What a Wonderful World

Chapter One:
A Change in Character

"...is this what it feels like to rot away
while still being alive...?"

- Aldous Byron Bardorba (Vagrant Story)

He sat up abruptly in his bed, hearing the loud creaking it made under his weight. The soft, white sheets brushed lightly against his naked torso, their crisp coolness contrasting greatly with his heated skin. He roughly brushed aside the stray strands of hair that hampered his vision, rubbing his eyes furiously as if that would drive the dreams away. Those bloody dreams that did nothing but haunt him every night of his life ever since he came here.

He breathed deeply, not minding the ghastly stench that lingered in the place. When he calmed down, he drew the sheet tightly around his waist, using it as makeshift clothing to cover himself from the audience that didn't exist. Tentatively, he stood up, albeit unsteadily, and crossed the short space from his bed to the small square-shaped window in the room's corner.

He looked out at the barren land that surrounded his home. He used to hate this place. He still did, actually. When he started living here, he hated it with a passion borne from the difference it presented from the palace that used to be his home. He slept in a singles bed that had springs that creaked as if they would fall off any second. Walls barren, furniture scarce, floors dirty, and with only a single window to see the outside world in, his hate for it grew to the point where he loathed it. It confined him, this ugly and desolate place; imprisoned him as if he was some criminal that wrecked havoc in the world that they all lived in...

...which he did, of course, and everyone knew it. Wasn't that the reason he was in Azkaban? The place every person who had a knowledge of the wizarding world considered as their most formidable prison? Five long years of living in this place... it really does wonders to one's personality. It makes you fucked up even more so than you already are.

He had survived five years and retained his sanity for one and one reason only. Dementors don't exist anymore and have, therefore, left the sanctity of their former abode. No prisoner here suffers from their effects any longer and he was still wondering if that a good or bad thing. On one hand, the screams of frustration, insanity and despair divulged to him as a child were present no longer, but on the other, he was left with his sanity intact and was constantly reminded of the shit that was now his life. Perhaps insanity would have been a wise choice to take. It frees one from the constraint of living in this harsh world, and lets you live in a world that you want.

At first, his only thoughts were to be free from this place and never be bothered by it again. He wanted to live in his manor again, the place where he had grown up and spent the majority of his life before Hogwarts came into the picture. He wanted to be rich again, spoiled, bratty, served hand and foot by a hundred slaves, with money enough to buy anybody, and power to threaten even high-ranking officials. He wanted to sneer at people in disgust and rub in their faces just how fortunate he was of having his name. The name that provided him with all the things anybody could ever hope to want. He wanted people to turn their heads at the mere mention of his name, all because of the power it exuded and the reputation it held. He wanted to have it all back, all of it! And everyone be damned, he would have it back again. All. Of. It.

But now, when it seemed as if his wish would actually come true, it was as if everything he had ever yearned for vanished. Five years was a long time to be away. Azkaban rarely got any news and he had no idea how the outside world looked apart from the view his little window provided. Everyone was happy now, because perfect Potter was able to save them from the dreaded Dark Lord. He didn't want to live in a world where perfect Potter ruled. He'd prefer it here, where everything was lifeless, than in a world where he had to look up to that shit for support.

If they pressured him to do so, he'd make them regret it. He'd resurrect his name, bringing with it all his initial wealth and power, until he could crush them like little ants in a playground filled with restless kids. No one pushed him to do what he didn't want to do. No one commands those who hold his name. They would realize soon that he was always the one who holds the strings, and what he said goes. They are nothing more than mere puppets in his play.

Vaguely, he realized that the sun had risen in the horizon, the light spreading slowly upon the vacant space that loomed in his vision. Even in that beauty of the newly risen sun, the place continued to be nothing more than a barren area, fit for nothing or no one but those who are of no use to the society. Exactly what society think of him and his "kind" they would have said.

Softly, the unlocking of the bars, and then the disrupting sound of leather on concrete assaulted his hearing. He walked back to his bed, hearing the springs creak once more, and realized this would be the last time would ever hear it. Must I be damn happy about that, or just fucking indifferent? he thought, eyeing every corner of the room that had served as his home. He'd never see it again, he was sure. This barren place would be nothing more than a memory. He settled on indifference - that overrated condition. Overrated for him, because that's the only emotion he was ever good at.

Not bothering to dress up, he waited there for the guard that he knew would stop outside his cell. Come to whisk him away to one of those boring, white-washed Ministry buildings that contained nothing but boring documents, papers and people that lead boring, tedious lives living off meager pay and living in meager houses that could only be paid by their meager salaries. It was a place that would never suit him.

The silhouette of a person appeared behind the bars, and his eyes looked at that direction.

"Draco Malfoy. Someone has come here to see you," a gruff voice said, disdain obvious in his tone. He sneered at Draco, but all he got in return was a blank stare, as if he was not worth being paid attention to. The jailer scowled. "You're free."

Fucking Ministry, the thought couldn't help but cross his mind. How he loathed them.

Standing beside the polished oak desk that was their superior's, he surveyed her intently, watching for any sort of emotion that he had been hoping to see from the very beginning of this meeting. She sat in front of him, hands on the chair's side, and back as straight as a rod. She stared in front of her with an almost unblinking stare that it made him feel as if their superior would burn at the intensity of it. Her uniform was crisp and perfect, and so was her hair. Her manner and posture exuded confidence and strength, and her eyes conveyed the depth of training she had.

She was their best Auror, and she was also his best friend. But somehow, looking at her now, he couldn't seem to find the bossy, know-it-all girl that ended up as a faithful friend after an incident in the girl's bathroom in their first Hogwarts year. Where was she, he wondered, the girl who was his closest girl friend. He couldn't seem to find her now, whatever he did. She was sitting in front of him, but he couldn't see her anywhere. She had changed, he knew, and he was afraid he had lost her forever. A common trend in his life, it seemed. An unwanted trend. He hated it.

"Yes, Sir," she said, and he can't help but notice that it held no emotion whatsoever.

Harry broke his train of thought and focused his attention on the man sitting beside him. It bothered him intensely, this blankness of hers. Even when she answered, her eyes failed to light with the light they held in her youth. That burning fire of intelligence and desire for more knowledge. At that time, her eyes remained blank, empty, emotionless, like the person that she is now. What happened, Hermione?

"As you know, there is a newly formed group bent on the destruction of every single one of the former Dark Lords followers," the crisp voice of their superior cut sharply through the room, and Hermione nodded in response. "They wanted those Death Eaters re-trialed and given the death sentence and they want to head the act of execution. They said this would prevent them from gathering together and building another group to serve another lord."

Harry scowled. He had heard of this new faction, but had never realized how serious it had gotten. He had disagreed with their objectives. Merciless mass killing of all the former Death Eaters would only place the Ministry on the same wavelength as those Death Eaters they wanted to kill. What would that accomplish? It would only prove to be a bothersome task and would result in the people's mistrust. And frankly, Harry was tired of it all. He didn't want to see any more killings. Weren't the casualties of the last war enough?

"However, many private human organizations expressed their disapproval at this movement, and forcefully made their point of giving them one last chance. A select few of the imprisoned Death Eaters had been given to their respective Aurors. The job is to monitor their attitude and daily lives outside in the society. They have to prove their worth and that their presence is nothing to be afraid of. Yours would be released today, and the two of you are to meet later in Mr. Potter's office. Understood?"

"Yes, sir." Hermione answered passively. Harry was starting to worry about her. With the amount of hate she had expressed in the battles previous to the imprisonment of the Death Eaters, one would hardly believe this was the same person who had just accepted the job of taking care of one with no emotion in her face. If she was hiding them, Hermione was one hell of an actress. He was afraid she might explode any moment if she continued holding it up.

"Mr. Potter will give you the briefing of your job, as well as the detailed explanation of this job's objectives. Dismissed."

Hermione stood up, gave a curt sign of respect and promptly turned to exit the room. Harry followed her hurriedly, and clasped her hand in the hallway, leading her to his office for a brief conversation. She didn't resist, but she wasn't all that willing either. She just let him drag her across hallways and bends until they reach the polished and padded room with the brass plating with the words, 'Harry Potter' embossed in gold.

They sat quietly in the inner room, the one for private matters. Harry looked at her intently, trying to read the blank eyes that stared back. Such emotionless eyes, so different from how they had been - filled with life, filled with fire, filled with the desire for knowledge and yearning to help friends. Everything was just blank now.

"Are you okay with this?" he asked quietly, his eyes filling with concern. "He is a Death Eater, Hermione, and well..." he trailed off, not knowing the proper way to bring up her actions at the previous war without things becoming uncomfortable. Seeing no sign of discomfort from her, he sighed and let it drop. Looking at her face, all the things that had happened might as well have been a nightmare. "I have a feeling you will be less inclined when you realize who this person is."

"I know who he is," she answered, looking him squarely in the eye. "You don't have to worry. I promise I won't kill him. That would go against the Ministry protocol and someone wouldn't like it."

"That's not what I'm worried about, Hermione!" Harry answered harshly. "I'm worried about you, can't you see? Are your eyes so covered you don't even see this? I-We... You hardly tell us anything, Hermione and... I... worry, that's all."

"You shouldn't. I am perfectly fine," she said, standing up and heading towards the door. With her back turned towards him, and her hand on the knob, she added, "There's much time before he gets here. If you'll excuse me, I'll take my leave for a moment. I'll be back one hour before the meeting. Please brief me then."

She opened the door and was gone, her steps echoing on the floor.

Inside, Harry was filled with despair. Cold, frank, to the point, emotionless - that was the Hermione that she was now. Where was the girl that was filled with life when they were young? The girl whose eyes burned with fire almost as much as she breathed? He couldn't see her now. No matter how he tied. She seemed like smeone else entirely.

You've changed so much, Hermione, he thought sadly, as his head dropped in his hands, listening to the sound of a closing door. What would it take to get you back?