I've had this nearly ready to go for quite a while now. It came to me suddenly one day and I had to get it down. Yes, I am still working on my other commitments (she declares loudly as she hears mutterings of discontent) but I have to write what the muse dictates. I hope this keeps you happy in the meantime. I've made a note of all wall requests and when the PWP muse strikes again, I'll address those first. This isn't really PWP, more SWS (Smut with Substance). I loved writing Touch and Communion, and this continues the theme of a broken Lucius, still proud, but in disarray, as you will see. He has not been exonerated after the war (first time I've ever written him like this) and Hermione has been sent to 'rehabilitate' him in Azkaban.

...

Enjoy, lovely people. This story is finished on my HD and is six chapters long, so I won't be keeping you waiting for updates (I know, amazing, hey?) LL xxx

Week One

For someone about to enter Azkaban, Hermione Granger was curiously calm.

Admittedly, she was only there for an hour or so to do a job: to visit Prisoner Number 1625 as part of his Sequence of Rehabilitation and Resocialisation.

There were few people willing to do these jobs. The very walls of Azkaban - grey rock, hewn in ancient darkness, rough and damp - sapped warmth and comfort from anyone who entered within them, even without the now-banished Dementors.

But Hermione had been only too keen to volunteer. The prospect of working with an inmate of Azkaban had filled her with her usual sense of a challenge. It was so far out of her comfort zone and her predictable routine at the Ministry that she leapt at it. Life had become far too mundane of late - she longed for the spontaneous and vicarious thrills she had experienced when on the run.

Hermione had prepared carefully, as ever. She had applied warding charms and had meditated (a Muggle technique recommended by her aunt Veronica in times of stress) for an hour the night before.

But it wasn't just her careful preparation which had allayed any fears. Prisoner Number 1625 would present a unique test. He was sure to hate her, by definition. She presumed she hated him. She had hated his son, but strangely knew little about the father. His arrogant demeanour was enough to rile her, certainly, but his stubborn refusal to acknowledge any common humanity between them was the challenge she now wished to tackle.

Working with her would be crucial for him; if he performed well under her supervision he had been assured of release. He had narrowly missed out on freedom as it was. His wife and son had been granted it; their defection from Voldemort had apparently been more obvious and genuine than his. It was concluded that, individually, he had only acted for his own sake, out of cowardice. Clearly the Wizengamot had felt another spell in Azkaban (a place with which he was already more than familiar) would give him time to mull over his failings.

Prisoner Number 1625 was kept in an individual cell. There would be a narrow window high beyond his view, a bunk, a toilet, a sink, a wooden chair, and nothing else. The door would lock and seal magically, not even allowing a glimmer of light to poke through from the corridor. The cells were sound proofed. Any requests or cries of anguish would not be heard.

Even so, as Hermione entered the edifice and followed the shuffling, monosyllabic guard up to the cell, she believed she could detect the low wailing of human despair from the rock itself, as if the torment of past centuries had imprinted itself into the very fabric of the building. The dankness chilled her bones, and the constant morose dripping from the walls suddenly jarred her soul. She shivered violently and impulsively as she continued along. The guard glanced at her, his eyes dark, his thin, dry lips twisted with derision. They had walked on and on and up, ever upwards, following dark corridors and narrow, spiral staircases of well-worn stone, until she was sure they must have been near the top of the prison. At length they stopped. Hermione was at first unsure – she could not even see a doorway. But then the guard flicked his wand with minimal and resentful exertion and the stonework before her shifted, revealing a thin gap indicating the outline of a door.

"Here." He huffed at last. "You've got up to an hour. The door locks both sides." He turned to go.

"What if I need to get out?"

The guard's words leeched putridly from his narrow mouth. "Icarcero Overto. You've got your wand. Use it."

He tapped the door and it swung open a fraction with a groan. The guard indicated with a jerk of his head for her to enter. For the first time, she hesitated, her heart pounding audibly through her. But Hermione placed her hand on the door and pushed. The cell was gloomy – she could barely even register anyone inside. She stepped in, and as soon as she had, the door shut heavily behind her with a dull but loud thud.

She blinked, partly from the shock of it, partly from the need to adjust her eyes to the gloom. Opposite her, in the shadowy recesses, she discerned a figure with a shock of long pale hair. Her heart caught in her mouth. The figure took a step out towards her. His face was covered in dark stubble; his once silken hair was dry and matted. Dark shadows slumped beneath his eyes and his brows were knotted as they stared across at her. He was in even more disarray and dishevelment than she had seen in him during the final moments of the war.

Hermione swallowed hard. He was staring at her. And even through red rims and lids heavy with recrimination, his eyes shone so bright and so grey she was startled.

Lucius Malfoy took another step towards her. This time she stood her ground and rediscovered her resolve. Holding herself tall, she lifted her chin. "Good afternoon, Mr Malfoy."

At first there was silence, but then deep, chilling words were tossed at her. "Is it?"

His voice took her by surprise. It was lower than she remembered, husky and dispossessed. "Excuse me?" she stuttered.

"Is it? A good afternoon?"

"I ..." Her greeting had been ridiculous she now realised. She flushed red.

"I wouldn't know," he stated with a lilt of resentful humour.

"It's just after three o'clock."

Malfoy glared at her. Once again she had spoken utter rubbish. His awareness of time was denied him and therefore redundant. She was ashamed of her condescension.

"Why have they sent you?" he demanded, cold but determined.

"To continue your programme."

"I know that. I mean ... why you?"

"No one else wanted to do it."

"How reassuring," he sneered.

"If you do well, you will be released."

"And what exactly does 'doing well' entail?"

She shrugged a little. "Showing interest, being positive, exhibiting behaviour to convince me that you have eschewed the dark ways."

"Convince you?"

"Yes."

"And does this involve questions ... tests ... Ministry designed experiments to delve into my psyche and decide whether or not I am fit and clean for re-entry into polite society?" His words were iced with bitter sarcasm.

"Not really. It involves ... talking."

Malfoy did not reply, as if already denying her her purpose. He turned away and stood, staring at the back wall. She waited.

"I'm here for an hour, Mr Malfoy. You've only really had yourself for company for three years. I may not be your ideal choice of companion, but if I were you, I'd use the opportunity."

Malfoy remained standing, his back turned to her, not speaking. After a while she took the sole wooden chair in the room and sat on it.

For fifteen minutes his resolute silence continued.

Hermione studied his back. His hair was as long as it had ever been, but now darker with dirt and tangled. She itched to take a comb and brush it through. She could have used magic, but the urge to brush it out by hand was almost, and oddly, overwhelming.

He had been allowed his own clothes and wore a long black jacket which extended far beyond his hips. It had once been a fine garment, but was now grey and tattered along the seams and cuffs.

She waited. She burned to speak, but she would not give him the satisfaction of showing her frustration.

And then she had it; Malfoy turned quite suddenly and looked down on her. His right eyebrow cocked, feigning haughty surprise.

"Still here?" His voice held again that sardonic, almost seductive smoothness it had always had. It almost reassured her.

She didn't answer him. Two could play at this game.

Malfoy stared down, clearly expecting a response. When he didn't get one, he sniffed out in derision and turned away from her again. "Which department have you been sent from?"

"Magical Law Enforcement – the Rehabilitation Division."

"Rehabilitation ..." he repeated with a sneer under his breath.

"Draco's in that department now," she dared.

She noticed his eyes flick rapidly towards her, his features tense with interest.

"He works across the corridor from me, although we're both so busy we rarely see each other."

She could tell he was struggling with himself. His hands were clasped into fists and his nostrils flared.

"Is he ...?" He bit back his question.

"Is he what?" she offered.

"Well? Is he well?" Malfoy forced the words out as if they pained him to direct them at her.

An odd curl of emotion twisted through her. "Very well. He's highly respected in the department. He always had a good mind ... and a good work ethic, surprisingly."

Malfoy stared hard at her, his eyes cold. "Did you mention to him that you were coming here?"

"He knows. The whole department knows. I didn't get a chance to speak to him before I left. If I had, I'm sure he would have sent his best wishes."

"I haven't seen him for thirty seven months."

"I know." She let her head drop down. Despite more humane measures being imposed under Shacklebolt, the regime of Azkaban was still far harsher than any Muggle prison. "It's ridiculous that you're not allowed visitors."

He sneered. "Visitors? I am not even allowed letters, Miss Granger. Nothing. If you were to offer me a penny chew it would be denied me."

She glanced up. As much as his stark words depressed her, she could not stop a vision coming to her mind of herself handing Lucius Malfoy a fizzy cola bottle. It almost made her laugh aloud.

"You have occasional times when you're allowed into the yard, don't you?"

"No more than once a month."

Hermione studied his face, but it remained as impenetrable as ever. Had he suffered enough? Had he paid the price for his actions? Had they changed him? She doubted it. Yet she didn't fear him as she once had, he didn't even intimidate her. If anything, she was intrigued by him. Despite his haggard appearance, he retained a certain nobility even in the desolation surrounding him which she found herself admiring.

Three years in isolation in Azkaban was penance enough. If he convinced her that he no longer posed a threat to society and if he complied with some of the Ministry's demands (which she had so far omitted to tell him) even she would welcome his release from this soul destroying place.

Malfoy said little more. Neither did she. She would not impose her questions on him. She had orders from the Minister to ask him specifics, but she would not rush things. She was to return every week and wished to build up his trust, if that was possible, first.

Malfoy stood the entire time. He did not seem to look at her, and she did not indulge his ego by staring overtly at him, but when she did glance across she noticed his eyes quickly flicking away from her. Frequently he would inhale deeply through his nose. She wondered at first if he was unwell, if his lungs were struggling for breath, but he was not wheezing or coughing. It was simply that he would take the deepest intakes of breath from time to time. At those times, his eyes would flutter shut briefly and he would almost seem to lose his composure.

But her overriding emotion surprised her in its stark intimacy; she so wanted to brush his hair.

"Don't you want to sit down?" Hermione queried after several minutes had again passed in silence.

"No. And in case you hadn't noticed ..." His voice was as snide and frosty as ever. " ... you are on my chair."

"I'm sorry." She stood up. "Here. I can sit on the bunk."

She sat on the thin mattress immediately, the hard slats creaking as she lowered herself. Malfoy's eyes widened and she thought he would tell her to get up, not to place herself on his sleeping place. But he didn't. He swayed a little but said nothing.

He remained standing for a while longer, but then, with another intake of breath, he pulled the chair towards him and sat on it.

"Draco is getting very friendly with Astoria Greengrass." This sudden intimate information she had placed between them seemed at odds in the dank air.

Malfoy turned to look at her steadily, any glare in his eyes for now gone. His mouth opened, but he was clearly struggling with himself, not wishing to appear curious.

"Do you know her?" Hermione continued.

"I know of the family. However, I have never seen her. Is she ...?"

Hermione waited for him to complete his question.

" ... intelligent?" Malfoy added at last.

"Umm ..." Hermione was taken aback. She had presumed he wanted to know what she looked like, whether her pureblood ancestry was reflected in desirably fine features. "Yes. She's very unassuming. Lovely." She was trying to hide the surprise in her voice. "And very attractive," she couldn't help adding.

Malfoy glanced at her again, his eyes shifting, clearly unsure why she had said it. His lack of presumption pleased her.

Time ticked away. There were still moments of silence, but Hermione did not feel awkward in them, and any glance at Malfoy revealed an oddly calm expression; she suspected he didn't either. She noticed that his blonde hair and his grey eyes provided the only contrast to the black, rough walls and stark brown furniture surrounding him.

And then there was a groaning against the wall and the shape of the door revealed itself again. It was pushed open and the taciturn guard appeared in the doorway. "Time," he muttered.

Hermione stood and looked across at Malfoy. "I'll be back next week. Good bye."

He did not respond. She didn't expect him to. Hermione turned and followed the guard out, hearing that thick thud as the door resealed itself against Malfoy.

-xxoOoxx-

Lucius Malfoy stood in his cell, suddenly feeling more alone than in all the three years he had been imprisoned. The scent of the woman's perfume, apples and sweet peas, which he had found himself inhaling desperately while she was there, lingered. He hoped it would remain until she returned.

She'll be back, Lucius. In the meantime, if you need anyone else to keep you occupied, you only need to ask ...

;-)

Reviews are lapped up, as always. LL xxx