Ginny,
I know there's a lot still unsaid between us. There's so much I want to know, and even more I want to tell you. But for now, the most important thing is that I need to speak with you about my year at Malfoy Manor.
I promise not to let my emotions enter the conversation. All I'm asking is for the chance to provide you with proof.
In the Manor, there are notes beneath my bed which prove what I have been up to for the last year. If you find my gold dress, check the inner seam. Next, go to Lucius Malfoy's study. There is a Pensieve behind his ebony cabinet. Watch the memories in the black vials. You may need Narcissa's assistance.
Please be careful about who you share your findings with. I trust you, and Ron, but I'd rather speak with you before you take any action.
I'm so alone here, Ginny — hardly more than a prisoner. If you can spare a few hours for me now, I would be so grateful.
Please stay safe. I can't bear it otherwise.
Hermione
~*~
Hermione stared out the window, her fingers pressing against the glass. She'd sent the letter four days ago. Still no reply. Nor had Ron responded to the similar letter she'd penned to him.
The week had jumbled together in a blur. The morning after Ginny's visit, a young woman named Healer Barkley had appeared in her room, informing her that she was being treated for repeated concussions and casting a flurry of diagnostics. Hermione had tried her best to seem cooperative, yet sharp, but it was like speaking to a brick wall. When she'd asked why a blood sample was necessary, Healer Barkley swiftly left the room.
The door had stayed locked for the rest of the day. And that night, as Hermione sat in the sterile tub of her attached bathroom, clutching her knees, she'd wondered if they were right about her.
The second day had been much the same, except Healer Tamor came along. Hermione had asked him a few questions about her treatment, only to receive vague replies. She'd managed to keep her voice steady when she requested to speak with Bill Weasley, telling them she had sensitive information to share about Voldemort's defeat and the whereabouts of two missing Death Eaters. They were free to view her memories, if they needed proof.
After exchanging a glance with Healer Barkley, Healer Tamor had assured her the True Order had victory well in hand, with or without her memories. They'd exited the room together — locked again.
On the third day, Hermione had only asked a single question — a request to write to Ginny and Ron. She regretted how they parted, she'd explained, and wanted to make amends. Later that day, after she'd complied with their strange new tests — tapping her fingers together, performing a card sorting task — a stack of parchment and a dull self-inking quill appeared on her bedside table.
Her nights had been filled with grey eyes and severed arms and shattered glasses. She'd tried to bury her memories, but the suppressants dulled her Occlumency. She could only meditate for so long before her lake with still waters would flicker, the surface rattling from a distant avalanche.
The fourth day, they'd asked her questions. And when Healer Barkley had prodded about her interests before the war, Hermione realized they were looking for signs of mind-altering magic. Not the kind caused by the Imperius Curse, but an insidious kind that changed the fabric of who you were. Cold dread had washed over her, but she answered their questions nonetheless.
Before they left, she'd asked for the Daily Prophet. Reading it made her feel more like herself, she'd said. Healer Tamor had given her a curt, "I'll see what I can do," before locking her in.
The Prophet had appeared on her bedside table the next morning, and Hermione upended her coffee to snatch it. The headline had read, ATHENS LIBERATED. The cover photo had depicted the corpse of Eleni Cirillo, hanging by her feet from the columns of the Old Royal Palace.
On Wednesday 12 May, the Prophet had reported the surrender of Great Order forces in Lüneburg and Hanover. Azkaban was overflowing. There had been no mention of Pansy, Blaise, or the Malfoys. But Draco's face had still stared up at her from page seven — Undesirable No. 3. Just below his father.
Healer Tamor came bearing the paper the next morning. He kept it in his lap as he pulled up a chair, watching Healer Barkley ask Hermione how she slept, how she was feeling, and how her relationship was with Draco Malfoy in school.
Hearing his name again hit Hermione like a blow to the gut. When the room no longer felt like it was collapsing in on her, she answered honestly, her eyes trained on the bed sheets.
Healer Tamor set the paper on her bedside stand when it was over.
"I've been thinking," he said, "that being able to walk around a bit might be good for you. Would you like that?"
Blood rushed in Hermione's ears. "Yes." She dipped her chin. "I'd like that very much."
"Excellent," he said, clasping his hands together. "Be sure to stay inside this wing."
Hermione nodded. As soon as the door closed behind them, she scrambled for the Prophet.
MASS INDICTMENTS OF DEATH EATERS, ACCOMPLICES
by Andy Smudgley
The Provisional Government of England is looking to move forward quickly with the trials of Death Eaters and Great Order accomplices, releasing 542 indictments yesterday afternoon. General Jacobs of the True Order will be presiding over the newly-formed Justice Tribunal, which will exclusively prosecute British citizens. In a statement, Jacobs defended the decision to include French General Robert Pierre as one of the Tribunal's five judges, stating, "The accused must answer not only for their crimes against Britain, but all of Europe." A full list of the indicted can be found on pages 2-3.
Hermione turned to the next page. Her fingers ran down the list of names, barely pausing at Draco Malfoy or Lucius Malfoy. There were so many of them. Some were expected — Yaxley, Travers, the Carrows, the Selwyns — but others froze the blood in her veins. Rita Skeeter and Ludo Bagman, for instance. Her heart was thumping by the time she reached Blaise Zabini. And when she reached Narcissa Malfoy's name on page 3, followed by Pansy Parkinson, a sob wrenched from her throat.
She took an hour to collect herself. Then she dried her tears, folded up the paper, and penned another letter to Ginny and Ron.
After stuffing the letters into envelopes, she put on the slippers in her wardrobe and crossed the room. She reached for the door and sighed in relief when it opened.
Hermione stood blinking in the hallway. It seemed to have grown larger since she'd seen it last. The walls were quiet as she began following the same path she had the last time. She turned the corner and found a new set of doors — sealing off the wounded and screaming soldiers. Hermione stared at them, wondering if Ginny or Ron were behind them.
On her way back, she bumped into a mediwizard, who offered to post her letters for her. She handed them over, and her feet carried her to Oliver's room.
The door was locked. She rapped it with her knuckles a few times, but there was no answer. So she paced the corridors of the fourth floor, avoiding Giuliana at the other end.
Healer Barkley found her around lunchtime, asking her if she'd like to see the library. Hermione's throat constricted, but she managed to nod.
The library in St. Mungo's was cluttered and dusty. Still, Hermione's chest felt less hollow as she wandered through the shelves, her fingers trailing across the spines. She was just about to pick a textbook on healing when she spotted a book titled, Laws of Wizarding Britain, Vol. 1. With a glance at the doorway, she slipped it inside the heavier volume, and went to meet Healer Barkley.
She read until one in the morning. By two, she'd written another letter:
Bill:
Under the Magical Freedom Act of 1833, no witches or wizards are to have their magic tampered with without executive decision from the Wizengamot.
According to the Wizengamot Charter of Rights, in the absence of a Wizengamot, a Council shall be devised.
The Magical Welfare Act of 1967 states that witches and wizards who have lost capability of their mind may be held against their will, but the Welfare Act has specific definitions of 'lost capability.' Please see attached.
Please direct me to the council for which these decisions are made.
Sincerely,
Hermione
The next morning, the Prophet reported that True Order infantries were dispatching across Europe to round up fleeing Death Eaters. She knew Ron would be part of that effort. So would George, and perhaps Ginny.
Ignoring the heaviness in her ribs, Hermione turned the page. She skimmed the articles until her eyes caught on a familiar name.
Neville Longbottom, the hero responsible for killing Voldemort's deadly snake, is on the mend. Insiders at St. Mungo's report that Healers had difficulty obtaining the ingredients needed to treat the venom, but thanks to the dismantling of the Anti-Apparition line, St. Mungo's has received critical medical supplies, and the antidote is underway. Longbottom's release is expected as soon as Monday.
Hermione could barely sit still when the Healers arrived. She swallowed their potions, she let them draw blood, and spoke for an hour with Healer Tamor about her mental state and how she perceived Draco Malfoy.
She told them what they wanted to hear. "A confused young man who made terrible choices."
"And should he be held responsible for those choices?"
"Yes."
When it was done, she asked, "Healer Tamor? Is Neville Longbottom still recovering on the third floor?"
He studied her, tucking his clipboard beneath his arm. "I believe so. Why do you ask?"
"He's a dear friend of mine, and..." She trailed off, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I was thinking it might be good for me to spend time with my old friends. It might help me feel more like my old self."
The pleased smile that crossed Healer Tamor's face made all the lies worth it.
A mediwitch accompanied her down to the third floor, Wounds – Magical & Natural, passing the rows of cots and makeshift beds, twisting around the sleeping or moaning soldiers.
When they stopped at a door down a quiet hallway, the mediwitch waited outside for her as she knocked and entered when a familiar voice called, "Come in."
Neville sat at the edge of his bed, his leg in a brace and bandages wrapped around his chest. He looked haggard, but his face brightened at the sight of her.
"Hermione!"
Her chest cracked open as she ran to his bedside, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. "I've missed you."
He gripped her back as tightly as he could.
"You too. I've been waiting to see your name in the papers. I had no idea you were here!"
The lump in her throat grew. She pulled back, dragging over a chair to sit beside him. "How are you? Ginny told me about Nagini, and then I read about you in the paper—"
"The Prophet was right, for once." He gave her a lopsided grin. "They were able to stop the poison from spreading, but I only got the antidote this week. But they failed to mention my leg." He lifted up the brace. "That was broken for a while, so they had to regrow it."
Hermione winced. "For a while?"
"Yeah. The Rookwoods, they... well, you don't have to hear it." He scratched his stubble. Two of his fingers were missing.
A twisting sickness churned her gut. She tore her eyes away.
"Sorry," he said quietly. "It's been like that for a while, so I forget that it'll shock some." Hermione shook her head, but he still slid his hand beneath the sheets. "How are you?"
She opened her mouth to speak, trying to find the words. None came.
"Never mind that. What matters is that you're here now. We both are." His throat bobbed. "I knew you were still in there when I saw you at Hogwarts, Hermione. I knew it."
Hermione blinked at him, her heart beginning to pound. He didn't know. They hadn't told him that she was "sick." That made the next part easier.
"Neville," she said carefully. "I want to tell you something. It's very important to me that you try to listen before you react."
His eyes flickered, but the wariness faded into something trusting and soft. "Alright."
She drew a sharp inhale. "I heard that you went to Hogwarts to finish the job that Harry started." Neville nodded, and she twisted her hands in her lap. "Before that, your magic returned and your tattoo disappeared. Did they tell you how?"
Frowning, Neville shook his head. "I've barely heard anything. Ginny only had a few minutes to say hello, and everyone else is out fighting right now. I assumed someone in the True Order broke the curse—"
"It wasn't a curse. It was a potion. An antidote for the tattoo, mixed with something to counter the effects of magic suppression." Hermione felt her voice grow steadier, her spine straighter. "I made that antidote, Neville. I spent a year on it. I brewed it, tested it on myself, and sent it out to Charlotte to give to the True Order."
Neville's lips parted, his eyes wide. "But how could—?"
"Because Narcissa Malfoy lent me her wand and gave me full use of the Malfoy library. Because I was never magic suppressed after I left the Palace Theatre. Because the Malfoys have their own agenda. They never supported Voldemort the way the world thought they did."
He stared at her. His eye twitched.
"And what is their agenda?" he asked.
She centered her mind as much as she could without Occlumency.
"For Lucius Malfoy, survival. He was playing both sides of the board, waiting to see who ended up on top. For Narcissa Malfoy, protecting her son. And for Draco..." She swallowed, her lungs straining against her ribs. "Draco had feelings for me. He bought me at the Auction because of that. I wasn't raped once in that house."
The room was quiet. She counted her heartbeats, waiting, praying.
"And they didn't believe you," he said slowly. "So you're deemed 'unfit.'"
She glanced up at him. "Yes, exactly. How did you—"
"I recognized the color of your robes, Hermione," he said with a sad smile. "My parents were in mint St. Mungo's robes my entire life."
A sudden thought burst through her, and she reached for his hand. "Neville, are they—?"
He shook his head. "The True Order had to retake St. Mungo's from the Death Eaters. Most of the long-term patients didn't survive under their leadership."
Hermione's skin prickled with horror. She hadn't known. "Neville, I'm so sorry—"
"It's alright. I'd rather not talk about it." He took a deep breath and looked out the window for a long moment.
He turned back to her. "Narcissa Malfoy really lent you her wand?"
Hermione nodded slowly. "I have proof. Assuming they ever let me leave." Her chest constricted again. "Neville, I've tried everything in my power to convince them that my mind is sound. I've asked for the chance to at least prove my account of things, but they refuse to hear it."
Neville's brow furrowed. "That's not right, Hermione. I'm sorry."
A flood of emotion shot up her throat before she could stop it. She slammed her hand over her mouth to hold back her sobs, her eyes filling with tears.
Someone was on her side. Someone believed her.
"Hey." Neville shuffled closer, reaching for her hand. "Hey, it's going to be alright."
Hermione stumbled to her feet and threw her arms over his shoulders, weeping with all the grief and loneliness and despair she'd kept at bay for a week. Neville patted her shoulders, and she sobbed harder.
When she could cry no longer, she pulled back. "I need your help, Neville." She swiped at her cheeks. "I can't just sit here and let them suppress my magic and run tests on me until they decide I'm mentally fit."
His mouth opened, and his gaze narrowed. "They took away your magic?"
Her lips trembled as she nodded. "Will you help me?"
Neville searched her eyes, and she saw the same boy who'd stared down his friends, three to one, his face resolved as he put up his fists to keep them from leaving the Common Room.
"What do you have in mind?"
~*~
The next day, Andy Smudgley from the Daily Prophet signed in at the visitor desk at St. Mungo's. He was escorted to Neville Longbottom's room, where Hermione and Neville were waiting for him.
In her letter she'd sent Smudgley yesterday, she'd promised an interview with two war heroes, now recovering at St. Mungo's. He was to ask for Neville, and arrive promptly at noon.
During her session with Healer Tamor that morning, Hermione had convinced him that visiting with Neville was "good for her." Healer Tamor had given her an approving smile as the mediwitch led her out of her room and to the third floor. She'd returned it.
Hermione smoothed out her robes — blue ones she'd borrowed from Neville — as she detailed to Smudgley the True Order's "daring rescue" of the Golden Girl, best friend to Harry Potter. She told the story as if none of the Malfoys had been present — as if she'd been locked alone in a tower, waiting to be saved. She kept the details of her "condition" vague, saying she was recovering from injuries sustained at Edinburgh.
While Neville described the events of the morning of 4 May, 1999, Hermione looked outside, watching sunlight strike the buildings. A sparrow landed on the windowsill.
A cleared throat startled her, and she turned to see Smudgley crossing his legs and sliding his thick specs up the bridge of his nose. "Miss Granger, you were a prisoner of the Malfoys for a year. How do you feel knowing that Lucius and Draco Malfoy are still on the loose? Are you frightened?"
She'd prepared for this. She'd twisted away from every question about the Malfoys, but Smudgley wanted something juicy to sell papers.
"Not at all. I trust the True Order with my life. Which is why I am eager to leave St. Mungo's and join their efforts to help rebuild our magical community."
The Quick-Quotes Quill paused, then began scribbling furiously. "You'll be working directly with the True Order, Miss Granger?"
"Yes," she said. Neville's lips twitched, and her shoulders felt lighter. "As soon as I'm discharged from St. Mungo's, I'll begin work with them."
Smudgley flipped through his notes. "Mr. Longbottom is being discharged tomorrow, I remember you saying..." He looked up at her. "When is your discharge date, Miss Granger?"
Hermione sent him a pleasant smile and said, "This Wednesday."
~*~
The article appeared the next morning, in the Sunday edition. She and Neville were the cover article, a picture of them splashed across the front page.
Healer Tamor came to see her that morning, and after asking a few perfunctory questions, he crossed his leg over his knee. "I wasn't aware that you were doing interviews, Miss Granger."
"Yes," she said lightly. "Smudgley was pleased to hear how well I've been treated here."
On Monday, her session with Healer Barkley was cut short by a basket of mail. The mediwitch dropped it off with a curious look, and Healer Barkley almost looked amused before excusing herself.
Hermione tore through the envelopes, searching for something from Ginny or Ron. Instead, she found letters from Daily Prophet readers around the world — words of support, prayers for her well-being, and... dare she say it, fan mail. She had to summon a grumpy-looking janitor after lunch to clear up the rose petals and streamers that had burst onto the floor.
The next morning, Hermione was rereading her letters when the Prophet materialized.
FIRST OF DEATH EATER TRIALS BEGIN; AMYCUS CARROW SENTENCED TO DEATH
Snatching the paper, Hermione watched Amycus Carrow's Azkaban photograph sneer up at her before diving in.
Amycus Carrow, one-half of the infamous Carrow twins, was tried and convicted for crimes against humanity and liberty yesterday in a public courtroom in the reclaimed Ministry of Magic. As one of the so-called Keepers of Edinburgh, Carrow was responsible for the epicenter of the Great Order's slavery operations, which forced victims into prostitution, hard labor, and deadly battles known as "Arena matches."
Carrow reportedly showed no remorse for his actions, inciting anger in the courtroom. The Tribunal lost order when Seamus Finnigan, a frequent Arena Fighter at Edinburgh, used the Cruciatus Curse on the accused.
After a recess, Carrow was found unanimously guilty by a jury of 12, and sentenced to death by the Killing Curse. His sentence will be carried out this evening. Finnigan will be prohibited from today's joint trial for Samuel and Siobhan Selwyn, but allowed to rejoin the courtroom for Alecto Carrow and Jonathan Jugson's trials tomorrow.
In an exclusive statement to the Prophet, General Jacobs defended the unconventional methods of the Tribunal, which thus far have involved rapid sentences and no appeals process. "The British people are anxious for justice, and we will deliver it swiftly," said Jacobs. He declined to release the scheduling of trials for the remaining 539 accused, 502 of whom are in custody.
Hermione blinked, reeling. She read the article a second time. And a third.
Seamus had tortured Amycus Carrow on the stand. Of course Hermione felt no remorse for the Carrows, but before the war, an Unforgivable warranted a life sentence in Azkaban. Seamus had hardly received a slap on the wrist.
And Siobhan Selwyn — a friend of Narcissa's — was being tried with her Death Eater husband tomorrow. As if whatever assistance they'd provided to the Great Order were comparable.
No sentences, and executions. Whose laws were the Tribunal following?
Closing her eyes, Hermione tried not to panic. She was so lost in thought that she didn't notice that the mediwitches hadn't provided the minty magic suppressant potion for her that morning. It wasn't until mid-afternoon when she reached for her shelves and found them that she realized.
The suppressant was fading. They'd decided to give her magic back. The article had worked.
She Occluded for the rest of the day. Her waters were still, and her bookshelves materialized with ease. It felt like home again as she sliced up old memories, dusting off familiar tomes and sealing the images inside. She severed pages of new memories, tucking them in a fresh leather volume with pale green letters: St. Mungo's. Then she buried them all, losing them in the stacks.
The sky was dark when Healer Tamor entered her room, clutching a basket of mail twice as large as yesterday's. He told her with an anxious clearing of his throat that he anticipated discharging her the following morning, due to her full recovery.
She smiled and pointed to the foot of her bed. "There will do. Thank you, Healer Tamor."
~*~
Early Wednesday morning, a pair of jeans, a blouse, and trainers appeared in lieu of the Daily Prophet. Hermione dressed, cracked the door open, and walked down the corridor to Oliver's door. She knocked.
No response. Same as the last six days.
Turning on her heel, she returned to her room and wrote him a note to tell him goodbye, and to promise that she'd do everything in her power to exonerate Theo and Draco. She'd ask the True Order to release him as soon as she could. And in the meantime, she asked him to comply — to let them think he was "fixed." Even if it didn't get him released, it would make his life easier here.
She slipped it beneath his locked door and went back to her room.
Two hours later, Healer Tamor came to collect her. They reached the nurses' desk, and he encouraged her to contact him if she needed anything at all.
Hermione thanked him with a thin smile and turned in the direction of the lifts, dismissing him. She gasped.
Ginny stood from her chair in the far corner of the waiting area, winding her hands together. Hermione felt like she was in another person's body as she crossed the room, meeting her halfway.
There was a stilted silence.
"I got them," Ginny rushed out. "Your letters, I mean. I should have responded sooner, but I was in Greece, and then we went straight to the Netherlands, then to Spain. I just got back from Valencia last night. We caught Jugson there earlier this week."
Hermione shifted her weight. "And Ron?"
"Still there. He and Percy joined the hunt for Minister Santos."
Hermione nodded. Her heart felt like a vice had wrapped around it.
"I tried to do what you asked of me after Greece. But they wouldn't let me, and I just—I just needed to lose myself in something." Ginny's voice trembled. "I'm sorry if you felt forgotten."
"It's alright," said Hermione. It wasn't, but it would be. "Ginny, I understand—"
"I don't." Her smile was bitter. "Sometimes I think I've become someone I would have hated."
"Don't say that," Hermione snapped. "I could never hate you."
Ginny stared at the ceiling, then the walls. Her eyes were glassy. "I wanted to offer you a room at the Burrow. If you'd like." She bit her lip. "You're not... required to come with me, or—"
Hermione threw her arms around her, dragging her close. Ginny hesitated, but then she was squeezing her back, clutching her as if her life depended on it.
Tears pricked Hermione's eyes, and she felt Ginny's shoulders shake. She knew the nurses were watching them, but she didn't care.
"I've missed you, Ginny. So much."
"Me too." Ginny's voice was thick as she ran her hand between her shoulder blades, pulling back to grip her elbows. "There's... a lot I still don't understand. And I don't... I don't know if I fully believe that you haven't been manipulated by that family in some way."
Hermione's lips opened to protest—
"But I told Bill it wasn't right to keep you locked up like a criminal," Ginny continued. "We've been putting pressure on them all week to release you, but I think it was your interview that did the trick."
Ginny's lips twitched in a smile.
Her face fell quickly again, and she released Hermione's elbows. "You have to understand that I—I just found out about Charlie. It's hard for all of us, with the Malfoys. But I promise to— try to listen in time. When I can see the things you want to show me."
Hermione nodded. The space was still there, but she felt it shrinking. For now, Ginny was here. And it was enough. She'd give her the space she needed.
"Let's go home," she said, and Ginny grinned at her just like she used to.
Hermione felt something in her chest unwind as Ginny led them to the lifts. The doors closed on the Janus Thickey Ward, and she reached for Ginny's hand.
"I have this for you," Ginny said, producing a wand from her other sleeve. Hermione blinked down at it. "It was suggested that maybe you shouldn't have one yet, so keep it hidden."
Hermione took the wand gingerly — oak, and shorter than her own had been. The buzzing of magic in her veins doubled, and her chest flooded with relief. She tucked it in her waistband, and found Ginny watching her.
"I know what you're thinking, Hermione. But the Manor is barred. I already told you I tried to go. Not even Bill can get in."
A chill raced down Hermione's spine. She had to get to the Manor and retrieve her notes and Lucius's memories. Nothing was more important. "What do you mean, barred? Isn't Narcissa Malfoy being held there?"
"Yes. She's under surveillance. The Floo is off, and there are guards inside and around the perimeter. No one is permitted in or out unless they are cleared by General Jacobs. Which really means General Pierre."
"Then I need to speak to General Pierre."
Ginny gave her a grim smile. "You'll have your chance. They want to meet with you tomorrow morning. At the Ministry."
Anxiety and relief warred inside her as the lift doors opened to the lobby. Then a cascade of sound and movement shattered her senses.
"Miss Granger!"
"Over here!"
Flashbulbs burst and camera shutters clapped like thunder as people shouted her name. Hermione blinked against the light and the sound, following Ginny's lead as she muscled them forward.
"Miss Granger, how do you feel?"
"What are your plans now?"
Ginny wrapped her arm around her as she led them toward the exit. The roar grew deafening, the white light blinding. Reporters called out questions over the din.
Hermione stumbled forward, and the only warning Ginny gave her was a squeeze of her palm before they Disapparated with a crack!
The hook from behind her belly released, and they were standing outside the Burrow.
Ginny stepped in front of her and lifted a brow. "You sure know what you're doing, don't you?"
Hermione took a moment to catch her breath. "I wasn't expecting that."
"It's going to help you tomorrow," said Ginny simply. "Make sure to mention it if it doesn't make the papers." She took Hermione's arm and tugged her through the tall grass.
The Burrow was just as she remembered it — a massive, leaning jumble of a house. The sight of it filled her chest with warmth and longing and a dozen other emotions she couldn't name. It wasn't until Ginny wrenched open the front door that Hermione remembered she wouldn't find Molly waiting in the kitchen, surrounded by floating pots and pans. Or Arthur in the garage, tinkering with an eggbeater.
Her stomach twisted. Taking a deep breath, she shoved the memories back.
A silver-blonde head poked out of the kitchen, short-cropped and sleek. "'Ermione?"
Fleur Delacour stepped around the corner, holding a spatula. Hermione stared at her, remembering the smoke and panic of Edinburgh, the way she'd sliced a Death Eater's neck so easily. She blinked the images away.
"Hello," Hermione said, just as Fleur wrapped her in a hug.
Pulling back, Fleur smiled and gripped her shoulders. "It's good to 'ave you home." She glanced at Ginny, then back at Hermione. "Breakfast?"
They followed Fleur into the kitchen.
Hermione took a seat at the kitchen table, and Ginny sat beside her. They watched Fleur finish cooking, comfortable in the silence.
Ginny got up to set the table, and Hermione watched her help Fleur with an easy affinity she'd never seen between them before. The war had shifted all of them, she supposed. Some closer, and some farther.
Halfway through their large breakfast, the Floo in the kitchen burst to life. Hermione twisted in her chair to see Bill stepping through the fireplace, followed by George.
Hermione's heart skipped. She hadn't been this close to George since the Palace Theatre.
They both stopped dead at the sight of her.
"Hermione." Bill nodded his head in greeting. "Good to see you again."
George moved first, grabbing a handful of sausage before dropping into a chair.
Hermione nodded stiffly. "Good to see you, too. Hello, George."
He shoved a sausage into his mouth and tipped his head, pouring a glass of orange juice.
Hermione had expected it, but it still felt like she'd been struck. She looked to Ginny for guidance, but found her staring at Bill, giving him a look her mother would have been proud of.
Bill ran a hand through his hair. "Hermione, I'd like to apologize for our conversation at Mungo's. It's... Well, you caught me in the middle of a mess in Athens, and I... I deferred to the Healers. But once we'd finished the fighting, and they still hadn't found any decent evidence that you'd—" He broke off, staring at his shoes. "Anyway, Ginny convinced me to speak to Pierre. I'm sorry you were kept out of the loop. And I'm sorry I didn't intervene sooner."
His face was sincere, but the arrogance in it still boiled her blood. Hermione wanted to snap at him that his "intervention" had accomplished nothing, and that she'd had to claw her way out of St. Mungo's herself.
Instead she pasted on a polite smile and said, "I understand. Thank you."
Bill nodded. After an awkward pause, he grabbed a plate and kissed his wife. He took the seat next to her.
"Alecto Carrow?" Ginny asked.
"It's done," George said around a mouthful of potatoes. "Jacobs did the honors straight away."
Hermione's fork paused. "She's dead? Already?"
It was only half ten. Alecto Carrow's trial had begun some time that morning, and she had already been executed.
"Yep. Freed up some space in Azkaban." A piece of toast stopped on the way to George's mouth. He met her eyes for the first time. "Why? Did you fall in love with her too?"
Like a splash of cold water across her back. There was silence in the kitchen except for the clatter of a knife.
Her lips parted on a sharp inhale. "You have no idea what you're talking about—"
"George," Ginny hissed.
"Oi—"
George stood from the table, grabbing one more piece of toast. "Whatever." He nodded to Bill. "I'll see you at noon for Jugson."
He disappeared into the living room. She heard his heavy footfalls up the stairs.
Fleur tried to change the subject. Bill poured her another glass of orange juice. Ginny offered her a strained smile.
And Hermione sat quietly, Occluding until the look on George's face was no longer burning behind her eyelids.
At noon, Bill left with George for Jugson's trial. Hermione sat with Ginny and Fleur in the living room, reading through two weeks' worth of the New York Ghost. Her head was already throbbing from all the Occlumency, so she directed her focus on Gertie Gumley's questions about the lack of transparency behind the Provisional Government of England's new Justice Tribunal.
Bill and George returned three hours later. Hermione didn't ask about the outcome this time.
The sun sank lower in the sky, and Hermione read on. After a time, Fleur got up to do a few chores. Ginny stayed with her.
Hermione's eyes began straining, but everywhere she looked around the Burrow brought flashes of memory — with Molly and Arthur. Harry and Fred. She'd never stayed at the Burrow while Charlie was home, but he was dead now, too.
The white shore of Dover Beach swam up to the forefront of her mind, the wind on the shore. The bright flash of green as Lucius killed him swiftly.
She shook her head, and buried it.
Dinner was also stilted. Ginny had grown moody and silent, and George wouldn't look at Hermione except to ask her to pass the potatoes. She caught Bill watching her furtively several times, as if expecting her to have a meltdown at the table.
Hermione pushed her food around her plate, biting back all the things she wanted to say about the Malfoys, and how none of them would be sitting there if it weren't for them. She thought about mentioning the tattoos — asking them if they knew who'd delivered Charlotte the antidote — but she could already imagine what George would say and Bill would think. And she didn't need to give them any more ammunition.
After dinner, Ginny conjured a second bed for Hermione in her room, just like they used to sleep when the house was full. Hermione didn't know if it was out of grief that the other rooms weren't used, or if Ginny assumed she didn't want to be alone. She didn't ask.
Hermione couldn't sleep. So she stared at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the Burrow hanging over her as she listened to Ginny breathe in the darkness. Something was missing. And it wasn't just the dead.
It felt like she'd lost something. As though she'd been stitched together sloppily, like a puzzle with missing pieces. Or perhaps all the pieces were there, but they were just in the wrong places.
It was two in the morning when a soft voice called to her across the bedroom. "Tell me something about him. Something I'll know is true."
Hermione blinked at the ceiling. She opened her mouth to tell her about the tattoos. About the Horcrux, and Dolohov. But that wasn't what Ginny was asking.
It took her a full minute to speak. "He knew I drank coffee. He had coffee delivered to my room every morning."
The room was so quiet, she wondered if Ginny had fallen asleep. And then — "Your room?"
Hermione turned her head to the grey shape of Ginny in the darkness. "Yes. I had my own suite."
She ached to tell her more, but she held herself back.
Ginny turned over to face the wall and murmured, "Okay."
~*~
In the morning, Hermione meditated and organized her mind. Ginny slept soundly on the other side of the room while she steadied her shelves, mentally reciting her arguments for her meeting with the True Order. She needed to be prepared.
She showered, and when she returned to the bedroom, Ginny was gone. So she borrowed clothes from Ginny's closet, dressed quickly, and joined the table for breakfast.
It was just as silent as it had been yesterday. After an hour of ignoring her, George stood from the table and said, "You ready to go?"
She blinked up at him. "Oh. Yes." After clearing her plate, she followed him to the fireplace. She glanced at Bill, but he remained seated.
George took a handful of Floo powder before handing it over to her. He called out, "Ministry of Magic," and didn't look behind him as he disappeared in a burst of green flames.
Hermione's stomach clenched at the thought of returning to the Ministry, but she had to go. Squaring her shoulders, she threw the powder and stepped into the fireplace.
She stumbled out into the deserted Ministry Atrium, gaping up at the domed blue ceiling. The Magic Is Might fountain was gone — only the dust of demolition left behind.
George was already walking toward the bank of lifts to the left. She rushed to follow him, listening to his footsteps echo off the dark wood floor. He tugged open the grate of an arriving lift and held it open for her, not meeting her eyes.
Once they were inside, she turned to him.
"You're disappointed in me."
His gaze remained fixed ahead. "Something like that."
The lift rocketed them downward and to the side, and she stepped in front of him. He scowled down at her.
"I suppose you think I'm insane, then? That I should still be locked away at St. Mungo's?"
He tilted his head, and she didn't recognize Fred anywhere in his curled lip. "No. I think your mind is fine, and that you simply fell for a snivelling little coward. That's the worst part."
She flinched, feeling the sting. The lift stopped, and George pushed around her, exiting without a backward glance.
Hermione's blood simmered with rage, but she shoved it aside. Taking a deep breath, she stepped off the lift — and onto the same black tiles she'd sprinted across a year ago, running from Dolohov and Yaxley. Her shelves trembled violently, but she centered her mind, pushing back her memories.
She almost had to break into a run to catch up with George, striding down a corridor toward a black unmarked door. He knocked twice, and the door swung open.
Hestia Jones stared them up and down. Hermione's lips parted in silent surprise. Jones had been a member of the Order of the Phoenix — just a few years older than Tonks. Hermione had seen her in and out of Grimmauld Place over the years.
"Miss Granger." She reached forward and took her hand in a firm shake. George slid by her. "Good to see you again."
"And you."
Hermione entered what seemed to be a meeting room with a long oval table. A large map of Europe filled the entire far wall, stuck with pins. Two men were seated at the table. They stood to attention, turning to the doorway.
"Hermione Granger, this is General Pierre and General Jacobs of the True Order."
General Jacobs was a bland but handsome man, about in his late thirties. He greeted her with a posh British accent, shaking her hand when she offered it. But her eyes were drawn to Robert Pierre, the man who apparently held all power over decisions of her medical care.
He was the taller of the two, with broad shoulders and a crooked face. His eyes were penetratingly blue, and the scruff he wore on his cheeks contrasted with the straight, pressed lines of his black military clothes.
"Miss Granger," he said, his accent much lighter and crisper than Fleur's. "I'm delighted to hear that you are feeling better."
"Thank you." She forced herself to smile. "I'm honored to meet you all."
Hestia offered her a seat across the table from Pierre and Jacobs, and then took her own chair just down the table. George remained in the room, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed.
"Well, Miss Granger, you have our attention. Especially after your little stunt with the Prophet." Pierre gave her a tight smile. "Forgive me for skipping pleasantries, but we are all quite busy. So tell us, what is it that you want?"
The room was silent. Jacobs laced his fingers on the table, staring her down. A cold awareness crept down Hermione's spine, like brushing fingers with a ghost.
"I'd like access to Malfoy Manor. I have evidence there to assist the True Order in—"
"Out of the question." Pierre leaned back in his chair. "Malfoy Manor is under lockdown. And the estate has already been swept, I assure you. Any 'evidence' you might have has been picked up already."
She lifted a brow at him. "Highly doubtful, General. You'd be treating me very differently if you'd seen what I have stored there."
Jacobs shifted in his chair, glancing at Pierre, but the Frenchman kept his gaze on her.
"And what might that be?"
"You'll have to let me retrieve it myself."
He laughed — a low rumble. "We have all the evidence we need to try the accused, Miss Granger."
"And that's my next question," she said, straightening in her chair at his condescending tone. "Which laws are these tribunals observing if a defendant can be tortured mid-trial?"
"A 'defendant,'" George said suddenly. "Is that what they are? Are you saying you didn't see Amycus and Alecto Carrow with your own two eyes—"
"What I saw is irrelevant. When they are on trial being prosecuted, they are defendants according to Wizarding Law and the Wizengamot's legal documents—"
"In case you haven't noticed, Miss Granger," said Jacobs, "the destruction caused by the Great Order required a new government to be built. The Justice Tribunal—"
"Yes, the Justice Tribunal," she said. "Which, I assume, has been granted a charter of some kind by the International Confederation of Wizards?"
"We are not bound by international law," said Pierre coolly. "The Justice Tribunal is free to prosecute its own citizens as it sees fit."
"Then why are you here, General Pierre?"
A muscle in Pierre's cheek twitched. "How can we help you today, Miss Granger?"
She lifted her chin. "Firstly, I would like all charges against Narcissa Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson dropped. Effective immediately."
Jacobs scoffed.
"Denied," Pierre said.
She clenched her palms into fists beneath the table. "I have proof that all three of them aided the True Order over the past year, and actively assisted in the downfall of the Great Order. In the interest of justice, I request that you review my memories before proceeding with those trials."
"Denied."
Her nostrils flared, and her anger boiled over. "Pansy Parkinson was sold like an animal, just like the rest of us! What are her crimes?"
"Miss Parkinson was declared dead a year ago. She's been colluding with Great Order members from that point onwards—"
"And what is your evidence for this? If you would view my memories, you'd see just how false your statement is—"
"Your memories, Miss Granger," Pierre said, "may not have the weight you think they do. You've been treated at St. Mungo's recently for mental tampering, I believe?"
The air left Hermione's lungs. She felt her hands shaking with anger. "I was cleared by the Healers, who found absolutely no evidence that I'd been subjected to mind-altering magic—"
"The point"—Pierre lifted a hand—"is that we cannot disprove that your memories have been compromised. We have plenty of evidence of crimes committed by the entire Malfoy family and your"—he made a flippant gesture—"friends."
"Then I demand to represent the accused at the trials and submit my testimony, my memories, and my physical evidence from Malfoy Manor in front of the Tribunal."
"The accused provide their own defense, Miss Granger. They must answer the court directly—"
"Then I will go to the Prophet, the Ghost, and any paper who will have me and tell them about the Justice Tribunal's lack of due process and interference with evidence collection. I will tell them how the True Order had Hermione Granger committed without cause — creator of the tattoo antidote potion that freed the slaves and allowed the True Order the opportunity retake the country—"
"I don't know what you think you've created," Jacobs interjected over her, "but French potioneers working for the True Order were the ones responsible for creating the antidote—"
She pushed to her feet, anger coiling through her veins. "Is that the lie you've been spinning? I constructed that potion myself in the Malfoy potions laboratory. Narcissa Malfoy gave me her wand, and Draco Malfoy delivered the ingredients directly to Charlotte!"
Pierre stared at her, his face impassive. Jacobs laughed, shaking his head.
"Miss Granger," Hestia Jones began, "please calm down—"
"Squid Ink, Sopophorous root, poppy head, bloodroot," she recited. "Dilute the squid ink with distilled water. Bring to a boil and set aside."
"You can't be serious—"
She raised her voice. "Chop the Sopophorous root into even quarters. Grind the poppy head with a pestle and add to boiling water. Stir clockwise twelve times until dissolved."
George stepped forward. "Hermione, that's enough—"
She lunged away from him and grabbed the back of her chair. "Let sit fifteen minutes. Add ten drops of squid ink, stirring counterclockwise after each drop. Lastly, add the bloodroot. Let sit for four hours until the poison in the bloodroot has neutralized and the steam rises in perfect spirals."
She took a shuddering breath, rage coursing through her. "I created that potion, and I can prove it. Charlotte may be dead, but I'm not."
Pierre studied her over steepled fingers while Jacobs stared at her in disbelief. Tilting her head, Hestia Jones regarded her curiously, and George looked like he finally recognized her.
She leaned forward on her hands, glared down at Pierre's unreadable face, and hissed, "Call your potioneer."
It was silent. She could hear the thump of her heartbeat as she waited for Pierre to respond.
A knock rapped on the door, startling her. George opened it, and Roger Davies rushed inside.
"Sir," he addressed Pierre, "urgent news from Prague."
Pierre cracked his knuckles and stood. "Miss Granger, if you would wait for a moment. Help yourself to tea." He gestured to a cart in the corner. "General Jones will contact our potions team, and then we will discuss."
Hestia nodded, and then all four of them were leaving the room with Roger Davies.
Once the door shut behind them, Hermione let out a shuddering breath. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, and pushed back her frustration.
She'd done the best she could. She'd forced them to listen to her.
Dropping back into her chair, Hermione waited. After twenty minutes, she decided to accept the offer of tea and poured herself a cup. After nearly an hour, she grew anxious.
The clock on the wall indicated that an hour and forty-five minutes had passed when finally the door opened again.
General Jacobs strolled in with a jubilant expression that turned Hermione's stomach. Pierre followed a pace behind him, hovering like a hawk.
"Well, Miss Granger," Jacobs said. "It seems our potions team can indeed confirm that a mysterious source provided them with a breakthrough for the antidote. It appears to match your description perfectly. Congratulations."
The wave of her relief was cut short when she realized that Jacobs must be smiling for other reasons. Pierre loomed, his eyes boring into her.
She pressed her lips together. "Where are George and Hestia?"
"Occupied," said Pierre.
"Let's say the Malfoy family did allow use of their potions laboratory," said Jacobs, condescension dripping from his voice. "Let's say Lucius Malfoy did know you were conspiring against the Great Order, in his very house. Let's even say he supported that." His gaze locked on her, and his head tilted. "Does that really balance the scales against the 10,000 dead on Baffin Island? Or the people he helped murder in Switzerland and France?"
Hermione's spine stiffened. "I think you'd have to examine the evidence to see who was responsible for deploying that weapon, and who created it. I know at least two other Lots who can corroborate my memory of Lucius Malfoy decrying the death toll on Baffin—"
"And the True Order soldiers and civilians in Switzerland?" Jacobs pressed. "Can you explain away those lives, too?"
Hermione clenched her jaw. She couldn't. She could only trust Draco's word that it had been deployed when his father was Austria. "Like I said, there is plenty of evidence at Malfoy Manor that should be carefully weighed when determining these charges—"
"You have your evidence, and we have ours. If the Malfoys did assist you, it was only a last ditch effort to save their skins."
Hermione rose from her chair. "Your opinions are irrelevant. Any court worth a damn understands the importance of evidence and proper representation—"
"Don't be rash, Miss Granger. We have convened"—he nodded at Pierre— "and have agreed to allow you to represent whoever you'd like. If the accused can defend themselves, we see no reason not to allow someone else to do it for them."
Hermione gaped at them. Her jaw clicked shut.
"You can begin with Lucius Malfoy," Jacobs continued. "He turned himself in not two hours ago."
The room reeled beneath her feet. She steadied herself on the table with her fingertips table. "Turned himself in?"
"To the Magical Republic of Czechia," Pierre added.
Hermione's mind spun. Lucius Malfoy had surrendered himself to the True Order. Freely.
She stood tall, lifting her chin. "And when will his trial be?"
"Monday."
The word echoed in her ears. "That's in four days."
"Yes."
Hermione sucked in air. "I request that his trial be pushed back so I have proper time to prepare—"
"Denied." Jacobs' mouth tugged in a faint smirk.
Rolling her jaw, Hermione swallowed. "I request full access to Malfoy Manor."
"Request denied."
"I request full access to my client for the full four days—"
"You may see him once," Jacobs said. "Now."
"Now?" she said weakly.
"Those are the allowances we are willing to make. It's worth reminding you, Miss Granger, that none of the accused have enjoyed these privileges thus far."
"These 'privileges' you speak of are a mockery of the most basic human rights," she spat. "This is an outrage. I—" She broke off, watching Pierre assess her. Waiting for her to crack beneath the pressure.
But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Pushing her shoulders back, she said, "Take me to him."
With a mocking bow, Pierre led her from the room. Hermione caught a glimpse of Jacobs' narrowed gaze as she slipped through the door, following Pierre as he strode down the black-tiled corridor.
Her head swam. She needed to access legal texts. She needed to review the laws drawn up by this new court — whatever they were. She needed to study the previous days' trials.
Her mind was itemizing a list of evidence to defend Lucius Malfoy when Pierre halted at a door surrounded by stern-faced guards. Lucius was here, she realized. Behind this door.
"You have ten minutes," Pierre said.
Her fists curled at her sides. "I'll have at least an hour, General. Perhaps the Prophet would be interested in knowing—"
"Perhaps the Prophet will find itself unable to print tomorrow." He opened the door for her, his blue eyes locked on hers. "Ten minutes."
Seething, Hermione stepped inside — into a small black room with no windows. There was only a table and two chairs. Lucius Malfoy sat in one of them, cuffed to the table. He lifted his brow when he saw her. The door behind her clicked closed.
"Miss Granger," said Lucius. He was thinner, but he still sat tall and proud. "I was quite surprised to hear I was meeting with my solicitor before heading to Azkaban."
The sight of his sharp jaw and grey eyes struck something inside her. Some hole in her chest that longed for Draco, and missed Narcissa. A place that now felt more like home than the Burrow did.
She moved to take the chair across from him. Folding her hands on the tabletop, she met his assessing gaze.
"Why are you here, Lucius?"
There was a good chance he'd lie. But she had to ask it once.
He spread his hands wide, the chains clinking together. "These are surely the finest accommodations in all of England. How could I resist?"
She ignored him, drumming her fingers together. "Are you here to negotiate a deal for Narcissa?"
He tilted his head at her and lowered his arms. "What could I possibly negotiate with?"
The fine layer of hope in her chest cracked, like ice on a lake. She'd thought maybe he had a plan. He always had a plan.
"Do you know where Draco is?" she asked.
His lips twitched. "Funny. I was going to ask you the same question."
She sat back, closing her eyes in frustration. Nine minutes. "They won't let me back into the Manor," she said dully. "So I can't retrieve your memories."
Opening her eyes, she found him staring at her — his gaze narrowed, but amused. "My memories?"
"The ones in the black vials. You left your study unlocked, and I found them."
"Did I?" He cocked his head. "That doesn't sound like me."
She didn't have time for his games, so she plowed ahead. "You will need to submit them to evidence again. Leave nothing out — Goyle Sr., Romania, Charlotte and the Carrow Girls — all of it."
He studied her silently. She took that as acceptance.
"Did you kill Romano and Berge in Salerno?"
"I did."
She let out a ragged breath. At least there was that. "Then submit that memory to evidence as well."
"Miss Granger," said Lucius, eyes flicking up to her. "You can't possibly be this naive."
Her mouth felt dry. "Pardon?"
"Do you truly believe they will review my memories in preparation for the trial?"
"I do," she said, with more confidence than she felt. "The Tribunal has been appalling thus far, but that ends today. If they won't review your memories, I'll drag a Pensieve into the courtroom myself."
His lips tugged in a half-smile. Something glittered behind his eyes. "I wasn't expecting you, Miss Granger."
"I know." He looked like Draco when he smirked. She twisted her fingers together. "I just came from my first meeting with the True Order."
"No, not just here." He glanced at the wall over her shoulder like there was a beautiful view she was missing out on. "You're quite unexpected."
She stared at him, waiting for him to say more.
"Don't misunderstand me, you're clearly more trouble than you're worth." He folded his hands and rolled his shoulders back. "But I almost regret preventing you from escaping the Palace."
Ice ran through her veins. The arms that had wrapped around her in the scuffle backstage.
Good work, Malfoy. It had been so long since she thought of that moment. At the time, she'd assumed it had been Draco.
"You said you weren't there — that you had no interest in slave-trading."
He shrugged. "I lied."
She racked her brain for the memory. "You were trying to take me outside. Why?"
"I hadn't quite decided," he lilted. "I was half-tempted to kill you. Would have saved me an awful lot of trouble."
She scowled at him, crossing her arms over her chest.
"I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you so, Mr. Malfoy."
"'An inconvenience.' Yes, I suppose that sums you up, Miss Granger."
She refrained from rolling her eyes. They had six minutes, at best.
"I will provide them with a detailed account of my time spent at the Manor. I'll include vials of my memories to corroborate." Her leg bounced with nervous energy. "Between the two of us, I'm confident we can at least get you a life sentence to Azkaban—"
She startled when Lucius lurched forward, all mirth gone from his face. "Is my wife at the Manor?"
"Yes," she said.
"And they don't intend to move her?"
"No." The look on his face reminded her of the night Edinburgh was attacked, when he came searching for his son. "No, I don't believe so. She's under house arrest."
There was a knock at the door, and Hermione whipped around as it swung open. Pierre was there. It hadn't been ten minutes.
Pressing her lips together, she stood. When she turned back to Lucius, she found him reclining in his seat. "I'll see you at your trial, Lucius. Rest assured, I intend to inconvenience you for many years to come."
His eyes glittered as he nodded to her. She turned, moving to the door. Pierre had just stepped aside for her when Lucius called out, "Oh, and Miss Granger?"
She spun around, and saw him eyeing her denims and trainers with distaste.
"Will you at least attempt to dress yourself appropriately at the trial?"
She scowled at him and followed Pierre out, back down the halls, and to the lifts.
Her mind was spinning, replaying her conversation with Lucius on a loop. She still had no idea why he'd turned himself in, or what he planned to accomplish. And now she wouldn't have a chance to find out until his trial.
She barely heard Pierre as he bid her a clipped goodbye and left her at the fireplaces. But as she stood before the Floo, powder in hand, her muscles felt frozen at the thought of returning to the Burrow.
Her arm faltered. She couldn't return to silent dinners and George's sneers. Lucius Malfoy's life was on the line. Draco's father.
Four days to save him. That's all she had.
A sudden idea struck her. She tossed the powder and called out for Grimmauld Place, praying it wouldn't be barred.
The flames roared as she stepped through, and then she was walking out of the familiar fireplace there.
She felt dizzy with success. The Fidelius Charm was intact. Draco was the Secret Keeper. Since he'd taken her there, she still could return.
She pulled out her wand and cast a Homenum Revelio. No one there — she was alone.
She wandered into the kitchen. Blaise and the girls had left quickly. Dishes still in the sink were growing mold, and books had been left opened on the coffee table. A pouch full of Galleons lay on a cushion. Glancing around, Hermione called out for Kreacher.
He didn't come.
And with a wave of relief, she realized — Kreacher might be with Draco. The master of Grimmauld Place. Tears threatened to spill down her cheeks, and she leaned against the wall, drawing labored breaths until she was able to Occlude her feelings away. When her shelves were steady, she headed upstairs.
Grimmauld Place had a small library where she located a few books on Magical Law. But by mid-afternoon, she was aching for more sources. She Apparated to one of London's owleries and sent off several notes — one to Ginny, apologizing for not returning to the Burrow, explaining Lucius's trial and why she had to defend him, and promising to see her soon; a few to several Magical Libraries, requesting books on law; and one to the Justice Tribunal, requesting a copy of their new laws and the transcripts for the trials that had taken place over the past week.
In the morning, when she woke covered in borrowed law texts, but with no response from the Tribunal, she wasn't surprised.
She cast a few glamours and left Grimmauld on Saturday morning to grab groceries and a copy of the Prophet. When she flipped through the pages, she found her own face on page 11 with the headline, HERMIONE GRANGER, OF SOUND MIND?
The paper almost slipped from her fingers. Her vision blurred as she read it — just a few lines. It suggested that she had been at St. Mungo's for injuries to the head, and that the Healers had disagreed about the decision to discharge her. The tip had been provided by an anonymous source at the hospital.
They were trying to discredit her.
After nearly setting it aflame in her anger, Hermione channeled her fury into her preparation. She read her new books from front to back. Four owls later, she received a letter from the Tribunal confirming that she'd be given access to a Pensieve that could project memories to the court. And for the first time, she felt hopeful.
On the morning of the trial, she rolled her eyes at herself in the mirror as she changed clothes for the third time. The girls had left behind piles of clothes, but Daphne's fit her best. She put on the crispest blouse she could find, Lucius's taunting ringing in her ears.
When she arrived at the Ministry Atrium half an hour early, she found a crowd already forming, hoping for a good view.
She had a written statement memorized as an opening. She had her memories in vials, ready to submit them to evidence. Eyes dragged over her, and whispers floated in her direction. Heading to a far corner, she took several minutes to Occlude, blocking out the rising noise of the crowd. When she finally opened her eyes, she found the Atrium filled to the very back.
Hundreds had turned out for Lucius Malfoy's sentencing.
She breathed deep into her still waters as she walked to the center of it all, standing to the side until General Pierre opened up the floor to her.
The Justice Tribunal was called to order, and she found herself stared down by twelve men and women she'd never seen before. She blinked back at them.
The crowd rippled, and a flash of ginger pulled her attention. Bill, Percy, George, and Ron standing in the front — all here to see Charlie's killer brought to justice.
She met Ron's gaze before he looked away. She took a deep breath and buried him deep in her mind, forcing her eyes to blur over the audience.
The ding of the lifts silenced the entire hall, and then Lucius Malfoy was being escorted toward the makeshift stage by four guards. The Atrium exploded in sound. She could hardly think with the press of it on her senses.
They pushed him to sit in a chair facing the twelve jurors. Five judges presided, including General Hestia Jones, General Pierre, and General Jacobs.
At noon on the dot, General Pierre stood, and the Atrium fell silent.
He cast an Amplifying Charm on his voice and began, "Lucius Malfoy. You are hereby brought before this Tribunal to answer to your crimes against the Wizarding world, crimes against humanity and liberty."
The crowd hollered and booed, shaking the ground beneath her feet. Lucius was still, his hands folded in his lap. When they settled, Pierre continued.
"These crimes include: The mass murder of over 10,000 lives, both magical and Muggle, in Canada; Conspiracy to mass murder in Italy; Conspiracy to mass murder in Switzerland; the witnessed and reported murder of the following — Chelsea Jamison, Damon Ducavenay, Ruben Taverntine, Charles Weasley—"
A chuckle rumbled through the Atrium — low, but unmistakable. Hermione looked up, and found Lucius Malfoy smirking at the crowd.
"Hm. I did manage to get a Weasley, didn't I? I'd quite forgotten."
Fear lanced through her like a sharp knife, rattling her shelves. Lucius shook his head, smiling, as if laughing at a private joke.
The crowd rumbled, and Hermione's waters trembled.
What did he say?
He didn't just—
She tuned them out, glancing at the Weasley brothers. George's face was bright red.
"You know," Lucius continued, louder. A smile in tone. "I do have regrets for my actions over the past few years." He nodded solemnly. "Mostly, I regret how slowly I killed Charlie Weasley."
A shout from the crowd. Hermione's legs swayed.
That wasn't how it happened. She'd seen it.
Lucius shifted in his seat, turning his eyes on the Weasley brothers. "His screams haunt me to this day, truly. No one should have to go through that much pain."
Ron shot forward, but Bill yanked him back.
She had to make him stop. Hermione moved on shaking legs, her breath coming quickly. The hall was roaring with noise. Someone in the crowd broke the line, their shoulder shoving into Hermione's. She stumbled.
"So much blood," Lucius said, leaning forward like he held a secret. "And so much begging. But I suppose that's to be expected from a Weasley."
There was a ringing in her ears as she raised her wand to silence him — but then a sharp movement caught her eye, and she felt like she was screaming underwater as George's arm arched back, his wand slicing downward — a green light barreling forward.
The Killing Curse shot through the crowd, landing squarely in the middle of Lucius's chest. His chair blew back several feet, his body limp.
Her skin was cold. She'd gone deaf, and she couldn't feel her arms.
Lucius's grey eyes were open. His lips curved in a cold smile.
Sound hit her like running into a wall. Her eardrums exploded as the Atrium celebrated. She turned to see the Weasley brothers roaring.
Her head whipped to the stage where General Pierre was smiling, pretending to calm to the crowd.
Blacks spots in her vision, growing darker, and deeper. She couldn't breathe.
In the darkness, words started to form.
Kill his bitch!
Hermione gasped as her eyes flew open, watching as the crowd began shouting, rioting.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
They were Disapparating.
They were going to the Manor. To kill Narcissa.
"No!"
Ten more vanished before her eyes.
She twisted her wand and Apparated to the hill outside the Manor.
The noon sun burst in front of her eyes. A screaming from around her — the crowd gathering, waiting for more to arrive.
Hermione jerked around, and saw bodies on the ground. True Order guards that had been stationed at the Manor, laying in a heap on the grass.
Her eyes jumped to the gates. Men on the ground there, expelled from the house. One of them impaled on the iron, his limbs bent oddly — as though he'd ejected and landed on the fence.
The crowd from the Ministry roared. A rush of running feet, and Hermione bolted out in front of them, sprinting to the front gates.
She had to get to Narcissa. She had to save her.
The iron gates swung open, as though welcoming the mob. Tears streamed down her face as her legs pumped to get there first.
Jumping over the tangled body of a True Order guard, she darted through the gates, her muscles on fire as she ran down the gravel drive.
A gasping, and a boom. And another, and another. Like firecrackers.
She whipped over her shoulder and found a hundred people hurling themselves against the gates and ricocheting backward, like a boundary spell had been cast to keep them out.
Her feet froze, her heart beating in her throat. She was the only one who made it through.
The crowd trampled each other as they shoved forward. She flinched at the hiss of the first curse. It bounced up and outward, barreling into the sky.
Her breath fought against her ribs as they sent more and more hurtling towards her. The air crackled, but none passed through. She turned back to the Manor. The front doors swung open, welcoming her.
"Stop it! Don't!"
The curses ceased.
"Hermione!"
She stumbled as she spun around. Ron and his brothers were at the front of the rippling crowd. Ron extended his hand to her, as if he wanted her to grant them access.
Her gaze fell to his open palm.
Lucius had known. He'd gotten himself killed, and the Manor had locked down to everyone but her. She glanced to the open doors, and she knew she'd find Narcissa inside. Safe.
"Hermione!" Ron called again. His voice was frantic — betrayed.
Bill gripped his shoulder with one hand. His other clutching George.
It was quiet. Just the wind in her ears.
With a wave of her hand, the gates of Malfoy Manor began to close on them.
Someone screamed her name, but she was already walking down the gravel path.
Returning home.