A/N: Help, I'm publishing unsupervised! (Oop, nope, I took too long, I'm publishing supervised again!)

Beta Love: The Dragon and the Rose, Dutchgirl01, Flyby Commander Shepard

Summary: Hermione finds herself in Azkaban after the war only to find it may not be as bad as she thought.

Cloaked Intentions

I don't believe that if you do good, good things will happen. Everything is completely accidental and random. Sometimes bad things happen to very good people, and sometimes good things happen to bad people. But at least if you try to do good things, then you're spending your time doing something worthwhile.

Helen Mirren

When Ronald Weasley proposed to Hermione Granger right in front of Merlin and everyone, the bushy-haired witch had taken a really big swig of a high-proof alcohol to stir up the courage to say no. Everything went to pot after that.

First of all, someone had laced her drink with something that turned her into a bushy-haired water weasel, and second of all, she was arrested for being an unregistered Animagus. It hadn't figured Hermione out long who did it. The smug articles blaming Hermione for being a self-righteous illegal Animagus criminal masquerading as a Wizarding heroine was a pretty damned good place to start.

Hermione's shared room with Ron at the Burrow had been ransacked, and "evidence" of covert Animagus studies had been found along with Ron's hidden stash of trophies of his own sexual prowess from at least a hundred different witches who had wanted of Ron's heroic virility.

So, while Hermione was being dragged through the mud with a long, involved trial that had random people rifling through her grey matter in order to prove her word was true, Ron was finding that entertaining about a hundred witches led to certain other financial concerns, such as child support. Molly blamed Hermione, of course, because—gosh—if she'd been more accommodating and there for her Ronald, he wouldn't feel like he had to make it up by bedding loads of other witches. That meant Ginny also blamed Hermione since both were like two peas in a pod. That had led Harry to say "hell no" to marriage to Ginny because he'd been there with Ron had thrown himself at multiple witches, and he didn't appreciate Ginny having no faith in Hermione and far too much faith in Ron, brother or no.

That, of course, didn't go over well either. At all. Not single one bit.

However, thanks to some remnants of the horrible laws that Umbridge and Fudge had cooked up over a tea kettle filled with insanity, Hermione was left to contemplate life in Azkaban. Kingsley had promised to try and get her out as soon as he could find and destroy, repel, or otherwise annihilate the shadow-bills that had gone into place, but thanks to Skeeter, there were people who actually supported the bill if only to keep "that vile Muggleborn bitch" in Azkaban where she belonged.

And Hermione had no doubt at all as to what some of the Weasleys were voting.

Azkaban, as she soon found out, was strangely peaceful. Thanks to the shadow-laws, bills, or whatever Fumbridge (the unholy duo of Fudge and Umbridge) had come up with, she was in isolation as a Muggle-born so she couldn't "suck the magic out of real magicals." Ironically, Umbridge herself was in Azkaban, and since her heritage was less than pureblood, she wasn't exactly sitting on velvet cushions eating beluga caviar either. Her hideously shrill shrieks, which had plagued Hermione for the first few days, had gradually taken away the toad's voice, and now the most the horrible woman could do was rasp in a voice barely above a whisper.

Being in prison gave Hermione nothing but time, and since the rules were made thinking Dementors were the only torture anyone ever needed, there weren't exactly prison jobs like the Muggle prison system had. Fumbridge had apparently thought that to be parted from the magical world on top of having Dementors trying to suck out your insides vicariously through devouring all of your happy memories was enough punishment for anyone. Apparently having your wand confiscated and snapped in front of you was also a rule.

Thanks, you pretentious pastel cat plate-loving horror, Hermione found herself mumbling. If I really were an Animagus, I'd find some way to bite you and give you rabies.

Hermione had amused herself in her solitude by teaching herself wandless, silent magic. She'd always prided herself on having enough force of will to make things happen, and she would spend a lot of time in meditation as she went over Arithmancy and spell crafting in her head. She learned the subtle weave of energy and all the things that made magic, well, magical from the inside, through the feel of it. She began to feel the nodes of leylines in and around Azkaban, and she realised why the wizard had crafted his little fortress there in the middle of the ocean.

The first thing she'd managed was to befriend the leyline that was so nice to position itself right under her cell.

She wondered if most people even know it was there, or if they just ran away from the horrible island prison, having faith that whoever built it knew what they were doing.

The leyline seemed strangely sentient, and the moment she had "touched" it, it had swept over her, paralysing her as it sniffed her over thoroughly, exploring every nook and cranny of her body. Belatedly, she pondered if that had been a good idea, touching a leyline, but what else was there to do? The leyline seemed to fill up her veins as it went through her entire being, blasting open paths she didn't even know she had, exploring her mind with its energy "fingers"—tendrils of energy that seemed to wrap around her grey matter and hold it like a net.

The ley seemed to find something it liked because it called over its friends, and Hermione found herself jolted as every ley came over to "say hello". By the third and fourth ley, she passed out flat in the middle of her empty cell and tattered mattress. The blackness of Oblivion dragged her deep into the very bowels of nothing.

The first thing she noticed when she woke up was that she was in bed—a real, proper bed and a calm, soothing sea breeze was blowing in through an honest-to-god window. Curtains rustled as the wind blew in.

Had she been moved during the night?

She realised she was wearing a silk nightgown instead of the rough prison garb, and the floor of her "cell" had a rather attractive rug. Kingsley had mentioned he was going to try and make her accommodations a little more comfortable for her, but wouldn't he have at least woken her up first?

The next thing she realised was that there was real food and drink on a small table waiting for her, and it smelled absolutely glorious. Saying a little thanks to Kingsley for whatever ninja-magic he had pulled to get her some real food and a comfortable mattress, Hermione practically inhaled the eggs, waffles and bacon and drank down the juice so fast that she almost found herself licking the buttery syrup off the plate.

It was around the time that her brain kicked back in gear after having been pushed aside in favour of the consumption of food, Hermione abruptly realised that she was being stared at, and she slowly turned to see a spider the size of a Quaffle perched on the window sill. It had a black fuzzy body flecked with rainbow spots, finger-like legs, four pairs of eyes, and radiant blue fangs.

The spider's primary eyes whirled. "Oh! Hello! Did you sleep well?"

Hermione stared.

The spider cocked its head, which was more the positioning of its entire body and its legs than actually moving its head. "We made you blankets and a nightgown. Are they comfortable?"

Hermione's mouth worked in silence. Talking spiders were not exactly normal, at least in her head. Sure there were talking Acromantulas, but she'd never heard one speak to her. Ron and Harry had, and their story had been pretty crazy. "Um," she started off. "Hello. Thank you for the blankets and clothes."

The spider bounced happily. "You're welcome!"

Hermione assessed her situation and ended up no better for rationales on why spiders would suddenly be there and talking to her. "Um, not to be rude, but why haven't I seen you before?"

"Oh!" the spider said. "I suppose that's fair. We were invisible before, well, that's not quite right—"

Another spider popped into existence, landing on top of the other with a squeak. "Oh hi! Oh, you're awake! Hello!"

"We've lived here forever," the first spider explained. "Back before a human built his fortress here."

"Only the ley-chosen can see us, though," the second spider said.

"It's because you're part of the leys now, just like us!" the first spider said.

"Yup!" said the third spider.

"The first guy, er, he went a little mad," the first spider said.

"Barking mad," the second added.

"Started luring in sailors to their deaths because he thought they were spying on him."

"Doing Dark stuff to try and make us go away."

"He couldn't see us."

"But he could sense us."

"He drew in Dementors to try and get rid of us."

"That didn't work either because Dementors don't bother us."

"Nope! They tickle when they feed on us."

The spiders groomed their fluffy fur with their back legs.

Hermione would have sat down, but she realised she already was. "Oh."

The spiders whispered to each other.

"Um, you are okay with spiders, right?" the first spider asked, looking hopeful, but also fearful that her answer would be no.

Hermione scratched her head. "I really don't mind spiders as long as they aren't trying to eat me."

"Eat…"

"You?"

"Ew."

The spiders wobbled, legs wriggling.

"Nope."

"Not us."

"Humans taste foul."

"No offence!"

Hermione smiled. "No offence taken."

"So, you're okay with spiders?"

"We're huggable!"

"We haven't been hugged in centuries."

"So depressing."

Hermione extended one hand and then froze. "May I—touch you?"

"Of course!" the clutter of spiders exclaimed, hopping into her lap.

Startled, Hermione slowly ran her hand across each spider, eliciting such a warm purr that she felt sleepy and comfortable. It reminded her of Crookshanks, and she was both happy and sad at the memory.

"Why are you sad?"

"Did we do something wrong?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, it's just—Crooks never came back after the Burrow burned down. I really miss him."

The third spider wiggled under her hand and pushed up, petting itself, and Hermione smiled, picking it up and hugging the fluffy arachnid. She was overwhelmed with such gratitude and appreciation that tears went down her cheeks at the sheer genuine emotion.

"Mummy is getting hugged!"

"We want hugs too!"

Hermione found herself buried in smaller, softball-sized baby spiders that looked a lot like puffskeins with large, oversized eyes. They all sported bright, almost fantastical colours that screamed the same warning a poison dart frog might have given: Don't eat me. You'll regret it!

"Hey! She's new to us! Don't scare her away!"

The baby spiders slumped visibly. "Sorry, Mummy."

Hermione had one baby spider her hand, tickling it under the chin.

"Eee!" the baby squeaked. "Again!"

"It's okay," Hermione said. "I don't think I realised how lonely I was until just now."

The babies perked and then flooded into her lap.

"We were lonely too!"

"Just us."

"Well, us and food."

"We don't talk to our food, though."

"That would be strange."

"Very strange."

A low, tortured groan seem to shake the walls, and Hermione found herself hugging the spiders tightly. "What was that?"

"New Dementor."

"They're born here, you know."

"What?" Hermione said.

"He's been here a while. You just couldn't hear him until the leys claimed you."

Hermione continued to hug the spiders, unconvinced.

"Why didn't I sense him before? The ones at Hogwarts—you could always tell when one was there."

"He's new," the spiders said. "He still has his memories."

"What?" Hermione asked, not understanding.

"As Dementors get older, if they don't have anyone to connect to, lose their memories, become bitter."

The second spider rubbed its head. "So they feed on memories to try and feel again.

"Happy memories the most. Because they want to feel happy."

"But any strong emotion will do. Anything that lets them feel again."

"He fed on us a little."

"A little goes a long way."

"He sounds—miserable," Hermione said.

"He's lonely too," one of the spiderlings squeaked.

"He needs a hug."

"We all need hugs," a little fluffball said.

"We made you some new clothes," the second spider said, bouncing up and down on a pile of stylishly striped clothes. "To fit in."

"Comfier though!"

"Spider silk!"

"Aw, thank you so much," Hermione said gratefully.

"Would you like a bath?"

"We drew a bath for you."

"There are bubbles!"

"A bath?" Hermione asked, boggling.

"Of course!"

"You could bathe in the ocean, but we wouldn't recommend that."

"The water is cold."

"And salty."

"And cold."

"This way!" the spiderlings said, bouncing up and down excitedly.

Hermione pulled aside a curtain and found herself in a bath the likes of the Hogwarts prefect bath.

"Wow," she said.

"Enjoy!" the spiders said, closing the curtain behind her.

Hermione dipped a toe in and slipped in shortly after.

"Oi!" a rough voice growled. "What'r ya doin' in there all fancy pantsy?"

Hermione looked up from the book she was reading.

Keys rattled, and the old, rusted cell door slid to the side as an annoyed older wizard had her at wand point and slammed against the wall. "How did a little Mudblood like you get all this stuff in her cell?"

Hermione said nothing as the man had given her nothing but grief since her arrival. She'd seen and heard him treat everyone that was there with nothing short of malice—the purebloods because he felt better than them and those that were lesser than him just because "they deserved it." They were in Azkaban, after all. They were obviously guilty of not only the big crime that got them there but also of getting caught.

"Let's see how cute and smug you are if you're one of the war-cells," the wizard snarled at her. She had no idea what the man's name was. He wore the usual Auror brown, but it seemed that no one liked him, as he always came alone. She wondered if Kingsley knew about him, as it didn't seem like he was the type to let such abuses go on, even against the convicted Death Eaters.

He grabbed her by the collar and frog-marched her out of the cell, down the corridor, up a spiralling staircase, and up to the higher floors where the grand escape of so many of Voldemort's minions had occurred. The wind was loud, and the cold was almost unnatural. Hermione saw her own breath in the air. He thrust her into a cell, where half the cell was "gone", and the bed was hanging by chains from the wall with no mattress on it.

"We'll see how you fare in a real prison, Mudblood," he sneered at her, making her wonder if she'd kicked his puppy without knowing it to somehow garner such blatant hatred from the man.

He slammed the door to the cell, perhaps the only part of the cell in working order, and whistled a merry tune as he wandered back down the stairs.

Hermione sighed, her teeth chattering. Now, what was she going to do?

Hermione woke the next day to find herself surrounded by warm, comfy spiders, but the cell itself had gone through another dramatic transformation. She could feel that the leys had moved up, their hum of power leaving a sort of fuzzy feeling in her mind that was rather comforting. Her arms were wrapped around one of the original three Quaffle-sized spiders, and one, in particular, was shoved up against her face like a pillow.

Hermione shot up, sending startled spiders everywhere. "I'm sorry!" she apologised. "I didn't mean to—"

The spiders tilted their bodies to peer at her.

"We like cuddles."

"Yes!"

"We don't mind a little drool."

"Nope!"

"Sleep okay?"

Hermione blinked and realised her chained bunk that had been floating over empty air had been replaced by a real bed. The floor had been repaired, and the wall was now a very solid mosaic of dragons and other flying creatures. A door led off onto a balcony, and drapes blew in the wind. The room itself, even though the wind was cold, was warm, making the incoming breeze seem more refreshing than cold.

"Yeah, I guess I slept pretty well," Hermione answered.

"Yay!"

"We're glad."

The spiders groomed themselves back into a perpetually fluffy appearance.

"Did you, um, fix the room?" Hermione asked curiously.

"Nope, we just made the bedding and the cloth stuff."

"The leys do the rest."

"They like you."

"Yup!"

Hermione scratched her head. "Thank you," she said to no one in particular.

It was then that Hermione noticed that there was a black shape floating in the air just outside her cell, and it didn't take long to realise that the shape was a Dementor. Nothing seemed as obvious as a Dementor after having them infesting the school during the year Harry's godfather had escaped Azkaban. Even knowing what it was, she realised it didn't feel quite the same as before. The Dementors that had plagued Hogwarts and even the ones that had swarmed above Umbridge during the travesties that she laughingly called "inquiries" had a distinct emptiness about them.

What had the spiders said? This one was "new." They were "born" here.

The Dementor extended a claw-like hand into the room, but the sun from outside deterred it. While it did not seem to destroy the hand, the sun seemed to make the creature uncomfortable. There was a sudden thud, and then the Dementor disappeared.

Hermione walked over to the bars and found her book—the one that had been left in her other cell during her forced move. She picked it up, holding it close to her. She had thought that maybe Kingsley had left it for her, but she was getting a strange feeling that perhaps the Dementor had.

Strange, she thought. She'd never considered that Dementors were anything but soul-sucking embodiments of entropy—proof that the Dark was real.

Taking the book, she moved out onto the balcony and enjoyed the sun. The leys had been kind enough to give her a sling chair, and she settled into it to begin to read. The spiders settled around her, keeping the cold away, and she found herself snuggling into them as she read the book, listening to their soft arachnid purrs. While part of her Muggle upbringing told her spiders didn't purr, the part of her that accepted that these spiders could speak to her cancelled all that other stuff out.

She was asleep again within a few minutes, not even noticing the wrap of the ley lines forming around her like the cloak of a cocoon.

A line of thunderstorms woke Hermione up, and she retreated into the main part of her cell, closing the door to the balcony as a flood of rain came crashing down from above.

"Wow," Hermione said, placing her hand on the window.

The lightning cracked brightly, and the boom was instant and almost deafening. She could smell the ozone in the air, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Every spider poofed out, their fur spiked like they had been moussed up into a sea urchin.

"Eeee!" the spiderlings cried, running around in circles and diving under the blanket to huddle under it, leaving a spiderpile-shaped lump.

"Oh, no," Hermione groaned. "My book!" She made the motion to open the door and was immediately flung arse over teakettle into the far side of the room. The wind was bad enough, blowing everything everywhere, but the rain came in too.

The spiders anchored themselves to random objects and the wall with silk to keep themselves from blowing about.

A shade filled the room, and the door closed. Hermione looked up to see the towering form of the Dementor—all tattered black robes and bony fingers. Its head was covered in a thick hood. It floated there in the room, moving but not moving, a contradiction in existence.

Bony hands reached towards her, holding out her book again.

Hermione tentatively reached out to take it, and as she grasped the book, her hands brushed against its bony fingers. There was a strange and sudden rush of warmth rather than cold. The Dementor froze in place, not even the tatters of the robes moving.

"Thank you," Hermione said, clutching the book to her. She touched the sopping book, a tear joining the rain on her face. "I'm sorry," she told the book. "I didn't mean to leave you out there."

She pressed her hands to the book, trying to summon a wandless, silent drying spell, but she was chilled to the bone. It was hard to think, let alone concentrate, and her teeth were chattering so loud that it seemed like they were trying to stamp out a message in Morse code.

The Dementor's hands pressed against hers, and the warmth returned, driving the cold away. Her focus returned, and the pages of the book fluttered as they dried out instantly. She felt the surge from the leys as they swirled around her, providing her access to magic in a way the prison could not dampen—the leys were what kept Azkaban working, and she realised the irony almost instantly.

They could never deprive her of the leys, thus they could never cut her off from magic like the others.

RrrrRRrrrrPOP!

The book opened its eyes and looked around. It wiggled and hopped into her lap, purring madly. Hermione, startled but amazed, cuddled the book to her, gently petting its spine. The book happily opened up to where she had left off before.

The Dementor started to drift off, and the moment it did, Hermione felt a strange, poignant sense of loss.

"Please don't go," she said softly. "I mean, you don't have to if you don't want to."

The Dementor hovered, seemingly unsure.

Hermione squared her shoulders, steeling her courage. She held out her hand. "Sit with me?" She frowned. "Can you sit?"

The Dementor seemed to scoff at her question, which reminded her of something or someone, but the thought was gone as it settled beside her. The closer it became, the warmer it seemed, exactly opposite of what she'd expect from a Dementor. The one on the train, the one that had gone after Harry, had frozen the very air around it.

She leant back against the wall and began to read aloud, and the Dementor sat as quiet as the dead, listening to her voice.

Days passed, and those blurred into weeks. Weeks became months, and no one came to tend her cell. It was as if they'd fully expected her to be dead. Food still appeared every day, and the dishes disappeared when she was finished. Tea would appear, prepared just as she liked it. The spiders tended to her clothes, even to the point where she found the spiderlings bouncing up and down in the suds to clean her "prison garb" for her.

At times she wondered if Harry and Kingsley were making any headway at all, but then a new book would appear, and she'd have to read it. Yet, she always had company. The spiders would cuddle up to her as she read, and the Dementor had become a strangely warm comforting presence.

She would sometimes put the book aside and talk about her life, her parents, and how she had sent them Australia to save their life. She'd smile as she said they had no idea what being magical was like, but they had loved her. She had paid them back by taking the choice away from them, and she was utterly guilt-ridden about it.

Whenever she felt the most down, the Dementor would spread its bony fingers across her face, and she would fall asleep. When she woke again, the mind-numbing guilt had faded. She still had the memories, but they did not hurt quite as badly.

It was winter before Hermione realised that months had passed without her knowing it. Her "cell" had become more a home, save for the fact that she couldn't leave it. She had all she could want, save for the ability to leave, and, considering what had gotten her thrown into Azkaban in the first place, there really wasn't much waiting for her back in Britain.

She did wonder why Kingsley or Harry hadn't talked to her. It wasn't like them just to stop visiting. The spiders and the Dementor kept her company, and she found it strangely enough, more so than she had expected. She could sense all of the leys now and they her. They swirled around her and brushed by her like a cat against her leg. As her awareness grew, so did her ability to tap into them or rather merge with them. The more she did so, the less lonely she felt—the less time seemed to matter.

"No!"

"No!"

"I don't belong here!"

"I don't BELONG in this place!"

Hermione lifted her head. That voice sounded—familiar?

Click. The door slid open, leaving her pathway clear.

"This is different." Hermione frowned, staring at the clear way out. "I suppose there is nowhere to run, I guess. Unless I plan to swim to shore—right by a swarm of Aurors."

A wall of black appeared in front of her. The Dementor hovered, silent, yet Hermione could sense that he—when had she started to believe it was a he?—didn't wish her to continue further. He reached toward her, bony hands brushing across her face, and she leant into the touch. That strange, blissful warmth flowed through that simple touch.

Hermione looked at the open door and then sighed, "Okay, I trust you."

The Dementor said nothing, but his hand caressed her face, and she felt— sorrow?

Hermione looked up into the Dementor's face. Her hand reached up and tenderly brushed his cheek through the gauze-like cloth that covered it.

There it was again. The tug, the pull—the odd sense of understanding.

"You're always looking out for me," Hermione said with a warm smile.

The Dementor, as always, said nothing, but she could sense a sort of unspoken agreement from him.

"I hope it's not because you have to," Hermione said a bit sadly.

The Dementor hovered closer; one bony hand covered hers. He shook his head firmly.

"I'm glad," Hermione said. "I don't want you to feel like you have to be here, suffering my company."

It was odd, Hermione realised. She could feel him frowning just as clearly as if she could see it. She could feel that he wanted to be there, and she knew he wasn't going to leave her. It was comforting, and despite the knowledge that he was a Dementor, she was aware that she knew very little about them at all.

Books told her that Dementors were evil creatures of entropy that sucked the happiness out of all they came in contact with. But the books also said that Dementors were pitiless and self-serving. This Dementor was most decidedly not either of those things. And if there was more to Dementors, then perhaps there was a lot more about them she hadn't been taught.

The sun was starting to shine through the window, and Hermione perked at the sight. "Oh! The sun is out again!" She rushed to the balcony and began to open it when she realised the Dementor was careful to stay in the shadows. Hermione looked outside and then back to the Dementor. She tilted her chin up. "Too much sun will give you cancer anyway," Hermione said, shutting the balcony door and closing the drapes, casting the entire room in shadow. She picked up the book from the bed and sat down on the floor, her back against the wall, setting her book on her lap. "What's the book for today, hrm?" She opened the book and saw a very familiar scrawl on the front page.

Thinking of you, Hermione. I miss you.

Love, Harry

Hermione felt the tears welling up without her permission as a sob of loneliness, relief, and pure gratitude filled her. She hadn't been forgotten, after all. Teardrops fell on the pages, and her shoulders quaked. She crumpled, missing her green-eyed friend all the more.

Suddenly, warmth wrapped around her. The Dementor's robes surrounded her in darkness, but the warmth— the understanding— enveloped her in a cocoon of comfort. She sobbed into the Dementor's arms, clinging like a child to the waist of their parent.

The Dementor, silent as the dead, said nothing.

Hermione felt better when she realised her friend hadn't forgotten her, though she did wish she could see him again. Whatever horrible laws were still in place had apparently been harder to kill than they had ever expected. But Harry remembered her and the books she liked. That was enough.

To be remembered.

Hermione had woke wrapped in her own personal Dementor cocoon, but she found that was not a bad thing at all. They had become close, she and her Dementor friend. She felt he understood, and while he could not speak, some things did not require words. And, judging by the aura of embarrassment that had come off the Dementor when he floated in accidentally during her bath time, Dementors were not immune to emotional surprise. He had held out a towel for her, thrusting it out like it was a shield, turning his head away as a human male would often do when faced with the prospect of feminine hygiene products.

Hermione had dressed, chuckling. There were times she forgot he was a Dementor and saw him as a socially unpracticed wizard whose experience with females was limited to staring at his feet and looking the other way rather than make eye contact. She tended to forget he was watching or even to look to see if he was, dressing obliviously in whatever the spiders left her to wear.

They had started making her new things, sans the prison striping. No one was coming to visit, is they must have considered it safe. Silken dresses and comfortable robes— it seemed they enjoyed challenging themselves. One time the spiders make her two very differently coloured socks, and the clutter of spiders glared at one misfit of their number that had a small miniature bucket stuck over his head. It was any wonder the poor thing could weave a sock let alone match colours. She'd take to cuddling the poor spider and popping the bucket off his head from time to time. He'd always end up with it back on his head eventually, but for a time, he seemed relieved to be rid of the pesky unasked-for headgear.

There were times when she did miss the sun, and she would enjoy a few hours in the early morning or the evening when the Dementor was floating off doing whatever it was Dementors did. She wondered. Often.

Sometimes, she fell asleep in the sling chair on the balcony, and she would wake with the Dementor floating in the air right beside her, staring out across the ocean. She wondered if he enjoyed such things as she did. The peace. Sunsets became their most intimate time together, sitting in silence as they watched the sun go down. Sunrises were always cut short by him fleeing the touch of the sun's rays as if the very brush of their light would extinguish him from existence.

Time passed, and she was content. Books from Harry appeared every month, sometimes more often. All of them had notes saying he was thinking of her and that he missed her terribly. They'd always be books she loved, authors she'd talk about with him as he rolled his eyes and shooed her off. Yet, he'd obviously been listening, even then.

Sometimes he'd leave her favourite biscuits—the Scottish shortbreads that Minerva would make from time to time— or little trinkets from Minerva herself. Kingsley left her strange presents. Stones. They were often beautiful, highly-polished river stones, but they were stones nonetheless. It boggled her, but she was happy Kingsley was thinking of her, even if he was leaving her— rocks. She wasn't even sure how she knew it was Kingsley who was doing it, save for one that had a beautifully carved otter on it. He'd always adored her otter Patronus.

She kept them in a special place— a hidden nook in the wall. Just in case that horrible man ever came up and moved her again. At least, she reasoned, her treasures would be safe. As much as loathed to admit it, the place had, rather strangely, almost become like a home to her.

She really missed ice cream though.

Hermione didn't even remember it was her birthday until she woke up to find a homemade chocolate cake and a pint of pistachio ice cream on the table with a stasis charm on it. It felt like Harry's doing— his magic. A card lay beside it, and she opened it, touching the handmade card made with craft paper and crayon by a child's hand.

Dear Aunt Hermione, (she smiled at the backwards r and the e)

Happy Birthday! Daddy says he misses you. I really wish I could meet you. I've heard all the stories. When I grow up, I want to be a powerful witch like you. Daddy cries whenever he thinks of you. He thinks I don't notice.

I hope you like the cake. My brother, Nathaniel Severus, and I made it ourselves! Well, our mummy helped. A LITTLE! She's a teacher! Daddy says you'd have liked her. She reads as many books as you.

I'm going to read more books than anyone. You'll see!

Love,

Lily Hermione Potter

P.S. I already ready Hogwarts: A History, three times!

Hermione smiled as a bunch of cut-out ducks and slightly deformed hippogriffs fell out of the card. She touched the name, a tear trailing down her cheek.

It was good to be remembered.

She hugged all of the spiders close and leant into the Dementor, smiling and crying at the same time. "He named his daughter after me," Hermione whispered. She touched the name of Harry's other child.

Nathaniel Severus.

Hermione smiled. "I wonder if he knows?" she asked. "Somewhere out there, that Harry named his son after him too."

"Hey, want to help me eat this cake?" Hermione asked the spiders. "Can Dementors eat cake?" She cut the small cake into many spider-sized servings, and two larger slices for herself and the Dementor.

"I don't know if you can eat it, but—" Hermione smiled at him. "I want to share it with you."

The Dementor silently accepted the offering, staring at the small slice of chocolate cake. There was a distortion in the air as the familiar, unnerving sound of a Dementor feeding filled the room.

Pop!

The cake was gone.

Hermione's face filled with such happiness as she pulled the Dementor's head down and planted a kiss on his forehead. "You're amazing." She then went about eating her slice of cake, oblivious to the Dementor's hand as it touched its forehead with a sense of wonder all his own.

Man-Who-Conquered Marries!

Harry James Potter married Chloe Sophia Grace in a beautiful ceremony at the Giant's Causeway, Antrim. One decade after the war, Harry Potter finally chose to settle down with then-fellow Auror Chloe Grace. While Mr Potter has continued his Auror career, his fiancée recently accepted a position at Hogwarts and will be teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts beginning next term.

Notably present was the Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Notably absent was most of the Weasley family, including the groom's former best friend, Ronald Bilius Weasley.

It seems while Mr Potter has tried to put the past behind him, some are still living in it.

Harry's only comment to his friends and supporters during the wedding was, "I wish Hermione could have been here. It's because of her we're even here to get married."

Potter Children Graduate and Open the Potter Family Bookstore

The two Potter children, Nathaniel Severus and Lily Hermione, have opened up a new bookstore in Diagon Alley called Crookshanks in the Stacks. This full-service bookstore will not be attempting to drive other bookstores out of business but will instead draw in customers searching for the more exotic fare as well as a smattering of fine Muggle literature.

Guests will note that the stacks are patrolled by Kneazles, who will happily accept your pets for purrs. Places to read are provided, and discounts are available for students of Hogwarts.

"My children insisted on honouring my best friend by naming it after her old familiar, who was sadly lost in the war. Crookshanks will live on here along with the memory of a very dear friend."

When asked about his friend from the war, Harry Potter turned away. "It's not right what happened to her. I can only hope the one who put her there is suffering as much as all those who knew and loved her are suffering now without her."

"YOU!" a bitter, familiar voice snarled.

Hermione felt the hooks of fingers closing tightly around her throat.

"YOU did this to me! I didn't belong here with the criminals!"

Hermione gasped, choking as the fingers seemed to dig into her flesh.

"I died here because of YOU!" the man— whose face had been taken by advanced age even by Wizarding standards— screamed at her.

Hermione was startled, fearful, and ultimately confused.

"Let go!"

"Let go!"

"Go away!"

Spiders flew in from all directions, falling from everywhere onto the man.

But the wrathful man began to choke her, shaking her violently. His face was losing its form and becoming more skull-like. His hands were twisting into bony talons. Blind hatred rolled off his body, and his eyes held nothing but cold-blooded murder.

"If you hadn't made me kill you, NONE of this would have happened!" the man screamed.

Hermione paled as his words sunk in.

Images started to come back to her in a dizzying flood.

Curled up in the cold storm, blown by winds from the storming seas. Her breath came in clouds of steam until they stopped altogether.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN HERMIONE GRANGER IS DEAD?" Kingsley Shacklebolt's roar of outraged grief echoed through the halls as he threw the Auror bodily against the wall.

"She needed a lesson!" the Auror yelled back. "She asked for it!"

Shacklebolt's expression was nothing less than naked fury. "The only one I see asking for Azkaban here is you, Auror Burns, and I will personally see to it that you spend the rest of your days right here!"

Harry knelt in the cell, placing a book lovingly on the table. "I got this for you, Hermione. I hope you like it. I miss you. So very much."

Harry sobbed, burying his head in his hands, tears dripping on the book's cover. "It's by your favourite author."

Harry placed an article from the Prophet on the table along with a new book. "I'm getting married, Hermione. Gods, but I wish you were here. You'd have loved her too. She's— almost as much of a bookworm as you."

Minerva placed a tin of shortbread biscuits on the table as she blinked back tears. "I dearly love ye, lass. Wherever you are now. I hope— I hope you're happy."

Kingsley placed a polished stone on the table and lit a white candle.

"You didn't deserve what happened to you, Hermione. I swear to you, the ones who did this to you will be brought to justice. I promise. I swear it."

"Happy Birthday, Hermione," Harry sobbed, clutching his two young children's hands as they carefully placed the cake, ice cream and card on the small, dusty table.

"We love you, Aunt Hermione," the children said together.

Hermione let out a strangled cry even as the man-turning-Dementor continued to squeeze her throat ever more tightly. His grip was stone cold— cold with hate, cold with malice.

Was it true?

Was she dead?

If she was already dead, why did it hurt so much?

"I'm going to make you die, every single night, again, again, and AGAIN!" The man's form was covered in tattered robes that only barely covered skin wrapped tightly around bone. He began to float.

The air was bitterly cold.

So very cold.

The spiders scurried over to the drapes and worked fast, sending out strands of silk and pulling with all their might, combining their weight to pull the drapes away from the door.

Sunlight came through— but not nearly enough to reach where she was.

Hermione cried out in pure despair. Was this her fate? To be tortured by this monster for all time?

Suddenly, a billowing dark shape flew into the room with a low, growling hiss. It slammed into the new Dementor as the door opened to the outside balcony where the sun was the brightest.

"No!" Hermione cried out as she realised what was going on. "You'll die!"

The Dementor paused, if only a second, to stare back at her. Regret. Remorse. Grief poured out from his aura. And then his hand clenched around the other Dementor, and they flew out into the sun.

Hermione cried out, running to the balcony, the screams from the new-Dementor echoing off the sides of Azkaban. His tattered robes and skeletal figure, so newly-minted, charred and turned to ash even as it screamed in agony.

"No!" Hermione felt to her knees as her friend's body began to smoke, but he didn't move. He didn't even try. He held on until the very end, ensuring that the Auror turned Dementor had no hold to life or whatever parody Dementors were. Books said Dementors couldn't die, but she knew at that moment that they were wrong. "No, please," Hermione whimpered. "I love you."

Hermione crumpled on the ground, sobbing, knowing he had made up his mind for her sake and cursing herself for being the cause of his end. He didn't deserve this end, and her heart wept as it realised her friend would be gone. Forever.

Hermione sobbed, her tears washing the floor of the balcony with her grief. It didn't matter that she was already dead. Even dead, she was losing what she cared the most for. Even dead, had she lost the one she loved.

As the warmth of the sun, which had so often brought her comfort, warmed her body, she still felt empty, desolate, and colder than she had ever been.

The grey, lifeless ash blew by her hands.

A soft touch lay upon her head, so familiar and warm. She looked up to see a tall, pale-faced man with oily black hair falling about his face. His Roman, aquiline nose framed by the curtains of painfully familiar raven locks. Deep black eyes stared into her face.

"Did you mean," he asked in a whisper. "What you said?"

Hermione's mouth worked up and down silently, for once not having words to say.

"Harumph," Severus said, clearing his throat. "For once when I would like you to say something, you seem to have nothing to say."

Hermione threw her arms around his neck, pulled his head down, and planted a kiss straight on his mouth.

As they parted, Severus tenderly brushed the hair from her face. "I suppose that will do."

Hermione smacked his chest and sobbed into his robes, clinging to him. "Don't ever leave me like that again."

Severus soothed her head with his hand. "I fear you are quite stuck with me, my darling," he said with a dry snort. "You are my anchor, after all."

Hermione looked around and realised that all of Azkaban was now bright and filled with sunlight. The walls were white and growing with vines and beautiful flowers. The sea was perfectly calm and a glorious azure blue—

"What happened to this place?"

"This is the real Azkaban," Severus said. The prison is a mere shadow of the true reality."

"But how?"

Snape touched her cheek. "It was waiting until you were ready to see all of it— instead of a room."

"But you can stay with me, right?" Hermione said, her hand squeezing his.

"Try and stop me, love," Severus answered, sealing the promise with a tender kiss.

The spiders on the balcony cheered, jumping up and down and raising their legs in celebration.

"Hooray!"

"At last!"

"Welcome home!"

Harry Potter woke up and found a book staring at him. Literally.

"Rrrr?" the book said. Its cover opened exposing a bunch of paper teeth, but unlike the infamous Monstrous Book of Monsters, it did not try to take off his face, one papercut at a time.

Harry patted the book on the spine, and it purred, opening itself up to a marked page.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveller, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less travelled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Thanks, Harry.

Please don't worry about me anymore.

I'm happy.

Tell your children I love them dearly.

I love you,

Hermione

P.S. I loved the cake.

Harry touched the page on the book, noting how the ink smeared, still too fresh to be have been left long ago. He smiled a genuine smile. "I love you too, Hermione. Be happy." He closed the book and cuddled it to his chest, his eyes closing as the book's happy purr lulled him back to sleep.

Far, far away, in a garden of the likes none in the living world had ever seen, Hermione and Severus danced together in the radiant sunlight, cheek-to-cheek, hand in hand, arms in arms. They glided as one like spectres, but their faces were serene. Everywhere their feet touched, flowers grew, and plants flourished. The marbled, shimmering walls of the real Azkaban glittered and shone in the sun.

And for as long as the world existed, so did they. Wayward souls would find themselves there, unsure where to go or even who they were. And perhaps, for a time, they stayed with this couple, who seemed content to share their peaceful paradise if only for a time. There, souls would meet other souls and find themselves in each other, then wander off into the world to make their very own paradise.

But as for this couple— the two that had started it all— the leys protected them as it did their home, as it had always done and always would.

Fin.

Spiders shuffle in with a box of tissues.

"Tissues?"

"Need one?"

"Maybe two?"

"We have a box, please feel free to take one!"

Bucket stumbles in, bumbling his way into the tissue box. The other spiders sigh, rubbing their heads with their legs before prying the bucket off his head.

"Come on, Bucket!"

"Time to draw the bath!"

The spiders scurry off, drawing the curtains closed on another story.

A/N: It was a happy ending, I SWEAR! *sob*

Please thank the Dragon and the Rose for staying up past her bedtime for the publishing of this story. Praise her!