A/N: *scuttles in*

*squeaks to see you're all still here*

*is sorry it's taken so long*

*love you all for reviewing*

xx-Kitten.

Jailbird Blues

By Kittenshift17

Chapter 8

She spent the whole day ignoring her fellow prisoners, even her friends, and wishing that she'd been allowed some more personal effects. She'd been rather dreading the notion of Marietta Edgecombe coming to pay her a visit, to gloat and to rub her nose in it that the bitch now had what she perceived to be power over her. The power to starve her, or have her raped, or even have her killed. Hermione didn't much fancy any of those notions, and she'd foolishly told the others that she'd made a deal with the guards, resulting in all of them being put out with her.

Lestrange had bitched for almost an hour, cussing her out and insisting that she would suffer their brand of 'affection' whether the guards liked it or not. Dolohov had remained quiet, one of the only ones not to have said anything about the notion that she might not be at their sexual disposal. He'd just stayed quiet and watched her. Hermione didn't really know if that was better or worse. At least Rowle and Lestrange had threatened her in their annoyance. Even Neville had told her that for a smart girl, she'd made a really stupid move. George had stayed quiet too, except to say that he hadn't realised she was so convinced of her own imminent demise that she would whore herself for protection.

She'd known from his tone that he thought she'd whored herself to him, too. That she'd only shagged him again for the sake of getting him on her good side and making him think she still loved him, so he would knock her up and get her out of there. Seamus had insisted that what Hermione had done made sense, what with Edgecombe on the loose and likely to insist that Hermione be given over to the Death Eaters for their amusement and Edgecombe's revenge. Kingsley had pointed out that doing so made sense if Edgecombe simply asked for reports that Hermione was being brutalised. The guards might be more likely to say she was, even if she wasn't, if they were getting something out of the deal.

Hermione had known too that a few of the boys were wondering if they might get to fuck her, anyway. Neville, Seamus, George and Kingsley were already a shoe in because they were part of the Order and her friends. Draco, too, had proved himself decent enough in the end and she'd known from his guardedly curious expression that he wanted to know if he'd get to fuck her – if she'd slip between the bars of his cell and have her way with him. Theo had outright asked, as he often already did, if she was going to fuck him. Lucius Malfoy had surprised her the most. He'd praised her for making a deal to protect herself and completely agreed with her decision.

From the way he'd said it, Hermione had the feeling that he was one of the ones among the group who had no intention of shagging her. Maybe it was because he was too well-mannered to rape her. Maybe he was repulsed by the fact that she was muggle-born. Maybe he didn't fancy the idea of siring another child with her when the whole prison knew she wanted to get pregnant and get out of there. Maybe he didn't like the idea of sharing a witch that his son was going to fuck. Maybe he didn't want to put his dick where the rest of them were going to blow their loads. Maybe he just wanted to remain loyal to his wife. Hermione didn't know, but the notion that he might not want to fuck her actually endeared the Death Eater to her.

He might be wretch, a bigot and a coward, but she would rather like not having to fuck someone just for the sake of keeping the peace. And if she could get away with shagging one less person while she lived out this nightmare, she would jump at the chance.

All day, she ignored everyone around her and eventually they all got bored with threatening her and telling her what a fool she was. Hermione spent most of the day looking out the window, her stomach roiling like the turbulent sea, the heavy food not sitting well in her stomach after so long living on nothing but air. She was tired, she'd realised, but she didn't think it would bode well for her if she were to try to lay down and catch a nap.

That way led depression and not bothering to get out of bed anymore, and that was something she could ill afford. Unwilling to risk exercising further when she felt so unwell, and unwilling to talk to her fellow inmates when they were all still so cross with her, Hermione had resorted to simply staring out the window, watching the turbulent North Sea as it forever raged, crashing wildly against the sides of the prison and swamping the small island below.

"Hey, Lestrange?" Hermione asked after several hours, when the others had grown bored of threatening her.

"Hmmm?" the Death Eater hummed curiously from where he'd stretched out on his mattress and had been staring at the ceiling, humming along broken tunes to himself when he couldn't remember how they all went, but couldn't seem to stand the silence, either.

Hermione noticed that he didn't sound angry, just curious and she supposed that he wasn't the type to hold a grudge. Maybe he didn't see the point when, eventually, the lot of them were likely to manage to corner her in the shower and have their way with her regardless of the deals she made.

"When it storms," she said. "Or if there's ever a hurricane… What happens to the prison?"

Lestrange sat up and squinted through the bars that separated them.

"Nothing," he shrugged. "You mean like, whether they consider evacuating us, right? They don't. We're lifers. They don't care if we die here. The Dementors never cared, anyway. Floaty fuckers could just fly away and not be harmed, and don't have feelings outside of hungry and anger, anyway."

"So, we just stay here?" Hermione asked. "What about the building? Those waves are already engulfing the island and crashing against the side of the prison."

Lestrange frowned at her for a moment before hauling himself up off his mattress and moving to his own window.

"Oooh," he said, sounding excited. "There's a storm a'comin', lads!"

Hermione felt a chill run down her spine at the sinister way he said it, his excitement evident.

"Another one?" Rowle grumbled from across the corridor.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder as the rest of the inmates all moved to their own windows.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Rowle went on. "It's going to hit from this side. I hate getting wet when it blows in."

"Don't be a whiny fuck, Thor," Rabastan chided him. "You're in for a treat, Granger."

"Why?" Hermione frowned.

"It's been a while since a storm brewed of this magnitude. Probably hasn't been one since you lot were all thrown in here. The last one that was this bad was likely when the Dark Lord broke us all out of here, I reckon," Lestrange said. "Oooh, there's nothing like that terror in the pit of you stomach that one of those monster waves will rip the guts out of the lower levels and send up plummeting to our doom."

Hermione began to suspect that the man was entirely unhinged when he emitted an elated laugh like a small child who's just been promised they'll be taken to a theme park and given a whole bucket of sweets.

"It rocks the foundations and makes this old girl sway," Lestrange went on. "We'll topple, one day, and then we'll all be free."

"I'd rather be free and alive," Hermione replied. "If Azkaban toppled into the ocean, we'd all drown."

"Fat chance of you getting free unless you want to slip through these bars and really make my night, Granger," Lestrange smirked, winking at her.

"Believe me, Lestrange, that wouldn't get me out of here," Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes.

"Why not?" he asked, turning his eyes from the storm raging outside once more and moving across his cell to press his face against the bars between them.

"I'm not currently even ovulating," Hermione shrugged. "Any sex I have in the coming who knows how long will all be for pleasure, only. Believe me, when I'm capable of getting pregnant, you'll know."

"Because you'll be riding my cock?" Lestrange asked, looking hopeful.

Hermione couldn't help but laugh just a little that the impending violent storm had clearly lifted his spirits inordinately. His eyes gleamed with hope and eagerness, and he practically quivered where he stood.

"Because whenever I fail to fall pregnant each month I'll be curled into a pathetic, screaming ball on the floor of my cell, torturing your eardrums," Hermione corrected.

"All the more reason to increase your chances as much as possible of getting knocked up," Rowle piped up from across the way where he was leaning against the back wall of his cell, peering out the window and not bothering to look at her.

"Don't listen to them, Hermione," Neville called. "They're all sour because they haven't felt a witch's touch in too bloody long and they thought that having you show up would be an immediate ticket to shag-topia."

Hermione sighed, strolling to the front of her cell and pressing her forehead against the bars to peer down the length of the room at her friends. Neville gave her a small smile and Hermione returned it.

"We'll see," was the best she could offer.

"Not so concerned about your little deal with the guards after all, then?" Carrow sneered from the other direction but Hermione didn't pay him any mind. She'd begun to think the best way to deal with him would be to just pretend he didn't exist until he didn't bother talking.

Before she could say anything else, Proudfoot strolled down the cell block and stopped in front of her cell.

"You better get your gear and get ready for a shower, Granger," he said quiet. "If that storm hits badly, we'll lose access to hot running water."

Hermione nodded, turning away.

"Time to strip, Granger," Lestrange grinned. "There's nowhere in the bathrooms to put your gear without it getting drenched and when this storm hits, you'll want something dry to put on, trust me."

Hermione bit her lip, looking around and finding that even the eyes of her friends were on her, waiting to see what she would do; waiting to watch her peel each garment from her body and reveal the meagre and half-starved female form hidden beneath. Sighing heavily, Hermione screwed her courage to the sticking place, reminding herself that she might very well be fucking the lot of them in short order and then they'd be doing a bit more than seeing her bared body – they'd be touching it, too.

Peeling her shirt off over her head, Hermione ignored the wolf-whistle Rowle emitted from behind her, keeping her back to him. She slid her pants down her legs next, peeling them off her body and folding them neatly on the end of her bed. Her socks came off next, and Hermione winced at the cold bite of the stone floor beneath her feet once they were bare. She peeled away each layer of clothing until she stood in only her bra and her knickers, aware of the way both didn't fit quite right thanks to the emaciation born of a year on the run, starving and stressed; grief at the death of Harry and Fred and Remus and Tonks; and more than a month fighting for scraps in a combined cell with other witches.

She had more scars now than she'd had before all this began and she nibbled her lower lip as she looked down at the miniscule excuse for breasts she still had thanks to how skinny she was.

"Satisfied, Lestrange?" Hermione asked, since he'd been the one to instruct her to strip for them all. "Aroused? Does the sight of a starved and broken woman turn you on?"

"Come on, Granger," Proudfoot said quietly. "Leave the rest; if all else fails I can hold them for you, so they won't get wet."

Hermione turned to look at the man, her eyes widening a little at his apparent kindness. When she met his gaze, the recent hostility born of thinking her a violent criminal was gone and only pity lingered in his expression. Hermione could tell that unlike the lascivious others, he wasn't at all aroused by the sight of her bared form. He was horrified that she looked so unwell.

"Bloody hell, Princess," Rowle muttered from across the way and Hermione looked past Proudfoot to see the hulking Death Eater was watching her with a look that almost matched Proudfoot's.

Hermione looked down at herself once more, biting her bottom lip and shrugged her slim shoulders.

"No wonder you…" Rowle began before realising that if Proudfoot found out she could fit through the bars, he would move her to a different cell.

No one else said anything as Hermione collected her bath towel and followed Proudfoot down the corridor past all the inmates. Not a single one of them uttered a word, not even Carrow, and Hermione could tell that whatever anger they'd been harbouring about her making a deal with Entwhistle, they'd let it go.

How could they not?

Without the layering of her prison-issue clothing and underneath the magic and the bravado and the Gryffindor stubbornness, she was just a little witch. Skinny to the point of frailty and weak despite the recent meals and revitalising potions, she was currently very far from being some luscious or desirable witch. She was a far cry from being strong enough to really wrestle anyone off her, should they be granted permission to bathe alongside her and try something. Except for the loose control she had on a little wandless magic, Hermione couldn't have fought any of the men off, and she knew it.

Clearly, they all knew it too, and Hermione was surprised as she traversed the long walk to see that all of them looked pitying and a little more like they understood the deal she'd made with Entwhistle. She'd expected that seeing her so vulnerable would make them think it would be that much easier to do as they wanted with her, but none of them said a word and none of them looked like they revelled in her state.

Inside the open bathing chamber at the end of the corridor, tucked just far enough around the corner to afford her the tiniest bit of privacy from the prying eyes of her fellow prisoners, Hermione breathed out a heavy sigh.

"Be quick about it, Granger," Proudfoot urged her quietly, standing with his back to the shower, essentially guarding the door. "Storm's coming, and there'll be a change of the guard up here when it hits. They need me to help with the fortification on the lower levels. Entwhistle won't be back for a while, but the quicker you are, the less chance you'll have to deal with him, eh?"

Hermione raised her eyebrows even as she gingerly wriggled out of her knickers and her bra, setting both aside at the door by Proudfoot's feet. She didn't bother asking him about how he'd managed to convince his fellow Auror to leave him on the upper level to shower her when it had been clear earlier that Entwhistle meant to be the one doing the honours.

Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, Hermione turned the taps on, and danced from foot to foot as he waited for the hot water to come cascading through the pipes. Hot was something of an overstatement, but it was at least lukewarm and Hermione had long since learned not to quibble over details. The alternative was icy cold water fresh in from the turbulent sea, so she'd take what she could get. She shivered as she bathed, being as quick about it as she could, starting with her wildly curly hair, hanging in such short, tight ringlets after Madame Pomfrey's had cut it because it had been so matted and neglected.

"Hurry, girl," Proudfoot said over his shoulder a few minutes later.

Thunder had begun to rumble, and the entire room lit up when lightning struck brightly, blinding her in the gloom of the bathroom.

Hermione hit the floor without even meaning to when her brain mistook the brilliant flash of light for a curse flung in her direction. Not that Proudfoot noticed her predicament when it seemed that many of her fellow prisoners were just as affected by the lightning.

The screaming started unexpectedly following the first crack as more and more lightning and thunder filled the skies beyond the prison. Hermione understood why it was Proudfoot had been telling her to hurry when she found herself curling into a tight ball against the wall of the shower, shivering and wide-eyed. Her hands groped uselessly for her wand despite her nudity and Hermione whimpered when she found herself without it.

Proudfoot looked over his shoulder then, though because he'd heard the sound she'd made or because he meant to hurry her again, Hermione didn't know. His brow furrowed into a fierce frown when he spotted the state she was in; crouching against the wall, curled in on herself, dripping wet and naked, she was sure she must look a sight.

"Oh, bloody hell," he muttered, and Hermione cringed away from him when he hurried across the bathroom and quickly turned off the tap of the shower before reaching for her.

"Don't touch me!" Hermione whispered harshly, her eyes fixed on him as he made to reach for her.

"I've got to get you back to your cell, Granger. Got to get you dry, too, before you catch your death in this wretched place," Proudfoot told her. "Don't look at me like that, kid. I'm going to hurt you."

Rationally, Hermione knew that, but the next vicious crack of lightning that she felt sure must've struck the building, the impact resounding so heavily, drew an unexpected scream from her lips and Hermione knew she was in danger of losing herself to the fear and the effects of PTSD right there in the bathroom. When she didn't move to dry herself or to help Proudfoot return her to her cell, he cursed before hitting her with a Stunning spell, no further questions asked.

Hermione slumped to the ground, unconscious.

"Bloody witch," Proudfoot grumbled, flicking his wand to dry her off as best he could before he scooped the frail young woman into his arms, cradling her scarred body as best he could and doing what little was possible to save her dignity as he carried her out of the bathroom.

Not that the rest of the inmates were in much better shape than she was, and certainly weren't in any state to be perving on her. The war had fucked them all over, this lot more than most given their proximity to the heart of the final battle. These had been the kids on the frontline, Proudfoot knew, and a part of him felt shame to know that despite his extensive training and his many years as an Auror, it had been teenagers from amid the Order who had born the brunt of the attack and them that had resorted to guerrilla warfare and offensive tactics to fight back the enemy. What was more, even some of the Death Eater scumbags had been dragged into the fighting through no fault of their own.

The Malfoy kid, and the boy of Nott had both only taken the mark as a result of tradition, legacy, and their father's failings. Even Lestrange and Rowle had been roped into it by family members. Rabastan had surely been pressured and led by his elder brother, Rodolphus, and Rowle's father had been in the thick of the Darkest crowds when Proudfoot had been just a rookie, himself.

He wasn't surprised to see that of all the prisoners on his cell block, only two remained stoic in the midst of the storm, unaffected and steadfast in their silent vigil as the skies split open with a feral crack and the sleet, hail, and driving wind ripped through the prison with the ferocity of an avenging titan. Kingsley Shacklebolt stood in the middle of his cell, far enough out of reach of the rain driving in through his cell window to avoid getting wet, but close enough to watch the wild seas rage and roll.

No PTSD there, Proudfoot thought, and he loathed that there was a part of him that was proud of the lad he'd had the pleasure of training, once upon a time. Aye, the lad had been bomb-proofed, but none of his fellow Order members had been given the privilege.

"What've you done to her?" a thick voice demanded as Percival Proudfoot hurried down the row and back into Granger's cell cradling the young witch in his arms.

Proudfoot turned to see the only other unrattlable bastard in the joint.

Antonin Dolohov.

He didn't flinch at the next blinding flash of lightning, and he never took his eyes off of Granger as Percival slotted her onto her narrow cot and flung the blankets over her. He never did. Even when Proudfoot had been a rookie and had once inspected this wretched prison while it was under the guard of the Dementors, Dolohov had never seemed affected by the storms, the creatures, or the cold. Whether it was an abundance of self-control, a lifetime delving into things much scarier, or just desensitisation, Proudfoot didn't know or care.

"Stunned her," Percival admitted. "She was getting hysterical with the storm. Reckon she's got the likes of you and your buddies to thank for that."

Dolohov didn't say anything, and he didn't jump when the next crack of lightning drew a scream from the lad of Finnigan from the cell behind him. He simply stood there and stared. Proudfoot narrowed his eyes, making a mental note to keep an eye on the little witch and to do what he could to get her away from this wretch, obsessed bastard who seemed so fixated upon her.

He'd have to talk to Poppy.

She would know what to do. Carefully tucking the Granger girl under her covers, he straightened and summoned her towel and her undergarments from the bathroom where they'd been forgotten before he backed out of her cell and locked it tightly behind him. He could do nothing for the screamers, and nothing to desist Lestrange's manic laughter that poured from the next cell as the storm raged ever onward, all of them proving they were more than a little cracked and that if they weren't locked up here, it'd be a padded cell at St Mungo's for the lot of them, instead.

Knowing he was needed elsewhere, Pervcival Proudfoot strode away down the cell-block and entered the lift, secure in the knowledge that though they might all be screaming, cowering, or cackling in hysteria, at least they were safe and in no danger of escaping. He left them all there to help his fellow Aurors on the lower levels, thinking to himself that, murderer of that wretched Umbridge woman or not, there was no way he could allow the girl of Granger to remain in this hole.

No way in hell.