Chapter One

Chapter One

The little flat felt as huge as a cave. Hermione's stiff new shoes echoed on the bare wood floors like thunder. She felt incredibly small in the space, even though it was barely larger than her old Prefect's room at Hogwarts. When she looked to her left, she could see the door to the loo. To her right, a galley kitchen shone with appliances so white they hurt her eyes.

Compared to the huge house her parents had owned in the Cotswolds, it was far too little. After the last two drab, grey years in Azkaban, it was entirely too much.

She unhooked the small bag from over her shoulder and let it fall to the floor with a hollow splatting sound. In that bag, smaller than the one that had once held her schoolbooks, was every sodding thing she possessed. It certainly made unpacking a snap.

She made a huge production of stowing away her things: five pairs of knickers, two bras, four shirts, two pairs of trousers and one book. She folded the underclothes carefully, as small as she could make them, squirrelling them away in the very back corner of the dresser drawer. She stowed the shirts and trousers at the back of the wardrobe, hiding everything away from prying eyes. The wardrobe was dark and deep, and for a moment she thought about grabbing her pillow and sleeping in there. It was just about the same size as her cot ...

She shook her head angrily. She hadn't completely lost her shit in Azkaban...why was she acting like she was one Sickle short of a Knut here, miles away from that cursed rock, and in relative safety?

Hermione Granger, she told herself. I'm Hermione fucking Granger, the last of the Golden Trio. Well, the last lucid member, if you counted Ron. She tried very hard not to think about Ron. Or Harry, or Ginny, or Neville or-

She closed the wardrobe. She was a Ministry employee now, living in Ministry-provided accommodations with Ministry-provided security at all exits. She was as safe as houses.

She looked around the magnolia-white walls of her latest gaol cell. It was much prettier and more spacious, this was true, but no less a cell than the one she'd walked out of three hours before. The windows were even warded, just like prison. She would be escorted to and from the Ministry every day by a Probation Officer.

Same cage; different smell.

It had been easy to accentuate the positives when Lucius Malfoy had been smarming on about her 'new position' with the Ministry, not to mention her last chance to get away from her hell-away-from-home for the past two years. But standing here now, Hermione found herself almost wishing she'd said no. It was all too different; it was too clean, too nice, too normal, compared to what she'd grown used to, and that depressed her.

She had been so sure Harry would win. She had been convinced that the light would defeat the darkness, that somehow all the horrors they had endured had bought them a slice of luck. That somehow they deserved to win. How stupidly naive that sounded now, but at the time, in her heart of hearts, she had believed, right up until the moment that everything fell apart, and her world had been reduced to that four-by-eight-foot home.

She had been horrified, but she fought on, even as she saw her comrades and friends fall. The first was Tonks, followed by her husband Remus, who collapsed beside her on the ground with a cry of despair, just as Hermione ran past, ducking and dodging the flying curses and hexes. She had watched in horror as her roommate Lavender Brown was torn to pieces by a pack of werewolves. The girl's high-pitched screams had rent the air like a siren, then stopped abruptly, as if someone had flipped a switch. It wasn't Lavender's screams that haunted Hermione's dreams; it was the sudden, instant silence that kept her awake at night.

No, she'd still been sure they stood chance to win, even as the Weasleys' cries of grief tore open the fabric of the infirmary, as Mrs. Weasley clutched the lifeless body of Fred. Hermione had felt the first real hammer blow when Ron was struck down, foaming at the mouth from a dreadful curse and screaming in some sort of garbled version of English. But Hermione had grimly thrown everything she could at anyone who looked like the enemy. By then, death was barely registering. All she could think about was staying alive.

And then, her world ended.

There was a hideous screaming roar in the air, and Hermione looked to her right just in time to see Voldemort, in the middle of the Hogwarts courtyard, holding a red banner. Everyone around him froze, and the world tilted for Hermione as she realised what she was seeing. It was not something being held up by a scarlet cloth. It was the head of Ginny Weasley, neatly severed at the neck, held aloft in his taloned fingers by her own long, flaming red hair.

Harry's anguished cry had pierced the night, and he'd charged Voldemort like a rugby player on a tackle. Wild with grief, driven over the edge by the guilt of so many dying, Harry had run into the last battle like a martyr, and Voldemort had fucking made him one. When she closed her eyes, she could still remember the smell of burning flesh.

She felt a sharp pain in her knees; her legs had buckled. Harry is dead, she thought numbly. Everyone I love is dead. We've lost. We've lost.

That thought, that one thought, ended her world. Not with a bang, but with a whimper.

The final charge had been little more than a massacre, as the Death Eaters raced over the school like army ants, leaving a trail of bloodied and broken people in their wake. But then, just as the victory cry rose in the air from a thousand dark-smoked throats, some nameless, faceless someone pulled her to her feet and dragged her like a sack of potatoes through the halls of Hogwarts. She had no idea who had gotten her there; even years later she could not recall anything about her saviour.

Hermione found herself at the entrance to the headmaster's study. She ran up the spiral staircase on shaking legs and into the room, where she found Minerva McGonagall, covered in ash, her hair hanging in loose strands from its bun. Her pale face was grim as she stood by the fireplace, stuffing first- and second-year students through the Floo network to fuck knows where. Some were protesting; they wanted to stay and fight. Others were crying for their mothers. The most pathetic ones were silent, their huge, frightened eyes mutely beseeching Professor McGonagall to please make things better, please.

Hermione waited until the last of the youngsters disappeared into the Floo before making her presence known. From down below, she could hear the sounds of the conquerors pillaging the interior of the castle. The screams of the injured and dying rose and fell, like great waves beneath them.

When Professor McGonagall finally laid eyes on Hermione, she froze. Hermione knew she must look like hell, because her former professor grew so pale she seemed on the verge of fainting.

"Harry's dead, Professor," she told McGonagall.

There was a chorus of mourning voices from the wall of portraits. Albus Dumbledore's likeness stood and drew nearer the edge of the painting. "Are you sure, Miss Granger?"

Hermione nodded, tears cleaning tracks down her dirty face. "I saw him burned to death."

McGonagall closed her eyes and sagged against the mantle. She inhaled a sharp sob, and replied, "Then all is lost, Miss Granger."

The sudden realisation that all was lost made her feel sick to her stomach. "What do we do?"

McGonagall was efficient to the last. Hermione was to Floo to a Secret-kept place. McGonagall even gave her some Muggle money and a rucksack of provisions. The two witches hardly looked at one another as Hermione prepared to leave. It always bothered her nowadays; she wished she would have taken the time to say things to her former mentor. Important things. But she had looked away, knowing that, should she catch McGonagall's eye, she would start blubbering and crying for her mum like those hapless first years.

As she stepped to the fireplace, she felt McGonagall open the rucksack on Hermione's back and insert one more thing. Dumbledore spoke to her directly. "Miss Granger," he called, "the password is pumpkin pasties. Pumpkin pasties."

She glanced at his portrait, confused, but he only laid a finger aside his nose and winked soberly.

Then Hermione felt McGonagall's hand on her arm: it was time to depart. McGonagall threw every protective charm she could cast over Hermione, her voice shaking with emotion but her wand as steady as a rock.

"Stay alive, Miss Granger," McGonagall had whispered fiercely, before embracing her and sending her through the Floo. "You are all that's left."

And so, Hermione Granger had gone on the run. She'd had no immediate plan to leave England; she knew no one on the continent except Viktor Krum, and who knew where his sympathies laid. Every friend she'd ever made was dead. Her parents...Merlin, even now she couldn't think about them.

It was her intention to go Muggle and hide out. She changed her name. She stole when she had to. She changed her hair colour and her clothes.

She had stuck almost exclusively to the Muggle towns, only venturing to the Wizarding areas to cover up any complicated magic she was forced to perform. McGonagall had given her a new wand, but she used it sparingly, only when absolutely necessary. Even with a borrowed wand, she wasn't sure she wasn't being Traced somehow.

It had been surprisingly easy to get along, even though she'd done things she really didn't want to think about to keep herself sheltered and fed. She hadn't resorted to prostitution, but she really didn't think she was all that far away from it.

A few months passed. She stole the occasional Daily Prophet to see if she was still on the 'Ten Most Wanted Magicals' list. She was Number One.

The news in the paper was confusing, disjointed; the print was often smeared and garbled, as if it were being printed clandestinely. Little of it made sense, but it was a tiny, tenuous link to her former life, and she would often sleep with the latest edition under her pillow, like some sort of talisman.

But she got too comfortable, and in the end it had been her downfall. Inertia kept her in the same place for too long; she was starting to leave magical signatures that could be easily recognised. She'd yearned too much for the normality of her former life. All she wanted was to be plain old Hermione Granger: Nobody.

She had been camping on a hillside near Muggle Brighton when her time on the run came to an end. It was the dead of winter. Stupid, stupid, stupid. No one strolled on the piers in the winter; Brighton was a summer seaside town. The Muggle police had stopped her, wondering why a lone young woman in a shabby coat was wandering around on a freezing esplanade in the middle of December. They had taken her details...false, of course...but something about her made them antsy, so they made her wait by the blues and twos while they ran a CRIMINT check on her.

The minute she spotted the two goons rounding the corner, Hermione knew they were magicals. Their sneers of satisfaction made her heart skid sickeningly around in her chest. Panic made her forget to Apparate. Frantically, she turned to the Muggle PC. "You rumbled me, Constable. I'm trying to pick up men. I'm soliciting! Arrest me!"

He stared at her as if she were mad. "Here now, what's your game, love? Nobody said anything about solicit-"

"Thank you, Constable, we'll take it from here," the older one said, and then Hermione did turn on the spot just as she heard the hapless PC shout.

"'Ere, now, what do you think you're-!"

She Apparated blindly, feeling heavy and clumsy, wondering why she couldn't move very far and why she was in such pain. Three sickening jumps later, she was being hauled into Azkaban by one of the Snatchers who had grabbed her arms just as she'd tried to leave Brighton. His partner left their side and returned seconds later with three of her fingers. She had Splinched herself.

A prison Healer hastily restored her missing digits; it was the last act of kindness she would receive from her captors.

When she woke up on the seventh day, she was no longer in a holding cage, but in a prison cell on a cot that was slimy with mold and stank of every bodily fluid known to man. "Drink some water," a startlingly familiar voice said, and Hermione looked up to see-

"Neville?" Tears choked her throat. He held a clay cup to her lips. Lukewarm, brackish water was poured into her mouth, and she managed to swallow some of it as she sputtered and coughed.

When she at last caught her breath, she took a good look at her old schoolmate. There was nothing of that sweet hapless boy anymore. Neville was thin to the point of emaciation; gentle eyes stared out of a gaunt face almost as grey as his prison uniform.

"Neville," she croaked, cleared her throat, and tried again. "Neville, how long have you been here?"

He coughed into his hand, a dry sound like a wand tapping against a desk. "Since the battle. I was knocked out by a Stunning spell after I killed Voldemort's pet snake." He shrugged. "Stupid, really. I should've looked where I was going." He tried to smile. His voice sounded hollow and distant. "Death Eaters brought me here that night. My trial was two days later, if you can call it that. If I can be killed for it, they've charged me with it. Treason, Resisting Arrest, Assaulting a Ministry Official." He tried another bleak smile. "You name it, really. I'm under a sentence of slow execution now."

Her heart cramped in her chest. "But when, Neville? When will you..."

"Does it matter?" He looked at her pityingly. "If I'm lucky, sooner rather than later." He closed his eyes.

"I don't even know how long I'm supposed to be here," she said. "I haven't had a trial."

"Oh, you've been tried already, Hermione. If you're in this part of the prison, you've been handed your sentence."

She stared at him in horror. "But- but, I haven't been given a chance to defend myself."

Neville looked away and coughed again. "Hermione, people are sent to Azkaban to be forgotten." His face was full of sympathy. "We're here because we're never going anywhere else again." His breath hitched, and he coughed so hard he retched. She could see the red in his spittle.

"You need a Healer," she blurted. "They can't just leave you here like this!"

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "You're missing the point. They can, and they have, and they will. The good guys have lost. Voldemort won, and you and me, well, we're the traitors now, the rebels. From what I hear they did to the Order, we're lucky to be here."

She thought back to McGonagall, and their last meeting. She had promised the older witch to stay safe, that nothing was more important. She had failed.

As if he read her thoughts, he patted her shoulder comfortingly. "The best we can do is hope that we can survive long enough for someone to rescue us." He held up the cup of water. "Now drink up. The food's awful, but at least we have as much water as we can drink. Here," he said, putting the cup into her shaking hands. "You need to take care of yourself."

She slumped. "What for?" she asked bitterly. "So I can be nice and healthy for the Dementor's Kiss?"

He put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "So you can avoid the Dementor's Kiss. There's always hope."

Soon after, she was given her number, and soon she didn't even think of herself as Hermione Granger anymore. She was just Prisoner Gebo77Isa96KenazDagazBerkano.

Neville's information had been accurate but useless. Prisoners were plentiful in Azkaban. Most of them were people Hermione knew, people who had fought alongside her. Their screams became the backdrop of her tenuous hold on her sanity. Death Eaters, bored without anything to do, used the female prisoners abominably; some of them with proclivities so deviant they made Hermione feel ill thinking about them.

The Lestrange brothers were especially interested in her. After one afternoon alone in a cell with them, Hermione tried to hang herself with her own prison uniform. Neville found her and managed to stop her. Then he convinced the guards that Hermione should sleep in his cell because she was his doxy. He also managed to make the others leave her alone. She never discovered how, but she had her suspicions.

She would have never survived but for Neville. Neville, who stole extra food for her and made her eat. Neville, who held her close at night, and never asked for anything in return.

Neville, who seemed to disappear right before her eyes.

She pleaded for a Healer...for anyone who would be willing to help. She even went so far as to spend another afternoon with the Lestranges in exchange for assistance. They did unspeakable things to her, in turn and together, but afterward, when she mentioned helping Neville, they simply laughed at her.

"What do we care about a dying blood traitor?" laughed one of them – Hermione didn't know which; they were just a hideous double act in her world.

But a month into her sentence, visits from the Lestrange brothers suddenly ceased. Transferred out of the prison, Neville had overheard. Hermione shuddered with relief, then felt a temporary pity for their fresh victims.

Sometime around her one-year anniversary in Azkaban, she and Neville awoke one morning to find a new inmate with them...Arthur Weasley. Hermione had thrown her arms around him, and he sobbed unabashedly when he realised the filthy, lice-ridden scrap of girl was the young witch he'd once hoped would one day become his daughter in-law.

Typically, he tried to downplay the reasons he had been thrown into prison, but like Hermione and Neville before her, he was told it was a life sentence. Like Neville, he didn't really seem to mind.

Hermione had wanted to mind. She wanted to fight, to live. And with typical Gryffindor determination, she was going to fight for Neville and Arthur to want to live as well. But they woke one morning to find Neville stiff and cold, a thin trickle of pale blood coming from his grey mouth. Hermione had screamed and screamed, until a guard came and threatened to beat her. Arthur told the guard that he had been raping Hermione, and that was why she was carrying on. The guard had sneeringly asked to watch, but Arthur told him he was finished.

The guard jeered at Arthur. "Oh, you noble types are all alike! You try to act better than us miring in the mud, but take away your family and your wand, and you're just as dirty a fucker as the rest of us."

"Yes, well, this one's mine, so bugger off," Arthur had retorted, pulling Hermione close. Helpless, she had clung to him, broken by Neville's death and the sordid lie they had to perpetuate.

The guard left, grumbling, and his footsteps had barely faded when Arthur turned away from Hermione and vomited in the bucket that doubled as their toilet. That shameful lie would eventually take Arthur from Hermione as well. He could not live knowing others thought him a rapist, as inhuman as they. And so, not long after Neville's body had been dragged from the cell like so much garbage, Hermione awoke to the sound of Arthur gasping, a look of horrific pain on his face.

"I'll call the guards-"

"No!" Even in pain and dying, Arthur Weasley's eyes were mild. "They won't be able to stop this, dear, and ... quite frankly, I don't want them to."

She held her friend's hand as the spasms of pain sent his heart into a tailspin from which there was only one inevitable conclusion. He tried to smile with his blue lips, but it came out as a grimace of pain. "It's alright, dying," he assured her. "It's the living I've hated, well, since" he coughed, and his spittle was flecked with blood, reminding her of Neville. "-since they're all gone. Bill and Charlie, and the twins, my pretty Ginny." His hand clamped down on hers. "And Molly. I'll be with her soon."

Her tears spilled unchecked down onto her grimy shirt, and she pleaded silently to the unfeeling gods to spare Arthur. It was a selfish prayer, but she couldn't bear the thoughts of a life alone in Azkaban.

"If I have one regret," said Arthur, as if reading her thoughts, "it's that there's no one here to help you. I tried to protect you, dear. Those things I told the guards," he added, breathless, "I would never...I could never-"

"Of course not! Please, Arthur, please don't die." She held him close.

He reached up to touch her cheek. "My poor little Hermione. I'm not afraid. I'll be with my Mollywobbles soon." He gasped, then a short spasm rolled through him, and then he was still. His expression looked like one of gratitude.

The guards came round the next morning to find Arthur lying still and cold, a look of relief on his homely face. Hermione hadn't screamed. She just sat down to await her turn.

Two days later, Lucius Malfoy showed up and offered her a new gaol cell.

Sitting in the kitchenette, Hermione wiped her eyes. Arthur and Neville were with their families now, surrounded by love and light, if you believed that sort of thing. It comforted Hermione to think that death was like a huge family reunion, where it was always sunny, and all the food tasted wonderful and there were no ants to ruin the picnic and no midges to ruin the day and you could bask in the light and never get sunburned.

Sometimes she wished she were at that picnic, instead of here on Earth. Even now, released from prison, life wouldn't be easier. It would be different stresses, with different parameters to learn, different obstacles to negotiate, different guards to fuck to get what you needed. And at the end, would the picnic be more enjoyable for all the pain you endured to get there?

Thoughts of picnics absurdly made Hermione aware of her present physical needs. She could ponder and philosophise the mysteries of death all day, but the bottom line was a growling belly, and the sudden reminder that, in her own flat, she didn't have to wait for the dinner hour or the guard's lax timetables.

With a sigh, she slapped her hands on her knees and stood. Hopefully somewhere in this blindingly white kitchenette there was a kettle of some sort, and possibly some tea bags. Hell, she might be really lucky and locate some biscuits. Making her way into the little galley, Hermione tried to divert her memories and concentrate on the present.

A knock on the door made her freeze in her tracks. She glanced longingly at the wardrobe. She could jump in there and no one would even know she was there... She cursed under her breath, then forced herself to walk across the room and open the door.

A tall woman stood before her, with a black pageboy haircut. Her form-fitting, black designer robes, made of what looked like fine leather, hugged her lean curves and accentuated her long legs. Her eyes were the brilliant cold blue of sapphires, and her smirk was Pureblood Slytherin smugness. She looked Hermione up and down as if inspecting a less-than-inspiring piece of sculpture. "Well, well, well. I didn't believe it when they told me, but it looks like the Princess of Gryffindor took up the Minister's offer after all."

Hermione sighed as the witch strode into the room; she knew things had been going too good to last. "Hello, Pansy. Fancy you stopping by for a visit. I take it this isn't a social call."

Pansy Parkinson had always swanned around Hogwarts like she owned it. Now she sauntered around Hermione's little flat like she was the landlady. For all Hermione knew, she was. Pansy turned and gave Hermione a hard smile. "Well, that depends on your definition of social, you see. You could say I'm here to lend a hand." She looked around. "Nice digs. I told them to at least paint the walls." She teetered into Hermione's bedroom on gravity-defying stilettos that clacked on the lacquered hardwood, a look of faint distaste on her angled face. "My father spent five years in Azkaban, you know. He craves colour now. Our home looks like it was painted by a blind artist with a paisley fetish."

Hermione silently made her way to the kitchen and brewed two cups of tea. She would not ask; she would wait all day for Pansy to tell her what she was doing here. Without a word, she handed one of the cups to Pansy, who still seemed in no hurry to tell her exactly why she'd barged into her flat.

They sat and sipped their obligatory cups of tea in silence. At last, Pansy started in. "So. In case you haven't sussed it out, I will be your Probation Officer for the foreseeable and indefinite future." She smiled mirthlessly. "Are you settling in okay? Do you have everything you need? Is the flat sufficient?"

Hermione's confusion must have been apparent, because her Probation Officer rolled her eyes. "Look. I know what you've been going through, and I know why you took this job. And frankly, you haven't traded up all that much, Granger. The Malfoys may be our First Family, but Lucius was born a prick and took extra lessons to enhance his proficiency. Whatever he offered you, it will be a fraction of what he expects of you in return."

"This sounds like the voice of experience," Hermione replied, unsure what else to say. She certainly wasn't going to spill her guts to Pansy bloody Parkinson over how frightened she was of the other shoe dropping. The other woman's insufferable confidence made it all worse. Hermione cast around for something else to say, anything that might bring the two of them back on an even level. "Are you still seeing Draco Malfoy?" she finally asked.

Pansy rolled her eyes and affected a sneer, but Hermione's eyes had sharpened from too many days of fear-induced observation. Hermione's shot in the dark had been hard, flat, and on the button.

"Yes, well," Pansy began with practiced diffidence, "We were, until I stopped by his flat unexpectedly and caught him snogging Blaise Zabini's face off."

Hermione didn't react. She'd learned a good eighteen months before that the best reaction was none at all; it confused your enemy and gave you something to smile about later. "I wasn't aware Blaise was gay," she replied evenly.

"Neither did Draco, apparently, until they were in a clinch and trying to give one another tonsillectomies with their lying tongues," Pansy grumbled.

Hermione hastily took a gulp of her weak tea to cover a laugh. "I'm really sorry, Pansy," she said, trying to sound sincere. "I would think Lucius and Narcissa were less than thrilled."

"Oh, Narcissa didn't really care. Draco's her baby, and she thinks every time he farts it sounds like Celestina Warbeck anyway," Pansy replied breezily. "Lucius, on the other hand," she rolled her eyes. "Not so much."

"No, he doesn't strike me as the kind of man who takes kindly with having his royal bloodline grinding to a halt."

"That's not the grinding he was upset about," Pansy sniped. "Look. Can we just stick to the subject?"

Hermione hastily took another sip of tea. "Of course."

The dark-haired woman was silent for a moment. "Actually, I really shouldn't speak ill of Minister Malfoy," Pansy said, somewhat reluctantly. "He got me a nice job in the Ministry. And let's face it, he saved your bony arse."

Hermione dropped her eyes. "I am very grateful," she said dutifully. Toe the party line, Hermione, she told herself. You can say a lot of things before you stop being able to look at yourself in the mirror.

"And so you should be, Miss Granger," Pansy retorted, all business again. "You have a very important position in the Ministry, and our Lord is putting a lot of faith in you. Just remember this; he rewards well those who serve well. I mean, look at Severus Snape. All is forgiven; he's a big shot in the Ministry now. Nice, cushy job."

"W-what?" Hermione's heart stuttered in her chest. "Severus Snape? As in Professor Snape?"

Pansy rolled her eyes. "How many Severus Snapes do you know? Of course, Professor Snape."

"I thought he'd been killed."

Pansy smirked. "Miraculous recovery. I always knew the old bat was too mardy to die. No, he's Foreign Secretary now." She raised a meticulously-sculpted eyebrow. "That's 'Your Excellency' to the great unwashed like you and me, Granger. Though how someone like Snape would ever be considered diplomatic, I'll never know."

Hermione tried to keep the surprise from showing. "So he decided not to return to Hogwarts?"

"Merlin, you have been buried, haven't you? There is no 'Hogwarts' anymore. It has been renamed the Voldemort Academy of Arts and Sciences. Very chichi. One can only attend by appointment from our Lord himself. Kids either attend local, smaller schools, or they're homeschooled now." Her expression darkened. "Of course, many families have been sneaking their brats out of the country to the Salem Institute in the States, or Beauxbatons or Durmstrang." She gave Hermione a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "That's where you come in, you see. Your job is to stop the hemorrhage of Wizarding families from the country and encourage them to stay home, where they can embody proper Wizarding values."

Hermione nodded. "The magical folk of Wizarding Britain are fortunate that we have so much to offer here. I'm grateful for the opportunity to help."

Pansy looked at her dryly. "You are to be escorted everywhere. I'll be here to take you to the Ministry first thing in the morning, I'll pick you up at the end of the day, and I'll accompany you whenever you have to go anywhere else. Don't take it personally, but the Minister for Magic wants to make sure his performing monkey is well cared for at all times." She placed her mug on the table and rose, her leather robes creaking as she smoothed them in place. "You'll be allowed to live here alone, but there will be guards posted in the building at all hours. The building is heavily warded against Apparating...not that you would get very far, even if you did Apparate; you have a Trace on you now. And finally, there'll be no Muggle telephone or post. Anybody who wants to write to you will need to send their letters to me. No owl post except from Ministry owls."

"Not so much as an owl?" Hermione asked, incensed. "Why the hell not?"

"Use your head, Granger," Pansy replied. "The Ministry doesn't want you corresponding with any of your little friends from the Order. And owls can't be tracked once they're in flight – everyone knows that. The Ministry won't take a chance with you."

At the mention of the Order, Hermione looked away, afraid her face would betray her feelings. Feigning indifference, she asked, "Are there still members of the Order at large?" She listened carefully.

"No," replied Pansy brusquely. "No one's at large." Had Pansy hesitated? Hermione was almost sure she had.

"Now," Pansy went on, "Tomorrow I'll be by around 9 a.m. You have a hair appointment at Twiddle's Tonsorial Parlour. The Minister wants you looking smart. We'll have to do something about that Azkaban pallor as well. You look like death on toast. In the meantime, get some rest. Get used to sleeping on clean sheets again. The pantry is fairly well stocked, so you should have everything you need to eat. I've also made sure there are some basic toiletries so you can bathe and look presentable. Anything else we can get in Diagon Alley tomorrow after your hair appointment. And wear comfortable shoes. We'll be doing a lot of walking around."

She sauntered toward the front door, then looked back at Hermione with something like understanding and pity. "You'll have to be tough, Granger. Azkaban is good at breaking witches and wizards. If you aren't broken, and you keep your mouth shut and your eyes open, you can make a decent life for yourself. Maybe not the one you wanted, maybe not the one you planned, but you can stay out of Azkaban if you just remember one thing."

Hermione stood and followed Pansy to the door. "And what is that?" she asked.

"Remember who lost, Granger. You'll be reminded who won on a daily, sometimes hourly basis. Remember who and what you are. A Muggleborn witch who fought with the rebels and who isn't rotting in Azkaban solely because the Minister had a whim to get her released. Remember who isn't here anymore, and remember why you lived. If you can do that and not get crushed under the weight of it, you'll survive. And there's no sin in wanting to live. Remember that, too.

"Rest up. I'll be here at nine o'clock sharp in the morning, Granger. I despise being late." Pansy turned. "Oh, shit, I forgot." She drew out a small parcel and enlarged it to the size of a large travel trunk. "A little pressie from your new boss."

"What's in it?"

"How the hell should I know?" Pansy shot back. "Whatever it is, I wouldn't think of it so much as a gift as an incentive, if I were you. One way or another, you'll pay for it. Just remember to thank him the next time you see him. That might be enough to cover your first installment." Hermione nodded as Pansy left, shutting the door of the flat behind her quietly.

Hermione set the trunk on the cheap flatpacked coffee table. With a wary shrug, she opened the trunk and gasped. There were at least five new sets of robes, nice ones, in various colours. They were Madam Malkin's finest, and trimmed with stylish accents and obviously quality fabrics. Blue, maroon, hunter green, peach and black. Matching shoes were tucked in the bottom, along with ten pairs of knickers and matching bras. There were expensive toiletries in pleasant scent combinations, perfumes, even products for her hair. A silver hairbrush and comb set nestled in their own box.

At the bottom of the trunk was a slim, oblong box. As Hermione untied the satin ribbon that held it together, her hands shook, and she could scarcely make herself open it, for fear that whatever was inside would disappoint.

It did.

It was a wand, of course, but unlike any wand Hermione had ever seen before. It was short and stubby...probably eight inches in length...made of plain, undecorated cedar and containing a core that felt to her rusty touch like nothing more exotic than unicorn hair. Apparently, she had been given some kind of training wand...perhaps the sort of thing children receive as a Christmas gift, to pretend they could do magic. That told her two things: one, that someone wanted to remind her precisely who was in charge, and two, someone still considered her a formidable enough witch not to trust her with a real wand. That thought alone should have made her feel better.

It didn't.

She stared at the wand for ages, almost afraid to pick it up after two horrific, wandless years. Although she had seen it manifested everyday in Azkaban, magic had become the enemy, the Judas, and after two years without it, she was no longer sure she fully trusted it.

And following close on the heel of that thought was another, more insidious realisation: If she accepted this new wand, even limited as it was, there would be no turning back. She could no longer claim innocence; she would no longer be merely prisoner G77I96KDB. She would be a witch again; she would consciously cast her lot with Minister Malfoy and the Dark Lord. She would be a part of the new Wizarding world, instead of a conquered rebel from the old one.

She swallowed, her throat dry as dust. It's just a stick of wood. It's a wand, and a baby wand at that. Pick it up and be a witch again.

Lifting it from the box, she tested its heft and magical potential. She tried Wingardium Leviosa, with the perfect amount of swish and flick. The wand box rose in the air a few feet before it trembled and clattered to the floor.

She turned to the front door. "Alohamora!" The door obligingly unlocked, but further experimentation revealed that the wards surrounding her flat remained untouched.

It was not the effortless magic she remembered before Azkaban, and she knew the wand was less than ideal, but it was a start. Hermione closed her eyes and wept.

She was, in that moment, a creature of magic again.