Chapter 1
Hermione drug the heel of her right foot against the dirt floor of her cell. She’d long forgotten how mundane and uneventful her days could be. When she first arrived at Azkaban, she was hauled deep into the dungeon where the light didn’t reach. A precaution, the guard had assured her, lest her sympathizers deem it worthwhile to break her out. Hermione didn’t have the energy to tell him she had no sympathizers. Had no one who looked past the marring on her arms and still felt that she was worth the effort. A mud blood turned death eater, what were the odds? Hermione had snorted when the thought occurred to her and had earned herself an elbow to the jaw.
She had no shortage of people who abhorred her. She found that she didn’t have a single adversary to her name. The death eaters saw her as Hermione Granger, resident know-it-all, Golden Girl, and best friend to Harry Potter. To the members of the Order, she was a traitor.
“Miss Granger, are you listening to me?” Well most of the members. McGonagall stopped her pacing to place both hands on the bars seperating her and Hermione. She looked tired, worn down from the years of the war. Hermione’s chest tightened because the war had also taken its toll on her. She couldn’t help but wonder if she looked different, if it was evident that the war took from her until she had nothing left to give.
“I’m listening but you are wasting your breath. I’m destined to rot in Azkaban. I do not need coaching.” Hermione’s heel followed the same path, over and over, wearing a line into the dirt.
“You have to have hope-“
“They think me a spy, Minerva. A traitor at best. I’ll be getting the Dementor’s kiss sooner rather than later. Count your losses and go bother someone else.” The venom bled through in Hermione’s voice. She’d resigned herself to a death sentence the moment Voldemort branded her. Truth was, the outcome of the war didn’t change her fate. She knew from the moment she was captured that her life was forfeit, by Voldemort’s making or her own.
McGonagall let out a sharp tsk. The sound was so familiar, Hermione knew if she closed her eyes she’d be back in Hogwarts listening to her old mentor scold her, Harry, and Ron for their recklessness. She momentarily wondered what the old Hermione would make of her now, dirty and sporting two scars branding her as the two things she’s always hated. Mudblood. Death eater. Maybe she would etch the word traitor into her skin and save someone else the trouble.
“I know you, Hermione. I-I don’t know why you took the mark, Merlin knows I’ve hypothesized.”
McGonagall’s eyes glazed over as she contemplated what could of possibly made logical, intelligent Hermione Granger break and take the mark. Hermione knew she’d soon be disappointed to discover that she’s held up against torture. She’s endured heinous acts of cruelty in the name of staying true to the Order, never broke. That what eventually broke her will was four little words uttered by Voldemort. Because for everything Hermione hid with Occulemency, he’d somehow found out her longest kept secret. Found out exactly what is takes to break Hermione Granger.
McGonagall continued, “Nevertheless, I am confident that you took the mark to save lives. That it was in the best interest of the Order. The judges of the Wizengamot will see that when they review you memories.”
Hermione scoffed. Such unwavering loyalty. “Perhaps you do not know me as well as you hope, Minerva.”
Hermione had never been cruel. She always maintained respect for her elders and mentors, but she needed Mcgonagall to hear her. To possibly hate her. It would be easier in the long run, easier to stomach the look of disgust on her face when she finds out why Hermione betrayed the very people she had buried the dead with. The friends whose pain she knew as her own.
“Hold on to hope,” McGonagall’s fingers turned white as her hands tightened around the bar like she was holding back from reaching out towards Hermione.
“There is no hope, Professor McGonagall.” Hermione’s foot moved back and forth with a bit more force.
“Draco Malfoy was granted a full pardon by the Wizengamot.”
“What?” Hermione’s foot stopped moving. She pushed herself up from the ground where she’d sat everyday since arriving.
“His trial was four weeks ago. Shacklebolt testified on his behalf.”
“He-he, I don’t, how? He let death eaters into the school. He tried to kill Dumbledore.” Hermione ran over everything she knew for certain about Draco Malfoy’s role in the war. She watched him torture countless snatchers and death eaters as punishment. His father was high in Voldemort’s ranks.
“According to Shacklebolt, Draco Malfoy was a spy for the Order. The memories they extracted from Malfoy confirmed this. He’s still on probation and being monitored however, he’s no longer in Azkaban.” McGonagall looked almost uncomfortable as she spoke.
“How long,” Hermione breathed, her head spinning with the possibilities. “How long has he been a spy for the order?”
“Since the Battle of Hogwarts.”
Hermione couldn’t catch her breath. He’d been a spy for that long? How had she not know? Why hadn’t he said anything? Suddenly, all she could feel was rage. She had been shackled to Voldemort for eight months before Harry Potter landed the killing blow. She’d seen Malfoy frequently. He had watched as Voldemort used Crucio until she was on the verge of insanity. Laughed as she was hit with the Imperio curse and forced to slap her self until her face was raw, forced to kill and maim death eaters who defected. Had he reported all of that to the Order? Did he defend her at all or did he also see her as a traitor? Hermione couldn’t help the hysterical laugh that escaped her throat. Draco Malfoy was a blood traitor. She guessed that they had that in common.