Faster, Mudblood! Kill! Kill!

Faster, Mudblood! Kill! Kill!

Chapter One: Rhoda Rhodes

"No, no, no," Fudge said, tossing a few papers around on his desk for effect.

"I'm busy, Marcy. Tell that woman that I cannot, under any circumstances

whatsoever, see any members of the press today."

"But sir!" Marcy squeaked, clutching her hands together. "She's from Witch

Weekly!"

Fudge gave a gruff snort of contempt. "So what? That's a chick-rag, innit?

Not even legitimate press, if you ask me...."

"Witch Weekly is a magazine about personalities, sir, and only the best and the

brightest qualify for their spotlight. She probably wants to do a profile on

you! You may even be in the running for their yearly "best smile" award!"

Marcy bounced at the knees a little, a few sticky curls falling over her

forehead as she lost all composure, looking quite starry-eyed at the possibility

of being secretary to a Witch Weekly award-winner--not to say that being

secretary to the Minister of Magic wasn't impressive in its own right, but

politics weren't nearly as glamourous as paparazzi these days.

"Best smile, you say?" Fudge asked, curious now. He did happen to possess the

most expensive ivory dentures that galleons could buy. And with all the

speculative chit-chat about You-Know-Who's return circulating in the Daily

Prophet for the last few years, he supposed it couldn't hurt to get a leg up in

the popularity polls. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, wondering if he ought to

grow a benevolent, graying beard before they shot his front page spread. Beards

always seemed to say good things about a man--or that's how they always seemed to

work for old Merlin and Albus Dumbledore, anyway.

"Hmm. Send her in, then. Only FIVE MINUTES, Marcy. And then you get back in

here and usher her out, right?"

"Yes, sir!" Marcy scurried away, beaming.

Right then. Only answer two or three questions, boy. And do NOT let her bully

you into talking about You-Know-Who. You are the boss, and best keep that in

mind. Make sure SHE keeps it in mind, too.

A succinct, business-like knock came on the office door, announcing the

reporter's arrival. "Come in," Fudge called, arranging himself in a large,

high-backed chair, its leather upholstery so slippery that he nearly slithered

right off.

And then she entered. Or charged, rather.

Fudge had been expecting a fresh-faced intern type; some flat-titted, simpering,

gossip-bursting bird with a cheap Quick-Quotes-Quill in one hand and a jug of

diet pumpkin juice in the other. Someone rather likeMarcy, perhaps. Instead,

he was faced with--

"Rhoda Rhodes," the woman barked, clipping towards his desk at an alarmingly

swift pace--though how she managed it on six-inch stiletto heels was a wonder,

indeed. Her hair was a curtain of blinding peroxide blonde, one long coil

lazily falling over her doe-like eyes in a decidedly Veronica Laketouch. As

she trotted over, Fudge felt beads of sweat announce themselves on his forehead.

The woman was outfitted in a Muggle-style dress suit so tight that it seemed

shellacked onto her body, and the ample flesh of her bosom jiggled up and out of

the low-cut jacket as she moved, her tiny waist pivoting below--surely too small

to support such...er... generous décolletage.

"Rhoda Rhodes, I said. You deaf or somethin?"The woman thrust a hand out in

front of Fudge's rather shocked face. "Quit drawinflies and shake my hand

awready!" Dully, Fudge noted that she had a very strong, brusque American

accent. Tentative, he slowly held out his hand and nearly cried out when she

crushed it into her own, shaking so heartily that it seemed his shoulder might

wrench loose at the socket.

"Pleasure to meetcha, Corny. Got a problem if I call you Corny? Good--didn't

think so..."

Corny? To his great displeasure, Fudge didn't have time to object as the woman

barreled onward.

"So anyways, I'm here on behalf of Witch Weekly to humbly request a

Ministry-approved press pass into Azkabanso that we might interview Draco

Malfoy, the playboy heir to the Malfoy fortune," she said, sitting her

voluptuous rear on the edge of his desk, then crossed and re-crossed those

endlessly long legs, tapping her sharp, talon-like fingernails in an uneven

rhythm as she spoke.

"What?" Fudge sputtered. "Press pass? You're here for a press pass?"

"Hell-o! That's what I just said, ain'tit? Dig the wax outtayer ears, Corny.

Yes, I need a stinkin press pass. All the young--and not so young--Witches of

Britainand Europe are dyin to hear what Mister Malfoy has to say about life in

prison. We've recently voted him "Most Eligible Inmate", which seems fair,

seein as how he won "Best Smile" last year..." She paused for a moment, her

enormous blue eyes watering as she looked off distantly. "I can see it now. A

whole issue dedicated to Draco Malfoy...the boy who was incarcerated for love!"

"Here now," Fudge protested, finally rising to his feet. "Draco Malfoy received

a seven-year sentence in Azkaban for good reason--and he received a fair trial,

mind you. I'll be glad to have you know that I won't allow just anyone to waltz

into Azkabanand treat him like a bloody celebrity!"

Rhoda Rhodes bounced to her feet--and bounce she did, causing Fudge's eyes to

similarly pop in astonishment. "Now listen here, Mister Whoozie-Whatsit!" she

said, her voice taking on a shrill note. "Draco Malfoy already is a celebrity,

like it or not. And there are plenty of folks hopin mad that your Ministry had

the balls to up and throw the book at him..."

Throw the book at him?

"AND..." she said, taking in a deep breath. "If you want the public on your good

side, Corny--which I think you do--then I suggest you not hide Britain's Most

Eligible Inmate under a bushel."

"What are you implying?" Fudge asked, frowning.

"What I mean..." She paused for another breath, and Fudge deepened his frown.

"...Is that you and your compadreswon't look so hot to the public if you don't

start showing some Grade-A sympathy towards Mister Malfoy. The wizarding world

has already got ants in their pants over this You-Know-Who business, but reading

about DracoMalfoy will give them something nice to think about. Put a little

shot of sunshine into their otherwise shit-on-a-stick days. You catch my

meaning here, Corny?"

"Yes, Miss Rhodes, but--"

"No buts!" she huffed, and then quickly snatched a small object from her jacket

pocket, thrusting it rudely in Fudge's direction. "Unless you'd like to tell my

wireless how LuciusMalfoy really died."

Fudge stared at the little magic recording device that she was fingering, and

realized with slow, hazy submission that she might have very well been recording

him from the moment she entered. Hmm. What a dilemma.

"Very well," he finally said, and was surprised to see relief fill her hardened

face, which was made up to mask-like perfection but struck him as eerily

beautiful nonetheless. She flipped a flaxen coil out of one long-lashed eye and

smiled at him, her lips shiny and coral-coloured. He doubted he would have

refused her request, even if she hadn't threatened him with the wireless.

Blonde cream pies were, after all, his favorite dessert.

He fumbled through desk drawers until he found a press-pass, which he filled out

to Rhoda Rhodes, Columnist for "Witch Weekly", and quite happily handed it over.

"Thanks a million, Corny!" she exclaimed, beaming at him. "You won't be sorry."

"You're welcome, Miss Rhodes," he said, and felt compelled to place a hand on

her heaving shoulder. "And if you'd ever like to...ah...interview me, I'd be most

happy to oblige. I've always gotten along well with the American Ministry, as

you probably know--always wanted to see America, actually..." He trailed off,

staring appreciatively into the inviting valley of her supple, decedent

cleavage.

Unexpectedly, her eyes narrowed. "You want to see America, do you? Well you

won't find it down there, Columbus!"

He stepped back, eyes a-goggle. "Pardon me? I only meant that you're welcome

here at the Ministry any time. Any time at all, really."

"Yeah, I'll bet I am!" She snorted, looking quite livid as she pocketed her

wireless and the prized press-pass. "You can expect to see my mug around

here...well, never! Adios, Corny-boy. Have a nice life."

And with that, she stomped out, oddly teetering a bit on her stilettos as she

went.

***

On a cramped street, located just at the edge of an East London warehouse

district, Rhoda Rhodes parked her tin-can convertible just outside a

brick-fronted shop, the windows of which were so astonishingly dusty that a

hand-lettered sign, reading Crookshanks' Private Investigations--No Job too

Small!, was barely legible through the wavy, aged glass. Jamming the clutch

until it made a rude noise, Rhoda finally pulled the parking break and hopped

out of the vehicle, blonde tresses held back by a silk scarf, her expression

unreadable behind a pair of dark sunglasses.

Entering the shop sent a door-chime ringing: Ching-a-ling-a-ling! Behaving as

if she owned the place, Rhoda tossed her purse on a nearby desk, surveying the

sparsely decorated room with her hands firmly anchored on her hips.

"Coming!" A voice came, muffled by a thick curtain that fell over a doorway at

the back of the room. "Hang on, be right there!"

With that, Ron Weasley pushed through the curtain, absent-mindedly shuffling

through several parchments as he did so. "There now, what can I do for you?" he

finally asked, looking up at Rhoda Rhodes.

"Hey there buddy boy," Rhoda drawled, peering at him over her glasses.

Ron jumped visibly, a leaf of parchment slipping from his fingers. "Fuck

almighty, Hermione! Why in hell are you still tartedup like that?"

Hermione smiled, shaking the scarf and glasses loose. "Just thought I might

give you a fright. Looks like I succeeded." She bent over and hiked her

already-short skirt up a little, pulling her wand from one garter and waving it

at her stilettos, which abruptly shrank to a more reasonable, ankle-healthy

height. "Argh...feels just corking to shrink down these shoes," she muttered.

"You drove all the way home in those, then?" Ron asked, looking aghast. "And

dressed like that, too? Please tell me you had the top up."

"There's no use in owning a convertible and driving around with the top up,

Ron," she said, pulling a crumpled tissue from her pocket and swiping at her

heavily-colouredlips. "That's what you get for telling me to live a little."

"I think I told you that in our fifth year." This delivered flatly.

"See how much I treasure your advice!" She reached out and gave his cheek a

not-so-tender pinch, her heavy bosom shifting noticeably as she did so.

"Erm...forgetting something there, aren't you?" Ron asked, pointing. "Or two

somethings, I should say."

"Say, I almost forgot about those," Hermioneremarked, staring down at her

massive breasts in wonder. "A fact which honestly frightens me a bit." She

delivered an anti-engorgement charm to all her temporarily enhanced assets,

which left her sadly proportionate and in possession of a decidedly unremarkable

English-girl behind. But her dress fit loads better, enabling her to breathe

normally. The wig she left on, being rather fond of its honeyed, Sylph-like

effect. She had recently took inventory to discover that she owned more fake

hair than Divine or Cher combined, a statistic which didn't disturb her nearly

as much as she supposed it should.

"Well?" Ron asked, looking impatient. "Are you going to tell me what happened,

or should I wait for the Daily Prophet's version of the events?"

"Keep your knickers on," Hermionesaid, proudly producing the Press Passfrom

her dress pocket. "My research into Fudge was right on spot--a complete

bombshell fetishist, especially fond of the domineering yank types. But I had

to give him a dose of the wireless, too. Which worked beautifully, I might

add."

A grin faintly played on Ron's features. "So it worked, did it? Fred and

George will be happy to hear that."

"Tell them Rhoda Rhodes sends her regards," Hermione quipped. "Now we can

sashay right into Akaban, no questions asked. Better yet, no illegal use of

magic to alert the Auror brigade."

Ron made a sour face, settling back into a rusty folding chair--one of the few

pieces of furniture in the room. "I find it amusing that you're so

extraordinarily careful about using magic illegally, yet have no problem

whatsoever when it comes to bilking the Minister of Magic with cheap disguises."

"Hey!" she protested, re-pocketing the Press Pass. "Rhoda is not cheap. This

suit is Yves St. Laurent. Second-hand, but still!"

"Okay, okay..." Ron held up his hands. "You might want to keep Rhoda handy for a

while, anyway. We may need more than that Press Pass to get us into Azkaban."

"What? Why's that?"

Ron frowned, re-shuffling through his pile of parchments. "Dumbledore owled me

this morning about those recent security changes that the Ministry has planned.

Turns out they have at least three wizards working on the Islandnow--and that's

in addition to the Dementors. Anyway...the wizards aren't too fond of the Press,

you might say, what with everyone being so nervous about the Ministry's

continued use of Dementors in the first place. Even Ministry-approved reporters

have been turned away at the gates."

"Well bugger that," Hermionecomplained, slumping onto a stool. "Do we even

know who's in charge?"

Ron shook his head. "No. But Andy should know."

"Andy!" Hermione brightened considerably. "Oh Andy, where would we be without

you?" She bounced off the stool, not waiting for Ron to follow as

she made her way to the curtained doorway that led to the back room.

While the front half of Crookshanks' Private Investigations served as a cover

for Richard and Helen Crookshanks, Muggle investigators into the world of

respectable suburban crime and intrigue, the back half revealed the real state

of affairs: Ron and Hermione'svery own self-started spy ring--or that's how

Hermione liked to think of it, anyway. Ron, having not seen a Double-Oh-Seven

flick until well into his teens, preferred to think of both of them as rogue

Aurors, blatantly giving the Ministry the finger as they dealt with underhanded

crime operations, per Dumbledore and the Order's command. Ever since the close

of their Fifth Year--after the Ministry had finally been forced into admitting

that You-Know-Who was, indeed, back to full power--the Ministry had continued to

flouderin half-truths, still bent on keeping the public in the dark for as long

as they could.

The back half of Crookshanks' revealed Hermione's and Ron's true devotion:

Marauder-like moving maps of Hogsmeadeand Diagon Alley were tacked up to a

bulletin board, along with several important bits of parchment bearing

Dumbledore's signature. Two library tables were shoved together, creating a

double-sized work station, and dozens of shelves groaned under the weight of

Hermione's long-suffering book collection. The real Crookshanksnapped on a

cushion under the window, and the only thing on Hermione's tidy library table,

aside from quills and parchment, was a small, up-right cauldron.

"Morning, Andy!" Hermione called, and the cauldron bubbled in response, casting an umbra of

faint, purplish smoke.

"Mmmorning," the cauldron slurred. Hermionesat down before it, smiling at the

faint, shifting face that dappled across the cauldron's liquid surface.

Shortly after Hermione left Hogwarts, the Ministry had come under attack for

their antiquated modus operandi regarding Very Important Paperwork. Still using

disorderly file cabinets and flying Intredepartmental memos, the Ministry had

finally quaked under pressure to install a more secure, Muggle-like computer

system--a wizardingversion of computers that would thankfully lack the messy and

imprecise technology of chips, motherboards, and bandwiths. Hermione, along

with Arthur and the Weasley twins, had been instrumental in the development of

the Compu-Cauldron prototype--a literal fountain of information that was designed

on the same basic premise behind pensieves. All of the old Ministry files were

contained--along with the new--in a network of cauldrons that never left the

Ministry headquarters. Of course, Hermionehad nicked the original prototype

before she'd been kicked off the project (accused of snooping through the files,

of all things--which was exactly what she had been doing, of course). That was

how she came to possess Andy.

"What's your most recent file on Azkabanstaffing, Andy?"

The cauldron bubbled for a moment, as if thinking. "Here it isss," he finally

said, popping faintly. "Admissssion date: Ten...One...Two-thousand."

The date Draco Malfoy was sentenced, if my memory is still intact, Hermione

thought, absently tugging at her faux locks.

"The file is an owl mmmemo, Hermioneee. From Corneilusss Fudge to the Dark

Force DefenssseLeague."

Hermione nodded. "Lets hear it."

"Dear Sirsss. I have sent two additional Junior Ministersss of Security to aide

in preventing further failings within the Azkabannn Security System. As you

know, our upcoming changes in Azkabannn security require that we keep a lid on things

--ssso to ssspeak--now more than ever. I trussstyou understand me. Expect

the arrival of Sean Barrett and your new senior, Arlan Brewssster, within the

week. Signed, CorneilusssFudge, Minister of Magic."

"Arlan Brewster?" Hermione paused, quite stumped. She had never heard of the

man. "Andy, if the other network cauldrons aren't too busy right now, could you

please ask them if they have any information on an 'Arlan Brewster'? Personal

tid-bits would be most useful."

Andy brewed silently for a few minutes as he conducted his search, then finally

spoke up again: "Cauldron 14H--who prefersssto be called Sheila--claimsss to

have both heard and seen Mister Brewssster asking for the privledgeof Missss

Hannah Abbott's company on the evening of Seven...Nine...Two-thousand."

Hannah Abbott? Well, I guess that about sums up the bloke's taste in women.

Looks like I'll at least get to keep blondieon for a bit longer, then.

"What did Andy say?" Ron interrupted, peering through the curtain.

"I'd best keep my head up for one ArlanBrewster. Has a thing for Hannah Abbott

types, if you can believe it."

"Good night! Well, that ought to be easy, at least."

Hermione shot him a withering look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ron rolled his eyes. "Look, I know you fancy yourself a Rhoda Rhodes lifestyle,

but underneath all the nylon hair and super-spy gadgets you're at least fifty

percent Hannah Abbott. If not more."

"If you didn't pay half the rent, I'd kick you out on your lousy backside for

saying that," Hermionesaid, her face reddening. "What say you borrow my wig

and go try to flirt your six-foot-three freckled self into Azkaban? Up to the

task at all?"

Ron raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, I'm just here to dish out

the back-up. Be grateful that I'm easily satisfied by such menial tasks" he

said, letting the curtain fall shut as he backed away.

"Bastard," she muttered, shoving herself away from the table.

"I tend to agree, Hermioneee" Andy said, a bit of playful froth splashing up as

he did so.

***

For the fifth time that day, Dracowondered if this was really what the Ministry

had meant by "special conditions." His prison room was half the size of the

Manor's pantry, and contained nothing more than a narrow bed, small sink and

commode, and a cramped writing desk. Taking the dreary surroundings in, he

sighed and faced Somae DeSilver, self-consciously running a hand through his

uncharacteristically greasy hair.

"Do any of the other prisoners have better rooms than me?" He asked, speaking

loudly so his voice would travel through the magic field that separated them.

"If there are better rooms in here I want to know, straight away."

Draco's fiancée raised a single, perfectly-groomed eyebrow. "Darling, they

didn't exactly offer the hospitality tour on my way in. I have no idea what

accommodations the other prisoners have."

"Somae, I'm going nutters in here," he said, pressing his face close to the field

without actually touching it. "You're literally the first person I've seen in

weeks. Weeks! Not even a guard has walked by."

Frowning, Somae rearranged her position, running her pearly nails against the

silk collar of her robes and then casually transferring her slick fall of black

hair from one shoulder to the other. "But who brings your food, Draco? Do they

send up a house-elf?"

"No." Draco gritted his teeth. "When I said I hadn't seen a person in

weeks...what I meant was that I haven't seen anyone or anything. Three times a

day my food magically appears over there," he said, pointing at the writing desk. "But

other than that...nothing."

"Hmm," Somae cooed thoughfully, her eyes lowered. "I'll ask your mother to

visit, if you like. She's still quite depressed, but I think she'd manage the

trip...if I told her you were feeling lonely, that is. I think she should visit a

day spa first. She's neglecting herself...her hair has become so dry and

brittle, Draco. Not like yours, which frankly seems a little grease--"

"I don't need to hear your current assessment of my hair," Draco snapped, though

was privately quite devastated to learn that he looked as bad as he felt. "I

need to know what the hell is going on in this place. From the time I was a

toddler I've heard tales of how fucking miserable Azkaban was, and how if I knew

what was good for me I'd never allow myself to end up there. And now I'm here

and it's just....bizarre. There's no noise, no rustles or movements. At night

it's utterly dark and sometimes I lie in that shitty bed and think that the rest

of the world must have just dropped away..."

"Drake, that's so depressing," Somaesaid, a frown marring her cool features.

"I don't like the thought of you having such...introspective thoughts. Should I

see if Daddy can do anything?"

Relief flooded Draco's body, and he allowed himself to slump forward a bit.

"Please do...and right away, if you can. I don't care if I have to stay in this

room...I just want to see people again. I'd even welcome the sight of a Dementor

or two, seeing as how they'd at least be a reminder of why I'm here and who I

bloody well am, at that."

Somae nodded quizzically, though to her credit he thought she was doing a pretty

good job of appearing concerned--this despite the fact that she clearly had no

idea what he was going through. Across the wavering light of the security field

that separated them, he admired her from afar....or from half a metre, anyway:

the wordlessly gorgeous Somae DeSilver, twenty-four year old pureblood and

heiress to the DeSilverFortune--all of it garnered from long-dead Sullivan

DeSilver's authentication of the first knuts, sickles, and galleons that made up

the present Gringott'scurrency system. Right now, in such times of

uncertainty, he was glad she belonged to him. Must not say anything more.

Cannot allow her to see me frantic and trembling and...greasy.

"My time is up, Draco. The portkey back to mainland leaves out in five minutes.

Oh darling, tell me you'll be all right," she pleaded, her hand floating

towards him as if she were fighting the urge to touch his face.

"I'll be fine," Draco lied, smiling while at the same time finding it rather odd

that before this, he would have never lied about such things. "Give my regards

to Mum."

"Of course," Somae said, blowing a few airy kisses in his direction. "I'll see

you soon, love."

And then she was gone, leaving the horrible, oppressive silence behind her.

Like an obscene plaything, it toyed with Draco'smind; shadows--which he had once

been rather fond of, as they made good lurking places--now moved of their own

accord, jumping from corners as if on marionette strings. And even when thick

beams of sunlight leaked in through his tiny window, he felt the silence pushing

him. Pushing him in some direction he didn't want to go in.

Later that night, when the Dementorsfinally did come to him, he would find

himself wishing back that same silence--but this time saw it as a sweet, peaceful

sanctuary. A possibility of relief.

***

Hermione dropped the coveted press pass and clapped both hands over her mouth in

an attempt to quell a fast-rising wave of nausea. If there was one thing she

could live without, it was portkeys and other such lurky-jerky conceptions of

how travel should work. Give her good old floopowder and apparition any day--or

better yet, a fast car on the open road. Preferably the Autobahn. She could

take the speed of flying provided it took place low to the ground and in an

all-encompassing steel vehicle equipped with factory-approved safety belts.

Flying through the air--or even the sensation of flying through air, as

experienced via portkey--caused her stomach to twang like a twelve-foot

rubberband.

"You there! This is a restricted area!" Hermione jerked her head up and saw a

very irritated looking wizard marching towards her. She was standing in a

clearing--apparently in the middle of nowhere--and the plethora of surrounding

wards suggested that there probably wasn't a welcoming committee anywhere near

by. "Stop right there and state your business!"

Glurt?

Hermione swallowed thickly and tried to compose herself, quickly snatching up

the press pass and holding it out for the wizard to examine. Up close, she saw

that he was only a few years older than herself, though his set jaw, paired with

a sprinkling of gray hair at his temples, suggested that he was taking his

job--and life in general--far too seriously.

"A reporter? We had dozens of your kind milling around up here right after the

last big trial. A little late to get the scoop, aren't you..." he squinted at the

writing on the back of the pass. "...Miss Rhodes."

Hermione stood up straight at the sound of her undercover name. In the last

twenty-four hours, Rhoda Rhodes had undergone a drastic make-under. Now British

rather than American, her blonde wig had been arranged into a rather childish

pair of pigtails, and she wore a knee-length, navy pleated skirt and matching

blouse, white stockings, and a ridiculous white and navy polka-dot tie, which

flapped up into her face as a stiff breeze whistled through the clearing. Her

skin was free of makeup, and a pair of non-prescription glasses perched on the

end of her pert nose in a rather no-nonsense fashion. "I'm not particularly

interested in a 'scoop', Mister....?" she prompted, looking him over in a prim

manner.

"Brewster."

Cha-ching!

"Yes, Mister Brewster. I'm here for an interview. As you probably know, before

his imprisonment Draco Malfoy was somewhat of a socialite-level celebrity

amongst the readers at Witch Weekly. Women are keen to discover what Mister

Malfoy has been up to ever since his incarceration, a fact which Cornelius Fudge

duly recognizes. This is why the Minister has agreed to let me conduct my

interview, as you can see from that press pass you're holding."

Arlan Brewster squinted at the fine print, a thin frown etched on his face.

Hermione did her best to smile benignly, though she had twice almost slipped

into a Brooklynaccent as she spoke to him--shades of Rhoda trying to resurface.

Finally, Arlan was studying her over the pass, taking in her pleading,

fresh-off-the-dairy-farmexpression. "You don't look much like the other

reporters I've met," he finally said, looking vaguely suspicious. "They all own

expensive handbags and never leave the house without a muzzled photographer

walking five feet behind them."

From her vinyl purse she casually pulled out a Sure-shot Wizardmatic. "I take

my own photographs," she said, shrugging. "I prefer to work alone."

He slowly returned her smile. "So do I--that's why I asked to be transferred to

this Island in the first place."

Of course, Brewster. I'm sure that you working on a prison Island has nothing

to do with the fact that you clearly have little more social skill that a brown

paper bag.

"Well...it's rather peaceful here, isn't it?" Hermione said, looking around

uncertainly. Being quite far north, the trees on the Islandwere mostly naked,

their branches scraping upwards in an eerie simulation of what looked like

Dementor fingers. She shivered a bit at this sight, wishing she'd thought to

bring a jacket.

Brewster nodded, then reached out and tucked the press pass back into her palm.

"Follow me," he said, and began to lead her a long way into the woods, pointing

out the two-story cabin where he and two other wizards lived and worked,

"because what with the Dementors and all, the Fortress itself isn't fit for any

sort of human occupation. Right depressing place, it is."

Isn't fit for human occupation? Yet plenty of humans live here, funnily

enough.

Clearly not having had female company in some time, Brewster prattled on, now

quite animated as he led Hermione towards the base of a steep cliff. Hermione

nodded at all the appropriate moments, a demure little smile pasted across her

face.

"See, I'm of the opinion that most reporters keep photographers on a leash

because they can't stand the thought of not having someone around to listen to

their ruddy malarkey..."

"Pardon me, Mister Brewster," Hermioneinterrupted, her patience wearing thin.

"Though I'm very much enjoying this nature walk, I'd really like to be taken

straight to the fortress, if you don't mind. My editor has assigned me a very

strict deadline, you see...."

Brewster stopped and shot her a curious glance, then tilted his head and

chuckled a little. "Cor! You really are green then, aren't you? This is the

fortress, Miss Rhodes." He gestured at the cliff, and Hermione felt her mouth

drop open of its own volition. Where was the big, weathered castle she'd been

expecting? Ignoring her stupidly awed expression, Brewster pressed both hands

to the side of the cliff wall, keeping his eyes shut as he muttered quietly to

himself. Hermione felt the ground beneath her feet shudder slightly, and within

a few seconds a deep crack appeared in the rock, the cliff further dividing

itself until there was a six-foot tall fissure, just wide enough for a human to

slip through.

Hermione eyed the opening, feeling suddenly claustrophobic. "The poor Dementors

must have to crawl down on their knees in order to get through that door," she

remarked, then cursed her ill-placed joke silently; this particular incarnation

of Rhoda wasn't supposed to have a sense of humour. She was supposed to be

bland and studious. A 'swell listener'. Which half of me already is, according

to Ron, she thought bitterly.

Brewster gave her a sharp look. "The Dementors are no longer permitted to exit

the Fortress unescorted," he said sharply, and, without asking her permission

first, gently pushed her towards the cliff-opening. It was pitch black inside,

a fact that suddenly made Hermione want to ask Brewster if it was too late to be

excused, or if she could please, pretty please be allowed to run to the toilet

first. She toddled forth reluctantly, and when the cliff walls slammed shut

behind them a rush of cold air whipped up her skirt, causing pebble-sized

goosebumpsto surface down the length of her thighs. She let out a breath, not

realizing that she'd been holding it in the first place.

"Lumos," Brewster said, and torch light rose up around them, revealing that

she'd been led into to some kind of ante-chamber. In sharp contrast to the

fortress' stony interior, this room was slick and modern, outfitted with chrome,

steel, and sterile white walls.

"Before you may see the prisoner, I must ask you to leave your purse and wand in

one of these containment units," he said, very businesslike as he gestured to a

row of lockers that were lined up against one wall. "Anything else that you

want to take into the fortress must be approved by me first."

Wordlessly, Hermione gave him her wand and purse, but not before first removing

her camera, the wireless, and a small package of chocolate frogs. Brewster

studied the camera and the wireless for several minutes, tapping both objects

with his wand a few times before handing them over. "I've never seen a wireless

recorder quite like that before," he remarked, "but since it's made by

Wizardmatic, I'll let it slide this once."

Hermione shook the bag of chocolates. "Are these all right?"

He frowned. "What...expecting that you'll get hungry in there?"

"No, but in order to have a sane, lucid conversation with Mister Malfoy, I

thought these might be necessary," she said, fighting the urge to roll her eyes.

"Oh, right. Yeah, the guard can give those to him for you," he said, and she

winced at the thought of actually putting something in a Dementor's hand. Then

again--it really seemed a truly appropriate way in which to deliver a gift to

someone like Malfoy.

"Once you reach the cell you will have twenty minutes with the prisoner. No

more, no less. I will be waiting in this room for your return, and if you are

not here in twenty minutes I will summon the Dementors to remove you. During

your time with the prisoner a Dementor will remain in the hallway, though he is

under strict instruction not to feed off you...."

Feed?

"...Now, to find Mister Malfoy you must follow the hallway outside this room clear

down to the right. When you reach the door at the very end, you've come to the

right place. Show the guard your pass at that time."

"Okay," Hermione wheezed, feeling as if steel bands were tightening around her

chest. With his wand Brewster unlocked a back door and shooed her through. As

soon as she crossed the threshold, he swept the door shut behind her, sending a

jolt of numbing alarm down her spine. For several minutes she didn't move, and

instead stood foolishly at the mouth of the tunnel--knock-kneed and partially

strangled by her silly camera (which didn't even have spellofilm in it), her

wireless in one hand and a packet of fast-melting chocolate frogs in the other.

Had she ever felt more vulnerable than she did right now? She doubted it.

Wand. I want my wand, she thought, her mind bursting out the demand in the

simple way that a child would. Then she remembered...she wasn't completely

without protection.

Bending over, Hermione fished up her skirt and pulled a small blue pistol from

the hostler around her upper thigh. It was a Ladysmith .38, and--as with tampons

and credit cards--she never left home without it. Probably it was of little use

against Dementors, but the mere act of wrapping her fingers around the cool

blue steel helped her nerves and seemed to stop the frantic bucking that was

going on just beneath the surface of her skin. If there was real trouble, she

supposed she could run through the tunnels of the fortress, shooting up the

place. Hitting a few prisoners might break up the Dementors' all-you-can-eat

buffet, which would buy her some time, at least.

But that was silly; HermioneGranger didn't go around hurting people. It just wasn't her style.

Like cops on the telly, Hermione reached around and tucked the Ladysmith into

the waistband of her skirt--saftey on, of course. Then she took a few deep,

cleansing breaths and began to march forward.

***

It had begun with one Dementor. Draco had been sitting at his desk, writing out

a letter to his mother in a vain attempt to keep his mind busy. Just when he'd

been mid-sentence into a complaint about the lumpy texture of prison food, he'd

heard a soft rustle behind him. Turning at once, Draco had looked toward the

noise almost hopefully, certain he'd be glad to see anything at that point.

What he saw was a tall, cloaked figure that stayed in the shadows, and even

though he couldn't see any eyes, Draco had the distinct feeling that the

creature--a Dementor--was staring right back at him.

I want to see its eyes. I don't like that I can't see its eyes, he thought a

few times over, dimly aware that a horrible icy feeling was coursing through his

chest, spreading its fingers down through his limbs until he felt his

prison-issue quill shake and finally drop from his fingers.

Father!

His father, tumbling down the stairs--those gray eyes that were so much like his

own lashing out and holding him up in a wave of accusations.

Father, I didn't mean...

But the image wouldn't leave him; over and over he saw his father falling,

landing the same way each time, his neck wrenched at an un-natural angle. Other

faces filtered by; his mother, crying inconsolably. And, oddly enough, he saw

old Dumbledoresitting under the sorting hat, smiling at him in that usual

benign way--though even that smile brought him little comfort now.

Once the barrage of images faded and the Dementorleft him to sleep,

he found himself thinking vaguely of Harry Potter, that silly boy who'd

lived--only to full-out disappear before the start of his seventh year.

What had Potter seen in the presence of Dementors? It must have

been bad if it packed a wallop strong enough to make him up and faint.

In the years since Hogwarts Draco had thought of Potter on occasion--mostly to

wonder if the idiot had gotten himself killed yet--but these were the first

thoughts he'd had of Potter that seemed....almost empathetic in nature.

Unsurprisingly, they didn't do much to improve his mood.

Time. How much had gone by? The Dementors left him fully conscious for most of

the daylight hours, but he used that time to eat and catch up on precious sleep.

Resting a hand to his cheek told him that he had, for the first time in his

life, something close to resembling a beard. Back in the real world, Draco had

been in the habit of shaving only every other week or so--a practice that had

allowed him to keep baby-fine skin and unblemished pores. But he had been in

here long enough to grow an actual, visible beard. A month must have gone by,

at least. But the Dementorshadn't shown up until after the first two or three

weeks.

But if they can do this to me in just over a week, what can they do to me in

seven years? Or in just the next month, for that matter?

Now that it was nearing sunset, Dracoperched on the low headboard of his tiny

bed like some kind of owl, his head scanning the room for any sign of the

Dementors' approach. As soon as he heard them, he was in the habit of diving

under the blankets and pulling them tight over his head. He'd found it was

usually better if he didn't have to see them, even if he could feel them out

there, studying him with their blank, sightless faces.

Draco heard a soft movement--a footstep, it sounded like. Even though some part

of his rational mind knew that Dementors didn't make footsteps, he plunged for

the bedding anyway, throwing it over his body and muffling the fabric against

his ears. Now there was a new noise--a faint crackle and hum that he recognized

as the sound of the invisible security field being activated. He opened his

eyes, though made no move to pull off his covers. The Dementorsdidn't use the

security field. Why would they? There was nothing he could do to hurt them,

after all.

"Malfoy?"

A female voice. Not Somae's. Not his Mother's.

"Come out, come out wherever you are!"

He felt his ears twitch against his will. The woman's voice was high-pitched

and haughty in a way that struck him as disturbingly familiar.

"Are you scared of the bad Dementor? Don't worry...Ugly issupposed

to restrain himself for a few minutes so that we might chat in peace.

Provided that you're willing to stop hiding under those dirty sheets long enough

to chat..."

Now he knew who that voice belonged to. Annoyed, he clawed at the blankets and

then threw them off completely, silently cursing his miserable luck. Once free

of his bedding, he saw the woman at the other end of his cell, standing behind

the field with her hands crossed over her chest self-importantly, a weird little

half-smile playing on her features. Even with the stupid sailor outfit and

blonde hair, he knew her at once.

It was that Potter-loving Mudblood, Hermione Granger.