Chapter Text
In the complete darkness, save for a ridiculous torch hung from the ceiling, barely illuminating the narrow cell—which could more aptly be described as a wardrobe—an aluminum bowl materializes on the stone floor. The container looks exactly like the one Hermione once used to feed Crookshanks. Whoever oversees Azkaban’s meal prep probably had this same unoriginal idea. Let them eat like the animals they are.
She crouches on the cold floor to glare at the food. She won’t eat crouched over like that, no matter how many times the dishes are spelled to appear on the ground. She carries it back to her bed, which takes up more than half the cell. And no, that’s not a luxury king-size suite if anyone’s wondering. The wardrobe comparison is, unfortunately, accurate. She picks up the only content of the dish: a hard-boiled egg, so far past “hard-boiled” that the yolk has gone grey. Every damn time.
The mental tally clicks up in her mind as she swallows it whole.
Two thousand. Give or take.
Two thousand of these so-called “meals” materialized with clockwork precision—she assumes, because she doesn’t have a clock. Nor any sunlight shining through that might give her a hint.
Breakfast: one hard-boiled egg.
Lunch: one cup of what Hermione now affectionately calls the splodge—canned peas, garnished with cubes of tuna (also canned, should anyone request the recipe), floating in a miniature pool of nondescript brown water.
Dinner: one slice of bread soaked in an unidentified brown sauce, probably siphoned off from the swamp masquerading as lunch.
Two thousand of those fine gastronomic delights, on rotation.
Which means she’s been here more than a year.
One year.
Well. Joke’s on them. Hermione absolutely loves routine. She likes things predictable. Same breakfast, same lunch, same dinner every day for a year? What a fucking treat. Bring it on.
Still, she could do without the malnourishment that comes with this diet. Just barely enough to keep her out of mortal starvation.
And thanks to the generous absence of a mirror in her en-suite bathroom (two buckets, do the maths), she is spared the sight of her “slender silhouette”, with bones sharp enough to prove the efficiency of this nutritional therapy.
One year.
Hard to believe she’s been here that long, but she trusts her maths.
Part of her resents that no one has found her yet, or that the Order hasn’t planned some kind of rescue. Then again, she can hardly blame them. Azkaban is a fortress, planted in the middle of an angry sea that few dare to cross. No one simply breaks someone out—except Voldemort, that one time he unleashed ten Death Eaters like it was a typical Monday.
They probably don’t even know she’s here. Because that would mean Harry and Ron had somehow contacted the Order. And the last time she was with them, they’d all agreed to keep to themselves and keep the Horcrux hunt confidential.
Fucking Horcruxes. The whole reason she’s rotting here in the first place.
More precisely: Salazar Slytherin’s locket.
They were on the verge of escaping the Ministry after snatching the locket from Umbridge’s neck. Harry had her hand, ready to Disapparate with Ron and her from the grimy public toilets that passed as employee entrances—when she felt Yaxley seize her arm.
Instead of risking a dangerous Apparition that could have very well splinched Ron or Harry, Hermione made the executive decision to let go.
The look in Harry’s green eyes—pure terror as she slipped free and hurled him her beaded bag, the locket inside—still haunts her to this day.
She’d meant to duel Yaxley and meet them back at Grimmauld Place. Except her wand was in the beaded bag. Brightest witch of her age, indeed.
At least when Yaxley dragged her to the Muggle-Born Registration Commission, no one could identify her by her wand. Or by her face, thanks to one stroke of brilliance: slamming her face into a bathroom pillar. Turns out a broken nose works wonders for anonymity. Blood everywhere, a nose the size of a tomato, two black eyes. She was incognito until the swelling went down.
Long enough to get lost in the bureaucratic circus that was the Commission. Within a week, she was stamped as Inmate No. 232. No name. No wand. A dashing dark grey jumpsuit. Life sentence in Azkaban—for the crime of being born from Muggle parents. Their detection spell hadn’t detected out a drop of pureblood in her veins.
One foul-smelling bald guard processed her intake, shoved her into a cell, and presumably threw away the key because that was her last human contact for a year. And yes, she’s slowly losing her mind from the absence of it.
If not for the clockwork meals popping in, she might have thought Azkaban had forgotten her entirely. She’s never heard another inmate, never seen another guard shuffle past her cell door.
And while part of her resents that the Order hasn’t come looking, she’s just as relieved the other side hasn’t either. Hopefully, it means her little trick worked—that no guard, no Death Eater, no Ministry lackey realizes Hermione Granger is incarcerated in Azkaban right under their noses.
In the grand scheme of things, that’s a win. No one can drag her to Voldemort. No one can wave her like bait. Or worse.
Small victories.
And… she probably should’ve knocked on wood for that one—except there’s just metal, stone and solitude surrounding her.
The cell door screeches open, the sound making her flinch before she forces herself upright, ready to face whoever dares invade her sacred little box. Something tells her it isn’t the rescue she’s been hoping for.
Boots hit the floor in an unhurried, confident—no, arrogant—rhythm. Which means only one thing.
“Granger.”
His voice is barely above normal volume, but her ears unused to sounds, the drawl might as well be a cannon blast.
Malfoy leans against the doorframe, arms folded, pale eyes raking over her like she’s some rat lab experiment.
“No,” she says flatly, just to annoy him. Her vocal cords haven’t vibrated in so long that her voice sounds like she’s been nursing an endless cold. Her mind already invents a possible identification—Miranda McBeth—before Malfoy scoffs.
“Don’t think I wouldn’t recognize that offensive outgrowth you call hair anywhere.” He pushes off the frame, stepping closer. “Even matted with grease and dirt.”
Hermione glares at him, indignant at his lack of creativity.
“What do you want?” she bites out.
He takes one more step and ends up right in front of her. The fact that she’s sitting on the bed puts him at just the right height to loom in a threatening way. Or he hopes. She refuses to give him the satisfaction. Instead, she leans back on her elbows, feigning boredom.
“For you to be docile and come with me.” His lips curl into an ugly sneer. “We have somewhere to be.”
“No thanks. I rather like my current accommodation.” She waves a hand at her five-star suite.
He rolls his eyes and, before she can react in any meaningful way, hauls her up by the arms. She collides with his chest. Broad. Warm. Solid. Sculpted.
God, it’s been a year since she’s been touched. It’s Malfoy, but still—he’s human. Hell, she might take a hug from a Troll, so she won’t mind if it’s her worse enemy.
Get a grip, woman.
She straightens stubbornly, yanking against his hold.
“Good thing your preferences don’t factor into my decision-making process.” His gaze flicks over her face, like a predator studying prey. “My master will be… delighted to see you.”
She twists, nails digging into his wrist, but it’s useless. They’re already moving, Malfoy dragging her out of the cell like she’s nothing more than furniture to be moved.
And despite the gravity of the situation, Hermione feels a stab of satisfaction at finally crossing the threshold of her godforsaken box.
The corridors are dim, torches swishing weakly. As they barrel through, she notices that every cell they pass is empty. No wonder she hasn’t heard a soul during her imprisonment.
“Did Azkaban go bankrupt or something?” she mutters. “Cutbacks on prisoners?”
Malfoy ignores her—shocking—and keeps his pace brisk.
He shoves open the door marked “Guard Post” and pushes her inside. The office is empty, too. Not a single guard. Is she the last prisoner in Azkaban?
He wrenches her toward the Floo, grip not faltering. With a sharp Incendio, the flames flare green.
“Malfoy Manor,” he flatly instructs, throwing down the powder and hauling her in with him.
And—
She faceplants as soon as they arrive. Gracious, Hermione. So gracious.
It takes her a moment to get her bearings. Not because of the fall, but because it’s too damn bright. Exactly like opening curtains in a pitch-dark room—except for her, it’s been a year since she’s seen natural light. Naturally, Azkaban’s decorators skipped luxuries like windows.
The room itself isn’t luminous by any stretch, but a row of windows along the far wall pours in enough light to spotlight her host.
“Miss Granger.” The serpent-like voice coils around her, easily recognizable. “So good of you to join us.”
“Funny. I was just thinking the opposite.”
Something smacks her back—Malfoy’s boot, no doubt—and she just manages to catch herself on her hands before eating the floor again. Rude.
“Be polite!” Malfoy barks, like the good Doberman he is.
Voldemort’s laugh slithers through the chamber. “It’s quite all right, my dear boy. One shouldn’t expect refinement from an animal with poor breeding.”
Hermione snarls, just to prove them both right.
“When you told me you’d found her, I nearly didn’t believe you.” Voldemort drifts closer to Malfoy, his bare feet scraping against the slate. That’s all she can focus on: the grotesque nails, yellow and curved beneath the toes. Her stomach lurches.
“You’ve done well.”
“It is no burden, my Lord.” Malfoy bows, no doubt savoring the praise. “She was in the deserted Wing X. Undetected.”
Well. That explains a lot.
Voldemort’s lips curl, revealing teeth with the same stellar hygiene as his toenails. He looks pissed.
“Mulciber!” he snaps.
A gangly man materializes on the spot. If he’s nervous about being summoned, he hides it well. Voldemort drifts back to a makeshift dais a few meters away and lowers himself into an ostentatious armchair. It looks suspiciously like a throne. Really leaning into the Lord aesthetic, aren’t we?
“Is it true you had Miss Granger placed in Wing X?” His Lordship asks.
At the mention of her name, Mulciber glances at Hermione, realizing she’s there.
“Wing X has been decommissioned for years, no one—”
“How do you explain that Draco found her there, then?”
“Must have been an oversight during admission procedures, I assure you—”
As he drones on about the bureaucratic labyrinth that is Azkaban’s admission system, a glance is exchanged between Voldemort and Malfoy.
The white-haired wizard slips his wand free and in one lazy motion, Mulciber’s head rolls across the slate floor, stopping at Hermione’s feet. His detached body slumps with a wet thud.
An embarrassing shriek escapes her before she can stop herself, bile scorching the back of her throat. Normally, she’d celebrate one less Death Eater breathing. But Malfoy executing one of his own, clean and casual, only makes her fear the worst.
If he can do that to them, what chance does she have?
“Miss Granger, apologies for this intermission.” Voldemort’s tone is smooth, unbothered by the blood spreading across the once-immaculate slate. “We’re all ears now. I assume I don’t need to explain what we require from you?”
She may have been off the grid for a year, but the fact that Azkaban has been run by a Death Eater—may his soul rot in peace—tells her enough. The war is still raging, and not in the Order’s favour. What about Harry, Ron? Are they safe? Have they accepted to join the Order and tell them about the Horcruxes? Have they gone underground?
Not that she’ll give him the satisfaction. If His Lordship wants information, he can choke on disappointment. And either way, she doesn’t know much.
“I’ve been rather out of the loop, what with being abandoned in Wing X.” She gestures to the severed head still at her feet. “Even if I did know the Order’s whereabouts, what on earth makes you think I’d tell you?”
A blinding flare explodes across her vision, like a needle stabbing through her optic nerve and scratching the neurons behind it. She’s never experienced it before, but she knows exactly what it is—Harry described Legilimency often enough.
It might be her first time having someone rummage through her head, but Hermione Granger is anything but unprepared. She’s had more than enough time to master a new skill. With no books, no distractions, and nothing but stone walls for company, she needed something to fill the days back in her cell.
She once watched a Muggle documentary on solitary confinement—panic attacks, hallucinations, paranoia, emotional collapse. No thank you. Hermione Granger wasn’t going to lose her precious mind.
So she built herself a strict routine. Mornings: low-intensity workouts—the bare minimum on Azkaban’s starvation diet. Afternoons: meditation. Evenings: stretching.
After a few meditation sessions, Harry’s words came back to her—his bitter mutterings about Snape, and those miserable Occlumency lessons. She’d practiced with him, back then, so they figured together the basis.
With more time than she ever wanted to perfect her technique, all she has to do now is pick up where she left off and practice.
If Harry chose a library to store his memories, Hermione prefers a maze—ironically enough. Her father used to take her to the Longleat Hedge Maze, and she loved how they could lose themselves for hours. The last time they went, just before her first year at Hogwarts, she knew every corner, every turn, able to escape in minutes.
It feels like the perfect place to hide memories and secrets.
So her afternoons became Occlumency sessions, a discipline far more suited to the wizarding world than plain meditation. Especially now that she’s facing someone who is probably the most skilled Legilimens alive.
Time to see if her Maze holds.
She feels him enter—an enormous black python with brown blotches sliding through her thoughts. Must be some kind of Legilimens trick, adopting an animal form. No matter. As soon as the serpent slithers forward, her hedges snap into place, tall and perfectly trimmed.
Its head snaps up, the serpent hissing, perturbed that there are barriers at all. Must be impressed—or more likely revolted—that a Mudblood even knows Occlumency.
It slithers down a path, scales skidding along the endless trails Hermione takes deep amusement in reshaping the Maze. Hedges snap up, walls rotate, corridors fold back in on themselves until the snake is snarling at dead ends. Its anger rises with every confusing twist that leads nowhere.
When she designed her maze over the past months, she took particular joy in adding fine structures in which to hide her memories: marble statues, small ponds, Greek urns. Standard elements found in a maze, all hidden in plain sight.
She doubts Voldemort even knows what he’s searching for, but better safe than sorry. She snaps as many hedges as possible between him and those memory-containers.
At last, the needle-stabbing pressure in her skull recedes.
“Fascinating,” Voldemort murmurs. She doesn’t miss the bead of sweat slipping down his temple. Not that she must look prettier. Guarding her secrets from a giant python is exhausting.
The grandfather clock in the corner tolls, striking twelve. For the first time in a year, Hermione can actually know what time it is.
“Regrettably, our meeting must end.” Voldemort rises in a flurry, and steps toward Malfoy—which presence she had entirely forgotten in the last minutes. “I’m due in Slovenia, but I’ll return in three days. See that you bring Miss Granger back here on Monday.”
Wait. Bring her back from where? A cold shiver runs through her at the thought of returning to her lonely cell.
“I will, my Lord.” Malfoy answers, gripping her arm with unnecessary force.
“And in the meantime,” Voldemort continues, tone silken, “perhaps you will have better fortune prying open her mind. I trust you, my boy.”
Of course Malfoy is a bloody Legilimens. Why isn’t she more surprised? He must be insufferably smug about it too. Sneaky little ferret. Just wait—he hasn’t seen how smug she can be. If she can resist his Dark Lord, she can certainly resist him.
With a toss of Floo powder, His Lordship departs. Anticlimactic, really. She half-expected a dramatic exit—soaring off in smoke or morphing into a crow. Not travelling through something as pedestrian as the Floo. It’s like spotting the Prime Minister in the London Underground.
“Our turn.” Malfoy yanks her toward the grate. “Azkaban, Wing X.”
She doesn’t have time to voice her disapproval before they’re spit back out into the Guard Post office.
“Really?” she snaps. “Can’t you at least relocate me to another wing, preferably one not decommissioned?”
Malfoy looks down on her, eyes narrowing to slits brimming with pure hostility.
“Once again, Granger—” his voice drips with disdain “—your preferences are the least of my concerns.”
With a flick of his wand, a pair of shackles clang free from the wall and snap tight around her wrists.
At least five comebacks sit on the tip of her tongue, most of them dripping with the rage of being humiliated like this. Instead, she picks the one most likely to throw him off-balance.
“Is that how you like your women?” She sweetens her voice to honey. “Didn’t know you were the kinky type.”
His expression doesn’t so much as twitch—disappointing—before he yanks her forward by the chain binding her wrists.
Their footsteps echo down the corridor, sharp and loud, the Wing as vacant and desolate as ever.
Hermione nearly groans when he shoves her back into the same old cell. He could have at least upgraded her. Preferably one with a window. She knows every stain on the wall, every crack in the floor, every miserable crevice.
But Malfoy, she realizes, is still the same insensitive, conceited, stuck-up little shit he was at Hogwarts.
She drops onto the bed, and he scans the cell in open disgust, as though he hadn’t noticed every miserable detail hours ago. He looks like he regrets dragging her here—but only because of his own lack of comfort if he’s stuck spending time in her “modest accommodations.”
With a sharp pop, her lunch appears at his feet. The usual splodge of cat food. Still revolting, but after the morning’s chaos, her stomach actually growls. She reaches for the bowl.
Malfoy bends first and snatches it away.
The meal vanishes with a faint crack, but not before he makes that telltale nose-wrinkle that comes from inhaling foul food’s scent.
“Memories first.”
Right. Legilimency works best on the frail and hungry. But Hermione is no victim.
The familiar needle-stabbing begins, though this time the pain is muted. Unlike his Master, Malfoy doesn’t appear as some monstrous python—he appears as himself.
He doesn’t rush through her Maze. Instead, he strolls at an infuriatingly slow pace, arms clasped behind his back, as if this is nothing more than a casual walk in the park.
“Impressive,” he remarks, voice flat, praise nowhere in sight. “I’m surprised you didn’t choose a library.”
This time, unlike with Voldemort, she manages to project her own body into the Maze. Not difficult, really—she’s mastering this Occlumency thing faster than she expected.
“I’m surprised you paid enough attention to me to notice.” She drops onto a nearby bench. “But clearly you don’t know me at all, Malfoy.”
He doesn’t answer, just continues his leisurely promenade along the hedges. She follows, careful never to let him near a sculpture or urn containing her secrets.
Minutes, maybe hours pass before he finally finds the way out. The towering hedges dissolve, the Maze fading like curtains rising on a stage.
“Angry?” she asks, catching the faintest exhale of fury from his nostrils. “Really thought you could outdo your master at breaking into my walls? How bold.”
His mouth thins, annoyance plain.
Despite the blood, the murder, the terror—today is the most fun she’s had in a year. Not only did she block the Dark Lord himself, she just bested her schoolyard nemesis. Again.
He avoids her eyes—must sting, poor thing—and turns on his heel, ready to leave her cell.
And that thought alone makes her chest tighten. A year with no voices, no faces, no one to fight or snarl at. All she feels is the sharp panic of being left alone again.
“Wait.”
The word slips out before asking if she consents—as well as the fragility in her tone. Not the clever taunt she meant to deliver.
She straightens, tries to force confidence back into her voice.
“Let’s make a deal.”
At least she’s quick enough to cover the slip, shoving any hint of vulnerability back down.
Malfoy pauses at the door, his broad shoulders nearly filling the frame. Being a watchdog must be an excellent exercise.
Seizing the moment, she pushes off the bed and edges closer. He doesn’t turn.
“I could give you one memory.” She leans a shoulder against the wall, catching his angular profile.
“Nothing compromising. But surely less humiliating than showing up empty-handed to your master.”
He glances over, contempt laced with curiosity in those pale eyes.
“Out of the goodness of your Gryffindor heart?” His smile cuts sharp, cruel.
“No.” She scoffs. “A deal’s a deal. You get something if I do.”
His eyes narrow. “And what exactly do you want in exchange?”
Oh. OH. Right. What does she want? Anything. Everything. She could ask for food—an actual and balanced meal. A shower, with scented soap and shampoo. Or a book? A scrap of parchment…news from the outside world!
Any of those would be sane, logical choices.
So why—why—does her mouth betray her, once again, with this vapid, humiliating ask:
“A hug?”
Merlin. Can she be any more pathetic? A hug. From Malfoy. She wants to slam her head against the stone wall until it cracks.
But she knows why her reckless mind conjured the word. Because deep down, it’s what she truly wants.
Hermione has always been a touchy person. She thrives on closeness, on warmth, on the simple comfort of human contact. With friends, holding hands when one of them was nervous before exams, linking arms on the way to Hogsmeade, brushing shoulders at the library table. She’d pat a stranger’s arm in thanks, hug Harry without hesitation, ruffle Ron’s hair just to irritate him.
Even with her first boyfriend—Viktor Krum—she won’t deny that he’s the one who showed her how much she craved it. With him, she learned that hugs weren’t just pleasant; they were her language of love. Pressed into someone’s chest, feeling their weight, their warmth—that’s when she felt safe and cared for.
That’s simply who she is.
And one year without it? She can grit her teeth through hunger. She can survive filth, cold, boredom. But deny her the affection that makes her human, she might start to go insane.
Or maybe she already is mad—asking Malfoy, of all people, for a hug.
But she refuses to regret it. Her chin lifts, a silent dare. And when his eyes rake over her like she’s complete filth, she decides she should’ve asked for that shower instead.
Because she’s definitely not getting that hug.
Instead, he sneers, slams the metal door shut, and turns the key.
Ouch. The rejection cuts deep.
And just like that, he’s gone, and she’s once again completely alone and lonely.