Chapter One: Trapped

PROLOGUE

She was having the nightmare again.

The same dream that Hermione Granger'd had for months was plaguing her once more -- dark visions of a night that felt like it had been years ago, reliving those events, condemning herself once more to the pain she felt now . . . It was as if someone had cursed her to see those same things over and over and over again as a form of torture or perhaps to make her regret her actions.

She never stopped to think that maybe it was her own conscience that was punishing her.

Thrashing once, rather violently, she shook herself out of sleep and sat up; blinking and rubbing her eyes, she evaluated her surroundings and reoriented herself. She wasn't in the dream. She was safe -- as safe as one could be here, anyway.

Hermione twisted around on her firm bed, untangling herself from the plain white sheets that had wound themselves about her legs. Leaning back, she almost relished the feel of rough stone pressing against her back. The slight pain of it kept her grounded; it made her remember that she was awake now, where none of those visions could haunt her.

Breathing in, she could almost taste the stale air around her. It always smelled the same -- dark, dank, unchanging. The only slight difference now was the hint of her own sweat in the surrounding area, giving her something just slightly different to smell. She never smelled fresh air now, never saw the sun, never felt anything aside from what she was confined to in this tiny room.

She was in Azkaban – physically, mentally, emotionally. Trapped.

CHAPTER ONE: Trapped

Hermione's days were, in a word, dull.

She'd always been a fan of organization and order, but even she couldn't stomach the monotony of each day within the wizarding prison. She craved something different, longed for excitement, pleaded with whatever Gods existed to allow her some sort of change in her days to make them more bearable. But the change never came, and she always went through the same routine.

In the mornings, the Daily Prophets were delivered to those who were allowed a copy. Some of her fellow inmates were jailed for lesser crimes, temporarily there to sit in the corner and think about what they'd done. Those were the ones who had the pleasure each morning of having the bound newspaper slid through the bars of their cell. Those lucky few were also under strict orders to not share their paper, nor pass along information from the various articles.

There had been an explanation some time ago when she was first charged. She couldn't remember it all now, as most of their reasoning had faded the more bitter she became, but it was something to do with hidden information being slipped in by outside spies. Information intended to aid those that were trapped, speaking in code of break out dates and the like.

Not that it was important for her -- she was in no danger of being rescued by those who were once her friends, nor by those who resided in cells next to her. Everyone would be out for Hermione Granger's blood, should she ever escape.

An hour after the Daily Prophets were issued, they were collected once more; those that were lucky enough to read the paper were also lucky enough to be let out of their cells at that point, gathered and led down to the mess hall where they could eat breakfast and socialize with one another about various things; whatever inmates socialized about, Hermione neither knew nor cared. The others that were left, those deemed too dangerous to let out, were given their food through the bars. They were fed like dogs.

Hermione was again part of that group.

The food wasn't too terrible. She could at least admit that much. It certainly wasn't in any sort of league with the Hogwarts food of her childhood, but it was decent enough. She supposed no magical institution could really go wrong where something as simple as food was concerned. A quick spell here, a charm there . . . perfection every time. It was merely the fact that they didn't bother making things perfect that made the food less-than-delicious. But it sufficed, and she was still healthy in a manner of speaking.

Once breakfast was finished and the luckier prisoners ushered back to their cells, the true 'hard time' began.

She now had to endure hours of nothing. No papers being brought in, no conversation filling the empty space . . . Nothingness. Hermione found within her first week that this was what prison was all about: being bored out of her mind. Aside from the nightmares, which served to punish her adequately, this was by far the worst part of it all. There was nothing to do.

Sure, she'd had a few things in the beginning to keep her occupied. There were books she'd been allowed to bring in, things of that nature. She was more than welcome to read a novel that never changed, after it was inspected for charms used in communication and the like. But now? Now she'd read them all, multiple times, and had grown weary of the plots and characters. Even a bookworm such as herself couldn't handle reading 'Wuthering Heights' four times within a two month span. What made it all the more difficult was the fact that she could easily have new books to read, new things to keep her occupied, should someone merely visit and bring her such things.

But no one visited Hermione. No one brought her books. No one wanted to speak to her. She'd done something unthinkable, and she was certainly paying for it now.

It wasn't until lunchtime that the monotony broke, only slightly. But even then, it was the same routine as breakfast -- some stayed, some left, all ate. Eating wasn't that exciting.

A few hours after lunch, Hermione had her heart broken daily. From two until four, visitors floated in and out of the corridors of the prison. Convicts had people they loved coming to see them while Hermione sat near the bars of her cell and watched. It was the only time of the day that she ventured out this far -- all other times, she kept to the back wall of the small chamber, not wanting to be out in sight to anyone but the passing guards and the neighboring inmate across the way.

But during those two hours, she endured more attention and pointing and harsh words than in a week's worth of staying to herself. She put herself there, clinging to those cold bars, staring up and down the corridors each time some new visitor would round the corner. Her heart would rise, swell, pound quickly, only to sink and be let down each time a stranger appeared. She'd spent five months in the wizarding prison, and her visitor count still remained at zero.

She wasn't sure why she allowed herself to hope. It certainly wasn't worth the pain when she was disappointed, nor the words of passers by. 'Look there, isn't that Hermione Granger? Dirty bitch should rot.'

And that, sadly, was one of the more kind things someone had said about her.

When she'd first arrived, she still had her spirit, her temper. But that had quickly been broken after the first time she'd shouted something back at one of those hateful people. She'd reminded them that she had bloody ears and that they weren't exactly whispering about her. The visitors were frightened of her, leapt back with utterly terrified expressions, and one of the guards immediately punished her.

Her free will and stubborn mouth weren't appreciated here. She supposed it never really was, anywhere.

When the last of the visitors were gone, Hermione always sank back to her shadows to go through the rest of her miserable day. Another short period of nothingness, followed by dinner. Dinner was, at least, more substantial than the other meals. Not in the portions, but in the flavours -- she supposed portion control was important, lest all of the prisoners end up being large and immobile. No, the dinner meals were always better tasting, even if she didn't have the option of gorging herself on it. On Sundays, there was dessert following dinner, and that was always a small treat to look forward to.

Dinner passed a bit more time than the other meals, but once it was over, Azkaban fell more silent. A large number of prisoners fell asleep soon after eating, but Hermione had never been able to turn her mind off so early in the evening. She usually sat there for a while longer, contemplating any random thing that wound its way into her head, before finally growing weary enough to climb into her firm, less-than-comfortable bed. The blanket was itchy and heavy, but as soon as she could settle herself, it didn't bother her.

So began another night of dreams, followed by yet another boring, dreary day of being a prisoner of Azkaban.

Of course, not all of her days were so boring. No, just the typical ones. Some days were slightly different, such as today. Today, she was forced to stand in the corner of her cell while a guard held her at wandpoint. Another guard moved around inside, changing the bed linens and sweeping the cold stone floor. Cleaning day! That was always something different, she supposed. It did always frighten her, though, when she thought of how excited she became over something so dull as cleaning day.

"No mail for me?" she asked, finding her own voice sounding foreign to her. It was perhaps because she so rarely spoke, but she didn't think it possible to forget the sound of one's own voice.

The guard outside the cell glared at her, but his face turned a touch softer. "You know there's no mail, Hermione," he replied. That voice was foreign, too. It should have been familiar, warm, comforting -- Neville Longbottom wasn't capable of sounding cold, was he? But yes.. he did. Her old friend now sounded like a stranger, holding his wand up at her and giving her a look that told her he'd not hesitate in hexing her, should she try anything.

She never did try anything. She didn't know why they were so bloody afraid of her.

But then again, she didn't remember much about the incident. She remembered everything leading up to it and everything after it... but she supposed she could have been absolutely mad when they apprehended her. She could have tried to curse every single one of them, for all she knew. That would certainly explain their fear of her. And these ridiculous measures.

"I just thought..." she trailed off, sounding almost conversational. She looked back to Neville, though, who shook his head and diverted his gaze, and knew that conversation wasn't an option. She didn't get visitors, and the guards weren't there to chat with her, either. That was that.

She sighed and leaned more comfortably against the stone wall, waiting patiently for the cleaning to be finished, when the sound of important footsteps drew close. Looking up, she spied another guard coming to a halt beside Neville, nodding a formal and almost soldierly greeting. Perhaps they'd fought together in the last war, had some sort of brotherly bond. She pondered this, coming up with a brilliant story in her mind -- something she did often. She put random things and people together and developed a long plot for them so that she could occupy her mind.

She could see it clear as day in her imagination. Neville crying out when this other guard was hit with a spell -- oh, but it wasn't fatal! Neville boldly and bravely carried him to safety, and now there was of course an unshakable bond between the two of them. The sort of bond people share when one's life has been saved by the other.

Her novella was interrupted when the new guard barked her name, however. Attention back to the present, she looked up and waited, not even bothering to speak.

"Your hearing has been scheduled for tomorrow afternoon," he informed her. Just as though he'd told her that... her Sunday pie was delayed. As though the hearing in which she learned her fate was no more important than whether or not she received her dessert on time. "You're to be delivered to the Ministry at three o'clock. Be sure that you're ready by two. Robes will be sent to your cell this evening." He nodded once to her as if asking if she understood, and she gave a small nod in reply.

She understood; she wasn't simple. She just wasn't very happy about it.

As dull as her days were here in captivity, she'd rather spend her life here than being sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss. Or, as some visitors had suggested, death.

The guard was speaking softly to Neville now, and Hermione paid him no mind. Her thoughts were concentrated on herself, pondering just what her fate would be. What if she was sentenced to death? Would they use the Killing Curse? At least then it would be painless... She didn't think she could handle something like a hanging or any sort of Muggle execution. But what of the Dementor's Kiss? Wasn't that worse than death? She wasn't so sure.

The guard that had been cleaning was now exiting, locking the cell once more before giving a nod to Neville. Her former friend lowered his wand and gave Hermione an almost sympathetic look as he relaxed his posture. "Hermione," he stated simply, without goodbye or good luck. Just her name, and a nod, before he'd turned and headed down to do his business at the next cell.

As if suddenly remembering that she could move, speak, think, Hermione scrambled to the bars and leaned close, peering down to catch a glimpse of him. "Neville!" she shouted, gripping the iron bars tightly and praying that he'd not ignore her.

He did.

Hermione paused, frowning as she watched him. He twitched slightly, as if contemplating acknowledging her; but his own desire to do his job won out, and he merely stiffened once more and watched over the inmate next to her while their cell was cleaned, as well.

"Neville, please, just.. Ask Ginny to come? To the hearing? I only want to apologize."

To her surprise, he acknowledged her then. His head tilted, eyes moved to rest on hers, and his lips set themselves in a rather firm and stern line. She felt her blood run cold; he wasn't giving her an understanding gaze, no. He was looking on her as if he would like to hold the noose himself.

"It's Mr. Longbottom," he replied coldly, saying nothing else of her request.