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Chapter Text

"How much longer is this gonna take?"

The dark brunette sighs while leaning back in the hard, screechy chair. Recklessly tilting its back legs as far as she dares to, she enjoys tempting fate to tip her flat on her arse. 

Truly, anything is better than staring at the dingy, damp walls that permeate every inch of this blasted prison, in her opinion. The only entertainment allowed for prisoners, besides watching the metal bars of her cell slowly rust or determining which scream belongs to what prisoner, is the weekly visit with a Ministry employee of their choosing.

It's fairly amusing to watch an endless stream of investigators and Aurors attempt to pry information from her brain that doesn't exist. It may have at some point, she's willing to admit, but no one would be willing to believe a self-proclaimed amnesiac.

I suggested they try Veritaserum, but that was immediately shot down. Suppose they prefer filtering through the holes in my mind, then getting angry when minimal memories exist around my seventh year at Hogwarts. In general, thinking too hard about Hogwarts makes my chest ache and encourages the human guards to switch out my handcuffs with tighter, more draining magical ones.

I will say, I think both the Ministry and I prefer the good old-fashioned talking method. It's the only way I could get an actual, comprehensible conversation in this shitehole. 

Shamelessly scanning the newest member of the Ministry's little investigation team, the girl isn't displeased at all with this dreamy, blond wizard. Ducking into the private interrogation room, the tall man is pure spite and lithe muscle rolled into a very pretty package. Despite probably being blind, a working theory of hers, given he passed each of her subtle tests, but never managed to catch her eyes, he's made more progress than any of his older counterparts.

Or so he claims. Something about prior exposure to the cellmate she allegedly aided in escaping helps solve the man’s case. He’s certainly working to earn it, based on how determinedly unhelpful the witch is. With every question he seeks out, she has another ten to match.

Unhurried she may be, but it's obvious the man has ideals of better places to spend a dreary Thursday night than a cramped makeshift room with a lovingly talkative, cuffed witch. Normally, she’d add ‘breathtakingly beautiful’ to her list of descriptors, but even she can tell how rough her appearance must be from her cracked lips and dry skin to her matted hair.  

By the time I could truly tell him what happened to that Sallow guy he's desperately searching for, the vein on his forehead may finally pop.

Slamming one leg over the other atop the cold metal table, the chilly sensation against her thin prison uniform is worth observing the dastardly investigator’s expressive face grow wilder. 

It's as if every little sound she makes only serves to irritate him further. 

Noted. From now on, make as much noise as possible when Officer Arm Veins is here.

"Do you have somewhere else to be?" Officer Arm Veins mocks, loosening his navy tie. "I didn't realize they have an Exploding Snap night at Azkaban's recreational center."

Though she can tell he's grasping onto the ledge of his composure with slippery fingers. Oh, how she'd like those fingers to slip onto her stretched-out legs. 

“I believe I should be asking you that,” The prisoner shrugs, teeth glinting in a playful smile. “Where ya off so late at night, Officer? Got a hot date waitin’?”

The wizard scoffs, rolling one of his shirt cuffs. She eagerly drinks in his motions, happily seeking out the plethora of moles he was hiding under stiff, long sleeves.

“If you're so interested in my personal life, then why don't you tell me about yours?” He firmly suggests. 

“Around sunrise, I was woken by a dementor sucking out my soul. He took his time, too. Really wanting to savor the flavor. After a few hours, I was allowed to take off these cuffs long enough to use the loo. Didn't permit a shower, though I suspect they'd have us jump into the sea rather than provide a sensible tub. By midday-”

“Alright,” The investigator cuts in. “I've heard enough of your ramblings to know this won't lead anywhere productive.”

“You asked,” She grins with a shrug, bemoaning the typical slipping of her loose prison uniform. 

Merlin forbid they make one to fit me. You'd think they'd have plenty of time to fetch proper prison garbs, considering I'm serving a life sentence.

“You know what I meant. All of this would be easier if you simply tell the truth about what happened that night,” He huffs, pinching his nose bridge.

As per usual, she finds her eyes tracing the length of his arm, spying the milky white skin of his forearm, bursting with veins, as he crosses his arms tightly against his chest. His scowling and clenched jaw only further accentuate his stern, aristocratic features, distracting her from whatever nonsense he keeps spewing.

It almost makes her want to spill every little secret in her mind to please the officer. Well, if she had anything meaningful to say. It's not like he wants to hear an off-the-cuff haiku about how his form-fitting uniform makes the heat in her lower torso burn fiercely. 

He must be doing this on purpose. 

Is this some kind of new interrogation technique I've never heard of? I don't remember reading about it in any of the Auror brochures Professor Weasley forced on me.

None of the other detectives have tried it on me, that's for sure. Good on them for sparing us both the embarrassment.

Wiggling in her seat, the prisoner is suddenly glad for the detective's lack of sight. It wouldn't bode well if he realized just how much he affects her composure, too. 

If he could stand the obnoxious artificial lighting of the interrogation rooms, that is. Even that fake spotlight filled with a bundle of moonstones made her want to claw her eyeballs out. Ten minutes half-heartedly listening to an Auror blab away was enough to drive her mad. No wonder her cellmates have gone insane already. 

Salazar’s tits, it wouldn't kill them to light a few candles. 

"Are you even listening to me?"

An angry slap against the metal restarts her senses, causing her to jump and almost crash into the floor. Right as the chair careens backwards, she flails gracefully maneuvers her legs in a spin that would impress her old flying instructor, catching herself against the table with a deafening smack.

The detective seems even more shocked than she is, his wand floating around her former seat in confusion. 

Opting to use this to her advantage, she climbs onto the table to plop herself directly between his arms, still widely spread in befuddlement. Tugging her anti-magic handcuffs up to snatch his tie, the prisoner forces his head to her level. 

Not one to waste a prime opportunity, the prisoner leans closer to tease him.

"I needed to hear you better," She says slyly, not wasting a beat. "You don't mind this position, do you, sir?"

His deep blue eyes darken, and he steps closer, trapping each of her legs beside his torso. She gulps at the sudden switch, but he doesn't back down, sliding his long fingers along the table until they rest on either hip.

"Call me that one more time, and you'll quickly find out that your Azkaban experience until now has been a dream."

"Is that a threat, Officer?" She asks breathily, existing on a precipice halfway between scared and aroused.

Painfully squeezing her hips until she lets out a surprised squeal, the man's smirk becomes frightening as the shadows encase his body in a manner that makes her wish she wasted a second to think through her actions. Suddenly extremely, embarrassingly self-aware, the prisoner attempts to squirm away from his iron-clad grip to no avail.

Alas, she got herself into this situation, and he refuses to waste it.

"That's a promise, Prisoner.”

Chapter Text

Crack.

"Aw, shite."

Squinting her eyes open, a brunette woman wakes with a brutal headache. Rotating her neck to the sound of a few satisfying cracks, she wearily flops back onto the hard ground. 

A cold breeze fills the witch's body with a distracting chill, and she frowns, whining into the holes of a moth-bitten blanket. A drop of something wet lands on her neck, causing her nose to scrunch. 

Which little gobshite left the windows open? I told Mum to keep the kiddos out of my room.

With a frustrated growl, she forced her heavy eyelids to open again. Pushing herself into a sitting position, the woman rubs at her eyes, forcing the blur to settle like adjusting a camera lens. Glancing around, the woman only becomes more confused. Another drop lands on her scalp, prompting her focus upwards.

Following the persistent liquid to the top of this room reveals a jagged crack in the crumbling ceiling, barely held together like magic. 

“Huh. I'm definitely not home,” She mutters aloud. “Which pub let me sleep on their floor?”

Blearily reaching for her wand, her stretched digits come up empty. Confused, as her wand is always kept within reach, she ignores the wave of nausea roiling in her stomach and props herself onto an elbow. A cursory glance around reveals ratty chains dangling from the stone walls and a thin window far out of reach, with barely enough sunlight to illuminate the room. She traces the chains to the pinching at her ankles, rubbing against her skin in all its rusty glory.

Ew. I need to visit a healer when I leave… wherever this is.

 A sense of denial claws at her stomach, forcing her to search around for an answer to her location quickly. Along the dirty floor, beady eyes of a little furry creature meet her gaze, frozen upon noticing her attention. 

She narrows her eyes. “No.”

The rat is startled into motion, scurrying away into a small hole in the wall, right next to a set of metal bars. A flicker of pride fills her for a moment before confusion seeps in again.

This pub is revolting and apparently... prison themed? Just how drunk did I get last night?

Before she begins to fully sit up to inspect the rust-covered metal bars, a dark shadow looms from her right eye’s peripheral. A hooded floating skeleton glides into her room, looming over her wide-eyed body. Backing up as quickly as possible, the creature eerily matches her pace, continuing to float above her menacingly. 

“Whoa, hey! I’ll pay my tab, I swear.” 

She laughs nervously, head swiveling around in growing desperation. “No need for illusions here. Call off your magic. Let’s settle this like mature adults.”

She only just turned seventeen, but they don’t need to know that.

Right when she believes the creature will leave, it opens up its gaping mouth and pulls at her. Without laying a hand on her, the woman feels a sickeningly cold sensation wash over her. Minutes, even hours, seem to go by as that barely there ounce of hope she clung to vanishes, leaving behind a hollow bitterness in her chest. After the creature has had its fill, it floats off down the hallway again, leading her to crumple into a ball. 

A dementor. That’s what that was.

I’m in Azkaban.

Clutching her legs like a scared child, she slowly rocks back and forth with wide, unseeing eyes. No matter how far away the dementor gets, the resulting screams ring in her ears.

~~~~~~

“Up and at ‘em, Prisoner!”

A shaking thump wakes the woman from her tentative nap, having fallen asleep in an attempt to wake up in her bed. It didn’t work.

The door to her cell unlocks, leading a human guard to waltz in, staring down at her crumpled body in twisted amusement. The woman scans his body, looking for any potential weapons to use against him. 

The balding guard, clearly in his late 40s or early 50s, doesn’t carry a wand on him. Instead, his holster has a hefty-looking baton. The man dances his fingers over it as he notices her attention, sneering his thick mustache at her. Walking to her prone body, he stares down with an inflated sense of authority. 

“Don’t get any funny ideas or I’ll use this now,” He chuckles, lazily kicking at her ankle chain. “Wouldn’t wanna spoil the fun later.”

Gritting her teeth at the flash of pain, she bites her tongue. At this disadvantage, goading the man would only work against her. Without her wand or free control over her limbs, the only control she has is over her words. And if her mind hadn’t been torn apart earlier, she’d at least offer a measly quip at his untucked shirt.

Instead, she’ll bide her time until an advantage shows itself.

“Not gonna talk today, huh? That makes my job easier.”

Fingering through a bulky set of keys, the man finally lands on a particular one and jams it into the lock on her cuffs. Relief floods her when the cuffs fall away, though something still feels off.

Testing the weakness of the guard's legs with her eyesight, she'd wager she has a 50/50 chance to take him down with a swift blow. 25/75, if she makes it a surprise.

Oh, neat. An advantage presented itself.

Now that she’s able to stand and stretch her legs, she realizes that something fundamental still feels missing. 

Ah, well. Maybe it’ll come to mind after I escape. 

Kicking the guard between his legs, the man lets out a loud cry of pain, falling forward onto the floor. Snatching his fallen keys, the prisoner wobbles over to the open doorway, sparing a second to throw a wink over her shoulder.

“You were right. That was fun,” She smirks before rushing away. 

Rushing down the stone corridors barefoot was not a task she would willingly sign up for, especially with the dark caking of grime that already permeated her toes. Mounted braziers light up as she rushes past, allowing her to view the emaciated and disoriented prisoners. A few reach through their cells, attempting to grab out to her. An older woman snags the end of her pant leg, yelling incoherently in a hoarse voice. 

Slightly freaked out, the brunette turns tail and runs faster, searching through the key ring for one to match her handcuffs. The hallways are nonsensical, some ending with long stretches of empty cells or sharp turns to steep staircases. Hopping two steps at a time, the woman pushes in a key that fits into the lock.

Yes! I’m finally free!

“Petrificus Totalus!”

A set of invisible binds wraps around her whole body, causing the woman to freeze, then fall straight to the floor. Unable to blink, she was forced to see two well-dressed men hover over her, shaking their heads in disbelief.

She almost thinks she's dreaming the groomed men into existence. With how tidy their beards and tailed their robes are, it's clear just how out of place they are in this dim, damp hallway.

“Wrong room, Ms. Edwards. Nice try, though,” The red-robed man says, casting another spell to carry her in the air. 

If she thought she was trapped in her own mind earlier, that was nothing compared to the constraints of this spell, forcing her attention on the cracks and cobwebs riddling the ceiling of Azkaban. 

“Uh, does this usually happen, Auror Jenkins?” The dark blue-robed man asks, audibly scratching his head.

“Depends on the guard and how vigilant they are with the prisoners. Of course, usually prisoners are unable to fight back. That means we should strengthen security around Ms. Edwards’s cell.”

Ms. Edwards? Suppose that’s supposed to be me.

“Alright, but why does she still have the handcuffs on? I thought prisoners were allowed to have them off when they’re in a warded cell,” He asks.

They all stop. She can hear the clicking of their oxfords as they turn to one another.

“Did you read the file Ms. Thornton put on your desk?” The older man questions. 

“Uh... yeah, yeah. We’re questioning this prisoner today about another escaped prisoner,” He shakily responds. “Aurors Webly and Tattersall are tracking him down while we get answers from her.”

She can feel their stares penetrating her figure from behind. If her hands could move, she’d be flipping them off.

“The male prisoner’s name is what?” The older man asks.

“Uh…”

A heavy sigh is released from the man, and they continue moving, forcing the younger man to rush to catch up with his quick pace.

“Come on, Weasley. Keep up.”

~~~~~~

“It’s a simple question. Where did Sebastian Sallow escape to on the night of October 16, 1898?”

Barely refraining from pulling her own hair out, the woman leans forward in her metal chair. She purposefully lets it scrape against the stone floor to cause the younger man to wince, raising his freckled hands to cover his ears. The older man is undeterred, twitching his mustache, but saying nothing.

“Like I told you several times already, I don’t know who that is.”

You’d think after one time, they’d get the hint.

“And the year is 1893, not 1898,” She corrects.

For some reason, both men get an odd look on their faces whenever dates are mentioned. Even now, they glance at each other with some secret, knowing look.

With how often they do that, she's tempted to just shout at them to date already. Whether that's a funky power imbalance or not is irrelevant to her, as long as it distracts them enough for her to escape again. Plus, based on their lack of rings and body language, she'd hazard a guess that at least one of them had thought about it.

“Ms. Edwards, if it was 1893, we'd both be in Hogwarts. As you can see,” He gestures to his shiny auror badge, “We're five years past then.”

“Both of us?” Her eyebrows raise in surprise. “Did we go to school together?”

Now that he mentions it, he does look vaguely familiar. I think we had a class together.

Weasley, huh? I know Professor Weasley had a nephew in my year but what was his name?

The auror is taken aback, mouth opening and closing a few times in response. Auror Jenkins cuts in, stepping in front of him to press both hands onto the metal table and glare at her.

“Cut the crap, Prisoner. Three nights ago, a man named Sebastian Sallow was sitting in a prison cell. With the aid of a smuggled wand, he snuck out during a guard shift change, allowing him enough time to escape. According to eyewitness testimony, the wand they saw matched the description of your wand perfectly. Care to explain how that happened?”

Crossing her arms as best as she can with the handcuffs, the woman leans back in her chair lazily.

“My wand?” She scoffs. “Prove it.”

Twisting a moonstone-infused light into her face, the woman blinks rapidly to regain her sight. It's bad enough the lighting in this interrogation room is abysmal, adding this light is enough to overwhelm her senses. She frowns, attempting to maintain her outward confidence.

The man sputters. “The testimony and records given by Gerbold Ollivander proves your wand was rowan, 11 inches with a unicorn hair core. That sound about right?”

She hums, shrugging. “I don't think I should say anything without a lawyer present.”

“A lawyer?” Auror Weasley's head tilts, confused.

“Remember that file?” Auror Jenkins speaks to him, not bothering to turn away from her.

“Ms. Edwards is a muggleborn.”

The blue-robed man nods, letting out a sound of understanding. The prisoner, on the other hand, grows confused.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“In the wizarding world, prisoners aren't guaranteed a legal representative,” He explains, leaning closer. “You have to advocate for yourself. So I'll ask you again, does that wand description match your own?”

There's no one guaranteed to know the law and fight on your behalf? That's insane. How many people here have been falsely imprisoned because they couldn't defend themselves well enough?

"Well, to tell you the truth..."

Setting the legs of her chair on the stone floor, the prisoner gazes over to Auror Weasley who's also interested in what she's about to say. Lifting into a half-squat, she readjusts her uniform and leans over to speak into his ear.

“Bite me.”

~~~~~~

Call it a premonition but the prisoner knew that nothing productive would happen the fourth week she was accused of aiding and abetting a man she has no memory of. A whole month had gone by yet the aurors never stopped visiting with the same exact questions to limited success. Thankfully, they stopped asking her questions when Auror Jenkins got too worked up to continue.

What a shame. That was almost fun. More entertaining than this cell, at least.

I wonder when they're going to give up.

“We'll be back next week, Ms. Edwards,” Auror Jenkins says from behind the bars of her cell.

“To let me out?” She replies, gaze stubbornly on the spider crawling towards her bare feet. 

He merely laughs, his expensive wool coat making a swishing sound as he struts down the hallway. The other, coherent prisoners begin shouting at him when he passes their cell. It's almost funny, the way they could be considered a security alert, of sorts.

Unfortunately, as they start to quiet down, that makes her aware of the younger auror still positioned outside of her cell. Catching his piercing gaze, her eyebrows furrow, trying to imprint his features in her mind.

“Take a picture, it'll last longer.”

“Sorry,” He startles, cheeks beginning to match his hair. 

“It's fine,” She shrugs, taken aback by his sincerity. “Why are you here, not chasing after Officer Stick-Up-The-Arse?”

Letting out a sharp bubble of laughter, he clamps a hand over his mouth, like it came out of him unwillingly. The prisoner snorts, giving him a small smile of amusement.

“I meant Officer What's-His-Face.”

“Sure you did,” He says, lowering his hand. “Auror Jenkins.”

“Ah, that's it.”

Sighing, the man turns to the hallway his superior went towards, adjusting his uniform as though he's soon to follow. However, something is bothering him long enough to linger.

“Ask me.”

“What?” He asks, suspicious.

“Whatever question burning inside your brain. That can't be good for you. Must be why your hair's red.”

Pushing out an amused breath, he shifts in place, tilting his head down at her on the floor.

“Do you really not remember me?”

She slowly shakes her head no.

Accepting that answer, his body sags, expression akin to disappointment. Collecting himself, he shoves both hands into his pockets.

“Ya know something?” The redhead asks, lingering at the door. “I always thought you’d be on the other side of the table with me. It’s a shame.”

He smiles, bittersweet. “Take care of yourself in there, Edwards.”

His tone strikes a chord in her, barely hearing his footsteps walk away as a sharp spike cuts in her mind. She holds her head in her hands as the pain grows unbearable, words overlapping each other until the image of Auror Weasley in school robes appears.

~~

“Hey! GARRETH WEASLEY!” 

I hear myself shout at the back of a curly redhead. His shoulders hike, and he slowly turns, a sheepish smile on his face. 

“I just took one!”

“What?” 

“What? Uh, what do you need?” He asks, scratching his head nervously.

Opting to ignore whatever scheme he had cooked up, I thrust a pamphlet up at him. Scanning it for a few seconds, his shoulders slump, irritation written across his features.

“Could you tell your aunt to stop sending me Auror pamphlets in the mail? I’ve started to become a collector, thanks to her.”

“Tell me about it. She’s started to do the same for me once Professor Sharp gave me an O on my O.W.L.s.” 

He huffs, pushing the pamphlet into her chest. I frown, c rumpling the pamphlet and shoving it into the bottom of my bag, hoping the textbooks crush it.

“I’ve only been at Hogwarts for two years. I didn’t even know magic existed before then. Why does she think I’m capable of that?” I say, crossing my arms.

Auror prerequisites are notoriously difficult to accomplish, not to mention the low acceptance rate into their three-year training program. After doing so much for the sake of Hogwarts and the wizarding world during fifth year, I'm not exactly keen to risk my life again for a chance. 

Especially after losing Professor Fig.

The memory of him burns in my eyes, and I turn away, willing to tears to stop. After a moment, I compose herself, straightening up with determination. 

“Out of anyone, I think you make the most sense to be an auror,” He shrugs, a small smile forming on his lips. “Who knows? Maybe one day we’ll be locking up bad guys together.”

Discomfort fills my chest, remembering a pair of dark, crazed eyes waiting for me in the Undercroft. Pushing that thought away, I meet my friend’s kind gaze.

“Is that your secret ambition, Weasley?” I tease, a smile forming on my lips. “Or are you in it for the glory?”

“Nah,” He smiles back. “I’ll leave that part to you, Edwards.”

~~

Blinking back into her own cell, the woman snorts, gazing down at her handcuffs.

“Yeah, Weasley. Looks like we’re both basking in glory.”

Chapter Text

“Right, you already know the drill,” The man announces, tossing his thick stack of parchment onto the metal table. “Let’s get down to business, then, shall we? On the 16th night of October-”

“Who the fuck are you lot?”

Seated across from the prisoner are two Ministry officials who are decidedly not allowed to be here. She hasn’t received any new aurors since the first few weeks of her imprisonment. This isn’t right. Not when she knows for a fact that Aurors Jenkins and Weasley are still kicking. They may only be visiting to interrogate her, but Merlin’s wenches, they’re her interrogators!

Ah, shite. I got attached. To the people meant to wring me dry for information. 

Trying hard not to think about the implications of her thoughts, she instead inspects the men. Both carry their weight differently, though there’s enough muscle definition through their robes to tell they had regular physical training. Their clothes, covered with Ministry-appointed robes, expose finely tailored vests and suit jackets. While the man speaking has darker skin, the quiet one has a golden tan from hours in the sun, clearly not from the dreary English skies. 

Both are so unlike the pale vampires she’s come to recognize the moment they walk through the door. And she can attest to that, having accidentally met a vampire in the Forbidden Forest during sixth year. Staking him through the heart was kind of awkward, though, especially after finding out the potion they brewed in class that day was anti-charming. Yikes for him.

Frowning down at her thin, paler wrist poking through the long sleeves, she despises yet another example of Azkaban’s mistreatment. On a better day, she would be gliding through a meadow on Highwing’s back, a pleasant plumpness to her sun-kissed olive skin.

When the auror who hasn’t spoken raises an eyebrow at her, she knows it's time to tune back in to the conversation.

Whoops. Forgot he was speaking.

“-k as many times as necessary. The prisoner, Sebastian Sallow, has escaped while wielding your wand-”

“Blah, blah. I’ve heard this speech several times. Where are the usual aurors?”

Gritting his teeth, the man stands, navy blue coat cutting through the air behind him. The other auror, whom she now considers as his assistant, is wordlessly scribbling down a record of their conversation. 

“Ms. Edwards. We can do this the easy way or-”

“Did you ever say your names?” She cuts in, ignoring the growing fury on the auror’s face. “Because I was taught it was polite to introduce yourself before accusing someone of illegal activities.”

The auror huffs loudly. She could swear literal steam came out of his nose.

“Auror Gibson?” He asks, simply.

Lifting a thick tome to his face, the quiet auror recites a lengthy Ministry law in monotone.

“As recorded in the record, the prisoner has proven to be noncompliant after multiple attempts to question them in regards to their involvement with another prisoner. Therefore, the auror is now able to use the necessary force to gain information, without any legal contention.”

Slinking towards the brunette, she’s shocked to see an auror come around to her side of the table, now bearing a wand. Kicking her chair back with difficulty, there are a few seconds where she tries to swing at the man, disregarding the cuffs digging into her wrists. A valiant effort that leads to her being bodily slammed into the ground.

Her vision briefly goes black before reactivating with fuzzies dancing across her eyes. A ringing sound pierces her ears, and she feels her mouth moving without any sound coming out, unable to comprehend anything but the restricting weight covering her entire body.

“Legilimens.”

~~~~~~

She doesn't bother to remember names or details anymore. If she’s lucky, they’ll at least get a few questions deep before diving so deeply into her brain, it feels like it’ll split apart by the time they’re done battering and bruising it into submission. It’s not as though she has strong mental barriers, but with all the secrets she’s tried to keep over the years, her mind automatically attempts to reject the intrusions to no avail. 

“He moved with a purpose, charting his path through Azkaban as though he knew the layout inside and out. How did he know the exact paths to avoid dementors and guards?”

“M-Magic,” The woman slurs, eyes blearily open at the women. “Fuck me, how am I ‘posed to know?"

“Mm, that’s not an answer,” The auror smirks, targeting her wand at the prisoner’s fingers. “Diffindo.”

She screams.

~~~~~~

Blankly staring at the stained metal table, the small pool of blood left to dry after no one bothered it clean it up, the prisoner sets her hand atop it. Her left hand, now missing half of its ring finger, has miraculously avoided an infection, no thanks to the revolving door of aurors. 

“I’ll ask you one more time, Prisoner. Where is he?”

Anger balloons in her chest quickly before popping, a derisive laugh filling its place. Cackling loudly, she visually becomes every bit the prisoner they expect of her. 

However, they forgot one thing. She still has a secret weapon at her disposal.

Determination and a Merlin-given talent to drive others insane. 

With fog receding from her eyes, the witch beams up with a shit-eating grin.

“Up your arse."

~~~~~~

Week after week of destruction to her mental barriers has taken a toll on the woman, reflected in the physical damage that was healed enough to keep her body stable. The pain gives way to a sense of numbness, having gotten used to the bruises on her face and emptiness in her chest.

Staring blankly at the grim, rotting walls of the prison, she’s trying her hardest to keep up her defences. Though she’ll never admit it aloud, this has taken a heavy toll on her, the weight reflected in her stiff shoulders.

“It’s truly incredible, Ms. Edwards,” An older man’s voice rings out.

At the sound of a familiar voice, her shoulders drop, eyes darting to the door in shock. Blinking several times, her brows furrow, attempting to figure out if this is real or a false memory to lower her guard.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” The redhead laughs, flashing a charming smile at her.

“What-” Her voice cracks, tongue darting out to lick at her dry lips.

Reaching into his bag, Weasley slides a golden flask across the metal table. Hesitantly taking it with shaking hands, the woman flips open the lid and sips, surprised to find it filled with cold, clean water. Chugging it down within seconds, her parched throat sighs in relief. Passing it back to him, she notes how his gaze doesn’t linger long on her bruises or the noticeable stains on her uniform. His presence is calmer than she remembers from their school days, and she finds that it helps her feel more comfortable in her skin.

They probably got briefed on the other aurors’ progress, or lack thereof. Suppose the Ministry doesn’t want them to go in blind.

Auror Jenkins clears his throat. 

“As I said, it’s quite incredible, Ms. Edwards, how no one has been able to glean a single piece of information from you. Regarding Mr. Sallow, he was even noted to be a blank slate in your mind. There are several empty spaces in older memories, torn away like old parchment.”

That was what she understood, too. No matter how many memories of Hogwarts they blasted through, not a single one contained the man they were looking for. She’s honestly starting to think he was made up from the beginning.

She shrugs. “Glad you believe me now, Officer. I gotta say, I much prefer your style of interrogation.”

Curiously, the man seems to rise a bit, appearing more confident than before. 

“Yes, well, the department believes so, as well,” He says, plopping down in his chair. “For the time being, Auror Weasley and I will be the ones asking you questions. I expect this means you’ll be more willing to give real answers, Ms. Edwards?”

Gazing between his stern expression and Weasley’s quirked lip, the woman leans back in her chair, a smirk growing for the first time in weeks.

“That depends, Officer. What do ya got?”

Chapter Text

"Describe Sebastian Sallow to me."

The brunette bites back a smirk, flicking her fingers at the aurors’ setup. It had become their typical routine to lay out rolls of parchment with plenty of ink and quills. Last week, they even smuggled in tea leaves to mix with their water.

Well, presumably smuggled. Their shifty glances at the guards, combined with their willful use of cold water to drink tea, were enough to pique her curiosity. She half-assumed they’d bring a flask of heated water this week.

I can’t believe I missed these nerds. 

“Sure. Make sure your quill’s ready.”

Taking a few seconds to pretend to create a mental image of this random man, she sneakily observes Jenkins in closer detail.

I may prefer their company to the other aurors, but at the end of the day, I’m still locked in here with no memories. Maybe that’s why Auror Jenkins is trying so hard to get me to admit to something. Even he is starting to realize I’m telling the truth, but he has too much faith in his job to comprehend I may’ve been imprisoned without evidence.

"Alright, I’m getting something,” She lies, eyes closed in deep concentration. “He’s about 176 meters tall, with dark brown hair and a full beard. He’s currently wearing green robes with a speck of mustard on the lapel, having stopped for lunch on the way to Azkaban. Has bad posture, currently squeezing a quill-”

Jenkins slams his notepad shut. “That’s enough.”

Weasley, on the other hand, was gazing at the prisoner, impressed. Straightening her back, she preens under his admiration.

“Blimey, yeah! We stopped at the Leaky Cauldron earlier. How could you tell?” He asks, mouth slightly agape.

“Speck is generous,” She snorts, nodding to the stain. “If he’d cleaned it with a potion, rather than smearing it with a napkin, we couldn’t be having this discussion.”

“And the height?”

“You just about hit your head entering this room. Auror Jenkins, on the other hand, experienced no such issues.”

“You’re serving a life sentence in Azkaban. Any information on our escaped convict could mean the difference between catching a murderer or letting him walk free. Don’t you feel any obligation to help our department?” Jenkins asks, stroking his beard.

What an odd question. Though admittedly, I’ll never say this to their faces, but out of all the Aurors that have been sent, they are by far my favorites– or, at least, the most patient ones.

“For the people who locked me up? Nah. Try bringing enough tea for me next time, that may refresh my memories,” She heavily suggests, knowing it wouldn’t make a difference.

Jenkins taps the quill against his parchment, marking several small ink dots that begin to blend into a messy, bleeding cube.

“So you admit to withholding information,” He declares.

“Nope. My only crime is wishing for a refreshing cuppa.”

A knock on the door interrupts his response. Pushing air out of his nose, the man turns around long enough to glare at the guard who dared to interrupt them. Sliding his chair back with a screech, Jenkins pulls his wool coat off his chair and throws it over his shoulders. Weasley does a double-take at his quick exit, scrambling to pile their notes together without staining the fresh ink.

“Oh, we’re leaving. Please wait for me, sir,” He requests, simultaneously capping the ink and shoving parchment into his bag.

“No,” Auror Jenkins replies, barely stopping long enough for his voice to carry. “I have an urgent floo call to attend to. Stay behind and keep questioning the prisoner. I’ll collect you when it’s done.”

While Weasley slowly deflates back into his seat, the prisoner sits at attention.

There’s a floo network set up here? It’s likely only a one-way connection, but still, it’s a way out of here.

Am I strong enough to leave? Most of my injuries have healed up, though I’m physically a lot weaker than before. I’m certain one of the aurors charmed my cell while I was preoccupied.

It’s quiet for a few minutes as she thinks, the scratching of a quill and distant rain against the barred window filling the small interrogation room. 

“Psst, Weasley."

The prisoner hisses, eyes darting between the hallway and the hunched-over redhead.

Shooting his head up in surprise, his hand skids across the parchment in a messy, dark line. Wincing at his mistake, he fumbles in the pocket of his coat before flashing a light brown wand at his mess and shoving it back inside its holster. Inspecting his wandwork, he reclines in his chair, not bothering to finish writing his sentence.

“Did you need something?” He huffs quietly, glancing at her.

Taking note of his dark undereyes and slumped shoulders, a plan begins to form in her mind. However, if it were to work in her favor, she’d need to catch him off guard. 

“Whatever I say next has to be strictly off the record, yeah?”

What kind of wand was that? Light woods, think of all the light woods. Ash, Beech, Maple, Oak?

His expression hardens momentarily, scanning her as though checking for something. She tries her best to appear innocent, wrapping her arms around herself and barely making eye contact. Out of the corner of her eye, he gives a barely perceivable nod. 

Got him.

“Sure, Edwards.”

My best shot is with maple. From what I remember, it can sense a challenge and would accept my ambition long enough to fight off any guards or dementors.

“I think I may remember something,” She says, slowly rising from her chair.

The redhead perks up, giving her his undivided attention. Waddling in a short lap the length of the table, she appears deep in thought.

“About Sallow?” He asks, his head tilting curiously. “I figured it wouldn’t take long. You two were always so close, especially during fifth year.”

Halting abruptly, she doesn't dare look directly at him. Instead, she focuses her gaze on her fingers, the right hand slowly circling her left ring finger. 

“I wouldn’t say we were close, necessarily,” She comments. “Even after our seventh year.”

Or even know each other at all, though that’s not what Weasley’s saying. For some reason, I believe that he believes in his words.

I can be honest about my last year at Hogwarts, at least. That’s when the vast majority of my memories are lost.

“Really?” He lets out a little laugh. “I remember Imelda and Poppy had a year-long bet over which one of you would ask to court the other first. Though that fell apart after… you know.”

She gets the odd feeling that she does know.

“Azkaban?”

He nods.

“After his sister, Anne, passed away, he was never quite the same. Then his uncle-”

~~

A wheeze of laughter, followed by a fit of coughing. I pat the fellow brunette on her back too hard, wincing in apology. Sobering up, she grasps my hands in desperation, her expression becomes pleading.

“Please tell him to stop. I don’t want my last memory to be of my twin and uncle fighting over my health. I wish to be at peace with my decision.”

“Okay, Anne,” I say reluctantly. “I’ll tell him.”

~~

Abruptly pausing, she notices him tense up, letting out a cough. She jumps, the noise grating her ears. She shivers, pushing down that snippet of a memory to refocus on her task. Shuffling to his side of the table, she slowly crept up behind him.

“Right, well,” He changes the subject. “What did you remember exactly? And why can’t the Ministry know about it?”

“I’d prefer if this were never recorded.”

Raising her handcuffs to the back of his head, she focuses the cold metal on a vulnerable area. He tries turning around to face her, but it is far too late. Slamming the enchanted handcuffs down, Weasley goes flying forward, body colliding with the metal desk. She winces at the thumping sound. Reaching out with shaking fingers, she tucks stray tendrils of red hair behind his ear, happily finding that he’s knocked out cold but not bleeding. 

“That went better than I expected,” She says aloud.

Adjusting his deadweight, she maneuvers into his coat to pull out whatever her hands land on. As soon as her fingers wrap around a long, wooden wand, she tries to retreat but gets caught on the pocket. Yanking a few times, the metal cuffs rip the pocket open, sending her stumbling and emptying the coat’s contents to the ground.

The noisy sound of coins clinking along the ground sends her knees to the dirty floor, trying in vain to stop them from rolling against each other. Her fingers close over a few opera stubs and receipts for restaurants she couldn’t afford. A brightly colored ink catches her attention, the words scribbled on an old napkin. 

Squinting, she dangles it up to her face and reads:

“Remember, you’re making a difference!

Every little task you do can help solve a case!

Don’t forget to smile today!”

Guiltily lowering the note, she shoves it underneath the pile of receipts, hoping Weasley wakes up to find it before anyone else can read it.

Scrambling to grab the wand again, her fingers close over the maple wood. Pointing the tip at her handcuffs, she casts a spell.

“Alohamora.”

She holds her breath while the wand decides whether or not it’ll allow her to wield it. After a few agonizingly long moments, the cuffs made a clicking noise before falling open to the ground. Quickly replicating the spell with her ankles, she heaves a sigh of relief at her newfound lightness.

Rubbing at the deep red indents on her wrists, the woman slowly stands, shifting her unkempt uniform back into place.

“Sorry, Weasley,” She apologizes to his unconscious body. “I’ll make sure your wand is put to good use.”

Shoving whatever odds and ends will fit into her corset, the prisoner brandishes his maple wand and makes a break for it.

Chapter Text

Attaching the torso restraint to her hand and ankle cuffs makes a satisfying click as they all slide together, locking the brunette in place. Sparks of ancient magic that had been growing every time her cuffs came off have been smothered, leaving behind an uneasiness with each tightening of the new handcuffs.

Now that her wrists are behind her body, there’s an odd sense of imbalance that throws her off, as if she tips to the side, she’ll land on her face. The thought of being so helpless was disturbing. It must show on her face, since Jenkins’s smug smirk grows after observing her closer.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

"Shove it, Musty Man. I got further than last time."

Jenkins's mustache twitches, and he turns his anger towards Weasley, waving his finger in reprimand. “That’s the last time we stop for sandwiches between assignments.”

“But, sir,” Weasley pleads, lowering his voice and placing his body between her and them. “The food is inedible here. I have low blood sugar, so I need to eat fairly regularly. Would you like to review my healer’s note?”

“Put that away,” He hisses, his face turning pink under his beard. “We’ll discuss this later. For now, just drink your tea.”

“Yes, sir,” Weasley nods, curly hair flopping around like a maiden’s hand fan. 

Pulling off his hat to run a hand through his glossy hair, Jenkins sighs. Settling into the metal chair visibly didn’t help his mood, though he doesn’t verbalize it. Weasley noticeably remains standing, gripping the back of his chair instead of taking notes.

“Ms. Edwards, I do hope you understand the consequences of your actions last week. Assaulting an auror puts all of us in a precarious situation with the Ministry, hence why they felt that these,” He gestures to her restraints, “were necessary.”

"Why's that? Afraid I'll get Weasley for real next time?" She taunts.

Though she’s unwilling to look at Auror Weasley as she speaks, the noise he makes in response reaffirms her choice to focus solely on Auror Jenkin’s expressive facial hair.

“No, they don’t underestimate you one bit.”

Jenkins merely smirks. "So, unluckily for you, there won't be a next time."

“And who’s gonna stop me?” She raises an eyebrow in challenge.

“Oh, I’m sure there’s someone up to the task.”

“And that is?”

“Whomever is next.”

"What are you talking about, Officer? Stop speaking in riddles," She demands.

His mustache twitches upwards.

"That floo call you so generously interrupted was with the head of my department. Due to your lack of insight into the escaped convict and penchant for lying, he's elected to trust a new auror in our stead. Someone highly skilled in the art of retrieving memories. He's been plucked fresh off the tail of another case and assigned directly to this one,” He says. “Quite fortunate how things line up, hm?"

Her eyebrows furrow warily. "Who?"

He drums his fingers on the table and shrugs, a childishly taunting grin blooming on his lips. 

"Someone you won't be able to deceive, Prisoner.”

Politely pushing in his chair, the man affixes his hat back in place. Weasley holds open the door while Jenkins walks through, speaking his final words to the witch.

“Good luck, Ms. Edwards. I do believe you’ll need it.”

Nodding with an awkward smile, Weasley hastily shuts the door behind himself and hurries after the older auror. 

Throwing her head back, the prisoner glares up at the ceiling, annoyed at this turn of events. As frustrating and childish as Jenkins may be, she started to get used to their dynamic, even looking forward to her one social call per week. Even after accepting how her actions would ruin her connection with Garreth Weasley, it still stung how easily they were willing to leave her behind. 

Merlin knows what kind of depraved interrogator will show up next. 

Gritting her teeth, her eyes trace the jagged cracks in the ceiling, not unlike the steadily growing spiderweb in the corner of her cell. 

Her cell? She rolls her eyes.

Blimey. I’m already getting territorial over a dilapidated, muggy prison cell. 

I need to bust myself out of here. Merlin knows no one else is as capable as I allegedly am.

~~~~~~

After an uncomfortable amount of time observing a tiny spider weave its web long enough to stretch from the ceiling to the top of the door, the prisoner stills at the clacking of expensive shoes down the stone hallway. It’s eerie how the storm outside booms the closer the person gets, each step bringing a heavier shower of rain. Trickles of droplets stream through the tall, barred window, her only reprieve from the thick, cloying air of the humid prison. 

A series of firm, rapid knocks on the door catches her off guard. She raises an eyebrow.

At least they’re polite. This man may not be as bad as described.

“Come in,” She calls out, amused.

Turning the knob, the woman prepares for the usual self-absorbed auror, wearing Ministry-appointed robes with costly golden accessories. Lightning crackles, illuminating the dark room as the damp man appears, leaving a trail of muddy footprints behind.

In walks a tall blonde man with an emerald overcoat and a simple set of silver jewelry, ducking slightly under the doorframe. Peeking beneath the robes reveals a simple pair of dark trousers supported with a set of suspenders and a white button-up, secured with a matching green tie. Stopping her wandering gaze on his face, she’s even more surprised to find finely chiseled cheekbones and a pretty set of blue eyes.

Brandishing a polished wand, he directs it all across the room. A blinking red light flits past her and she blinks, unsure if she imagined it. Floating behind him is a piece of parchment and a grey quill poised to write.

For once, she finds herself at a loss for words.

“Congratulations, Ms. Edwards,” The man says, pointing the wand in her direction. “You got yourself locked away for life. Is now the time I get to say ‘I told you so’?”

Never mind, she found them.

“Fuck you.”

He huffs out a breathy laugh and runs a hand through his wet hair, rolling his overly familiar eyes at her. She doesn’t like how he seems to know her already.

“What an introduction,” She frowns, the chains jingling as she adjusts in her chair. “At least tell me your name before you go 'round, acting like Salazar’s bastard third nipple.”

Her brashness doesn’t deter him, likely having expected it already. He merely pulls out the chair across from her, staring her down with a gaze that pins her in place.

“Oh, I believe we’ve already met,” He slightly smirks down at her. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

Knowing how much information the Ministry has gathered on her over the past few months, she knows the auror is aware of her memory loss. Gazing at his cunning expression, she’s taken aback by his confidence. Within a few moments of meeting each other, he recognized how perceptive she is, having figuratively dressed him down in the same manner he did to her.

Handsome bastard.

“Go on, then.”

His eyebrow raises.

“Tell me your life story, Officer,” She says, dramatically. “Entertain me with the tale of us.”

Considering for a moment, his lips slightly pursed. Beyond the small motion, his face remains fairly stoic. 

“I'm sure you know as well as I do that there is no ‘us’. There is only you and Sebastian. That's it,” He says firmly, crossing his arms.

Sebastian? Not Sallow? Interesting.

“Aw, did we make you feel left out?” She pouts. “Don't worry, he's not here. We can make up for lost time.”

His jaw clenches, the first strong display of emotion since he entered the room. Biting back a smile, her heart beats a bit faster in victory. 

“We're getting off track here. I'm restarting this conversation.”

Sending a spark from his wand incinerates the paper, to which he replaces with a new one. The quill moves back to the top of the page, poised to write.

“State your name for the record.”

She freezes.

Hesitantly, she asks, “Can't you do it?”

Scrunching his entire face in confusion, he replies with condescension, “State your name? Can you not recall the simplest of self-indentification?”

A heat burns at her cheeks, indignation painful in her chest.

“Not all of us walk around with our entire memories intact. My apologies for the inconvenience of my condition, sir,” She says sarcastically, fully emphasizing the final word.

His expression darkens and he stands, towering over her. His presence suddenly feels a lot more oppressive, causing part of her to back down while the other part wishes to lean towards the danger.

“You may call me Auror Gaunt, Ms. Edwards. Nothing else. Got it?”

She swallows. “As you wish.”

Shedding his soaked overcoat, the man begins rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, giving the woman a better look at his defined muscles. Having spent all of her time at Hogwarts doing various acrobatic feats to avoid and attack enemies, she knows a thing or two about building muscles. From a glance alone, she can tell they’re not vanity muscles at all. He’s earned them through training, possibly even fighting. While that’s not a detail she ever thought would matter to her, she can't help but feel impressed. 

Mother of Merlin, those aren’t suspenders. He has a leather holster. Never in my life have I been so jealous of an inanimate object.

Not the typical side holster for a wand. No, he has an apparatus that wraps around his broad shoulders, neatly tucked around his waist.

Focus.

Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she relaxes her heart rate back to normal. Either the auror hasn’t noticed her internal freakout or has elected to ignore it.

“While I applaud your memory tactic, likely having Obliviated yourself to evade the law, I’ll still find Sebastian’s location,” He says, fixing his sleeve in place.

“And how are you planning to do that?”

Stepping around the table, he easily invades her space. Jerking at the chains presses them harder into her bruised wrists, and she grunts in frustration. Auror Gaunt huffs out a low laugh, crouching down to match his mouth to her ear.

“I have my ways,” He smirks, close enough that she can smell the pine-scented aftershave wafting from his neck.

Though she’s suddenly self-aware about how filthy she must smell, an auror would have gone through more intensive training to ignore their senses and focus on their target. Drawing a stranger’s attention is an easy task, one that she’s willing to exploit on this handsome Ministry worker.

Time to call upon my trusty feminine wiles.

She lowers her voice to sound husky while lifting her chest so it rests atop the torso constraint. With the looseness of her uniform, her shirt lowers enough to see the top of her bosom spilling out of the corset.

“Oh? Tell me more, Officer.”

He blinks. “I'll show you.”

I think that worked? Haven't lost my charms, then.

Just as her lips quirk into a devious grin, the man deposits his wand in its holster and settles both hands on her shoulders, casting an all-too-familiar spell.

“Legilimens.”

Chapter Text

For a long moment, everything stills. Time slows as the witch is swept away, not to the jumbled thoughts and broken memories, but to a warm and familiar place lost to time. The spell Auror Gaunt cast was the same one every predecessor used; that much is true. However, the guiding hand suggestively tugging her thoughts into a place of calm and sanctuary was on an unmatched skill level.

Opening her eyes, she reorients herself to the inside of her mind. A small, but genuine, smile tugs at her lips as her eyes take in the messy and homey space. She once heard that the mind can replicate the location most comforting to someone, and that much is true, when it comes to the witch and the Room of Requirement.

Solid desks of brass and mahogany tilt inwards. Towering, cluttered stacks of parchment and opened tomes litter every speck of available surface. Plush azure sofas and chairs rest firmly towards the middle of the room, a long eclectic rug pushed underneath the seats is partially obscured by dangling blankets of fur and cotton. 

It's so different from her cell that it's jarring. Treading lightly at first, she feels as though she has popped into someone else's daydream. Time in Azkaban has prevented any positive dreams from coming through, to the point she almost worries she doesn't deserve to step foot in this sacred room, lest she mar it with her grime and negativity.

To the unobservant, it appears to be the perfect place to rest after a weary day of learning. 

But to an auror, they'd observe beyond the pretty paintings and delicate knickknacks to the spiraling jagged cracks deeply embedded along the walls. They'd notice how several entrances branching off the main room are blocked by a thick, viscous liquid. Every trace of these deep veins, every line explored, sends another coat of gel to seal off a shattered memory.

Shifting her gaze to the blonde auror, she cannot see his face. Intricately eyeing the tensing of his shoulders and vein flexing from his neck, the prisoner wonders which part of her mind most sets him on edge.

“It's not much, but it's home,” She comments aloud, mostly to fill the silence.

The click of his shoes against the stone floor is deafening. Gently raising a hand to the wall, he hesitates, before touching with a single finger. Blinking rapidly, she jerks her head at the odd sensation. 

“Feel free to make yourself at home, then,” She huffs, rolling her shoulders back.

“My apologies,” He replies immediately, stepping back to glance in her direction. “It's just… more damage than I was led to believe.”

That gets a laugh out of her. Moving to stand next to him, happy that her chains don't exist here, she takes in the pinched expression morphing his face.

“C'mon, Officer. You knew my memory was faulty, at best. What part of this doesn't make sense? I'm sure you've come across worse cases than this on the job.”

Opening and closing his mouth, his lips thin, casting his gaze over her left shoulder. 

“This is never an enjoyable task, but something… doesn't feel right. I'd need to investigate further but it's clear you didn't do this to yourself. I'm not overly familiar with your spellcasting but achieving this amount of damage to your own mind wouldn't be possible without another person or a different wand than your own.”

Something akin to hope pulses in her chest.

“So, you believe me then?”

He hums. “I'd be lying to myself if I thought otherwise. Suffice it to say, my reputation exists for a reason.”

She shakes her head, holding back a laugh at his confidence. 

“And humble too? You're just the whole package, aren't you?”

“I haven't had a break in a year, there are too many cases they need me assigned to,” He chooses to emphasize.

“Oh, I bet,” She says, placing a hand on her chest dramatically. “From the heart of London, you must have heard a desperate call from a damsel in distress and rushed over to Azkaban.”

“You make it sound so heroic,” He comments, tilting his head.

“Counterpoint, you're doing that yourself.”

Wishing for another smile to grace her vision, she's disappointed at his neutral expression.

“Then why have you been verbally lashing at every auror who questioned you? Weasley even got a trip to St. Mungo’s, poor bloke,” He adds, clicking his tongue.

The prisoner steps back, walking towards the center of the room, away from the cracks and conversation topic making her stomach churn. Running a hand along a sofa, she distracts herself by calmly petting a wolf fur throw blanket. 

For a place containing her memories and feelings, it was doing a shite job at displaying them to the handsome yet frustrating auror.

“You lot are the same,” She finally says, fingers twisting in the fur. “It's one big societal club where everyone covers for each other.”

Faint footsteps press against the stone behind her, coming up short of the rug. She allows him minutes to complete his response, carefully turning the words over in his head.

“We’re not a monolith, Edwards. It's not as simple as that.”

“Yeah?” Her teeth grit, rubbing harshly at the bristly grey fur. “Try me.”

"Surely, even you remem-"

Tossing a glare over her shoulder, he tenses and cuts off his sentence. Rubbing a hand along his neck, his words pivoting at his careless turn of phrase.

"-Once you earn a degree of power within the Ministry, one that can control the outcomes of people's lives, the behavior of those individuals change. In positive or negative ways. Power isn't meant for everyone. Not everyone chose this career path to help others, plenty achieved it for the sole purpose of a badge and title."

"And those same aurors desperately wanted to find my memories for a gold star on their records? Not surprising."

Bloody aurors and their Merlin-damned determination for glory.

"Not all,” He corrects. “From the recorded logs of your past sessions, it seems most wanted a crack at the ancient magic running through your veins."

Staring at him incredulously, her body makes several confused motions before a headache starts, and she begins rubbing at her temples.

"My magic? What were they gonna do? Suck it out of me like bloody dementors? That's fucked."

He shakes his head.

"No. But there are very few records of what ancient magic can do when wielded by someone. You're likely the only person currently alive with this ability. With the uncertainty around why you lost your memory and inability to recover it, the running theory is the involvement of your ancient magic."

Lowering her hand, she lets out a sigh, releasing her tension.

"I may be able to wield it, but it's so different from the regular magic everyone else has. It's instinctual, wild even, not-" 

Cutting herself off, she hesitates to explain the intricacies of her magic. His gentle expression, though, is reassuring enough that she wants to continue.

"-not something I can easily exploit.”

He accepts that answer but doesn't seem happy with it. “It would've been easier if you could naturally heal yourself. If I didn't finish my last mission when I did, there's a good chance a mind healer from St. Mungo's would've been brought in.”

As he crosses his arms across his chest, he jostles the leather hostler by his sides. A dim blinking light shines at her chest and she glances down, surprised.

He never sets that thing down, why now? Is it a Legilimens thing? Or is it to give me a false sense of security? Like, don't focus on the light, focus on me, instead. Not like that's a difficult task but it's odd for an auror to constantly be ready to cast a spell.

Shifting her attention to his face, her eyes take in his unusually pale irises. Becoming toe-to-toe, the witch rises onto the balls of her feet, intimately searching the peculiarity of his irises.

It's like cloud watching on a rainy day. I've never seen anyone with eyes that cloudy. That means he's blind, right? I've never met a blind guy. I'd ask but… that's rude, right? You can't just say, “Oi, you blind or something?”. He'd react if I wave in front of him, yeah? Alright, that'll be the test.

Raising her hand between their faces, she attempts to track his eye movements before his hand shoots out, wrapping around her wrist.

“What do you think you're doing?” He asks, tone filled with exasperation.

“I don't know. You can hear my thoughts, you tell me,” She narrows her eyes, watching him closely.

“I'm opting not to read your current thoughts, only the long-term stored memories,” He replies, raising an eyebrow. “Unless you're doing something on purpose that you want me to hear.”

“Nah,” She says, yanking her wrist away. “I'd like to keep some of the mystery alive. It'd be boring if you knew everything about me.”

His fingers hover in the air before lowering to his side. 

“Yes, we wouldn't want that.”

His lips quirk into a short smirk before he turns back to the wall. Sidling up beside him, she reads aloud the small nameplate crookedly nailed to the wall beside a semi-collapsed entrance.

“Age 15.”

Sucking in a breath, the man doesn't speak but makes a motion for the liquid blocking half of the doorway. Observing his reaction with curiosity, the woman steps aside to allow him more room to work. 

Pulling out his wand, he begins reciting a string of spells that she can hardly decipher. Instead, she opts to monitor his current state, enjoying the rare unguarded look of concentration on his aristocratic features. 

It's odd. No matter how long I look at him, I feel no connection beyond our introduction earlier. Yet, I feel a desire to know him. Truly know him, a stranger, no less. How… peculiar.

Despite those thoughts, an unknowing smile pulls at her mouth upon remembering their easy banter spoken with his lovely pink lips. His voice, a charming sound that made for great background noise, winds down as he flutters his wand in a few final flourishes. The inky gel that obscured the room behind it melts away, uncovering a large enough section to walk into.

A sudden blinding pain pulses at her mind, like hacking a limb off a wriggling body. Clutching her head in pain, the room wavers against her vision. As two hands grip her shoulders, she is ripped away from inside her mind. 

Gasping heavily, she pants at the strange artificial lighting of the dilapidated interrogation room. Cool steel chills her palms as she presses both hands to the left arm of her chair, attempting to steady her shakily cuffed hands. The hands resting on her shoulders squeeze, bringing her gaze to the hunched over auror.

“Alright?” He asks, voice grumbling quietly.

Though he seems to be checking her condition, his pupils darted from the window to the crumbling wall behind her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she nods, blinking hard enough for fuzzies to dance across her vision.

“Alright,” She breathes out.

Releasing her, the man reaches into the spare hoster, the one not containing his wand, and flashes a bright purple package at her. 

“For you.”

Flipping the package around, she releases a loud gasp at the red and white striped frog sitting demure behind the clear material. Hopping as much as her restraints will let her, the woman shifts her neck towards the beady-eyed creature.

“Ya gonna release me then?” She asks sweetly, tone dripping with syrupy sugar.

“That depends,” He replies, leaning back to sit on the edge of the table. “Are you going to behave?”

Well, this is an opportunity to tease him, if I've ever seen one. 

Being seated directly in front of him, she has a front row view of his fitted slacks. His thighs pull at the fabric when he sits, crossing his ankles in a casual pose, fiddling with the wrapper. Choosing to push her luck, the prisoner lowers her voice, peeking up at him through her eyelashes.

“What'll happen if I don't behave? Will you punish me, sir?”

Straightening up, his face sets. Rising to his full height, he glares down at her, clenching the peppermint frogs in his hand.

“I told you to call me Auror Gaunt, didn't I?” He says, clearly being rhetorical.

“I don't remember.”

Closing his eyes, he pinches the section of skin between his eyes. Clearly, the man was fighting some kind of inner battle while the prisoner eagerly watched for the outcome. Letting out a weary sigh, he shakes his head and begins to open the package.

“Open your mouth.”

“Why?” She asks cautiously.

Staring in her direction with a deadpan expression, he raises the wiggling peppermint frog clinging to his fingers by a tiny arm.

“I'm not going to let you out of your restraint and your breath is rancid. What in Salazar’s name do you think I'm doing, love?”

“...Siccing a little frog on me?”

Not even bothering to blink again at her answer, his callused hand grips her chin firmly, popping her mouth open. 

“You bite the heads off first, if I remember correctly.”

Her eyebrows raise in surprise.

“It makes them stop moving,” She explains. “Never could get used to wizards eating moving food, no matter how tasty it is.”

He considers her for a moment before giving a small shrug. “It's a peppermint frog. I'd be more concerned if it didn't hop around before consumption. That'd be a bad batch.”

Placing the frog between her teeth, she bites down enjoying the blast of peppermint in her mouth. The sweetness causes a few teeth to throb, very unused to the sugar after no access to sugary foods or toothpaste for months on end. She scarfs down the other half quick enough her upper teeth scrape against Auror Gaunt's thumb.

After wiping his hand against his dark trousers, he pulls out his wand again. The sight reminds her of their places, interrogator and prisoner, and the enjoyment of the treat leaves her body.

She clears her throat. “Thank you, Auror Gaunt.”

Stopping on the other side of the table, the man chuckles lowly while sliding on his robes.

“If I had known feeding you would revive your manners, I would’ve sent a three-course meal to your cell prior to my arrival.”

Not one to waste an opportunity, no matter if he was joking or not, she says, “I'm more than happy to accept all donations of the fruit, meat, and pastry variety. Anything that isn't moldy or hard enough to crack my teeth is okay with me.”

Furrowing his eyebrows in concern, he flashes his wand at the paper recording their conversation to vanish it away. 

“I cannot do much while you're outside of this room.”

Tugging at her handcuffs, she sighs in disappointment.

“However-”

Her head pops up.

“-to ensure that you're able to recover after having Legilimens cast on you, I can bring a meal on the days we meet. Does that sound fair?”

“I'll take what I can get,” She readily agrees.

Opening the door to leave, he lets out a quiet chuckle.

“Keep that mentality, Ms. Edwards, and you may prove your innocence yet.”