Azkaban Revisited

Chapter 2

Almost lazily, Harry swooped down on his broom and drew level with his teammate. "So," he began, knowing that he would be hearing the angry shouts of his coach soon. "How's things with Pat?"

Chris Lambert gave a small shrug as he leaned forward to give his broom more thrust. "Not bad!" he shouted as he zoomed away after the Quaffle.

The shouting began even sooner than he had anticipated. "Potter!" Coach Whitman barked as she came up on his blind spot. Harry jumped, causing his broom to shudder in mid-air.

"Yes, Coach?" he said innocently, pasting a smile on his face.

She glared at him. Harry knew perfectly well how much Whitman hated him, but he also knew how much she needed him. Hell, the entire team needed him and that was the only reason he was admitted. "Only good for publicity," he heard some of the other team members mutter when he fumbled a shot. Unconsciously, his eyes narrowed.

"Don't take that expression with me, young man!" she fumed as they both manoeuvred their brooms around the practice match being played around them. "There are six other members on this team - seven if you count the reserve -- and they are all working twice as hard as you! They don't suddenly decide to chat with their fellow players mid-practice! They actually want a chance at the Cup this year." She shook her head. "If you keep on doing this, Potter, then I'm afraid you'll be off the team."

"Yes, Coach," Harry said, watching as Whitman flew off to give pointers to the Keeper, who had just let a shot go through the central hoop.

He let his broom drift slowly around the field, watching as the other players zoomed around below him. The problem was that Harry knew Whitman was right. He wasn't putting in nearly as much effort as the other players were. In fact, he hadn't caught the Snitch in the last four practices.

Why doesn't she just fire me? Harry thought angrily. There was a time when winning the World Cup and indeed Quidditch itself meant something, but that time had passed. He still enjoyed the game, but there wasn't the same fire in it any longer. When he played, he wanted to play for fun, not to win, and that simply wasn't allowed in competitive Quidditch. With a bitter twist of his mouth, Harry wondered when he had become like this.

Hermione would probably just tell me to go and get another job, he thought as he drifted towards the changing room entrance at the end of the match. He got off his broom and walked inside the showers. Harry let the hot water stream over him as he tilted his head back, allowing his muscles to relax under the heat.

The problem was, he thought as he dried himself off with a thick, fluffy towel some twenty minutes later, was that other jobs weren't that easy to find. Not even for the Boy Who Lived, the Hero of the Wizarding World. He gave a sardonic smile. Especially for the Hero of the Wizarding World.

Putting on his clothes and grabbing his bag, Harry walked out of the changing roads and onto the street.

Of course, he could go and work for the Ministry, but it was unlikely he could get a job like Hermione's. Instead, he'd have to work for Ministry proper and that was rather unpalatable to Harry at the best of times. The new Minister supposedly ran a very tight ship, especially with his Aurors who were required to report in every day as opposed to every three days, as had been custom in the years preceding the war. Harry didn't think he could handle it. Private firms, all desperate to hide their discoveries from rivals, baulked at hiring him for anything but commercials and Harry certainly didn't want to end up as some poster boy for a potions company. There were no positions open at Hogwarts and with much of the staff decimated by the war,

Besides, Harry wasn't sure he wanted to work there anyway. The Headmaster was a fellow by the name of O'Neill or O'Brien or some other Irish name. A newcomer. Diagon Alley was out of the question. Most of the shops there were owned by families who didn't want an outsider nosing in their businesses.

Harry supposed he could always ask the Weasley twins whether he could work in their joke shop but he didn't want to impose. The shop was just getting on its feet after the long years of war and the Weasley family was finally raking in profit. He simply couldn't ask them for help. Not now.

Which left Quidditch. None of the major leagues had an opening, but a minor team had signed him on. But what Harry wasn't prepared for was his waning of interest in the sport after the war. It simply didn't seem important any more.

And that was too bad, because it was plenty important to the rest of wizarding Britain. People, Harry decided, were desperate to cling to any sense of normality after such a tragic few years. He supposed he couldn't blame them.

Still, it was difficult for Harry to play well without his former enthusiasm for the game. He could play passably, but not well.

Looking around, Harry was shocked to realise that he had walked back to his apartment in the outskirts of Hogsmeade. Unlocking the door, he walked inside the tiny space. Hedwig was sitting on the perch next to the open window, preening herself, and there was a letter sitting on the kitchen table.

"Thanks, girl," he said absentmindedly as he grabbed a butter knife to slit open the envelope. He took out a piece of thick parchment.

Dear Mr. Potter,

You are hereby offered a position at Azkaban Prison as part of the new caretaker crew under the direction of Miss Hermione Granger. The pay is negotiable.

Please do not discuss this job offer with anybody else.

Send your reply by no later than the New Year.

Sincerely,

Margaret Sampson

Secretary to the Minister

Harry blinked rapidly. Hermione never told me anything about a caretaker position at Azkaban, he thought. And then a second thought crossed his mind... finally, he had a chance to do something other than Quidditch.

He looked down and suddenly noticed that there was another, far smaller letter (a note, really) sitting under the first one. Opening that, Harry realised that it was from Hermione.

Harry,

Sorry for not telling you earlier about the job offer but it was all sub rosa. Corley told me to keep it low profile because he doesn't want the papers getting wind of it.

Her writing wobbled here, seeming as if she was thinking hard and not knowing what she was going to write.

It's horrible here. Worse than the war. The Maximum Security unit is like something out of my nightmares. I'm going to try to fix it and I need somebody like you here..

Please, Harry, please come. The pay won't be as good as your Quidditch salary but it's reasonable. But above all, come because I need somebody like you here, a good friend that I can trust.

Hermione

Harry turned the note over in his hands but that was all that was written on it. Nothing asking about his life, nothing about anything he had discussed in their last letter, simply a plea for help. Reading over the note again, he thought he could detect desperation coming off it in waves.

With a start, Harry remembered Hermione's latest campaign. He fished around in his bag and came up with the clip of leaflets she'd given him when she'd seen him last. He hadn't the heart to refuse them but didn't want to hand them out to his colleagues either. She had seemed passionate about the cause then, but now she seemed nearly frantic.

She had described, from anecdotal evidence gathered from previous inmates, details about Azkaban and its conditions. Harry, when he first read her report, suspected that the former inmates had been exaggerating, but now he wasn't so sure.

What could Azkaban be like to terrify her so much?

Harry wasn't sure he wanted to find out.

-

The setting up of residential quarters on Azkaban took up more time and energy than Hermione first suspected. Even with a crew of Ministry builders, it was three long weeks before her rooms were liveable. And even then, they hadn't set up barriers around to block out the harsh elements and the smell.

The smell was a constant reminder to her that there were prisoners who were suffering in Azkaban. She tried to tell herself that most of them were in there for murder, but that didn't quell the queasy feeling she had whenever she visited the various units.

During this time, the Dementors still had control of Azkaban and Hermione couldn't begin to implement her plans. It was only after her staff had settled that she could begin to change things. She had cajoled several of her old colleagues at R & D to join in this venture, as well as her old friend Harry. They were all arriving today by the same old boat that had brought her here.

The Ministry would be coming here with a larger vessel today to pick up the Dementors and Hermione was glad. Although they showed no signs of overtly attacking her, it was still nerve-wracking to have gliding black things around. Without them around, she wouldn't have to sneak around to give food to Snape. Not that he looked particularly grateful for her efforts, but she could see a difference in his face. It seemed less hollow now.

"Hermione!"

She jumped and turned around to see Harry walk into the small utilitarian room. "Harry," she said, and walked over to give him a hug. "I'm so glad you decided to accept the job offer."

He shrugged. "Quidditch was getting boring."

Hermione stared.

"It was," Harry said with a short laugh. "I believe I mentioned it in several letters of mine."

Turning red, Hermione said, "I'm so sorry. It's just that I've been so busy these last few months with the campaign to change Azkaban and now this." She waved an arm around, encompassing the small room that served as a bedroom and study as well. "I'm just so ... frazzled."

"No harm done," he told her. "Are you okay? In the note, you sounded quite frantic."

Before she could answer, there were a couple of sharp raps on the open door. She looked up and saw her old colleagues from R &D.

"Not interrupting you two lovebirds, are we?" William Sandhurst said with a salacious wink. He was a tall fellow with long brown hair tied back in a ponytail. He was always teasing Hermione and she found herself laughing at his comment.

"No, Will," she said patiently. "You're not. This," she gestured towards Harry, "is Harry Potter. And these are William Sandhurst and Jeanette Latham. Will and Jean."

"Hey!" Will protested with an easy grin. "If you're going to shorten my name, then I reserve the right to call you Herm. Or 'Mione."

"Don't you dare," Hermione said with a glare. "Anyway, you guys are the new administration of Azkaban. Your work starts this afternoon after the Dementors leave." She could see Harry give a visible shudder. "Don't worry, they haven't done anything to me in the last three weeks."

"No, just turned you into a bossy Know-It-All," Will muttered. "No, wait, you were that already."

Hermione hit him on the arm.

-

That afternoon, after the last of the Dementors glided onto the Ministry boat - ship, really, Hermione thought with a scowl - she began to hand out the specially prepared Ministry wands. "Your own wands will only work for simple non-harmful like Lumos. Anything more complex or in any way harmful must be performed using this wand. It's been especially designed to counter the wards around Azkaban. Do not, I repeat, do NOT let any of the prisoners get their hands on these wands."

She watched as each of them tested out their wands. She had already tried out her own and found it surprisingly attuned with her magic.

With a shiver down her spine, Hermione watched as the Ministry vessel dwindled in the distance. Besides the prisoners, they were the only ones on the island. Again, she wondered why she took the job and indeed why the job had been offered in the first place. And where, where were the Dementors being shipped? These were questions, Hermione vowed, that she would find answers to.

"We're going to get all the prisoners lined up in the main courtyard," Hermione said crisply after everybody had finished levitating random objects and shooting sparks out of their new wands. "They're going to be given a general physical check by two of us, under wandpoint, while the other two go around and clean - and I mean CLEAN - out the cells."

Jean, a petite blonde woman with large blue-grey eyes, stared at her. "What's the point?" she asked. "Is it necessary? I mean, wouldn't it just give them strength to escape?"

Hermione thinned her lips, and had the sinking feeling she looked like her mum when she did that. "The conditions here are atrocious. Regardless of their crimes, these are humans in there. They are your fellow witch and wizard. They don't deserve to be treated like that."

Jean looked dubious. "But some of them are Death Eaters. I thought you were Muggle-born..." she let her sentence trail.

Hermione couldn't believe what she was hearing. When she had worked with Jean on an R & D project a few months back, she found the slightly older woman to be nice and intellectually stimulating. She couldn't have guessed that she would propound these kinds of views. "Careful," she said, her tone icy, "or you may begin to sound like them." By the frown on Jean's face, she knew that the other woman didn't understand what she meant. Neither did Harry by the looks of it, but Will looked as though he might. Despite being a joker at times, Will was very intelligent when he wanted to be.

"But all this talk of equal rights," Jean sounded flustered. "It all seems terribly ... Muggle to me."

Will interjected before Hermione could respond. "I'll go with Jean to get the Minimum Security prisoners, shall I? And then we'll clean out that cell while you two check of their physical condition."

Hermione nodded tightly and the other two walked off.

"What was that about?" Harry asked once they were out of earshot.

"Sometimes people surprise you with their views," Hermione said as she fingered her wand. She turned to Harry and looked him in the eye. "Tell me I'm doing the right thing," she begged. "Please. Tell me that I'm right to want to bring this prison up to a humane standard."

"Of course you're right," Harry said quietly. "I may not agree, but you're right nonetheless." His hand tightened around the wand, white showing around the knuckles. "I have to admit, a part of me wants Lestrange, Malfoy, Avery and Goyle to rot in there for an eternity, but ..."

"What about Snape?" Hermione asked softly.

"As much as a bastard he was during our Hogwarts years," Harry said, "I agree with you. Snape doesn't deserve to be in there, under those conditions."

"Nobody deserves those conditions," she said firmly. "I'll show you the Maximum Security wing after we do the other two wings. After you've seen it," and smelt it, she added silently, "then tell me if you still think anybody deserves to be in there."

"If anybody does, then Bellatrix Lestrange does."

Hermione shook her head. "I'm not sure I'd condemn Voldemort to one of those cells."

Something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye and she watched as about twenty prisoners were marched out of the Minimum Security wing. They all wore blue Azkaban uniforms and she could see the lettering and Azkaban symbol that was burned on their left wrists.

"It smells awful in there," Jean said, gasping. She looked ashen.

Hermione looked at her and shook her head. "Wait until you get into the other wings."

"Well," Will said with forced cheerfulness, "we'll be off to clean that wing then. It might take a while."

Hermione looked at the rag-tag bundle of prisoners standing there in the courtyard in their short sleeved blue uniforms, shivering from the blustering cold wind. They reminded her of a documentary on war prisoners she'd seen with her parents when she was younger, but she had never thought that she would be faced with the real consequences.

They smelled awful and that was the least of their worries. Malnutrition, disease and starvation ran rampant. Several prisoners had suspiciously worrying rashes, and one had a blistering pustule on one cheek. Seeing this under the light of day made Hermione feel sick. None of these men and women were in there for murder. Some had made honest mistakes. She didn't want to think about the condition of the other prisoners in the other wings.

She slowly walked around and looked carefully at the prisoners.

One man had rivulets of blood running down his arm from numerous cuts; self inflicted by the looks of it. She shivered. His nails were ragged with blood underneath them.

Another man had bruised, bleeding fists from where he had banged on the stone walls until the very skin on his hands had shredded and torn.

A woman looked flushed and far too warm for this cold climate. Looking closer, Hermione noticed beads of sweat running down her face. There was a festering wound on one arm. Septicaemia, she thought.

"This is horrible," Harry whispered into her ear as he came up behind her.

"This," she said tightly, "is the best of the lot." She shook her head. "First things first, they're all going to have showers and to change into the new uniforms I ordered. And then Will and I will look at their wounds and see what we can fix. I managed to get a few cases of medicine from St. Mungo's."

"And what do I do?" Harry asked.

"You're going to supervise the men in the showers and I the women." She gave a grim smile. "After all, we can't take any chances that any of them will run away, can we?"

It was a bad joke and Harry knew it. There was little or no chance that this bunch of prisoners could run away. Where would the five or six of them, who were in a condition to run, go? The true miraculous nature of Sirius's escape was finally beginning to dawn on him.

-

Hermione gave a small sigh of relief after the shower ordeal was over. Some of the prisoners had looked shocked at being given the chance to do so and others looked embarrassed at showering before her. But finally, all of them were freshly washed and dressed in the new bright yellow pyjama-like uniforms. These actually had sleeves that covered the entire arm, covering the ugly Azkaban tattoo.

She was now checking - Harry had been sent to clean up the Minimum Security wing with Jean - the various illnesses of the prisoners. Will was standing guard in the corner, wand at the ready in case any prisoners - however unlikely it was - tried to escape. They swapped at regular intervals as both of them had medical training.

Most of the inmates looked sullenly at her when she asked them what was wrong with them. Some insulted her and others simply refused to talk. So Hermione had resorted to diagnosing possible problems herself.

For those with rashes and cuts, she had given them cream and bandages. For the man with oozing pustule, she had given a potion. For the woman who looked feverish, she had given Dreamless Sleep, along with an antibiotic potion.

She was now treating somebody who looked like they belonged in Hogwarts, a small girl who looked like she should have been studying Potions and working out ways to evade Filch (who was one of the few 'teachers' of her era who had remained at Hogwarts). Instead, the small black-haired girl with the china doll face was here in Azkaban. Hermione opened her mouth to ask why she was in Azkaban, but then closed it, deciding that it was a rude question.

The girl looked up at Hermione as the older woman tied a bandage tightly around her arm. Her eyes were wide, almost innocent if it wasn't for the glint of ... something that shone deep in those dark brown irises. Hermione wasn't sure whether it was guilt, anger or bitterness. Maybe it was a combination of all three or maybe it was none of them. "You're wondering what I ever did to deserve Azkaban," the girl stated.

Hermione blinked in surprise. "The thought did cross my mind," she said guardedly.

In response, the girl didn't say anything but simply rolled up the sleeve of her left arm. There, on the forearm, above the ugly Azkaban mark was the even uglier Dark Mark, faded to a grey-brown now that Voldemort was vanquished. "I joined in my Seventh year," she said simply. "I'm not as young as I look. I was a year or two below you in Hogwarts. They decided that I was too young for Medium Security."

Hermione wasn't sure why, but she somehow felt that the girl wanted to say something else. She felt that something was missing from the girl's sentence, and then with a cold wave of horror, she realised what it was. Memory opened and Hermione suddenly realised that she remembered the girl from Hogwarts. She was in Ginny's year, a Hufflepuff. One day as Hermione was walking, alone, from the Great Hall, the girl brushed past her angrily and hissed Mudblood. That epithet was what was missing from her sentence. Doubtless the girl still wanted to call her that. She tightened the bandage more than was necessary, ignoring the girl's wince of pain.

Sending the girl away with a tight-lipped smile, Hermione surveyed the prisoners. Despite their new uniforms, freshly washed bodies and cleaned cuts, they were still a pathetic bunch.

Briefly, she wondered whether she could do something with these witches and wizards. Hadn't she read of certain Muggle countries using their prisoners for labour? That would certainly make good use of these witches and wizards, and would ensure that they had plentiful food and water. However, she suspected that an idea this radical wouldn't be supported in the Ministry, despite her supposedly total control of Azkaban prison.

"Hermione," said a voice at her elbow. The voice quivered.

Hermione turned and saw Jean standing there, the older woman seeming grey and ill. "What's the matter?" she said, concerned. "Do you need some water, food?" She glanced at her wristwatch. "Gosh, we've been working for a long time. Perhaps it is time for a break."

"That would be a good idea," Jean said faintly. "I don't think I can stand this smell any longer."

"Go out of the courtyard and stand by the water," Hermione ordered. "The saltwater spray should help you."

Jean nodded and walked off. Some of the prisoners watched her leave but none made a move to follow.

"If she can't stand that smell..."

Hermione started and saw that the Death Eater girl with the china doll face was speaking.

"I've had to deal with that smell for over two years!" she said, her voice rising into just below a shriek. She took a visible breath and seemed to calm down. She gave a small sneer. "Perhaps she also has Muggle parentage. I hear that it diminishes your ability to cope with difficult situations."

Repressing a desire to just cast the girl in a full body bind, Hermione said carefully, "I am Muggle-born. What are you insinuating?"

The girl gave an ingratiating smile. "Nothing, Hermione Granger, nothing." She paused. "Did you know..." she trailed off.

Despite herself, Hermione asked, "What?"

"Despite your unfortunate parentage," the girl said, "did you know that there was a small but decisive movement to initiate you into the Death Eater movement during your seventh year?"

Hermione had certainly known no such thing. She was astounded - to put it mildly. "That is ridiculous." Inside, however, she was wondering. There had been a few brief, cryptic hints during her seventh year by people who she'd suspected to be Death Eater sympathisers.

"I couldn't agree more," the girl said icily. "But as I said, there was a small and rather influential group." She gave Hermione a slight, rather enigmatic smile. "Perhaps we would have won if more had listened. I would tell you more, but now," she pointed towards the building and Hermione saw Harry walking towards them, "you seem too busy. Also, in case you were wondering, my name is Rebecca Wang."

Hermione had been wondering what the girl's name was and now she watched the small figure disappear into the group of prisoners who seemed to stand there aimlessly. "What's the matter, Harry?" she said, more sharply than she intended when Harry neared.

"We've almost finished the Minimum Security wing," Harry said. "There wasn't really that much to do, mainly normal stuff, really." He hesitated for a moment before saying, 'I read all the names pinned outside the cells and I couldn't help noticing that Snape wasn't among them."

"I'm not surprised. He's in the Medium Security wing," Hermione said. To her surprise, she thought she could detect a note of sympathy in Harry's tone of voice.

"What's the Medium Security wing like?" Harry asked after a short pause.

"Worse." There really wasn't any other word she could use to describe it. She looked around and saw Jean coming back in the gate. "Look, if you're curious, go and see the Medium Security wing for yourself. If you can get Snape to talk, then good for you. And Harry," she grabbed his arm, "remember that he did fight on our side. He even saved my life."

"As if I could forget," he said bitterly. "But don't forget that he also tried to make my years at Hogwarts as miserable as possible."

"Shouldn't those two cancel each other out? Or do you value my life so cheaply?" Seeing that Harry couldn't come up with a response, Hermione pushed him towards the Medium Security wing. "Look, Jean and I will put the prisoners back in their cells. Go see for yourself and then tell me if Snape deserves it."

With a nod, Harry walked away.

-

With no small amount of apprehension, Harry walked towards the Medium Security wing of Azkaban prison. Arriving at the door, he steeled himself before pushing it open. Immediately, his nostrils were assaulted by a smell far worse than what he'd just experienced in the Minimum Security section. Taking deep breaths through his mouth, Harry tried to ignore the smell, but it seemed to pervade and sink into his clothes, his hair, even the pores of his skin.

The corridors of the Medium Security wing were much the same as the Minimum Security wing, except the prisoners. As Harry walked, he couldn't see any prisoner who looked even as good as the worst of the Minimum Security section. Walking slowly, he looked at every name beside every cell until he came to:

Severus Arius Snape, Death Eater, overzealous use of an Unforgivable curse.

Harry looked down and saw a file propped up against the wall, obviously placed there by Hermione. Kneeling down, Harry picked it up and opened it. Inside was then a detailed account, including witness statements, of the final battle as well as preceding battles. It gave Harry a cold feeling to read Lucius Malfoy's witness statement that Snape was a Death Eater. He wondered whether there was a similar witness statement next to Malfoy's cell with Snape's statement instead.

Still trying to ignore the smell, Harry stepped up to the dark, dank cell and peered inside through the bars. At first, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he couldn't make out anybody, but then he saw what he first thought was a small bundle of rags huddled in a corner.

"Snape?" he asked. "Is that you?" Harry then kicked himself for the stupidity of the statement. Who else could it be?

There was no response.

Harry examined the floor of Snape's cell and realised that it was different from the floors of the other cells. There were more bowls of water, for one, and there was actually a half-finished bowl of rice lying there. In the other cells, the bowls seemed to be licked clean. Hermione must have given him extra food, Harry thought. Part of him was glad she had done so and part of him wished that she hadn't. Despite the fact Snape had fought on their side and had saved Hermione's life, Harry could still feel a twinge of bitterness as he remembered what the older man made his Hogwarts' years like.

Still, looking at the small huddled figure now, Harry felt a twinge of sympathy. Yes, Snape had humiliated him during school, but never to this extent.

He had almost given up and walked away when he heard a small hoarse croak from the corner. "Granger?"

"No, unfortunately not," Harry said. "It's me, Harry Potter."

"Potter."

Snape didn't seem able to do more than simply say single words, but he seemed lucid and responsive at least.

"I'm part of Hermione's team to help clean up Azkaban," Harry said, not knowing what else to say. He had wanted to confront the man for five years about Snape's bitter, unreasonable hatred of him, but now that he was in front of him, he just couldn't say it. The small huddle in the corner wasn't the same as the towering, bat-like creature who taunted him during his schooling years.

"Good," Snape said faintly.

"Hermione says that she'll get you out of there soon," Harry said softly. "But not in a way that arouses suspicion in the other prisoners."

"So she said," Snape managed to say, though the words were mangled and barely comprehendible. His voice seemed to have changed during his incarceration in Azkaban and was now a far cry from the clearly heard, sneering tones of Harry's Hogwarts' years.

Harry wasn't sure he could stand here asking questions or making small talk with a man who could - or would - only give short croaked responses and whom he hated and hated him. He mumbled an excuse and then walked off quickly, wanting to be away from the stench of death permeating the wing.

Once outside, Harry leant against the stone walls and breathed a sigh of relief. Although there was still a faint smell outside, it was now overlaid with scents of clean clothing, soap and medicine, and far better than inside.

"Still determined that Snape rot in there?" Hermione asked as she came up beside him.

Harry didn't answer her question. "So you put all the prisoners back in their cells?"

She nodded, although there was a glint in her eyes that said she wasn't finished discussing Snape's welfare. "Jean and Will are talking to the house elves about dinner right now." Her mouth was set in a thin line as she said these words.

"House elves?" Harry was surprised.

"Yes," Hermione said wearily. "Azkaban has house elves. How else did you think the prisoners got their food before? They were ordered to only provide the minimum sustenance before, but that is going to be rectified. We will also get our food from them." She let out a long tired breath. "I'm not going to pretend that I'm happy about there being house elves, but I can't see any other way we can feed the prisoners."

"We could cook ourselves," Harry said dryly.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

-

That night, sitting in his own room, Harry wondered for the tenth time that day why he had agreed to this job. To be stuck on a tiny little out of the way island that was home to a prison wasn't exactly the best of career options. It was ridiculous, almost. He wondered what all four of them would do once all the initial clean up was done. He didn't really think that there was enough to do on the island, what with the house elves and the magic dampeners and everything.

But the initial cleanup, Harry suspected, was going to take longer than he first thought. The Medium Security wing was far worse than he had suspected and from the stony expression on Hermione's face whenever somebody mentioned the Maximum Security wing, he wasn't very hopeful.

A wry smile curled his lips. It was more likely than not that Hermione would continue to campaign the Ministry for other changes to Azkaban after she was sure that all of her charges were medically sound. It would be rather difficult for any campaign to take hold from such a remote position, especially with the restrictions on her travel privileges, but Harry thought that would probably only make her more determined.

The small, low set of buildings, hurriedly constructed by the Ministry, housed the four of them. The house elves took up the fourth wing of the prison. Other than them and the house elves, there were only prisoners on the island.

Harry shivered.

A sudden tapping on his window made him jump. Getting up, he walked over to the tiny window and unlatched it. "Hedwig!" he exclaimed.

The snowy owl nipped his finger gently as he reached for the letter in her claws. She flew around his room once before flying back out of his window. Harry vowed to ask the house elves the next day for some seeds and water for Hedwig.

He looked at the letter and realised that it was from Ron.

The door opened and Hermione poked her head in. "Did I hear Hedwig?" she asked.

Harry nodded. The walls between their rooms were terribly thin. It would probably be their next priority after all the prisoners had been checked over to make their living quarters into a better place. A bubble around it to block out smells would help, he thought, wrinkling his nose. "It's from Ron," he said, waving the letter.

Hermione walked in and closed the door behind her. "What'd he say?"

"I haven't read it yet. I'll read it aloud for you."

Their old friend had gone on to quite a prominent position in the Ministry. He was the Deputy Head of the Department of Security, a new department created in the wake of the Voldemort Wars and the ensuing Muggle obsession with 'terrorism'. It was no longer enough for the entire Ministry to be bothered with keeping the wizarding world under wraps. The Ministry was getting too bureaucratic and it had become essential to create an individual department to deal with that matter. As Harry remembered, it was the predecessor to the current Minister who had established the department.

"Dear Harry (and Hermione)," Harry read from the letter. "How are you guys coping with living at Azkaban? I hope that the job is as fulfilling as you hoped it would be, Hermione."

"It's perfectly fulfilling," Hermione interrupted.

Harry wrinkled his nose at her and continued reading: "We've managed to stop some close calls with the Muggles in recent days but one of our junior employees had the bright idea to blame some of the explosions on known Muggle 'terrorist' organisations. The Muggles seem to buy it.

"However, I can't say that it seems so rosy on the domestic front. Corley is certainly a very charismatic man but some of my older contacts who remember the first Voldemort War say that he reminds them of Voldemort when he first rose. I'm not saying that Corley is Dark or anything, I'm sure he isn't. He's actually a very nice man, but I'm getting scared of the laws he's been passing lately. There was a new one yesterday, The Media Accuracy Act, or rather as it has been called by some, The Media Suppression Act.

"Corley does seem somewhat better than the apathetic Ministers we've had recently. But I don't trust him. All I can say is that the training that they gave me before I entered the Security Department is making me mighty suspicious of him.

"I hope that things in Azkaban turn out well for both of you. I'll write if there are any other matters that pop up as I'm sure that you guys don't really have time to read newspapers - not that they are getting less Ministry-leaning.

"Your friend,

"Ron."

"He sounds really worried," Hermione said after a short silence. A small smile played about her mouth. "Funny, isn't it? He's changed so much since school. I would have never imagined Ron so be so fired up over security or the policies of the Ministry."

"We've all changed," Harry said quietly.

"I doubt Corley is another Dark Lord," Hermione said decisively. "I've met him. He is charismatic, though, and certainly has his own ideas about what to do."

Harry let out a slow breath. He wondered whether Ron was overreacting, whether he was turning into another Mad Eye Moody who jumped at his own shadow. After all, he had heard that the entrance requirements to the Department of Security were very stringent and more than one prospective entrant had ended up in St. Mungo's for a few weeks. "I'm going to write to some of the old crowd and see what they think about the Minister's policies," Harry said. "Ron may be right."

"Or," Hermione said practically, voicing Harry's silent concerns, "he may simply be overreacting. Anyway, we have more pressing matters." She got up from where she was sitting on Harry's small bed and walked to the door. "I'll see you tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. We still have a lot to do. We'll start on the Medium Security wing tomorrow. I suspect it'll take us more than a few days; there are more people, for one."

"Okay, good night." Harry watched as the door was shut softly. He then turned back and looked at the letter, re-reading it.