The auctioneer scrutinized Hermione for a moment. Her robes were torn and disheveled, and her hair, normally bushy, now could have passed for a haystack, and coated with more than a generous splash of dirt. Her face was pale and drawn, and dried blood caked the back of her neck. A thin layer of grime was smudged over everything. There was a sharp pain in her back where Agathan had jabbed her, causing her to stumble forward. Nevertheless, her head was held high. She returned the auctioneer’s stare boldly.
The auctioneer seemed pleased. “Yes, she will do most excellently.”
Agathan paused for a moment and then spoke up. I’m glad you agree. It would be a good thing for her, after she has paid for her crimes.”
“Crimes?” The auctioneer smiled at this new revelation of Hermione’s unruliness.
“The little mudblood tried to escape on the train. And she injured Ivan.” Ivan must have been the other Death Eater guard on the train, Hermione surmised. But she had done nothing to him. What was Agathan playing at? The hatred she seemed to harbor for Hermione was almost unnatural. Had she known Agathan before? But that was impossible. She knew she would remember that chilling one-eyed stare.
“Surely she must be punished for these deeds,” Agathan continued. “A few weeks in Azkaban perhaps.”
Her lip curled in satisfaction when Hermione blanched in horror.
“Fine, get her out of my sight.”
Agathan gave a short bow. “Of course, sir.”
***
When Lord Voldemort took control of the wizarding government, the first order of business was the reopening of Azkaban. Under Voldemort’s generous sway, the fortress swelled with prisoners. They were the only inhabitants, save for the silent sentinels who guarded them from every joyful thought. Even the Death Eaters hated coming to the place, especially those who had had to spent time as prisoners there themselves. It was said that Bellatrix Lestrange refused to set foot on the Island unless the Dark Lord himself commanded it.
As Hermione entered her cell she tripped on the hem of her Dreg robe. The Dreg robe was mandatory dress for all mudbloods. It covered them from head to foot in thick rust colored material. Like dirt, thought Hermione when she saw it. A long strip of roughly woven cloth covered the head, and wound around the face, completely obscuring the features, only the eyes were visible. Even the sight of a mudblood offended the eyes of a true pureblood.
The prison warden had greeted them, or at least he greeted Agathan, when they had landed at Azkaban. He was a short man with a squint who did not live on the island, and only visited it to receive prisoners. He asked Agathan how long Hermione’s sentence was.
“Six months,” she had answered calmly.
Those six months were the longest of Hermione’s life. She spent the first few days trying desperately to hold on to her happiest memories, clutching them to her soul, as the only possessions she still owned. But she felt like she was trying to hold water in her two cupped hands. They drained away slowly, leaving her alone in the darkness.
“Kai.” She tried out her new name, whispering it to herself. All dreg slaves were required to have short simple names, and “Hermione Granger” just didn’t fit the bill. She was expected to answer to Kai. For all intents and purposes it was her new identity. But she couldn’t be Kai. Kai had no memories, only nightmares of darkness, and that which lurked within it.
There was a new tradition in Voldemort’s Azkaban. Every full moon the Dementors would gather together and select “the Chosen One” as it was called by the prisoners. Hermione had no idea how they determined their next victim, but they never lingered for more than a moment on the choice. There was only the faint rush of wind as they glided silently towards the chosen cell. No matter how deeply into madness they had sunk, every prisoner recognized the horror of the Dementors swooping down and the rattling intake of breath.
Then the screams would echo throughout the drafty corridors of the fortress. But far more deafening was the silence when the screams were stilled.
***
“You summoned me, Lord?”
Draco held out the small chest to the Dark Lord.
“Do you know what is in this Draco,” Voldemort looked past the tiny box, turning unblinking scarlet eyes on him. Draco returned his stare unflinchingly.
“No, Lord Voldemort. It is for your eyes alone. No other has seen it since it was. . . taken.” He wondered if Voldemort believed him. Likely not: Voldemort trusted no one.
Voldemort’s grasped the chest, and slid its simple lock open. It was filled with shriveled crimson leaves, so thin Voldemort’s hand could be seen through them, tinted blood red by their coloring as he sifted through the chest.
“These are Delfini leaves. And they only grow one place in the world. The purifying elixir brewed from these leaves is said to break jinxes, banish ghosts and heal the mind and body. There are even rumors it can even lift the curse of drinking unicorn blood.” He paused meaningfully. “However, the potion is extremely deadly unless prepared exactly. Again we enter the realm of rumor and speculation; the potion is a recent discovery and there is a strong chance its alleged powers are a fabrication.”
Voldemort crushed several leaves in his hand, and then opened it, palm down, allowing the broken leaves to fall silently back into their container. “Obviously, you see what a benefit it would be for our cause if the rumors were proven true.”
He closed the little chest. “I hope for your sake your prowess in potions is not a rumor either."
The Dark Lord handed the chest to Draco. “I want you to make the elixir. And then I want you to test it.”
Draco’s face was carefully expressionless. “Consider it done.”
Two old Death Eaters, resting by a dying fire watched Draco leave the small hideout. If Draco had looked closer, he might have recognized one of them as the ancient wizard who had so terrified him at his Initiation. Now he was just an old man, tired of the disquieting raids and risky fights. So he sat by a fire with another veteran like himself.
“Bloody scary, if you ask me.”
“You reckon that’s his Lordship’s way of killing young Malfoy?”
“Could be. Malfoy obeys his every order. He’s constantly off on some assignment of the Dark Lord’s. And crazy dangerous assignments they are too. Course Malfoy’s reckless as hell, so it’s a nice fit. Never takes a moment for himself. I heard he doesn’t even sleep. I reckon that’s how he rose so fast through the ranks. But maybe that’s what he’s after all along. You never see him proclaiming ‘His Greatness’ like Lestrange and her lot. At summonings and initiations he’s always standing in the back, just watching. All that work but no respect for the master. Stands to wonder whether his lordship might wonder if Malfoy’s getting a little ahead of himself.”
“Might not be a bad idea for Malfoy to go under. I saw him put a wizard under the Imperio curse once. You know how it is with the Curses. You have to work up to them. Shoutin’ helps. But Malfoy, he just whispers it, soft as you please, and you’re dead right there. Gives me the shivers. Only the Dark Lord can do that.”
***
Draco had never been to Azkaban. He had been told a slave belonging to his family was being housed there. The mudblood had been sentenced to Azkaban for six months. A long time, in Draco’s opinion. In the last six months of his own life, ever since he made that cursed trip to Dumbledore’s office, everything had changed.
Ashamed at betraying his father and his master, Draco endeavored to prove himself. He volunteered for missions: the more dangerous the better. He risked everything to complete them successfully. He was desperately afraid someone would find out what he had done that fateful night. So he always kept his arms covered.
He tried countless spells to get rid of that cursed band of silver. Once, on a raid, his arm was injured and one of the others rolled up his sleeve to heal the wound. Draco, blinking from the pain, waited for the astonished exclamation he was sure would accompany this discovery, the one he had heard so often in nightmares. But a simple healing spell was muttered and no one said anything about it. That was when Draco finally realized the duplicity of Dumbledore’s curse. Only he could see the silvery mark.
Every night, in that strange state between sleep and wakefulness he stared at the two symbols on his arm, never sure which he hated more.
***
Hermione tried to stem her increasing worry. She had not received any food that day. That could mean only one thing. They didn’t bother to feed prisoners who would not be among the living much longer. All day she waited, until finally, that terribly cold familiar feeling strengthened, swelling until it was all around her. She could almost feel the tattered black cloth brushing against her skin.
They were coming.
***
The warden met Draco at the entrance.
“I presume you’re Mr. Malfoy?” The warden was soaked and dripping.
Draco nodded. He hated Apparating into the rain.
“Shouldn’t we be getting inside?” asked Draco, wondering why the warden had waited outside for him. It was freezing.
“Yes, yes, of course,” said the warden, reluctantly edging towards the entrance. He held out his hand. “No wands allowed in Azkaban. It’s a safety procedure. We have a lot of important witches and wizards in there. Can’t have any accidental escapes now can we.”
Draco thought the warden seemed very anxious that the wand rule would be followed. Likely because he knows he’ll be on the other side of the bars if it happens. And he knows best of anyone what that would be like. Draco slid his wand from his pocket and handed it to the warden.
“What’s that ringing?”
“The Azkaban bells. They always ring when a prisoner is Chosen. It’s not the best time to come here as a matter of fact.”
As they wandered through the empty halls of the old fortress two Dementors glided past them and carried on, silently leading the way.
“We can just take another route then, shall we?” The warden started to veer towards the left, down another passage, away from the Dementors. “There are dozens.” The warden gave a nervous laugh. It was too loud and too short.
He’s terrified of them, Draco realized. And half mad himself.
“We’ll take this route.”
“Oh, okay then. That’s fine. We’ll just go this way. Nothing wrong with that. No, nothing at all.”
The warden continued to ramble, but Draco had stopped listening. More Dementors joined those gliding ahead of them, coming from all directions.
The warden shook his head. “Oh dear.”
“What?”
“It appears your slave has been Chosen.”
“Which means?”
“The Dark Lord does like to keep the Dementors happy. Have to let them have a bit of fun every so often.”
Draco quickened his pace.
“That’s her cell, just ahead there.”
The door had been thrust open. Dementors streamed in, crowding around a small prone figure who knelt on the floor. Her trembling hands were clasped in front of her. Not a sound escaped her lips.
Draco walked calmly forward, forcefully pushing through the Dementors.
Fearful of losing their prey, the wispy specters drew ever closer. The tiny room was filled with fluttering black and howling cold.
Hermione gave a small gasp and fainted.
Draco stood in front of her, facing the Dementors.
“I have nothing for you but nightmares,” he said bitterly. “Leave us.”
He took a small step forward.
“You dare defy the Dark Lord’s orders? He’ll cast you out. And you’ll be forced to flee back to the dark corners of the world, where you had only your had only your own misery to lap up, before the wizards came and found you.”
“He’s right you know, he’d be terribly angry, awful really,” put in the warden, standing back a safe distance.
The Dementors and Draco ignored him, not moving, hanging in a single suspended moment. And then they withdrew, silent as they had come, leaving only Draco and the warden.
Both of them stared at the bundle of brown robes, collapsed on the ground.
“What’s the name?”
“Oh, my name is Prewt, Alexander Prewt.”
“Not you’re name,” sneered Draco, “the mudblood.”
“Oh.” Flustered by his mistake, Prewt nervously shuffled his papers. “She is registered as ‘Kai.’”
Draco knelt on the cold stone floor. A wand would be very helpful right now. He gently lifted Hermione off the floor. He was surprised at how light and frail she was.
“You do feed the prisoners, don’t you?”
“Food is prepared, but most eat very little after the first few weeks.”
“Yes, of course,” said Draco distantly. “Let’s go.”
It was still raining when they got back to the entrance, but it had slowed to a lazy drizzle. Draco took his wand, and still holding Hermione, Disapparated.
Over the island fortress the bells clanged.
A/N: The Dementors always take a Chosen. So yes, when the bells rang for the second time it did mean that another prisoner was given the Dementors kiss. Sad, I know, especially when you find out who that was.