Transference

Her low heels echoed against the dank uneven stones, keeping time with the soft jingling of the tall man walking beside and a little in front of her. It amused her, a wry amusement, that an Azkaban guard wore a ring of keys on his belt in a Muggle fashion. Unlike her own attire, which was completely Muggle, dark gray trousers, a simple white blouse and matching gray vest, the guard wore the long robes of dark purple, marking him as a guard, as a wizard. Using one of the many keys, after making a complicated motion with his wand, he unlocked the plain wooden door, pushing it open and stepping aside. He said nothing but she could read the disapproval in his face, in all their faces, each time she came inside these walls.

She walked into the room, crossing over to the well-worn wooden table in the center of the small room, and took a seat on the rickety high-backed chair sitting at one end. The door closed behind her with an ominous click but no longer did it make her jump inside. The first time, she had almost turned around, the walls suddenly being too close, the ceiling too low. It would have meant the end of her endeavor here and she'd stifled the claustrophobia bravely. Now it was second nature.

She placed a briefcase on the table and withdrew a pad of paper and a pen, another trapping that annoyed those she spoke with in this room. The Muggle pen, made it clear to them she was someone who didn't adhere to the wizard ways, that she wasn't completely one of them. Exactly what she wanted to project.

A file joined the pad on the table, though she didn't need it. She knew everything within it, every word, every crime, every detail, down to what the prisoner liked in his tea. What was left to learn was why she was here. The thoughts and workings of a criminal mind, a criminal that was due to for a parole hearing if she deemed him sane enough to be released back into society. To many it meant incredible power to hold someone's fate in their hands, to her, it was only her job.

The door on the other side of the room opened and her back stiffened, an unconscious reaction, and her pulse began to beat a bit faster. Outwardly she appeared calm, her face almost expressionless. No one would even suspect that she was aware of the guard leading the shackled man to the chair across from her except for the flicker of her eyes, her gaze fixated on the face of the prisoner. For the next hour it would be his face that told her the truth, not his words.

She felt his eyes sweep over her, haughty, arrogant eyes, the color of a summer storm, eyes she'd seen glittering behind a stark white mask, threatening and lethal, once. Now they held the hollow starkness that this abyss of darkness created, making the pupil draw into the tiniest of pinpoints at the merest light source. This room was extremely well lit in comparison to the cells, especially the solitary pit in which they placed disagreeable prisoners. It was necessary for her to see everything, the faintest variation in a man's facial expression could speak volumes.

The guard waited until the prisoner was seated and then with a flick of his wand, the shackles around the man's wrists and ankles were securely fastened to the chair. Without a word, the guard turned and left, and once again the ominous click of the lock sounded in the room, vibrating off the stones. Alone, they faced each other, a bored, supercilious look crossing his features. She met his gaze for a moment, never blinking, her own face still a cool mask of professionalism.

Picking up the pen, she broke eye contact and wrote his name across the top of the page. "Mr. Malfoy, I am Her..."

"Granger," he interrupted smoothly, a hoarse quality to his tone. Another factor of life within Azkaban, the dankness permeated into the lungs and throat. For weeks, often months of disuse of the vocal chords. "I know who you are and why you are here." A slow, lazy smile curved his lips, turning into a sneer.

"I am Hermione Granger," she continued, ignoring the interruption. "You may address me as Ms. Granger during our sessions. Since my reputation precedes me, I will dispense with the usual introduction of why I am here. However, if you have any questions, please ask and do not assume the answer."

Lucius made a motion as if to settle more comfortably in the chair and she heard the clink of the chains. Their eyes met again and she saw defiance flash in his before it was quickly veiled. "I suppose it would not help my cause if I were to address you as..." He smirked, letting the moment of silence speak, "your married name. You are married, are you not?"

Hermione's mouth quirked, a fleeting, sardonic half- smile that mirrored his for the merest second. "We are not here to discuss my life, Mr. Malfoy. It is hardly worth the valuable minutes you are afforded to dwell on such matters that do not concern you. You may address me as Ms. Granger."

He made a noise, perhaps it was meant to be a chuckle, but it sounded harsh, without emotion. "Ah, forgive me. You were married. Like myself, you are now a widower. I would offer my condolences however they would be, insincere."

She said nothing, making a notation on the paper before looking back over at him, laying the pen down. "I will ask you a series of questions, Mr. Malfoy. Please answer them without these little interruptions. It will make both our jobs easier. I believe you would like to be eligible for parole. If I am wrong, tell me now and I will say goodbye and you will not have to suffer through this."

His eyes glittered, icy cold flints of steel, and for a moment she was transported back eleven years, into a dark musty room in the bowels of the Ministry. As before, a shadowed veil fell over them and Lucius nodded, offering her a pleasant smile. "Ask your questions, Ms. Granger"

Hermione knew they understood each other; he would suffer her presence, hating every moment of this, with the hope that every prisoner within these walls had, no matter how proud or defiant they were: that someday they would walk away, into the small boat that would take them back to the real world. And she would do her job, the job she had fought the Ministry every step to obtain, to make them see that there was a real need for her expertise with so many causalities left behind after the war. The Healers patched up the broken bones and mended the wounds, but they only put sugar coating on the deeper wounds, those that left behind shattered minds of night terrors and thoughts of death.

She asked the standard questions, surface questions to garner the basic information, a form she'd conformed from the Muggle university she'd attended where she earned the degree that would have secured her a position in any hospital in the UK. Instead, she took the useless piece of paper back to the world she truly belonged in and convinced them that she was needed.

"Do you sleep well?"

Lucius looked mildly amused. He'd answered the questions about his general health and well-being in a monotone, bored voice but now there was an inflection in his tone. "I sleep as anyone would."

"Are you disturbed by dreams?"

"We all dream, do we not? I daresay my dreams are no different than anyone else in this place." He smiled nonchalantly. "Aren't you supposed to to ask me if I have nightmares, visions of the atrocities I committed, dreams of remorse or repentance?" Hermione said nothing, carefully watching him without sign of curiosity. "The only dreams I have that are disturbing are those that include the lack of personal hygiene that is afforded here."

"Is it your own poor hygiene or that of others that bother you, Mr. Malfoy?"

He looked at her as if she were a bothersome gnat and then laughed, a dry humorless sound. "Mine. I could care less what others smell like, even if they are as repugnant as the dirt they wallow in. The stench of one's body is most offensive." His smile was one that would send fear into the person it was directed at. "But you are familiar with such, aren't you?"

"I judge no one by the way they look or smell," she said simply, crossing her legs and settling back in the chair, the notepad in her lap. Nor by their heritage. She held his gaze and asked the next question. "How would you describe your sexual satisfaction at this time; adequate, frustrating, not applicable?"

The amusement on his features was genuine. "It amazes me at the idiocy of this questioning, Gr..Ms. Granger. Of course my sexual satisfaction is less than adequate, mostly frustrating and definitely not applicable. Please allow me to dissuade you of the notion that the prisoners are allowed to bugger each other in the showers. Unless of course, it is the only way you can get your jollies, then by all means continue with those little fantasies."

"I have no assumptions regarding your sexual activity, Mr. Malfoy. It is a standard question. A sexually frustrated person may act out, trying to diffuse the frustration."

Lucius sneered. "My sexual activity consists of wanking off at night from time to time. It's rather boring but allows for release. Satisfied?"

"Completely," she replied calmly, making another note on the pad. "How would you describe..."

"I believe it's my turn to ask a question," he interrupted, smirking. "How would you describe your sexual satisfaction at this time, Ms. Granger? Has the loss of your husband forced you to resort to pleasuring yourself by your own hand or do you pick up men at bars, perhaps pay a stranger on the street to meet your needs?"

"Mr. Malfoy. You may ask questions only regarding something pertaining to this interview."

"Oh, but it does. I find myself strangely, morbidly curious to what a homely little Mud..Muggleborn, who pretends to be a cool, self- important professional, does to satisfy herself. In fact, I may not be able to answer any more of your questions until I have the answer." He raised his eyebrows in challenge.

"I am not here to discuss myself, Mr. Malfoy," she said coolly. "I am not the one seeking parole."

"You get off on this, don't you? It's what turns you on, having the upper hand over those who are superior to you. Dangling the promise of parole under my nose, when in fact, you have no intention to give a good report to the Ministry even if I do jump through your hoops," he said superciliously.

Hermione met his eyes, hers expressionless. "I assure you that my interviews are completely neutral. It is your behavior and answers that will determine the outcome."

"Answer me, Hermione. Write it down as a therapeutic reason. As a widower, I am seeking solace to know that I have options when I am released. Tell me what you do to satisfy the lust that burns in your veins. Unless you have grown so cold and dissatisfied with base needs that you deny them. Do you have a lover?"

She closed the notebook and folded her hands on top of the table. "No."

A triumphant glimmer flashed in his eyes. "Thank you. That wasn't so hard. Now the rest."

"I satisfy my urges by my own hand when the need arises."

Lucius leaned forward as much as his bonds would allow. "Now, doesn't that make you feel better?" he asked mockingly.

"I never felt poorly," she responded. "We have five minutes left today. Tell me, Mr. Malfoy, if you are released, what is the first thing you want to do?"

Chuckling, Lucius looked deeply into her eyes for several long seconds. "Take a bath," he said very slowly and deliberately as if speaking to a child.

Hermione uncrossed her legs and picked up the notebook, putting it into her briefcase as the door behind Lucius opened. "We will continue this tomorrow, Mr. Malfoy," she said, standing.

The guard released Lucius from the chair and helped him to stand, the act making the taller, blond wizard snarl in disgust. Regaining his composure, he looked back over at Hermione. "Next time, bring cigarettes. I find a woman that smokes...progressive." His eyes flickered down to her left hand and he smiled knowingly at the faint yellow stains of her index finger. A glitter of satisfaction reflected in his eyes when he saw a brief unnerved look on her face before he turned away at the urging of the guard.

~*~

The only light in the small room was the unnatural glare coming from the screen. Words flashed across in quick session, her fingers tapping without stopping on the keys. The tip of a cigarette flared and she paused, flicking the ash into an overrunning ashtray. Blowing out the smoke, Hermione leaned back in the swivel chair, reading over the notes she'd transferred to the computer. From less than a page on paper, she had entered enough information on Malfoy to fill three pages on the word processing program.

She put the cigarette out, staring down at the yellowish stain on her nail, knowing why it had bothered her that Malfoy was aware that she smoked. It was a nasty habit, one she'd railed at her husband about over the years, going to extreme measures to point out to him that he was slowly killing himself by poisoning his lungs. How she wished that he would have died from lung disease instead of...

The first cigarette she'd smoked was the night of his death, the pack of cigarettes lying on the nightstand was a glaring reminder that he should be there, in bed, with her, lighting one up after they'd made love, laughing at her chiding and kissing her nose, promising that someday he'd give them up just for her. She'd choked through that first one, weeping until she thought her heart would break, the smell, the taste reminding her of him. It grew eerily easy to pick up a cigarette every time she thought of him, which was each second of the day those first few terrible days, when she finally had to accept the fact he was dead.

Unconsciously, she lit another cigarette and turned off the computer.