Author's Note: This fic was written for the 2017 Dramione Remix Fest on AO3. My chosen couple were Belle and the Beast from Disney's "Beauty and the Beast." Here's their (slightly abridged) story: Once upon a time, a handsome prince was cursed by an enchantress to live as a hideous beast. Ashamed of what he had become, the Beast resigned himself to a life of self-imprisonment, a sentence abruptly broken by Belle - an uncommon young woman who wanted more than what her provincial life could give. To break the curse, the Beast must earn the love of another. But how can he love another if he cannot love himself?
When I say this fic wouldn't have been possible without my betas, eilonwy and dormiensa, I mean it. Thank you both for the encouragement, plot hole repair, and general aid in helping me turn this beast of a fic into a handsome, word-count-abiding price.
Prologue
Healer Charles Ogsworth sat in the lone chair at the center of Courtroom Ten. The full Wizengamot surrounded him on three sides, and the capacity crowd, crammed like sardines onto hard, wooden benches behind him, completed the cage. Charles shifted, moving his hands from the chair's cold armrests to the warmth of his lap, to smooth his thin white moustache, to fiddle with the gold chain of his pocket watch.
He didn't want to be here.
The Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, cleared his throat. Charles sat up a little straighter and began his monologue: a three-minute speech he had written, rewritten, and practiced until he'd dreamt about it, waking his wife with the muttered words.
"I've worked at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries for thirty years. I'm Healer-in-Charge of the Creature-Induced Injuries ward. Hermione Jean Granger was admitted to my care on the evening of May 11, 1998. She, Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and a few other Ministry officials were near Cardiff, acting on an anonymous tip regarding Death Eater activity in the area. The tip was credible, and a fight ensued."
A flicker of light above him and the crowd's synchronized flinch indicated the appearance of Granger's admittance photos. He knew them well; he had taken them himself. Her wounds had been gruesome, ragged, and bloody. Her scars were little better. He kept his eyes forward and his gaze unfocused, trying to ignore the lingering shame of his own limitations as a Healer.
"Ms. Granger's injuries, several of which were creature-induced, were severe. A deep laceration ran from her left shoulder to her left elbow, nearly severing the long head of her biceps brachii. Her left shoulder, collarbone, and neck were damaged by no fewer than twenty separate puncture wounds caused by repeated biting. Ms. Granger's blood loss from these injuries alone was life threatening, but she also suffered from various cuts, bruises, burns, and, of greatest concern to me, a skull fracture on her right temporal bone, resulting in a concussion and a small hemorrhage. A brain bleed," he clarified, off-script, sending a nervous look around the courtroom.
"I put Ms. Granger into an induced coma for one week to allow her brain to recover and indicated on her care plan that she would need at least one month in the ward for supervised Healing. Provided there were no complications in her treatment, I planned to authorize outpatient physical therapy. I also requested..." His voice cracked. "I also requested a full course of Wolfsbane potion, to be administered in the ward beginning exactly one week before the June full moon."
Charles' shoulders sagged, and he swallowed thickly, his mouth feeling as dry as sand. He pulled the watch from his pocket and turned it over in his palm, a nervous habit his wife would later scold him for. But he needed to do something as the Wizengamot members spoke amongst themselves, and spinning his watch felt like a comforting meditation.
He had done nothing wrong. He had executed his duties as a Healer faithfully and stated the facts of Ms. Granger's case to the court. His conscience should have been clear.
Charles kept his head down but let his eyes slip across the courtroom.
Hermione sat chained to her chair, so still that she might have been petrified. Her brown eyes looked dead, glassy and dull. Some cruel Azkaban guard had pulled her hair back, exposing the bright pink scars that tracked across her cheek and neck and mercifully disappeared under her overlarge grey robes. They were painful to look at; he could not imagine how much worse it would be to bear them.
Tears filled his eyes, and he looked away, his palms slick around his pocket watch.
Thirty years ago, he had sworn an oath to do no harm.
Today, he had broken it.
"As a Potioneer for St. Mungo's, my responsibility is to provide the Healing staff with whatever potion they might need. Common potions — Skelegrow, pain relievers, fever reducers — are always stocked. Wolfsbane is considered a specialty potion and, because of its short shelf life and strict dosing schedule, is made on request only."
Lucie Miere paused for a breath. In the silence, she heard the Court Scribe's quill continue to scratch against the parchment. She was talking too quickly; she knew she would. Lu tucked a lock of dark blonde hair behind her ear and tried for a slower pace.
"One batch of Wolfsbane will dose one patient for the required seven days. The standard brew time is two days, meaning that the brew must begin nine days before the expected transformation for it to be effective. Charles' request for Wolfsbane came through on June 1, and I began that night, nine days in advance of the full moon on June 10, per the hospital's standard operating procedures. I completed it in time, and the potion emitted a faint, blue smoke, which is the key indicator of a successful brew. St. Mungo's requested an independent review of my notes by Alchemy, Inc., who concluded that my brew met the International Success Standards set by the potion's inventor, Damocles Belby."
Lu looked at her hands, clenched into tight fists, and felt her stomach churn. She supposed it should be a relief, the absence of responsibility. She had been at St. Mungo's for seven years and was poised to become Head Potioneer once her mentor retired. A misbrew of this magnitude would have been not only career killing, but also personally devastating. In all her time at the hospital, not once had her notes been incorrect or her potions ineffective.
But Lu was more than an ambitious, if occasionally selfish, Potioneer. She had chosen to work for St. Mungo's because she wanted to make a difference. She cared, and even though she knew that she carried no guilt for what happened on June 10, she still felt it, sitting on her chest like an old, iron cauldron.
Her wife had asked, rhetorically, and in a somewhat misguided attempt at consolation, what the odds were that she would get this potion wrong when she had gotten so many others right and the likelihood that three reviews — from herself, St. Mungo's, and Alchemy, Inc. — had all missed the error.
Lu wished she hadn't.
"Immunity to the Wolfsbane potion occurs in less than one percent of patients infected with the lycanthropy virus," she stated, almost too quietly for the Scribe to hear. "I propose that Ms. Granger is a member of that population."
Her stomach roiled again. As soon as her testimony was complete, she was going to find the nearest loo and vomit.
Emmeline Potts slowly drowned in gentle, condescending looks, suffocating under the Wizengamot's pity. She rested a hand on her chest, winding her handkerchief between her fingers. The fabric was thin, its yellow and purple trim faded and frayed, but she held it against her heart as if it were a charm. As if it could supply the oxygen that had been stolen from her.
Her son had given her oxygen. Oxygen and a heartbeat and a purpose, a reason to want more than the small, inconsequential existence she had carved for herself at the poor edges of wizarding society. At nine years old, her bright little boy, with his light brown hair, clear blue eyes, and scraped knees, had made her world — the whole world — a better place. He had filled her days with joy and worry in equal measures, but she wouldn't have traded him for a lifetime of peace and prosperity. She had loved her son with every measure of her soul and would have given her life for his without a moment of hesitation.
But she had never been given that choice, and the injustice of it filled her with rage.
"Chip was a child," Emmeline spat, her testimony coming to its painful close. "A child. He was in St. Mungo's because of a reaction to a Crup bite, and he was going to be fine."
She turned to address her son's killer. Merlin willing, it was the only time she ever would.
"But you murdered him."
She let the truth hang, not for dramatic benefit, but so that she didn't fly apart. So that her next words weren't a curse that would leave the entire courtroom writhing in the same agony she felt.
"You murdered him, and I hope you feel that pain every day for the rest of your gods' forsaken life."
And though she felt no happiness, there was a sweeping sensation of righteousness as the murderess sank into herself, looking as broken as Emmeline felt.
Four hours of witness testimony. Three hours of discussion with his fellow Wizengamot members. Two minutes until Kingsley changed one life forever.
Hermione's life should have been just beginning. The war was over, and this talented witch, this indomitable woman he respected and admired, had been primed for meteoric success. Her potential for greatness would have been limited only by the structures into which she chose to work. She was the direction in which the world was turning and the leader that new world would need. She had survived and endured more than any teenager should have, and she had been brought low by twin strokes of misfortune.
The unfairness of it picked at him like a vulture at a carcass. What had they fought and died for if the best of them couldn't have a life worth living afterwards?
His knees creaked as he stood. The courtroom's baseline murmur quieted.
"I want to thank the Wizengamot and each of our witnesses for their time today," Kingsley said, letting his eyes sweep across the courtroom. "I value your participation in our judicial process, as imperfect as it may be.
"On the night of May 11, Ms. Granger went to Cardiff to finish a fight that should never have been hers. One month later, on the night of June 10, Ms. Granger once again reminded us all of the painful, terrible repercussions of war. What happened at St. Mungo's was a tragedy of the highest order, and the fallout has touched every corner of our community. Together, we grieve for the lives lost and offer what little comfort we can to the families and friends of the deceased. Together, we will find a way forward, making our community stronger and safer through research and prevention. And together, we shall see justice done."
He paused, and the silence held the weight of a guillotine ready to fall.
"Hermione Jean Granger, you have pled guilty to twenty-three charges of involuntary manslaughter. The Wizengamot accepts your plea and finds you guilty."
A flurry of whispers erupted at the pronouncement, though their judgment could not have been a surprise. Hermione's transformation into a werewolf and the ensuing rampage through the hospital had been on the Daily Prophet's front page for weeks. The number of witnesses meant that, eventually, an accurate accounting of the events had appeared amongst the misinformation and exaggerations.
He cleared his throat, and the whispers faded.
"The Wizengamot believes your regret is sincere. We also believe that, based on your condition and the testimony given today, you remain an exceptional danger to society. As the governing body of the magical community, the Wizengamot is responsible for the safety and well-being of our citizens. We cannot put them at risk. Therefore, I, Kingsley Tiberius Shacklebolt, as Minister for Magic and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, sentence you to life in exile. I will meet with your advocate to discuss terms."
A wave of motion rocked through the chamber as the attendees rose to their feet. Hermione felt a similar swell and longed to be swept away with it, like detritus making its way out to sea. But the cold irons on her wrists and ankles grounded her to reality.
Kingsley's broad palm descended onto her shoulder and gave what should have been a comforting squeeze. She looked up at him, trying to focus, but everything was blurred, as if she were submerged and trying to see up through the water.
"I'm sorry, Hermione," he rumbled. "I did the best I could, but…"
She forced a grimace and hoped it looked like a smile.
"I understand, Kingsley. I appreciate everything you've done."
He frowned and looked as though he were about to speak. Instead, he squeezed her shoulder one last time and left her to the mercy of the Ministry guards. She let her expression drop and felt a profound relief at not having to pretend for him.
Soon, she wouldn't have to pretend at all.