Chapter Text
Hermione felt the separation as soon as Draco was whisked away and the doors closed behind him. The magic that imprisoned Azkaban was oppressive, and immediate. It was as if their bond was stifled. Smothered. Darkness fell where there had been light. And it felt as if it had been severed with a blade of ice.
It was sharp and painful.
She felt winded and disoriented.
The sound of the courtroom was exceedingly loud. Voices and bodies clamored in on Harry and Hermione from around them from all sides. There were people who seemed to celebrate the verdict, and those whose voices seemed to be against it. People argued with one another, some leaving the room. Hermione was completely unaware of them as she gaped at the door Draco had willingly been led through. He had not bothered to fight his sentence, he had not tried to reach her or defend himself.
She herself had wanted to whirl around and shred Tiberius and every member of the Wizards Council for that pathetic verdict. Anger pooled through her in slow fiery fury. The sensation of losing that connection to her mate had been like being plunged into a bucket of cold ice and a fire warred against it.
“C’mon Hermione, it’s time to leave,” Harry hissed in her ear as his hand gripped hers, steering her towards the doors opposite the ones Draco had gone through.
But she did not want to leave; she felt as if she could not. She was craning her neck to look to the other day, as if some dull hope still existed they would change their mind and bring him back.
“They can’t just—“ Hermione was saying over the growing chatter of the audience. She could hear their mix of anger and excitement; most seemed to be glad of the verdict. Of course they would be. They knew nothing other than what they had been led to believe. What they had been shown. Her words had been ignored and cast aside just so there would be a verdict at all; someone had to be blamed for what had happened and while yes, it had been caused by Draco, he was the perfect person to be made an example of.
And the fact that she had tried to defend a criminal had cast her into disfavor as well, it seemed. The real slap in the face was the fact that she was bonded to him in the most intimate and permanent way any witch could be to someone. Sentencing Draco had effectively been a sentence on her as well. Whether that was intentional or not, she did not know.
“Not now,” Harry said as he pulled her more forcefully along. She noticed that Charlie was indeed corralling behind her, as if he thought she might try to bolt past them.
“We need to get you out of here and home—“ Harry winced slightly at his choice of words, “well, somewhere safe. Grimmauld. Yes, I’ll take you home with me for now.”
Charlie gripping her hand was the only warning of what was to happen. Before she could even stop him, she felt the sharp tug at her navel of magic just before they were whisked away as Harry apparated them directly from the Ministry and into his home. Charlie and Harry were talking in hushed tones as they appeared in his foyer, and she could only catch it was the question of how his apparition was possible; Harry explained simply that as Head Auror, he had the ability to come and go as he needed.
The room was spinning, rocking back and forth dangerously as she tried to catch her breath. She felt a tightness in her chest, a dull hollowness. An immeasurable ache that had not been there before, jibing her since she last laid eyes on Draco.
Hermione staggered slightly into the drawing room, falling into an armchair as she pressed her hand to her forehead to block out the world around her.
“I need to get him out,” Hermione said to no one in particular. “That verdict was unfair and biased.”
Charlie had followed her, lowering himself into the chair across from her. His expression was mild, sheltered. “You should have known there would be no other alternative, Hermione. We all knew what the outcome would be for him.”
She couldn’t help the glare she sent his way. “They refused to even listen to me.”
He, for his credit, tried to look somber. “No, they did not. Not really. They had brought him in to levy his war crimes against him, and everything else was just icing on the top of their cake. They had their minds made up before they even laid eyes on him.”
“I need to call for a mistrial,” Hermione stated. Charlie said nothing, and neither did Harry, who had followed them into the room. He stuffed his hands into his pockets as he looked down at her. Hermione looked up at her friend. “You can help me with that, can’t you?”
Harry looked down and away, and she knew she was asking a lot of him. His own reputation would be at risk, but if he would speak up on her— Draco’s— behalf, there was a better chance that this entire thing could be cleared up and Draco freed. Or at least on probation. Anything but Azkaban— that place was soul crushing, even without the Dementors.
She reached a hand up and gripped the sleeve of his shirt. “Please, Harry. Please.”
He simply looked down at her, neither agreeing to help or refusing.
The stories his father had told him about Azkaban had not prepared him for the truth of it. The sheer darkness. The heaviness of the atmosphere. The anger and depression that just seemed to permeate the very walls of this prison was astounding. Shadows seemed to whisper, following them along the walls. His wrists were locked behind his back, the weight of the cuffs suppressing his magic. The Aurors did not physically restrain him; they knew he could not escape or run far. There was no access to the island outside of apparating directly to the entrance.
Escape was nearly impossible from the prison; hidden in the middle of a thrashing seas, the castle-like fortress was set atop a jagged island that jutted from the waters, flanked on all sides with sheer cliff faces. Waves battered at the walls of the cliff, and wind howled like an enraged beast. It was cold and dry, the salty sea air causing a scratch to form in his throat. There was a heavy feeling of magic here, like a constant weight. He wondered how many wards and spells now guarded Azkaban; whatever they were, he felt them gnawing at his own magic like a siphon.
One of the Aurors shoved Draco between the shoulder blades, “Don’t even attempt any of your dragon funny business, Malfoy. You can’t use any magic here, not unless you wear one of our bands.” Draco was able to glance at the Auror who flashed his wrist, where a silver bracelet encircled his wrist. He was shoved hard again, stumbling. “So unless you want to be rendered unconscious, I wouldn't try to shape shift either. The spells in place will knock you out at the first attempt.”
A warning, Draco knew, to be on his best behavior.
Not that he could control his draconian form, for that matter. He doubted it would matter; that part of him seemed to have gone silent when he had died. But he was not too concerned about sharing that with them; it could be beneficial for people to assume he was an animagus.
The first stop was a small office, where he was shoved down into the chair. A portly old wizard sat opposite, his robes as aged as the desk he sat in.
“Name?” he drawled in boredom. He looked at Draco expectantly, a quill poised in his fingers over a form.
“Draco—“
“Last name first, then first name and then middle,” the wizard interrupted.
“Malfoy, Draco Lucius.”
He felt a slight tremble running through him as his name was jotted onto the form. It made the realization even more…real. He was in Azkaban. For an indefinite amount of time. Hermione’s brilliant defense of him had been in vain. His self-exile to the wilds of Romania was all for naught.
Before his very eyes, words began to fill into the blanks of the page, as if summoned from the void itself. The wizard tucked the paperwork away into a cabinet and withdrew another. He held it out to one of the Aurors.
“Prisoner M909 is checked in and will be in cell seven hundred. Please proceed to the Processing Department.” These words were spoken to the guards. They were dismissed with a wave of his hand and Draco was hauled up out of the seat and to his feet.
Inmate processing was a streamlined, borderline hectic affair. Organized chaos is what Draco would consider it. Everything happened quickly; he was led into a small, empty room and made to strip. He was thoroughly checked for contraband, any and all scars were made note of. A black jumpsuit was shoved into his hands, the fabric rough in his hands. Once dressed, he then sat down once more and a small witch approached with her wand out. She pressed it to the side of his neck, and he felt a sharp stinging pain and the subtle smell of burnt hair and skin.
He was now marked with a prisoner tattoo, something he now shared in common with his father. There was no way to get it removed or glamored without magic.
Once the processing was complete, he was led up into the heart of the prison. It was sparsely lit and dark. The staircase that spiraled up was damp and pitch-black. Each step seemed to drive that invisible wedge deeper into his soul, his very being. Draco had felt that magical bond between himself and Hermione becoming strained from the suppressive magic of Azkaban. It felt like a rubber band being stretched taut, nearly to its breaking point. He feared it would completely snap but somehow… somehow the magic survived. Just barely. Like a gossamer thread from a silkworm, it remained.
The cell he was given was small.
Barely greater than a ten by eight square foot space; it was large enough for a small, narrow metal bed; which had been bolted down to the floor. A steel toilet and sink combo sat in one corner; there was no seat cover. There was no desk. No chairs. No windows. There was an opening in the ceiling— a circular hole that led upward, where a narrow stream of sunlight seemed to come in.
And that was it.
Just a stone sarcophagus.
The slamming of the metal door and lock grinding into place was the start of Draco’s sentence.
Seven weeks later
Hermione lay on her bed in the upstairs room at Grimmauld. Her eyes were unfocused as she stared at nothing. Her fingers idly plucked at a piece of yard that had worked its way free of the knitted blanket she lay on top of. Her chest felt empty. Cold. Her mind struggled to focus on anything.
She had started to slip away at the separation.
It felt as if a part of her had been torn away and her entire being was aware of the loss. Like needing to breathe but only inhaling water. She was being smothered by the weight of nothing.
The loss had struck her hard as realization set in that she had failed to keep Draco free. That her defense had been for naught. She had risked everything for him, and gained nothing.
Despite the fact that Charlie had assured her that he was not mad at her for needing his testimony, for throwing him under the knight bus, guilt gnawed at her. Guilt for everything; for her failed marriage, guilt for having an affair, at the feeling of leading Charlie on only to turn away at the last moment, despite the fact a small voice reminded her that they both had known it would not be anything but a release. And ultimately, she felt guilt because she had failed to keep Draco out of Azkaban. Her testimony had meant nothing.
And Hermione had tried to request an appeal. Repeatedly. Owl after owl, ignored and returned without being opened or flat out denied. It had been crushing. Without a reason to fight, to throw herself into research and building another case, Hermione spiraled into a depression. A darkness swallowed her. The natural separations of the day seemed to fall away, hours blended into days. She did not eat unless Harry or Ginny brought her food, and even then she merely pushed it about her plate, taking bites only when they watched her. Food had lost its taste and appeal and she would push the plate away as soon as they left her alone. Hermione did not attempt to leave her room unless she was forced to. She lost track of time; time between meals, time between showers. Her friends came to visit her, but they were met with a shell.
She spent every waking hour clinging to that fragment of a bond that remained. She was terrified of letting her overactive mind rest. Unbridled fear coursed through her veins, terrified that if she stopped thinking about it that she would lose it forever. Hermione knew that the magic that imprisoned Azkaban was absolute. It suppressed magic. And their soul bond was no exception; and a part of her, a part she was ashamed of, told her to let go. That part yelled that she did not want or need to be bound to Draco anymore. This was her opportunity to return to her old life, maybe not with Ron but to continue her career aspirations and goals. To focus on herself.
Because she had never wanted Draco before the bond had snapped into place. When she was blissfully unaware and untainted by the bond, she had never thought of him. It was the bond that had forced those emotions and feelings onto her, onto him… wasn’t it?
It was one afternoon when Charlie and Ginny had come to check on her, to rouse her from her stupor, when something broke inside her. They had taken it upon themselves to bring her to the bathroom to help her bathe— rather, force her to since she had no real idea when she had last. Charlie had been able to carry her body effortlessly and as Ginny helped her undress, the true gravity of her situation came to light; Hermione had not noticed the change but they now did.
Her body had shed its weight, her curves disappearing to give way to the sharp edges of bone. Her ribs were visible, her stomach shrunk in as if she were holding it in. Her face was sunken and shallow. Her skin was pale. At the sight of her withering form, her friend's entire demeanor changed, their concern for her coming to the surface.
“Shit,” Charlie hissed as he looked at her; pain at her loss. His hands, broad palms coming to cradle her face. He tipped her face up to look at him, the calluses of his thumb rubbing along her cheeks as he looked down at her. Something— some lingering emotion— roused from its stupor; the sight of his expression.
“Hermione.”
Her body felt slight, so fragile as he dragged her against his chest, crushing her to him in a warm embrace. Hermione hovered in the moment as those dark walls around her mind trembled before they began to crack. A sharp sound left her lips, a broken sob that wracked her withering frame. Hands stroked her hair as it hung limp down her back and for a moment, she felt an odd sense of peace touch her.
Hermione felt her friend’s love for her, their concern. She knew it had been there this entire time, but she had not recognized it. She had not wanted to. Hermione had wanted to feel her own pain, to wallow in her angst and misery. To let that anger fester just beneath the surface.
And she recognized now that they, her friends, had been here the entire time for her and she had fallen into such a stupor, such a darkness, that she had not been able to see it. That Ginny and Molly had been forcing her to eat in a desperate attempt to keep her strength up, that Harry would come and talk about his day, that their children would show their artwork, and even Ron had stopped by— for what, she could not remember.
Hermione had been in such a mind-numbing state of shock and broken despair that all of it was a fog to her.
She felt Ginny just behind her, her hand coming to rest on Hermione’s shoulder gently. “There, there. Let it all out,” she said softly, for all the world reminding her of Molly. “You need to let it all out, Hermione, because we need you to come back to us.”
Wiping her nose with the back of her hand, Hermione looked blearily at her friend. Despite the fact they had grown apart over the years and she was sure her divorce to her brother was putting a strain on the family, Ginny had welcomed her into their home and let her wallow without question. Supported her in her misery. None of them had stopped her, and yet none of them had let her waste away. It was as if they had known she needed to wake up from her misery on her own. That she needed to process things. That her fire, while nothing more than a smoldering coal, was still there and that she just needed time.
Ginny’s face was both soft in concern but her eyes were hard with determination. She offered a small smile. “Malfoy needs you to come back and go fight for him. We all expect you to kick some serious ass when you are ready.”
“Mum made a roast for tonight, Hermione,” Charlie said as he let her step back, his eyes remaining firmly on her face. “Let us help you; you don’t need to do this alone. Let us help you get your strength back and get you on your feet again, so you can prove your dragon’s innocence.”