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Chapter One

-Day O-

Rising from an island in the North Sea, Azkaban was little more than a triangular fortress built upon a rock. The waves crashed against the walls, splattering the place in foam and spray, and it was a small miracle that the tiny dock hadn't been smashed to rubble by the ever-present storm.

The boat that brought her here was barely big enough to fit the three of them, but it was remarkably steady despite the maelstrom around them. The spells upon this place where ancient and powerful, she knew, and they'd only been doubled since the end of the war.

"What are you waiting for?" Auror Savage prodded her in the back with his wand. "Start walking."

Sucking in a breath, Hermione climbed onto the dock, taking care to keep her gaze locked with the slick stone doors of the prison that was to become her home for the next year. Her eyes stung, and her hair was slick against her skin. Travelling to Azkaban by boat had soaked her to the bone, and as she walked towards the entrance, she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd never be dry again.

The doors creaked open with a blood-curdling screech, but she barely flinched as the sound sent a shiver down her spine. Painfully aware of the wands aimed at her back by both Savage and Proudfoot, she entered the prison without a word, the metal chains around her wrists clinking as she moved.

A witch was waiting for her. Dressed in black robes, she was a tall and imposing woman with beady-eyes and steel-grey hair, but Hermione barely reacted as she was grabbed by the cuffs and half-dragged towards an antechamber. Show no weakness, she told herself. You deserve this.

The door to the antechamber slammed shut behind her, and she found herself alone with the imposing woman. The room was lined with metal shelves with a single rickety table in the middle, and Hermione scanned the items upon the shelves. They were in a storeroom of some sort, she thought to herself.

"Hermione Granger," said the woman, looking her up and down with an almost twisted sneer on her face. "I am Warden Williams. Consider yourself lucky. I don't usually oversee a new inmate's orientation."

"I'm positively blessed." No matter how hard she tried, Hermione was unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.

"That attitude is not going to get you far." Warden Williams strode across the room, grasping a grey jumpsuit from the nearest shelf and tossing it in her direction. It landed on the floor. "Strip."

Hermione had expected this to happen. She'd read enough books to know exactly what prison was like. Without a word, she stripped out of her sodden clothes, pausing only when she got to her underwear. She bit her lip, looking up at the warden with a dull glare. You don't get to be angry, said a small voice in her head, and she agreed. Swallowing down her indignation, she discarded her bra and knickers, and she stood there shivering, as naked as the day she was born.

What followed was hell. She bit her lip as she was searched for contraband, and the rough intrusion into her body is one that she was going to feel until the day she died. She knew that much. Whoever said that a woman's touch was gentle was a goddamn liar, because Williams is rougher than sandpaper as she pried into her with gloved fingers. Throughout it all, Hermione did exactly as she was told.

She coughed and bent over when she was asked to, and she raised her tongue and moved aside her hair and even spread her legs, and when Williams was finally satisfied, she could only glare at the woman as she yanked on her jumpsuit. The fabric was coarse, scratching at her skin, and it was so thin and threadbare that she didn't see how it would ever keep her warm.

"You're a sullen bitch, aren't you, inmate?" Warden Williams raised an eyebrow, looking distinctly unimpressed. "I'd be dancing with joy if I was in your shoes. Most people get a few decades for what you've done. You only get a year."

Hermione didn't respond. If it had been up to her, she'd have gladly welcomed a life sentence. It still wouldn't be long enough to atone for her crimes.

Idly, she noticed that she hadn't been given a pair of shoes, and the floor was so rough that it was already beginning to bite into her feet. She didn't dare complain, however. The threadbare jumpsuit was all she had, and there was something about the way Williams looked at her that made it quite clear that even that had been a conditional gift.

There were no standards in this place, and even without the dementors, it was still the closest place to hell that existed for the living.

"Maslow," barked Williams, rapping her knuckles on the door. "Get in here."

A brunet auror walked into the antechamber. He was lithe as a reed with an easy grin that didn't quite reach his brown eyes, and the way he looked at her sent a slight shiver down her spine. Nobody had leered at her like that since Scabier, and she was well aware of what the Snatcher had once had in mind for her.

"Escort the inmate to its cell," said Williams. "Take her through the scenic route."

Maslow's grin widened. Grasping her by the left shoulder, he jerked her out the door and towards a flight of stairs. The floor scraped at her feet as she struggled to match his pace, and she nearly stumbled at the fifth step when she slipped across a patch of seawater. Maslow steadied her, his fingers tightening on her shoulder until she was certain there'd be a bruise there in the morning, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from yelping.

"Half of the scum here are going to eat you alive," said Maslow, his voice deathly serious as he led her into a corridor.

Someone flung themselves against the bars to their cell as they walked past. Another shrieked. A third flung what looked like a plate towards them only for it to clatter off the spell, deflected by some sort of charm upon the bars. She shuddered, recognising a few faces. That was Avery. Macnair.

"My advice?" Maslow continued. "Stay in your cell. Make a few friends to have your back. Trust me. A war hero like you? These bastards have nothing left to lose, and they all have scores to settle."

"Thank you," replied Hermione. The reality was sinking in. I deserve this. It was the truth, but it didn't make the thought of her imprisonment any easier. Since she'd been sentenced, she'd kept up her stoic expression and held it all together, but she couldn't do that anymore.

She felt herself begin to unravel, and she clenched her fists to keep herself from breaking down. Soon. She'd be alone in her cell soon enough. There was no way she could let herself show weakness here, not when there were so many venomous glares aimed in her direction.

When at last she was shown her cell, Hermione realized that it was far worse than she could have ever imagined. It was damp, and the stone so rough that it may as well have been a cave. There was a single slit in the wall, letting in sea-spray. The bed frame was made of rickety wood, and the mattress was thin and covered in stains.

"Welcome to your new home, Miss Granger," said Maslow, gesturing for her to step into the cell. She did, and the bars clanged shut behind her a few seconds later.

The auror's footsteps thud as he walked away, and Hermione sank into the mattress. They had given her a blanket, at least, though it was as thin as her jumpsuit. She swallowed, looking around. There was a toilet set into the wall, and that was it.

That was all she had. I deserve this.

She wanted to scream and cry, but she couldn't muster up the energy to do either. Instead, Hermione lay down on her bed and closed her eyes, hoping that the nightmares she was sure to have would be sweeter than the memories which would never leave.

-Day 1-

When she woke the next morning, the first thing Hermione did was look around her cell. She sighed. In the dim light of dawn, it was far worse than she had initially thought. The walls were rough-hewn from solid stone, and the air itself was damp. There was a small puddle beneath the window-slit, and when she went to investigate, she found salt dusting the stone.

The notion that Kingsley had reformed Azkaban after the war echoed in her mind, and the mere idea of what it was like before the war brought bile rushing to her throat. I deserve this. This is my penance. It isn't enough. She bit her lip. That much was true.

Slowly, she walked around the cell. It didn't take her long, but she found something that caught her attention.

There was a hole in the wall, just a little larger than her fist. She reckoned that she could fit her arm through it if she tried, but she'd no doubt tear up her skin forcing it past the rough rock. Curiosity began to set in. Kneeling, she peered through it. Hermione sighed in disappointment. All she could see was a blank expanse of wall, and it was likely that she was simply looking into an empty cell. Idly, she realized that the partitions between each cell were thicker than she'd thought, because the hole was as deep as her forearm. She groaned, not knowing what she'd expected to find on the other side, but wishing it had been anything other than nothing.

Something moved.

She jerked away, her heart thudding in her ears, and her back slammed into the rickety frame of her bed. It creaked, loud and deafening in the silence, and she took a deep breath to steady herself.

"Is there anyone there?" a voice called from the other end of the hole, and it was oddly familiar.

Frowning, she crawled back towards the hole and looked through it. A single grey eye looked back at her, half-hidden by a lock of greasy white-blond hair, the strands caked with grime. The pieces clicked, and she groaned.

"Malfoy?" she asked.

"Granger?" His voice was a mix of curiosity and shock. "What the devil are you doing in here?"

"Wondering if it would be possible to change cells," she shot back, unable to resist the retort.

On the other side of the wall, he chuckled. Disappearing from the other end of the hole, she heard a bed creak in what must be his cell, and then she heard his voice.

"Easy, Granger, I don't bite that much. Besides, if you're here, you should know there's a lot worse than me around."

She didn't reply. Instead, she climbed onto her own bed and stared out the narrow slit that served as a window, watching as the tide came in. The boat that had brought her to the island was barely visible in the distance, a faint speck upon the horizon, and Malfoy's words echoed in her ears.

I know, she thought. I'm one of them.

His was not a friendly face to her, and it had honestly never occurred to her that she'd be serving her sentence alongside him. Hermione wondered what would happen if she shoved her bed against the hole in the wall and tried to pretend that she had never realized he was there, but the idea itself was asinine. Like it as not, she was stuck with him now, and in the back of her mind, she couldn't help but want to laugh.

She'd definitely wished for a worse sentence than the one she'd been given, and the gods had seen fit to condemn her to a year with Malfoy as a neighbour. This really was hell, she thought.

A dull clang echoed through the cell, and she turned in time to find a steel tray being shoved through the gap beneath the bars. There was a dented bowl on it, filled with something grey and runny on the tray, and a battered tin cup right next to it. She hurried towards the bars in time to see Maslow disappearing around the corner, escorting a tall blonde woman pushing a cart.

Picking up her tray, she walked towards her bed. There was a hunk of bread behind the bowl, but it was so hard that it could well have been a rock. Her stomach growled despite the unappetizing feast in front of her, and she cautiously brought a spoonful of the grey porridge to her lips.

It wasn't as foul as she'd expected it to be. Instead, the porridge was bland, like oats that had been boiled in water instead of milk and flavored with nothing but a pinch of salt.

"How's your slop?" Malfoy called from his cell, and she groaned. It would seem that the eight months he'd already spent in this place had made him a lot more chatty.

"It's slop," she replied.

"Trust me, Granger, you'll be grateful for the slop when you see what we eat when it's Barker in the kitchens." He laughed, and she almost missed the hint of bitterness in his voice. "Do yourself a favor and dip the bread into the slop. It's the only way you'll get it down without cracking a tooth."

Deciding to take his word for it, she did as Malfoy said. He was probably onto something. The bread was so hard and stale that she could probably use it as a weapon in a pinch and soaking it in the slop would probably make it swallowable.

Despite everything, she was oddly grateful for the pointer. Malfoy may not be a friendly face to her. In fact, he was probably one of the furthest things from a friend that she could have. It didn't change that he was familiar, and the devil you knew was always better than the devil you don't.

She bit her lip. This was something she deserved. It was hell, her personal penance for the crime she committed. She still couldn't deny that it was nice to know she wasn't alone, even if her present companion left a lot to be desired.

-Day 4-

"So, are you ever going to tell me what you're here for?" asked Malfoy.

"What would it matter to you?" she replied.

"Call it curiosity if you want," he said. "It gets pretty boring here."

She could believe that. It had been four days, and she was already bored numb. There was nothing to do in her cell, and she was beginning to see why so many of the inmates went mad. It couldn't have been the dementors. Not all of it at least. The monotony was infuriatingly boring.

"Well?"

"I don't want to talk about it." Hermione sighed. She really didn't. It wasn't a memory she wanted to dwell on. Forcing the intruding thoughts out of her mind, she clenched her fists. Her nails dug into her palms, deep enough to draw blood, and the sting was a good pain. It made her forget, if only for a few moments.

She sat back-to-back with a wall between them and a hole beside their ears. Malfoy was still one of the last people she wanted for company, but it didn't change the fact that he was a voice that wasn't in her head. Conversation was distracting.

It just needed to stay away from the topics she wanted to forget.

"You do realize that's only going to make me more curious, right?" he asked. "The perfect Hermione Granger, war heroine with an Order of Merlin, First Class under her belt before she's twenty-years old, thrown into Azkaban? Can you blame me for wanting to know more?"

She snorted. "How would you like it if I started prying into you?"

"What's there to know? You were at my trial."

Hermione remembered the trial. It had been one of the more-drawn out aspects of the justice system at work, to the extent where seven other Death Eaters had all been sentenced to life in the time it took Draco Malfoy to get himself three years with a chance of parole. What had been the word thrown around so often by his defence?

Duress. It was a funny word, she thought. She'd heard is so often before leaving for Australia that it had given her a headache. It hadn't worked very often. Malfoy was an exception, clearly, and she knew that it had been Harry's testimony that had gotten him such a light slap on the wrist punishment for all the things he'd done.

That was something they had in common. Harry had testified in her defence as well, even as she'd pleaded for him not to, to just accept that she was guilty and let her deal with the consequences of what she'd wrought.

Hermione swallowed. Her mind was slipping towards dangerous territory, and she did not want to go there. All that mattered was that she was here now, and that this was something she deserved.

"How did it make you feel when your aunt tortured me on your drawing room floor?" she asked.

He made no reply, and she smiled.

"What was it like when Voldemort told you that he'd murder your mother if you didn't do as he said? What was it like when he tortured her in front of you because of your father's failures? When you tortured all those Muggle-borns because it was what he asked you to do, how did it make you feel?"

There was a silence for a long time after she stopped talking, and she stared ahead at the opposite wall, a pang of guilt flickering in her chest. There'd been no need to go in that hard. Had there? She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. It was a distraction. A good distraction.

"You've made your point," he replied, and the sardonic drawl that usually coloured his voice was gone. "Fine."

The sound of his footsteps echoed through the hole, closely followed by the soft creak of his bed. Something rattled near the bars, and she turned in time to watch a rat scurrying across the floor. There was a flash of green light, and she tensed.

The rat lay on its side, unmoving, and booted footsteps rang out through the gloom. A man in black robes with green stripes along his sleeves knelt down to pick up the dead rat by the tail, and he turned towards her with an impassive expression on his face. Prodding it with his wand, he approached the bars.

"We used to have cats on the island, you know? Animals are not affected by dementors. They kept the rats at bay," said the man, cocking his head to the side as if just now seeing her. "Forgive me. I am Healer Daniels. You must be the new inmate."

"It's just a rat," she said. Her gut twisted as it swung like a pendulum from his gloved fingers, already growing stiff. "It wasn't doing anything."

He raised an eyebrow. "There are no more cats on Azkaban. We must find some way to keep the rats at bay lest they grow to outnumber us." Chuckling, he tossed the carcass into her cell. It bounced across the floor before rolling against her leg, and she jerked aside. Bile rose in her throat, and she inched away.

He tipped his head, surveying her for a few more seconds before continuing on his way, and Hermione wondered what the hell was wrong with the man. Her chest was tight as she got to her feet, gingerly reaching down to grasp the rat. It was still warm. Swallowing down the urge to vomit, she tried to pretend this was just a potion's class, she carried it towards the window and shoved it out into the sea.

Were all the guards mad? Was it something about this place that brought out the very worst in everyone? Confusion filled her, and she slumped to the ground. It was as though every member of staff on this godforsaken rock existed to simply unnerve and unsettle, and she turned towards the hole in the wall.

Malfoy would probably know what was wrong with the Healer. He'd been here for around eight months already, and he'd surely be able to give her the details. Moving back towards the hole, she sat cross-legged on the floor and peered through. The hole was too small to give her much of a view, but she was sure that he was still on his bed.

"Malfoy? Who's the healer?"

There was a snort from the other side of the wall, followed by a silence that stretched on forever. She dug her nails into her palms, and it took everything she had to not cuss him out for ignoring her. Was he mad at her for proving a point earlier? He shouldn't be. He'd been the one who'd pushed first.

With a sigh, she turned around and leaned against the wall. The boredom had already begun to creep back into the corners of her mind, and as had become a norm for her, she only had herself to blame.

-Day 9-

She had been here for a week, or nearly enough to make no difference. It was already becoming hard to keep track. It was so dark in her cell with the only light coming from a single slit that she'd stopped counting. The storm clouds circled the prison in a storm that never ended, and they blotted out the sun often.

It was a spell, she knew. It had to be. Without the dementors, there needed to be new measures put into place to make escape impossible. The storm was just one of these new enchantments, but it whipped the sea around them into a frenzy all the same.

She didn't think anyone could survive even a few moments in those waters without being smashed to pieces against the rocks.

Malfoy hadn't spoken to her since that last exchange, and the constant solitude was beginning to weigh on her. Sometimes, she heard screams from the floors below, or else there'd be cackling laughs from the floor above. Maslow still made his rounds, but he never stopped to talk. At most, he'd pause at the bars to leer at her while the cook shoved her tray into the cell.

It was something of a nightmare, the solitude, and she hated it. Without anything to distract her, she dwelled on her memories, and they hurt far worse than anything this prison could throw at her. Even when she slept, she couldn't escape them, the pillows and the thrashing and the broken looks in their eyes.

Hermione swallowed, digging her nails into her palm until she drew blood. It was a good pain. It made her forget. You deserve this. She bit her lip, gnawing at it until she tasted copper on her tongue. The bitter sting filled her mind, and it was almost—almost—enough to keep her crimes in the past where they belonged.

The scrape of a tray being pushed into her cell alerted her to the fact that she wasn't alone, and she turned. Surprise flickered in her eyes. Maslow wasn't leaning on the bars as he always did, though the cook was still there, already pushing along his cart to the next cell.

"Mail," said Warden Williams, wedging a small stack of letters between the bars. "Aren't you popular today, inmate?"

Mail! Hermione all but ran across the cell, nearly stepping in her gruel as she yanked them free from the bars. The envelopes had been ripped open, she noticed, but she didn't care. The writing on them was so familiar that it felt like a knife had been shoved through her heart. From Harry's messy scrawl to the scratches that passed for letters were Ron was concerned… it was almost as if she could hear them saying the words they'd written.

Warmth tingled along her fingers as she looked back at the sneering warden, and she smiled. She couldn't help it. In this place of gloom, holding letters from her friends was like holding the sun itself in her hands.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Warden Williams snorted, clearly unimpressed before moving to the next cell. A clang rang out through the air, followed by the rustling of paper against rusted steel.

"Only two for you this month, inmate. Seems you're missing a letter. What a shame."

Malfoy sucked in a breath, and Hermione didn't need to ask to know something was wrong. Why should she care, though? He'd been ignoring her for days now, abandoning her to the bitter memories which threatened to strangle her in her sleep.

Warden Williams continued on her way, pausing to clang at each cell she passed, and Hermione returned to her bed with her letter. The frame creaked below her, and she unfolded the first. Her lips curved into a fond smile as she read Harry's letter, and her heart ached. She was halfway through when a strangled sob tore her away from her letter, and she looked up in concern.

"Malfoy?" she called out. "Is so—"

"Shut up," he snapped, and she flinched at the inflection in his voice. It was a garbled mix of anger and anguish, and it was not something she'd have ever expected to hear from him.

She didn't press the issue. He'd tell her if he wanted to. Prying into secrets never ended well. Hermione walked towards the hole in the wall and took a seat beside it. It was less comfortable than her bed, but at least she wouldn't have to yell if the conversation started up again.

Time seemed to stretch around her, and she'd already read through four of the letters in her pile before she heard rustling through the wall. Malfoy sighed, and she set down her letter expectantly.

"I get three letters every month," he began in a hollow voice. "Three. One from my mother, one from Blaise, and one from my godmother. I'll just be getting them from Blaise and my mother from now on."

"I'm sorry," she replied, not knowing what else she could see.

"Cancer," he said. "I knew it was coming. I should be happy that she's not in pain anymore. It was pretty bad when I last saw her."

Her heart constricted, and she pressed her nails into her palms. The fresh clots broke open and blood spilled across her fingers. Yeah. It was pretty bad near the end. She couldn't breathe. No. This wasn't about her. She needed to forget, to push it away so it didn't hurt. The memories were like tiny needles against her temples, and she shoved them down as best she could.

"It's funny," he continued. "You'd think that with magic we wouldn't have to worry about things like cancer, but…" He trailed off, another sob bursting from his lips.

"Makes the war seem more stupid that it was," she replied. "We're all just human in the end."

"The war was stupid," he said, and there was a conviction in his voice that shone through his grief. "It was a stupid and senseless and I supported it because I was a stupid git who got caught up in the stupidity of it all. You want to know what I thought about when I tortured those children? When I fought for that monster?"

"Malfoy, you're not thinki—"

"Shut up and let me talk, Granger," he cut her off. "When I tortured those kids with the worst curses known to man, the only thing I could think of that would drown out their screams was that their blood was filthy and mine was as pure as can be, but we're all still bleeding red at the end of the day, aren't we?"

"Mal—"

"I said shut up. I don't want absolution. I'm here because I deserve it." His words were sharper than a razor. "My godmother didn't deserve this. She was a sweet woman who treated me as if I was her own son. I was best friends with her daughters. I'm sure you know Daphne and Astoria? They were in school with us."

Hermione kept silent. She remembered Daphne Greengrass well enough. They'd taken Ancient Runes together. Hogwarts felt like it had been a lifetime ago.

"I'm not going to be able to attend her funeral," said Malfoy. "I don't get to pay my respects or say goodbye, and I deserve that for all the pain I caused. But in fourteen months, I'm going to get out of this place and go right back to living my life, but those people I hurt? They're still going to be dead."

Hermione didn't know what to say. Her letters abandoned at her side, she leaned back against the wall with her legs stretched out in front of her, and she listened to him cry. Life wasn't fair. That's why she was still alive.

-Day 16-

The days ticked by, but neither of them brought up his breakdown. It was on the very short list of topics that had become taboo, and so long as they avoided the things that caused them pain, the conversation could keep itself going. There could be no mention of their crimes or their families, or even of what had happened during the war, but just being able to talk about the weather was so much better than being trapped in silence.

"I'm bored," he drawled from the other side of the wall.

"You're always bored," she replied.

"You're lucky to have me here, you know," he said. "The first week I spent here, there was nobody else on this floor. I used my spoon to scrape tic-tac-toe boxes onto the floor just to keep myself entertained."

"You played tic-tac-toe with yourself?" She couldn't keep the amusement from her voice. "How'd that work out?"

"I always won." He chuckled. "By the time that got boring, they'd put Goyle in your cell. He can't carry a conversation to save his life, but it was better than being alone."

"What happened to him?" she asked.

"He decided to try sticking Maslow with a spoon he'd been sharpening against that stone next to your window. It didn't occur to him that all our cutlery is charmed to turn into a feather if you try to hurt someone with it. So off to another cell he was shipped, and I haven't seen him since."

Not for the first time since their unlikely acquaintanceship—friendship was a word far too strong for what they had, in her opinion—she was left speechless. Fidgeting with the hem of her sleeves, she tried to think of something to say for a second time and failed. There really was no good response to something like that.

"Talking about Goyle is depressing," he drawled. "Granger, you're a smart girl. Come up with something we can do to pass the time."

"Go play tic-tac-toe with yourself."

"Is that a euphemism? It sounds like a euphemism. I mean, I haven't showered in a month and I'm filthy, but if you think it would be enter—"

"No!" She pinched the bridge of her nose, and it occurred to her that Malfoy had somehow become even more annoying now that he was not tormenting her at every turn. She frowned, trying to come up with something that could be played without physical contact. Anything to keep him from saying something like that again, because she dearly did not want to think about him getting his rocks off.

I spy? That might work, she thought, but as quickly as the thought came to her, she realized that neither of them could see much of what was in the other's cell. Guess my number? That had been boring even when she'd been a child.

"How about truth or dare?" he asked, interrupting her train of thought.

"You know how to play truth or dare?" She laughed. The thought of Malfoy and the other Slytherins playing truth or dare in their dungeon was strangely amusing. They must have done, though. She hardly believed that they'd spent all their free time talking about how they were better than everyone else.

"I'm a pureblood, not an idiot," he said. "Of course I know how to play truth or dare? You think it's Muggle-exclusive or something?"

"Let's go with or something," she answered.

What was there to lose? If he asked something that she didn't want to answer, she could always just lie. He'd never know either way. It would be a good distraction. Right now, she could use anything that took her mind off everything she wanted to forget.

"I don't think there are many dares we can do here," she said. "More like a game of truth, right?"

"Right," he replied. "Truth."

"When is your birthday?" she asked.

It was a simple enough question to begin things, but there wasn't much about him that she actually knew. She frowned. They'd known each other since they were eleven, and they'd shared over three-dozen classes during their schooling career, but she honestly didn't know much about him at all. It was understandable, given their history and his personality, but it was still something that gave her pause.

He could lie to her as well, and she'd be none the wiser.

"5 June, 1980," he replied.

"Huh." She wanted to laugh. "I'm older than you. 19 September, 1979."

"You're practically over the hill, aren't you?" He chuckled. "My turn. What's your favourite book?"

"The Lord of the Rings," she replied. "You probably wouldn't know it."

"Why would I not know Tolkien?" Malfoy seemed surprised. "They carry his books in Flourish and Blotts."

"In the Muggle Fiction section, Malfoy," she corrected, trying to hide her own surprise. "You don't strike me as someone who spent much time there."

"A story is a story," he replied. "It doesn't matter who wrote it. All that matters is whether it's worth reading."

"Who are you and what have you done with Draco Malfoy?"

He chuckled. "Funny, Granger. I'm going to count that as your turn."

"That's cheating!"

"I'm a Slytherin. It's sort of what we do."

He had her there. Swallowing the laugh that threatened to spill from her lips, she adjusted herself so that she was comfortable. This game had seemed so silly when she'd agree to play, but it was nice. It took the edge of things.

She could see the year that stretched in front of her, and she at least knew that boredom wouldn't drive her insane.

"What's your favourite song?" he asked.

"Dream On by Aerosmith," she replied. "Now that one I'm sure you don't know."

"You would be correct in that assumption." His fingers tapped an unfamiliar rhythm against the wall. "Mine's Anthem of the Damned."

"The Hobgoblins, Malfoy?" She raised an eyebrow. "They don't seem to be your type. I expected something classical."

"Excuse you. I'm plenty rock and roll. In fact, I went to a concert at the end of third year with Blaise and Theo, and it got pretty wild, if I do say so myself. We crowd-surfed and everything."

Hermione didn't know what to make of that. The only thing she remembered about him from third year was that she'd punched him hard enough to break his nose, but she picture of him she'd painted in her mind for all these years was steadily changing. It was odd to learn about the blanks, even if this was an incredibly morbid situation. The thought of Draco Malfoy crowd-surfing, however, seemed like something right out of a comedic hallucination.

"That was before, though," he continued, his voice growing soft. "There wasn't much to celebrate come fourth year."

"How bad was it?" she couldn't help but ask.

"I thought we weren't talking about that," he replied.

It was shocking how quickly the atmosphere had changed. His voice, which had been so light and animated just a few moments prior, had become guarded and soft. Her own walls were sliding into place, but she wanted to know. How bad had it been, really? Their fourth year had been the tipping point, but how bad could it have been at the beginning?

She didn't know, but she wanted to.

"You brought it up," she said.

"I was just thinking out loud."

"Fine."She swallowed, thickly. "You answer my question, and I'll answer anything from the taboo list that you have to ask me."

The silence stretched out between them as he considered her offer, and she fidgeted with her sleeve. In that moment, she cursed her curiosity. This was not a book that she could close if the information became too uncomfortable. If she pushed open this door, it could lead to things that were best left in the dark.

It didn't change anything. She still wanted to know.

"It was… okay at first," he said, finally breaking the silence. His voice was barely a whisper. "Most of us thought it would be good. We'd finally get the change we wanted. Things would be better. It was a cause worth fighting for. How little I knew. The first time he tortured me, I was fourteen. It was just a few days after he came back. The Dark Lord was furious at my father for what had happened with the diary. He wanted to make him suffer. You know what that curse is like. I can promise you that my aunt's curses were a feather compared to what The Dark Lord was capable of."

"I'm sorry," she said, and she meant it. "That must have been—"

"Horrible? It was," he said. "Those were the good days of the war, though. It only got worse as time went on. Serves us right for following a crazed psychopath, I guess."

He fell silent, and she sighed. It would seem that, somehow, the Death Eaters had suffered almost as badly as everyone else had during the war. The thought sickened her. They'd been on the verge of winning for the longest time, and it had been a quirk of fate and more luck that she'd dared try to quantify which had brought Voldemort down.

The sheer idea of a man like that in power, without opposition… it brought bile to her throat.

"Truth," she said.

He'd held up her end of the bargain. It was her turn.

"What are you here for?"

She sighed. He was never going to stop trying to get an answer out of her, and she couldn't imagine having to dodge the question for the next year. You know what you did. The world knows what you did. Just tell him. Let him know what a monster you are. The voice in the back of her head nagged at her in a sickeningly sweet tone, and she leaned back against the wall.

The rough stone dug into her back, and for once, she was grateful for the threadbare jumpsuit. Without it, there was no doubt in her mind that she'd have scraped her back raw by now, and in this dank place, the risk of infection was very high. Death was too easy for her, too kind.

Hermione sighed.

"Murder, Malfoy," she said. "I'm here for murder."