn't deserve such a damning headline.

Then again, her six months at the Ministry had taught her that deserving or not meant little to the Wizengamot, the press, or public opinion.

Despite improvements since Kingsley Shacklebolt's appointment as Minister, the pursuit of quick results often overshadowed justice. It led to questionable convictions.

One of Kingsley's most notable reforms had been removing Dementors from Azkaban, establishing a more humane system run by Aurors, guards, and staff. Yet, complaints of mistreatment, rights violations, and corruption within the facility persisted.

They'd replaced one system of abuse with another, Hermione mused. Which is worse?

"Nott won't survive a month in there," someone muttered in the elevator behind her. The words pierced through the dull hum of conversation, making Hermione's spine stiffen. She resisted the urge to turn around.

"Borgin said he's a pretty boy, with that brainy look," another man added, a dark chuckle laced with malice. "Someone like that doesn't last long in a place like Azkaban."

"Serves him right," the other sneered, dripping with contempt. "Damn privileged—"

Hermione's fingers tightened around her coffee cup, the cheap cardboard creaking under her grip. A cold wave of nausea swept over her as their words sank in, an unbidden image of Theodore Nott—quiet, aloof, and bookish—flashing through her mind. She barely knew him, but something about the casual cruelty in their voices unsettled her.

"As far as I know," she said evenly, forcing her voice into the kind of calm that demanded attention, "he's not accused of being a Death Eater." Her heart pounded, but she still refused to turn and give them the satisfaction of meeting her gaze. "It's disturbing," she continued, her tone sharpening, "to hear Ministry employees discussing abuses in Azkaban like it's some kind of entertainment, rather than working to ensure the safety of prisoners."

The elevator fell silent, and Hermione took a measured sip of her coffee, trying to ignore the bitter taste that seemed to linger longer than usual, when the doors opened, sparing her from their responses.

She strode out quickly, relieved to leave behind the supposedly honourable officials.

"Whoa! You okay?" McLaggen's voice came from nowhere as he collided with her. Hermione's cup hit the floor but, thanks to the anti-spill charm, didn't create a mess.

"You seem unusually angry, Granger," he said, flashing his infuriating smile.

Hermione bent to pick up her coffee, shaking her head. Of all the people she could have worked with, Cormac McLaggen was the most useless. Yet there he was, golden curls bouncing as he grinned at the most inconvenient times.

Finally reaching her office, Hermione leaned against the closed door, thoughts swirling.

"Something wrong?" Hestia Oleander asked from her desk across the room. Tall, blonde, and perpetually polished, Hestia managed to be impeccably groomed despite juggling two kids and frequently claiming she had no time for anything.

Not even work, Hermione thought but bit her tongue.

Hestia had been transferred to Hermione's underfunded department for a few months. As the sole other team member in the program to defend magical rights, her contributions had been... limited.

"I had an unpleasant conversation in the elevator," Hermione replied. Hestia adjusted her metallic pink glasses and resumed filing her nails, pretending to review a document Hermione had asked her to process that morning.

"Any response from the Department of Regulation?" Hermione asked, taking another sip of her vile coffee.

Hestia blinked. "Oh, yes... the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," she said, her tone suggesting she'd only just understood the question. "No, no response yet."

Hermione blinked back. Maybe working alone wasn't so bad.

Their conversation was interrupted by Kingsley Shacklebolt himself. His tall frame filled the doorway as he nodded politely at Hestia before focusing on Hermione.

"Can we talk?" he asked.

- HP -

Despite her expectations, the Minister's office was neither grand nor opulent. It was functional: a spacious desk, a bookshelf, four chairs, and a sofa. The entrance was guarded by an efficient secretary who made excellent coffee—unlike Hermione's colleague.

Seated across from Kingsley's desk, Hermione cradled her cup, savoring the aroma. It was a welcome change from the abomination cooling in her office.

Kingsley finished pouring milk into his cup, leaning back casually. His brown eyes carried their usual calm respect—a respect Hermione felt was less for her accomplishments than for her unwavering dedication to doing what was right. In that, she and Kingsley were kindred spirits.

"How's the voluntary release program for House-Elves progressing?" he asked, breaking the silence.

Although she suspected this wasn't the reason for the meeting, Hermione answered candidly about the campaign's slow but steady progress.

Kingsley nodded, sipping his coffee before clearing his throat—a signal Hermione recognized as a prelude to serious discussion.

"I've always had the highest regard for you," he began. Hermione set her cup down, sensing the weight of his words. "And because of that, I would never think less of you if you refused a challenge for personal reasons."

Hermione's brows furrowed. "You can trust me to remain professional, Minister," she replied, intrigued.

"I don't doubt that," he assured her. "But if you choose to decline what I'm about to propose, I'll respect your decision, find someone else, and never mention to anyone that I asked you first."

"Alright..." she said slowly, leaning forward. "What is it?"

Kingsley folded his hands. "My goal has always been to prevent the mistakes of the past—to unify wizards and witches, regardless of their parentage or the side they took in the war."

"I understand," Hermione said. "Your policies to reduce sentences for certain war participants and improve Azkaban conditions reflect that. Harsh, exemplary punishments would only foster resentment and perpetuate division."

Kingsley's smile was small but sincere. "Exactly. But have the conditions at Azkaban truly improved?"

Hermione remained silent, wondering if he'd heard about her tense elevator conversation.

"We've received countless complaints," he continued, his voice heavy with disappointment. "Families and friends of prisoners report irregularities, mistreatment, even extortion. Some go so far as to demand the return of Dementors." He sighed. "And while we've investigated, we haven't found concrete evidence to support these claims. But..." His pause was weighted. "There are unusual money transfers in the accounts of guards and Aurors. We've also had anonymous testimonies of abuse happening right under our noses. The only official willing to testify disappeared before they could speak."

Hermione listened intently, the words from the elevator—Nott won't survive a month—echoing in her mind.

"What do you need from me?" she asked, though the task felt more suited to an Auror.

Kingsley straightened. "When I worked with the Muggle Prime Minister, I learned about their prison systems. They have mechanisms to monitor abuse of power. I hoped we could adopt similar systems, but..." He exhaled. "The department best suited to oversee Azkaban's practices is yours, Hermione. And I can't think of anyone more qualified to ensure that imprisonment remains the only punishment endured there."

Hermione took a moment to process his words, recalling the earlier comment about Nott's appearance: A handsome guy... It's not looking good for him.

"But I can understand," Kingsley said, his tone softening, "if you have your reasons to—"

"I'll do it," Hermione interrupted.

Kingsley's smile was one of approval. "Thank you, Hermione."

- HP -

"Won't you feel uncomfortable defending Death Eaters?" Ron asked skeptically. Beside him, Harry adjusted his glasses, lost in thought.

"I'm not defending Death Eaters, Ron. I'm not a Defender," Hermione said, struggling to keep her tone patient. "My role is to ensure that Azkaban prisoners' rights aren't violated."

"But you'll still be defending Death Eaters," Ron countered, as if repeating it made it truer.

Hermione sighed, reminded why their brief romance had fizzled out. Ron was a wonderful friend—loyal and dependable. But in a partner, she needed mutual understanding and deeper conversations than Quidditch scores or the cafeteria's dessert menu.

"Imagine if you have to defend Malfoy!" Ron continued, half a burger spilling from his mouth.

Charming, Hermione thought dryly. But definitely not sexy.

"Malfoy isn't in Azkaban anymore," Harry interjected. "He finished his sentence over a year ago."

Hermione recalled hearing about it from Parvati during one of their girls' nights, where Malfoy's name often came up as a topic of gossip. To Parvati, he was a former Death Eater but still a highly eligible bachelor, thanks to his Gringotts vault. Hannah Abbott had even called him handsome, and Hermione had been surprised no one disagreed.

"Not Malfoy, then," Ron conceded grudgingly. "But there are others just as bad—or worse—in there."

"Theodore Nott isn't in Azkaban for being a Death Eater," Hermione explained, her voice sharper than intended. "He's there for possessing an unregistered Time-Turner."

Ron seemed unimpressed and changed the subject.

Later that evening, Harry walked her home. Ginny was away for training with the Wimbourne Wasps, and Harry mentioned she had a strong shot at making the team.

"How's the Auror Academy going?" Hermione asked as they reached her building.

"Not bad," Harry replied casually, though his silence suggested something deeper.

As she invited him in, Harry declined politely. Adjusting his glasses, he took a deep breath.

"About your new role..." he began, clearly choosing his words carefully. "It's about time someone addressed the issues at Azkaban. And I'm glad it's you, Hermione. You give me hope that things might actually change."

Hermione smiled, moved by his sincerity, and hugged him.

-HP-

In the list of Azkaban prisoners handed to her by Hestia, three names stood out: former Hogwarts classmates. Hermione decided to start with Theodore Nott. His sentence had begun only a week ago, and of the three, he was the only one not imprisoned for war crimes. She hoped this might make the interview easier. Secretly, she also wanted to ensure he was holding up.

"Nott won't survive a month," the words echoed in her mind as a guard escorted her down Azkaban's dim corridors.

The cold air seeped into her bones. The place didn't need Dementors to drain warmth and happiness—it did that all on its own.

She was about to ask the guard why spells weren't used to improve the temperature when a familiar face appeared at the end of the corridor. Blaise Zabini walked toward them, his dark features just as striking as she remembered. Time had only sharpened his aristocratic appearance.

"Granger?" he asked, stopping when he recognized her. His expression betrayed surprise.

"Zabini," she replied evenly, standing her ground. Zabini's dark eyes studied her with a mix of curiosity and amusement.

"Any of your friends around here?" he asked, as though the idea were absurd.

"No. I'm here to see a friend of yours," Hermione said, watching his reaction carefully. "Theodore Nott."

Zabini raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "I see. And why would you want to see Theo?"

"I'm representing the Ministry of Magic as part of the Department for the Defense of Magical Rights," she replied.

"Theo already has a Defender," Zabini interrupted, his tone laced with arrogance. "An expensive one, too. Though clearly useless, or we wouldn't be here."

"I'm not a Defender," Hermione corrected, taking a steadying breath. "I'm not here to argue his innocence. My job is to ensure that his fundamental rights aren't violated while he serves his sentence."

Zabini blinked before laughing—a sharp, mocking sound.

"Good luck with that, Granger," he said, brushing past her.

Hermione didn't wait for him to disappear before addressing the guard, who was now watching her with a curious mix of seriousness and apprehension.

They continued in silence until they reached the designated meeting room. The guard tapped the bars lightly, and the door opened, leading into a semi-circular space with mossy ceilings, gray walls, and long counters. Two chairs sat opposite each other at the center.

Theodore Nott entered shortly after through the door behind the counters. His tall, slim frame was draped in Azkaban's fluorescent yellow uniform, which—despite its garishness—he somehow wore with quiet dignity. His brown curls were disheveled, his pale face symmetrical and striking. The dark hollows under his eyes were the only evidence of his time here.

"A pretty boy... won't survive a month."

"Nott," Hermione greeted him as he sat down. His hands, bound by magical restraints, rested on the table.

"Granger?" he asked after a moment of recognition, his expression tinged with disbelief.

"The same," Hermione said with a small smile, feigning familiarity. In truth, she doubted they'd exchanged more than a handful of words at Hogwarts. She remembered him as quiet, always in the library, and occasionally smirking alongside Malfoy during her lessons. But that was a long time ago. "Let's skip any pretense of catching up and get straight to the point," she said briskly. Nott's expression remained impassive. "I'm here on behalf of the Ministry as a representative of the Department for the Defense of Magical Rights."

"But..." Nott frowned slightly. "I already have a Defender."

"I'm not a Defender," Hermione said, annoyed by the repetition. "I'm not here to argue your case. My job is to ensure that your time in Azkaban adheres to regulations and that your fundamental rights aren't violated."

Nott observed her in silence for a long moment, lips slightly parted.

"I see..." he said finally. "Do you do this for every Azkaban prisoner?"

"No," Hermione replied. "I requested this meeting to determine if you've been treated fairly during your stay or if you have reason to believe a fundamental right has been violated."

Nott stared at her, his expression unreadable. The guard behind him shifted uneasily.

"No," Nott said at last. "No fundamental rights violated. Everything's in order here." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Do you have any complaints about the facilities?" Hermione asked. "Enough blankets? Hot water in the showers?"

Nott's dark eyes narrowed slightly at the mention of showers—so subtly it might have gone unnoticed. Did I imagine that? Hermione wondered.

"Or perhaps the food... is it sufficient?" she added.

"It's... delicious." This time, his black eyes shifted to the guard. His face remained expressionless, but his gaze lingered for three long seconds before returning to Hermione. She understood the guard's presence might not allow for honesty.

"And the bathrooms? Everything fine with those?"

"Impeccable," Nott said, repeating the subtle glance at the guard.

"I see," Hermione murmured. Facing the guard directly, she dared not signal to Nott that she understood his apprehension. "I suppose everything is being handled adequately in your case," she said, rising. "Still, I'll return in a week to discuss the routine here in more detail."

"Routine?"

"You know... time outside, sunlight exposure, meal times."

"Of course. Outdoor time," Nott said, his lips pressing into a tight line.

As Hermione signaled the guard to escort her out, she turned back. "Goodbye, Nott. See you next week."

"Granger," Nott called just as the guard pulled him from his chair. "Have you spoken to the 'ferret' recently?"

Hermione blinked, nearly asking who he meant until it clicked. "He mentioned wanting to talk to you," Nott added with a smirk.

The guard grabbed Nott's arm, dragging him away before Hermione could respond.

The ferret... It could only mean Malfoy. But why would Nott use a nickname the blond despised? And why would Malfoy want to talk to her? Unless... it wasn't Malfoy at all. Perhaps Nott wanted her to speak to him—without the guards knowing.

-HP-

"Malfoy?" Hestia asked, raising both eyebrows as she adjusted her bright blue glasses. "As in Draco Malfoy?"

"Yes, Draco Malfoy," Hermione confirmed, her tone crisp. "I need you to arrange a meeting with him."

"Ask all you want," Hestia replied, tapping her desk impatiently, "but I can't promise good results."

"Why not?"

"Draco Malfoy isn't willing to receive visitors," Hestia said matter-of-factly, leaning back in her chair.

"I'm representing the Ministry," Hermione pressed.

Hestia's lips twitched into a mocking smile. "Malfoy doesn't care if you're representing the Ministry, the Queen, or Merlin himself. He refuses all interviews. When I worked in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, we tried to contact him about a partnership with a French firm. Not only did he decline, but his advocate threatened legal action for harassment. We didn't even get close to him."

"Lovely," Hermione muttered, rubbing her temple. "Fine, then. Set up a meeting with Blaise Zabini instead."

"Any specific reason to give him?" Hestia asked, picking up the receiver.

"Say it's about his visit to Theodore Nott."

Hestia froze mid-dial, then set the receiver down. "That would be difficult," she said slowly, her tone tinged with caution.

"Why?"

"Because Nott is under restricted visits. No one is allowed to see him during his first month in Azkaban except Ministry personnel. I had to pull strings just to get you in."

Hermione frowned. "That's impossible. I saw Zabini there."

"If he wasn't seeing Nott," Hestia said, her eyes narrowing, "then who was he there to visit?"

Hermione's stomach churned. She kept her voice steady. "Can you confirm that for me?"

Hestia's lips curved into a sly smile. "Give me until the afternoon."

-HP-

By lunch, Hermione sat alone in her office with a chicken sandwich and a pile of case files. She reviewed Draco Malfoy's record from his time in Azkaban, along with others, hoping to find patterns of irregularities.

Malfoy's file was particularly striking. It began with reports of frequent fights with fellow inmates—most of them former Death Eaters. The infirmary logs detailed injuries: fractures, bruises, split lips, and deep lacerations. Then, after six months, the violence abruptly stopped. The reports turned blank, as though Malfoy had vanished.

He had spent the next year under house arrest. Four months ago, Astoria Greengrass—his rumored fiancée—filed a report claiming Malfoy had received death threats. Hermione had seen their photographs plastered across the tabloids: Astoria, stunning and poised, on Malfoy's arm at charity galas. The epitome of pure-blood perfection.

Flipping to his financial records, Hermione noted significant donations to various organizations, property purchases in France, and investments in several firms. In the space marked Occupation, it read: Lord Malfoy.

Of course. With Lucius gone, Draco inherited everything, Hermione thought. Lucius's death, a grisly act of vengeance by rogue Death Eaters after the war, had left Draco the head of one of the wizarding world's wealthiest families.

Meanwhile, I'm the "heroine" of the Second Wizarding War and barely make enough to cover rent, she mused bitterly, finishing the last bite of her sandwich.

"Is that your lunch?" Cormac McLaggen's voice interrupted. He leaned in the doorway, a smug grin on his face. "I was going to invite you to something more... substantial."

Hermione swallowed her irritation. "I'm fine, thank you," she replied, forcing a polite smile.

Cormac tilted his head, his golden curls bouncing. "You sure? I heard you've got a new project. Defending Azkaban prisoners?"

"What about it?" Hermione asked sharply, her patience with Cormac already worn thin.

"You didn't even study magical law," he said, his tone dripping with condescension. "How exactly are you supposed to be a Defender for...?"

"I'm not a Defender," Hermione snapped, cutting him off. Her tone was razor-sharp, her glare sharper. "I'm not here to argue innocence. I'm here to ensure that prisoners' rights aren't violated." She folded her arms, challenging him. "And why does that matter to you?"

Cormac hesitated, clearly caught off guard, before recovering with a pointed look that bordered on patronizing. "Just wanted to check on you. Because I care."

The words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Do I matter to him? Hermione suppressed the urge to laugh—or groan. She wasn't sure which was more appropriate. Instead, she chose the most effective response: none at all. She turned her attention back to her files, dismissing him entirely.

Cormac lingered for a moment longer, his presence irritatingly persistent, before finally leaving. Hermione exhaled, relieved to have the air cleared of his smugness. She returned to her work, combing through the details of a case study. Her concentration was just beginning to resettle when Hestia entered, holding an envelope in her hand and wearing a triumphant expression.

"I was right," Hestia announced, her tone tinged with smug satisfaction. "Nott hasn't had any visitors apart from you. Here's the record for the week." She placed the envelope on Hermione's desk with a flourish.

Hermione's stomach twisted at the revelation, though she wasn't entirely sure why. Was it pity? Guilt? Curiosity? She picked up the envelope but didn't open it yet, her voice cool as she asked, "And Zabini?"

Hestia's smirk faltered slightly. "He doesn't appear in the records either," she admitted, though a glint in her eye suggested she wasn't done. Leaning in conspiratorially, she lowered her voice. "But a reliable source told me a dark-skinned man arrived that morning. He asked for a guard named Emet Hemlock and was escorted into the visitor's room—no record of entry, no log of departure."

Hermione's pulse quickened, her mind racing with possibilities. "Who's Emet Hemlock?" she demanded, her voice tight with urgency.

"One of the guards," Hestia replied. "And here's where it gets interesting." She produced another file. "The Minister's report of financial records shows significant transfers into Hemlock's account from several sources. Blaise Zabini and Draco Malfoy are among them."

Hermione's brow furrowed. "How significant?"

"Very," Hestia emphasized. "And there's more. Zabini was seen carrying a leather bag when he entered Azkaban, but he didn't have it when he left."

Hermione sat back, the pieces clicking into place. "So, Zabini and Malfoy are paying Hemlock. But for what?"

Hestia shrugged, handing Hermione a final document. "You can ask Zabini tomorrow. You've got a meeting with him at eight."

-HP-

Blaise Zabini didn't meet her at his house but rather in a large minimalist building, far too close to the Ministry for Hermione's comfort. A small plaque near the entrance read, "RyM Associates."

She had to take an elevator up ten floors to reach a spacious reception area, where she waited half an hour before being informed that Mr. Zabini would see her.

The coffee they served her once she entered the wide office—where the dark-skinned man was already waiting—was even better than what Shacklebolt usually offered. As Blaise lingered, waiting for the secretary to step out before speaking, Hermione took the opportunity to admire the room. The desk was stunning, the chairs simple yet elegant, and the fireplace at the far end of the space was massive.

"And so," Blaise smiled as the door clicked shut behind his secretary. "To what do I owe the honor of your visit? Or are you here on behalf of the Ministry?"

"My secretary arranged the appointment, so yes, Zabini, I'm clearly here representing the Ministry," she replied coolly. The dark-skinned man didn't flinch, his expression remaining impassive as his sharp eyes analyzed her face.

"And how, exactly, can we help the Ministry?" he asked with feigned politeness.

Hermione took a quick sip of her coffee, downing it hastily in case what she was about to say didn't sit well with Zabini and she ended up being shown the door.

"Well, you see, we need you to explain why Malfoy and you have been depositing money into the account of an Azkaban guard named Emet Hemlock."

Blaise regarded her in silence for a long moment, sipping his own coffee before finally breaking into a smile.

"The truth is, Granger," he drawled, "I don't see why it's any of your business—or the Ministry's—what we do with our money."

"But it is my business, Zabini," Hermione countered, her tone sharp, "because it was right after those payments began that Draco Malfoy's visits to the infirmary stopped. And another payment coincides with the arrival of Theodore Nott in Azkaban, whom I recently saw... remarkably well-cared for."

Zabini's dark eyes remained fixed on her. Though his jaw seemed to clench slightly, as if biting the inside of his cheek, his expression betrayed little else.

"If you're bribing a guard to stop abusing prisoners," she pressed on, "that's something the Ministry needs to know about. We need your cooperation to put an end to it."

"Fine," Zabini said with a tight-lipped smile that didn't reach his eyes. "In six months, I'll give you all the details you want, Granger. But for now, you'll get nothing from me."

"Six months," Hermione murmured, the realization dawning on her. "When Nott's sentence ends." Zabini ignored her comment, but she pressed on. "It's ironic, though, because he's the one who asked me to speak with Malfoy."

Zabini's expression shifted, skepticism flashing across his features. "Theo wouldn't—"

"He did."

"Granger," he said, his tone laced with disbelief, "I didn't take you for a liar. Theo would never mention Draco's name in front of one of those guards."

"He called him a ferret," Hermione replied simply, watching as the smile fell from Zabini's lips. "He disguised our conversation in front of the guard, making it seem like he was talking about an old friend. He told me the ferret had something to tell me."

Zabini's jaw tightened, and though he feigned indifference, his lips pressed together in a way that betrayed his concern. "Did you notice anything unusual about him?" he asked, his voice casual, but the tension in his posture told another story.

"I don't know him well enough to say," Hermione admitted. "But he didn't seem mistreated, if that's what you're asking."

Zabini curled his lips in disdain. That clearly wasn't the question.

"Zabini," she continued, her voice softening but losing none of its resolve, "if Malfoy and Nott have to pay to stop being beaten, then something is seriously wrong in Azkaban. And even if the money buys Nott some peace, there are others in there without the means to—"

"If you care so much about those poor souls," Zabini interrupted, his voice rising slightly, "help me get Theo out. Have his sentence changed to house arrest. The Ministry should have the power to make that happen. Isn't that what you're supposed to be, Granger? A damn Defender?"

"I'm not a Defender," she bit back, her lips tightening. Hadn't she already clarified that?

"Then I don't see how you can help us."

"So you do need help," Hermione noted, watching as Zabini's lips pressed together again. Whether it was out of regret for what he'd said or to stop himself from saying more, she couldn't tell.

Before she could push further, the fireplace flared green, smoke billowing out as a tall figure emerged, striding purposefully into the room.

"Blaise, where the hell did you leave my—" The moment his gray eyes locked with hers, Hermione stopped expecting any sort of introduction from Zabini.

Standing before her was Draco Malfoy.

-END OF CHAPTER I-

Note 1: Comments, kudos and bookmarks are always welcome.

Note 2: Please take into account the warnings. This story is a faithful representation of the philosophy that says, "A human being who has been repaired is more beautiful than one who has never been hurt."