mon étoile

When they stepped onto the third floor, Hermione’s first impression was that this section of the prison felt like a ghost town. The same eerie quiet as the upper floors filled the air, but the acrid smell of unwashed bodies was replaced by the sharp tang of antiseptic, almost strong enough to sting her nose. The corridor split into a V, each path leading toward the hospital wing, which spanned the length of the floor.

Harry took the lead, his Auror instincts kicking in as he scanned the dim hallway. “Let’s check it out,” he said, his tone clipped but calm. “Hermione, stay behind me.”

Hermione bristled but said nothing, trailing behind as they followed the narrow hallway to the right—the first leg of the triangular wing. The path was lined with offices, their grime-streaked windows offering no glimpse inside, and unmarked solid doors that, when checked, revealed storage closets overflowing with haphazardly stowed medical supplies.

At the far end, the hallway curved sharply left, opening to the hospital wing’s corridor. The double doors loomed ahead at the midpoint, their dull metal sheen incongruous against the weathered stone walls. Beyond them, the corridor stretched onward, leading to the final hallway—equally empty, equally silent, the oppressive stillness pressing in from all sides.

“Well,” Harry said, trying for some false positivity, “looks like we’re alone up here. Shall we check out Healer Granger’s new digs?” He reached for Hermione’s hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze before stepping forward again.

“Don’t patronize me,” Hermione said lightly, though the corner of her mouth twitched in amusement.

The hum of fluorescent lights filled the hospital wing, amplifying the stark, sterile atmosphere—a jarring contrast to the desolate silence of the rest of the prison. The wing was divided into two halves, separated by a pair of large rooms in the middle, which Hermione assumed were the healers’ offices. To the left, a young woman with honey-colored curls and wide brown eyes stood frozen in the middle of the ward, staring at the visitors like they’d apparated in uninvited.

That must be the resident healer. She looks like she could be a fifth-year, Hermione thought stepping forward with her hand outstretched. “Good morning. Healer Aldercrest?”

The girl flinched, then squeaked out a response as she grasped Hermione’s hand. “HiHermioneGrangerIt’sAPleasureToMeetYouYouCanCallMeAria.” The words came out in one rushed breath.

Hermione couldn’t suppress a small chuckle as she introduced Ron and gestured toward Harry, who was practically squeezed between two cabinets checking for potential threats. “Don’t mind him; he’s always on the job,” she said with an apologetic smile. “Is it just you here today?”

Aria nodded, her eyes flicking nervously between Ron and Harry. “We don’t get many patients down here. The corrections officers… well, they decide if an inmate needs care badly enough to come to the hospital wing.” She hesitated, then added with a bitter edge, “Most of the time, we’re told to treat them in their cells. The officers think this place is too ‘cushy’ for them.”

Hermione’s lips thinned. Yes, because nothing says luxury like peeling paint and the faint stench of despair.

“Thank you for letting me intrude on your space for the time being,” Hermione said, keeping her tone professional, suppressing any of her bubbling rage. “If you could show me where I can set up, I’ll get out of your way.”

Aria led them to a door on the left and opened it, revealing a cluttered room filled with mismatched furniture and dusty boxes. “This used to be overflow storage. You can use it as your office. If there’s anything you don’t need, just pile it up, and the elves can move it to the closet in the hallway.”

“Thank you, Healer Aldercrest,” Hermione said, noting how the girl seemed to relax slightly as she spoke. “We appreciate your help.”

When Aria walked away, Hermione turned to find Ron and Harry grinning like maniacs. “What?” she demanded, crossing her arms.

“Oh, ‘Mione, she’s completely star-struck!” Ron said, his grin widening as he bumped Harry’s shoulder.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Stuff it, you two. Harry, did you check this office yet?”

Harry nodded. “It’s clear, though the wards are a bit lax. I’ll check the corridor outside and the kitchen downstairs before reinforcing everything. Ron, come with?”

Ron hesitated, his hands resting on Hermione’s shoulders. “You sure you’ll be alright?”

“Ronald,” Hermione said with mock exasperation, “I’ve saved your arse more times than I can count. I’ll be fine.”

As Ron followed Harry out the door, Harry glanced back at Hermione and gave her a subtle look. “You good?”

She met his gaze, rolled her eyes, and waved him off. As the door closed, she muttered under her breath, “How could those idiots think I’m the damsel? Do they not remember that they’re mostly alive because of me?”

Pushing the door open to what was generously called her “office,” Hermione sighed. Boxes were stacked haphazardly, dust coated every surface, and the furniture looked as though it hadn’t been touched since the First Wizarding War. Still, she rolled up her sleeves. If she was going to spend any time here, she’d have to make it work.

Her hand instinctively reached into her robes, fingers brushing against the worn edges of her trusty Walkman. A gift from her mum on her sixteenth birthday, it had been a constant companion when she was home for the holidays. After the war, she spent weeks of trial and error to finagle the right magic to stop interference with the electrical currents, but once she had, it became as much a fixture in her life as her wand. She popped in a cassette, adjusting the headphones over her ears before slipping the Walkman into her inner pocket. The familiar sound of David Bowie’s Hunky Dory filled her ears as she pushed the door all the way open.

The music helped drown out the oppressive quiet as she began sorting through the boxes stacked clumsily in the corner. Supplies were organized into piles: keep, move to the hallway closet herself (like she was going to leave it for the elves), and rubbish. Most of the boxes were half-empty or filled with trash, making the process faster than expected. Still, the state of the supplies was appalling. How is anyone alive in this place? she mused.

Once the clutter was cleared, Hermione took stock of the room. It was more spacious than she expected, with tall bookshelves lining the exterior and back walls, their empty shelves begging to be filled. Her gaze landed on the stack of metal folding chairs leaning haphazardly in the corner. With a flick of her wand, one unfurled into a plush three-seater couch, its fabric soft and well-worn, another became a deep reading chair with a high back, and four transfigured into sturdy bar-height stools. The battered wooden desk in the center of the room was reshaped into a tall worktable—Hermione always thought better when she could move, and the added height would keep her from sitting stagnant for hours on end.

Bowie crooned about "Ch-ch-ch-changes" as Hermione stepped back to survey her work, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. It was still a prison, still sterile and gray, but warmth had started to settle into the space. She adjusted the placement of a wooden crate between the couch and reading chair, letting it serve as a makeshift table. Now this is a space I can actually think in.

Next, she tackled the patient area. Ten hospital beds lined the walls, their stark simplicity almost mocking her efforts. She transfigured spare sheets into curtains to wrap around each bed, flimsy but functional. At least her patients would have a shred of privacy.

The cabinets were her last stop, and her mood darkened as she opened drawer after drawer. The supplies were barely adequate—no pain potions, no advanced healing materials, just the bare-basics like dittany and fluxweed. She scribbled furiously in her notebook, creating three new lists: one for materials she could pull from her Department of Mysteries office, another for requests to St. Mungo’s, and a third for her trusted rare-ingredients supplier. Might as well be prepared for anything and expedite the process of determining the underlying issue, healing her patients, and getting the hell out of here. The rest of the day was spent organizing, sorting, and preparation. Harry and Ron stopped by periodically, updating her on the wards and offering brief, if distracted, company. By the time Hermione stepped back into her newly arranged office, she felt exhausted but accomplished. She removed the headphones briefly to jot down her notes, the silence rushing back like a tidal wave. 

Hopping onto one of the bar stools, she spread her lists and patient files across the table. Each folder contained a prisoner number and two measly sentences about their condition—barely enough to be called an assessment. She didn’t need a full roster to know what awaited her. She had sat through most of their trials, listened to the testimonies, provided a few herself. It wasn’t difficult to guess who she would be facing come morning.

The ferry ride and Floo home were followed by a long, hot shower and three hastily scrawled letters urgently requesting supplies, sent off with a disgruntled Pigwidgeon before exhaustion dragged her under. Sleep came easily, leaving no room for the usual spiral of overanalysis.

By morning, the nervous energy was back, buzzing under her skin. Now knowing exactly how long the journey to Azkaban would take, she lingered just long enough in the kitchen to sip her tea, press a quick kiss to the top of Ginny’s head laid out on the table, and raise an eyebrow at her choice of attire—strappy heels with an oversized tee—before stepping out.

At the Anchorage Café, she slipped inside under the safety of a Disillusionment Charm. The lone photographer slumped over a two-top, snoring softly, completely unaware of her presence.

“Morning, love!” The woman behind the counter greeted her brightly, her name tag reading Sandra. As she handed over a steaming cup, she launched into her life story—no invitation required. Sandra was a squib, and her family had owned the café for generations. What had once been a hole-in-the-wall for off-duty prison guards had grown into something livelier with the addition of the Floo network and ferry service.

It was evident Sandra was starved for conversation and Hermione listened politely, half-focused on mentally reviewing her priorities for the day. By the time she placed an order for Harry and Ron, they turned the corner, dusting soot from their Auror uniforms.

“Cheers, Sandra,” Hermione called over her shoulder as she braced for the cold.

The waters were choppier than yesterday, a sign Hermione hoped wasn’t ominous. The process of getting to the hospital wing was mercifully smoother without the previous day’s bureaucratic slog.

Once they reached the third floor, Harry and Ron set to work reinforcing the wards. They borrowed elements from the Death Eaters’ cursed barrier on the Astronomy Tower, modifying it so that no one bearing a Dark Mark could enter Hermione’s office without her direct escort. Ron layered additional protections onto the cabinets, ensuring that only individuals with sufficient magic could access the tools and potions inside.

Hermione busied herself unpacking the small mountain of crates, silently grateful to her contacts at St. Mungo’s and the Ministry for prioritizing her requests. Sometimes being part of the Golden Trio had its perks. The absence of certain obscure ingredients didn’t bother her—those wouldn’t be needed until after the patient intakes were complete. She carefully arranged the reference books she’d retrieved from her beaded bag, lining them neatly across the shelves in her office. With everything in its place, there was nothing left to distract her. It was time to face what came next.

Hermione rapped her knuckles against Healer Aldercrest’s office door. “Good morning, are you able to help me? I need to retrieve my first patient,” she said, voice steady despite the weight of what she was about to do.

Aldercrest startled slightly, curls bouncing as she turned. “Good morning, Healer Granger.” She glanced at the half-written note on her desk, then nodded. “I was just sending a request myself—I’ll add another to the Death Eater Division for an escort.”

Hermione watched as the young healer finished writing, folded the parchments neatly, raised her wand, and breathed, “Susurrus” as she tapped each request.

The parchments shimmered, curling inward like a blooming flower before unfurling into two  moths—pale, almost translucent, their wings rippling as though catching a nonexistent breeze. They hovered for a beat, drifting in lazy circles around each other before gliding soundlessly through the open door and vanishing down the corridor.

Hermione tracked their departure, fascinated. “That’s brilliant,” she murmured.

“Paper airplanes got caught in all the drafts, owls are impractical, and no one wants to trek up and down thirteen flights of stairs just to deliver a bloody note,” Aldercrest explained, nodding toward the door where the moths had vanished. “Murmurs solved the problem.”

Hermione stared after the moth, intrigued. “And they only reach the intended recipient?”

Aldercrest nodded. “They whisper the message directly to them.”

Clever. Simple. Hermione hummed, resisting the urge to ask a dozen more questions. Now wasn’t the time for theory. “Thank you, Healer Aldercrest.”

Back in her office, she found herself pacing. It wasn’t nerves. It was anticipation. The knowledge that, any moment now, she’d be face to face with her first patient. The first test of everything she’d told herself she was ready for.

A flicker of motion caught her eye. The air shifted and with that the soft, near-silent flutter of wings brought a gauzy moth in front of her face, expectant.

Hermione reached for the Murmur, fingers brushing its delicate wings. The moment she touched it, the moth dissolved into a whisper that curled against her ear, a voice that wasn’t a voice at all.

There was an incident last night in the Death Eater Division. No outside visitors are permitted on the floor at this time. Your first inmate will be brought down to you immediately.

It wasnt long before the sound of heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed down the hallway.

She froze. The weight of the moment settled over her—the first Death Eater she’d treat. Her grip tightened on her wand. Whatever trepidation or fear lingered from facing these people again had been meticulously compartmentalized, yet now, standing at the edge of it, the nerves threatened to unravel.

The sound grew louder. Hermione squared her shoulders and moved to the doorway.

The sight that greeted her wasn’t what she had prepared for.

A guard stood in the corridor, dragging a hunched figure behind him. The man’s ankles and wrists were bound in iron shackles, his head hanging low as though the weight of his chains was too much to bear. Hermione’s first instinct wasn’t fear, but a sharp pang of something she refused to call pity. Whoever this was, regardless of their crimes, they weren’t even whole anymore. They were broken, hollowed, barely human.

“Inmate 824,” the guard barked, standing rigid and stone-faced as he stared over Hermione’s shoulder, not at her. His tone was clipped, indifferent, like he was announcing a number on a production line.

Hermione's stomach churned. “Is this my patient? He’s barely standing!” Her voice cracked, tinged with the outrage she couldn’t hold back. “Did you make him walk all the way here?”

The guard didn’t flinch, didn’t blink, his eyes fixed resolutely on a spot above her head.

Hermione’s indignation flared hotter. “Harry! Ron!” she called sharply. They were there in moments, closing ranks around her as they moved to support the man.

"Easy," Harry murmured, gently lifting the man’s arm over his shoulder. Ron grabbed the other side, grumbling about the weight of the chains. The patient’s legs barely moved, forcing them to half-carry him to one of the hospital beds. Hermione followed closely, assessing every tremor, every pained breath.

“CO Hazelcroft, is it?” she asked, turning to the guard with a look rivaling a basilisk.

The man finally dropped his gaze to her, his expression carved from stone. “Yes.”

"Well, CO Hazelcroft, I expect my future patients to be brought down with the assistance of Mobilicorpus if they’re in this condition." Hermione’s voice was firm, measured—leaving no room for argument.

If they couldn’t be bothered to offer the most basic human decency, then they could at least employ a spell that required less effort than dragging half-dead prisoners through the corridors like discarded rubbish.

Hazelcroft’s lips twitched—not quite a smile. “And what authority do you think you have over me, little girl?”

Harry and Ron stiffened beside her, the tension in their postures unmistakable. She didn’t need to look to know they were already deciding exactly how they’d like to handle him. But Hermione didn’t need them. She stepped forward, forcing him to tilt his chin down to meet her eyes. She had faced the sodding Dark Lord himself and walked away, a man who needed to wield his power over the helpless to feel strong did not intimidate her.

“I am an Unspeakable, here on direct assignment from the Department of Mysteries,” she said, crisp and deliberate, enunciating each syllable as if addressing Grawp. “I will be reporting not only on my patients’ progress but on the conditions of this prison—to the Head Unspeakable and the Minister of Magic. That includes the conduct of its staff.”

Hazelcroft snorted, the sound cutting, dismissive. “I’ll be back in an hour with your next cockroach.” He turned on his heel and strode away, boots pounding against the stone, his indifference echoing long after he was gone.

Hermione spun toward Harry and Ron, exhaling sharply—a short, frustrated huff. So exasperated words failed her.

Turning back to the patient, she raised her wand and cast a diagnostic spell. His body lit up in a chaotic array of colors, each orb pulsing with intensity to reflect the severity of his condition. Severe malnutrition, acute dehydration, a dangerously high fever, two poorly healed broken ribs, and one recently broken one stood out among the litany of issues. His limbs twitched even in unconsciousness, the tremors violent and unrelenting.

Her focus sharpened. There was no space for pity or sentimentality, no room to feel anything except the responsibility pressing heavily on her shoulders. This man—Death Eater or not—was her patient now.

She adjusted his position to reduce the strain on his trembling muscles, pausing only when his hair fell away from his face.

The features were sunken, gaunt, but unmistakable. The realization hit her like a spell to the chest.

Theodore Nott.

Her breath caught, her hand hovering in mid-air. Of all the faces she’d braced herself to see, his hadn’t been one of them. She hadn’t thought of Theodore Nott in years. At school, he’d always been in the shadow of his fellow snakes, lingering on the periphery—quiet, clever, and the unassuming class clown. 

Hermione swallowed hard and forced herself to keep moving. His identity didn’t matter. Not here. Not now. Her job was to fix what she could, to help him.

“Alright,” she said, her voice firm as she waved her wand over him again, pulling a vial of calming draught from her pocket. “Let’s start here.”