February 11th, 1999
When Pansy hears the word 'probation,' her steel wall falls.
Hermione watches her go slack against the side of the cage, all the fear she so resolutely refused to show now plain on her face. And then their eyes meet.
And she feels as though she's seeing Pansy Parkinson for the first time.
Because the bloodshot eyes that stare back at Hermione regard her as an equal. For the first time, Hermione has a sense of what it must be like to know Pansy Parkinson. To stand on the inside of her walled-in life.
And her words from before suddenly ring true.
She can see her.
Pansy Parkinson is more than a cold, pretty face.
As her cage starts to lower back into the holding cells, from which she'll soon be released, the silent members of the crowd begin to rustle for their things. Hermione's knees are stiff - numb. Her face is blank.
Luck. Pure luck - that's what this was.
Had one wrong word come out of her mouth, one poorly phrased question, the atmosphere of the room would've been entirely different right now.
Faith Burbage deals her a withering look from the podium before disappearing behind it. No doubt to recollect herself before the next retrial.
And as Harry appears at her side, walking Hermione from the room - still too stunned and speechless to feel relief - John Dawlish stares holes into her back.
It will only get harder from here.
"Twenty minutes was all I could secure for you," says McGonagall once they reach the atrium, handing Hermione another visitor badge. "I'm sorry, Miss Granger."
And she suddenly remembers her day isn't over.
She has to speak to Millicent Bulstrode.
"Thank you, Headmaster," Hermione deadpans. "Twenty minutes should be more than enough."
She clips on the badge with clammy hands and steps into the lift.
February 12, 1999
THE STAR-CROSSED LOVERS OF A DARK REGIME
How Love Forced Pansy Parkinson Into You Know Who's Midst
Skeeter's article is bursting with flowery, decidedly less-than-accurate details. Of Pansy wiping away "glistening tracks of tragic tears" and "lamenting the consequences of this brutal love." Of Hermione handing her handkerchiefs and urging the Wizengamot to "find their humanity" - a completely fabricated quote.
There are, however, a few truths stitched into the mess.
"And when our Golden Girl inquired as to the nature of this relationship, Parkinson - sighing wistfully - described it as 'purely one-sided.'"
"Pausing here to remind my lovely readers once more that Miss Parkinson was under the influence of Veritaserum at this time."
"'What do you think about when you think of Theodore Nott?' our War Heroine pressed her, to which Parkinson replied, starry-eyed, 'Many things. His voice, mostly. It's the most comforting sound I know. The only thing that calms me down. Makes me feel safe.'"
"'Did [(You Know Who) - our Golden Girl neglected to use this reader-friendly term] make you do things?' Miss Parkinson could only nod. 'Bad things?' asked Miss Granger. 'Terrible things,' said Parkinson. 'And why did you do these things?' To which Parkinson replied, 'For Theo.'"
"In her closing statement, the Brightest Witch of Our Age posed one final question to Miss Parkinson. 'What would you do for Theodore Nott?' An audible gasp fanned out across the courtroom - several heartbroken cries of outrage - as Parkinson revealed, 'Anything.'"
For better or worse, the press has taken their side.
There's only a small footnote regarding Millicent's trial. It'd been quick and rather painless, especially when compared to the others. Millicent had broken down almost immediately and done most of Hermione's work for her - weeping, apologizing, opting for the Veritaserum and then spending the next half hour drenching the courtroom in just how "utterly useless" she always felt. Ridiculed and ostracized until she was accepted by Voldemort and his followers. She just wanted to feel included.
And lucky for Millicent, she'd never used an Unforgiveable. She was fined. Not even a probation.
But Hermione has a sinking feeling it's the best outcome she's going to see from here on out. Nothing's going to get easier.
Today is Tracey Davis and Daphne Greengrass.
Tracey's cell is somewhere along the middle of the corridor, but she's stopped before she can reach it.
"Granger."
Her shoes scuff on the stone floor. Nott's bruises are slowly healing, but the majority of his face is still a mottled shade of purple. He's standing at the bars like he's been waiting for her, a copy of the Daily Prophet in one hand.
"How did you get that?" she blurts without thinking. Surely, there are more important questions to ask.
"Bribed the guard," he says plainly, but before she can ask what he could've possibly offered, he flattens the paper against the bars so that she can see the headline. "The fuck is this?"
"Today's paper," she deadpans.
Nott's eyes tighten. "Granger." He pulls it back and slams it against the bars again. "What is this?"
She tries not to think about what Pansy would want her to say in this moment. Tries not to consider what she'll do to her if she doesn't. But Pansy is already back at Hogwarts. At Hogwarts, with Blaise and Millicent and Adrian - the best place she could possibly be. Only, now she's got a trace on her.
Still, she's safe.
She can forgive Hermione for this.
"The truth," she answers at last, doing her best to hold his gaze without faltering. She feels she's intruding on something. A very private aspect of two very private lives. Lives she has no business being involved in, even when she's trying to save them.
"This isn't some typical Skeeter shite?" Nott's eyes are more wide and desperate than she realized. "This is what happened?"
"For the most part," she hedges, blinking and dropping her eyes. "Without all the tears and the handkerchiefs."
There's a loud bang.
Her eyes fly back up - Nott has yanked on his bars so hard he's activated their protective Wards. He staggers backward, stung by the resulting jinx, the Daily Prophet floating to the floor at his feet. "Bleeding fucking hell," he hisses, pacing a small line back and forth.
"I'm sorry you found out this way," is all Hermione can manage. She has no idea what's going through his head. "Pansy didn't want anyone to know. But it was all we could do."
His bruise-bracketed gaze finds her again, sharp and yet somehow all at once soft. "She's a fool," he says in a quiet voice.
Hermione can't help but step back. Something stings in her chest. She's not sure what.
"She's a fucking fool," he says again, huffing and shaking his head.
"How can you say that?" she breathes. "After everything she's done for you?"
"For me? I didn't fucking ask her to!" He's at the bars again, rattling them, teasing another stinging jinx out of the Wards. He shakes his hands out as he yells, "I never fucking asked! Who told her she had to kill for me? Almost die, for me?"
"No one told her," says Hermione. It's automatic. "She did what she felt was right."
There's a strained pause. When she manages to meet his eyes again, they're full of a very familiar rage. Rage she's used to seeing in lighter, colder eyes. "You'd know all about that, wouldn't you? That's what you think you're doing for him - isn't it?" He juts his head down the hall, but she doesn't need to look.
"I'm trying to," she whispers.
He whispers, too. Only his tone is deadly. "No wonder he fucking hates you."
Hermione blinks slowly. Glances down again.
She has to force herself to move to Tracey's cell.
February 22nd, 1999
It's been Hell on Earth.
But at least the Howlers have stopped coming. Either the Ministry's finally stripped Malfoy of his rights to a quill and parchment, or he's finally exhausted himself. He had to've been using wandless magic, after all. His wand is locked up in a Ministry vault.
Whatever the reason, she's grateful. Today, of all days, that's not something she'd be able to handle.
It's by design. She's sure of it.
Furious at her dumb luck - her somehow baffling ability to keep each and every name on that list of McGonagall's away from a Dementor's kiss - the Ministry has saved their best for last.
The two most difficult trials, scheduled back to back on the same day.
Malfoy and Nott.
The morning of, from the instant she opens her eyes, she feels sick to her stomach. Like she's swallowed a leech that's slowly consuming her insides.
She's somehow both more prepared than she's been for any of the other trials, and simultaneously significantly less all at once.
Because she knows Malfoy - or, at the very least, she likes to think she does. She's got a good handful of useful information in her back pocket.
But he's also refused to see her. Flat out.
His last Howler was dated over a week ago.
So they have no strategy. No plan. No understanding of how they mean to spare his soul - him. The one with the most evidence mounted against him. By far the most hated.
Hermione has always loved a challenge, but this is not a challenge. This is a rigged game.
And add to that, Theo to follow. Only an hour later.
If she fails, she won't even be able to hold herself up - let alone defend another, almost equally hated boy from almost equally damning evidence.
She's been set up to fail.
Harry seems to know this as well, because when she exits her dormitory, compulsively flattening out her skirt, he hands her a flask.
She tries to conjure an ounce of humor. "Liquid luck?" Her smile is painted on.
Harry tucks his lips in - a sad echoing smile as he shakes his head. "Whiskey."
Her nose wrinkles. "Firewhiskey?"
"No, the Muggle kind. For your nerves."
She doesn't need more encouragement than that. She downs what must be about two shots worth. Hands it back empty. "Thank you."
And she marches out of Gryffindor.
There's a rumor going around that tickets are actually being sold for today's trials. Malfoy's specifically.
People are emptying their pockets to see Draco Malfoy earn a death sentence.
And Hermione has to skirt off to the lavatory five minutes before the trial starts to vomit, that precious whiskey coming right back up.
Harry's eyebrows are at his hairline when she comes out, eyes questioning behind his glasses. "Alright?"
She wipes her mouth. Pinches her cheeks to work color into them. "Fine. Just fine."
But she's unprepared for the crowd in the courtroom. There's barely enough space for the actual members of the Wizengamot.
Bulbs flash at every angle, questions shouted from dozens of voices as she moves to take her usual - now all too familiar - place in the ever-empty character witness box. A glance to the side shows Harry taking a seat next to McGonagall. But her eyes catch two rows above them, on Blaise and Pansy, seated together.
She didn't think they'd come. It's both an encouragement and an additional shot of nerves.
Because while it's two more in the room not out to see her fail, it's also two more who might watch it happen.
Hermione picks at her cuticles, hands folded in her lap, as the questions ricochet, every reporter in the room trying to get in one last juicy detail before Faith Burbage takes her place at the podium.
And then it's so quiet, Hermione swears she can hear her own blood rushing through her veins.
"I see we have a full house, today," says Burbage, eyes sliding to Hermione to deal her usual dose of cold disdain. Then they flit back to the crowd. "I hope you're all aware I expect silence in my courtroom at all times."
Murmured assent.
"Let's make this quick and painless, then. Bring in the accused."
By now, Hermione's heard the way that cage rattles as it rises at least two dozen times. And yet it's like hearing it for the first time. She thought she was prepared for the sight of him inside it.
But when that colorless, white-blond hair catches the light of the courtroom, it's like an industrial grade needle gets plunged through her stomach. She's not ready for this.
What if she can't do this?
She's - she's not-
"Mr. Malfoy," barks Burbage, as though she's more than aware the words carry a heavy weight. "You stand accused as an accomplice and a weaponized agent of the Death Eater cause. Do you understand these charges?"
His face is wan. Eyes wreathed in bruises either brought on by exhaustion or violence. It's only been a week since she's last seen him, and yet so much has changed. More weight lost, more strength depleted.
Even less light in those gray eyes.
But he stands up straight. Rigid. Emotionless. His already split, bloody lips seem to bleed fresh as he parts them to speak.
"Yes." His tone is clipped. Gives nothing away.
"Do you have anything you wish to declare before proceedings begin?"
"Yes." He steps forward in his cage, and Hermione's breath hitches as he wraps his hands around the bars. Says in a flat, perfectly serious tone, "A thumb war."
There's a long, confused, somewhat baffled silence.
One, two, three, four... whispers a voice in Hermione's head.
Burbage's face darkens, eyes tightening. "I suppose you think that's funny."
"Oh, I think it's hilarious." Draco pulls his bloody lips back over his teeth, smiling up at her, face against the bars. "One, two, three, four..." he murmurs in a voice that's got nothing left to lose.
One, two, three, four...
Burbage practically snarls. "Let's begin."
I declare a thumb war.