Certain Dark Things || Book Five

xi. a new idea

The long, interminable days stretched on without word of Harriet's pending trial.

They knew it would be soon. In the Muggle world, these things could take years, cases pending for months and months on end until they came to the docket—but the Wizarding world was different, for better or worse. Harriet's fate would be decided before summer's end. They just didn't know the day.

Half the residents of the house were unbothered by the wait. To them, the trial existed as a banal fact; the sky was blue, grass was green, Harriet Potter would go on trial for murder. The outcome or thought thereof didn't impact them in fundamental ways.

For the other residents, it keened as wildly as a death knell—silent, but no less piercing as it shook in their very bones. Hermione hated the inevitability of it more than anything, more than the sheer injustice or stupidity involved. It did not matter where they looked, which laws they invoked, which amendments they cited; Harriet would stand trial.

She would stand trial before a Wizengamot loyal to Marvolo Gaunt.

Sirius and Remus were worried. They pretended not to be, the former making casual, blase remarks about future holidays and asking Harriet if she was looking forward to returning to the summer Quidditch league. Remus kept up a steady stream of interest in her studies, encouraging her to stay focused on schoolwork. All the while, Hermione saw their expressions tense when they thought no one was aware. Sirius spent an inordinate amount of time in conversation with Nicolas Flamel when the old alchemist could spare the time, and Remus kept making tea. That wouldn't be such an oddity if not for the fact that he could have four or five cups of it already sitting on the table or desk and still go back for another.

Harriet was simply drained. Hermione wasn't a doctor, but it seemed her best friend suffered from shock or some form of post-traumatic stress. She would have sharp moments of lucidity where she'd be herself—vivid, jocular, cheeky—followed by longer periods of languor, as if exhaustion had taken the legs out from under her without letting her mind shut off. Harriet would stare into the distance, blank, unseeing, and weakly stir only after being prompted several times. She had something on her mind—something heavier than the death of Terry or Voldemort's return—but she wouldn't share.

Hermione herself had much on her mind. It was one thing to make plans in which she could theoretically sway the agendas of Wizengamot families to vote for someone other than Gaunt and quite another to execute it.

Sirius had it on good authority Amelia Bones would be putting her name forward as a running candidate that Mabon. As far as choices for Minister went, Bones wasn't bad, in Hermione's opinion. She had a solid background in the Ministry, was pure-blooded, and well-respected among the voting Houses. They could do worse. She wouldn't make waves, but finding someone to unseat Gaunt wasn't about waves; it was about being steadfast, someone with a hard enough head and solid bearing to withstand the sheer upheaval that would have to happen to root out the Guardians of the Magical Right. A future Minister could enact change so long as Bones helped the Ministry survive.

Hermione grumbled to herself about putting the horse before the carriage yet again. Having an alternate candidate wouldn't matter a whit if she couldn't convince people to change their votes, and Hermione kept getting forcibly reminded how very little presence she held in the Wizarding world. She wrote letters, attempting to use what scraps of Slytherin charm and guile she could muster, but most of the Houses had no interest in listening to the Muggleborn ward of the Black family. Those who decided to return her letters at all usually did so with scoffing dismissals.

Feeling defeated after reading the latest letter—from House Clagg, who at least humored Hermione with a polite response—Hermione flopped on her bed, disturbing Crookshanks. She reached out to the Kneazle and rubbed her fingers along his ginger head.