As always, my deepest thanks to my beta, Becks, for all her hard work in helping me make this work. Check out her work on AO3: sweetestsorrows
Drip. Drip. Drip.
A steady trickle of blood leaked sluggishly from Hermione's wrists.
Fresh rivulets carved new crimson paths through the encrusted trails that already marked her skin, before spilling to the floor and into the uneven grooves between the cobblestone. The rivulets amassed into a dark river of garnet, with branching tributaries that webbed out in a mocking imitation of the veins that ran to her pounding heart.
A feast for flies.
They descended down upon it. Just like the pure-bloods in the Second Wizarding World. Just like the remnants of the regime. Just like the Malfoys and Blaise Zabini and the newspapers.
The newspapers.
She would inevitably be in the headlines again. As yet another part of her complicated diguise, it was good for the cause, but the names they branded her with echoed in her skull. They were drilled into her like an inescapable curse, reverberating in her mind with every waking breath.
The Murderous Mudblood. The Minister's Muggle-born.
Loyalty hearings often made the front page of the Daily Prophet, and because of her notoriety, Hermione was sure her face would grace every wizarding publication in Britain.
For once, she was glad half of them had been barred.
"Could get used to seeing you all chained up like this, Granger. If they decide not to put you away, maybe I'll take you out sometime."
"I'd rather go out with a troll."
"Oh, I know. How long was it you were with Weasley?" Bragwit jeered. "I mean, before he turned up dead."
"Longer than any woman would ever be with you . Now if you don't mind, could you keep it down? Your voice makes me want to vomit."
"And how exactly is that my problem?"
"Because if I do, I'm aiming for your shoes."
Hermione expected him to scowl at her. She expected him to insult her or tighten her manacles or shoot her a glare. What she did not expect was for the Auror to reach out and lightly brush her errant fringe from her face.
Somehow, it felt worse than anything she could have imagined.
"I wouldn't be so cheeky if I were you, Granger. One snap of my fingers and I'll have your head caged tighter than a goblin's coin purse."
"And how tight is a goblin's coin purse, exactly?"
"I said to lose the cheek!" he warned. There was something feral in his eyes, something hungry. "Maybe you aren't afraid of the cage, but I suspect you are afraid of the Minister, and if you don't want your entrails smeared across the Chamber walls, I suggest you treat me with a little more respect."
"And what is that supposed to mean?"
"Let's just say you're not the only one speaking at your trial today," he answered, slyly. "All it would take is one—little—fib." He punctuated each word with a flick to her nose.
"A little fib? A brilliant plan, Jonathan, truly. When they inevitably fill me up with Veritaserum, I'm sure you'll be quite pleased with it." She basked in his paled expression. "Parkinson and Umbridge may feel a certain way about me, but eventually, your testimony will reach the Minister, and I think you're well aware of the fact that he much prefers me over you."
Suddenly, Jonathan Bragwit was not so talkative.
For fifteen minutes, silence lingered, interrupted only by the white noise of her trickling blood and the rats scurrying about the corridor. If she hadn't known better, she may have thought her prosecutors had forgotten about her.
What a silly notion.
The double doors burst open, sending the rats bolting for their hideaways, but nobody came out.
Instead, she and Bragwit were greeted by a familiar voice.
"Bring forth the defense!"
The Auror that made the command was nowhere to be found, but that detail didn't seem to bother Bragwit. All too eagerly, he seized Hermione's upper arm and wrenched her into the sea of flashing lights.
Click. Click. Click.
Cameras blinded her momentarily, but as the stars in her field of vision dissipated, she took in her dystopian surroundings.
The clinking chains echoed against the great domed ceiling, which was the grandest feature of the small room. Courtroom Four, unlike its nine counterparts, had only six rows for an audience—six rows that were tightly packed with her colleagues, her enemies, and the press.
Click. Click. Click.
Bragwit led her to the center of the room, and though she was blind once more, she could feel the heat of magic washing over her as he forced her into a narrow seat and chained her to the armrests.
When she dared to look, she was bathed in light.
Click. Click. Click.
Members of the Wizengamot winced as the flashing cameras shone in their glassy eyes. However, there was one person who was motionless, one person who was wholly unaffected.
The High Inquisitor.
In place of Rodolphus Lestrange, Dolores Umbridge stood, white lights glittering in her dilated pupils and her infamous grin plastered on her thin lips. They were painted her usual shade of pink, but the heat of the harsh Lumos Solem Spell left it bleeding into the deep crevices around her mouth.
Fleshy aqueducts filled with sweaty pink pigment.
"Hermione Granger," said Umbridge, her voice as saccharine as the cup of tea floating beside her. "I see that you managed to make it."
"Would've been hard not to, considering I was dragged in here by an Auror."
"Dragged? Don't exaggerate, Miss Granger, it's unbecoming."
"I'm not exaggerating! My wrists are bleeding!"
"Ah. Well, we'll ensure your injuries are tended to after your hearing." Umbridge swiped the cup of tea from the air and took a sip. "Unfortunately, our healing staff is not in at the moment, as they're on a field visit for another employee."
"How inconvenient."
Umbridge's smile only grew. "Indeed . . . Now, before we get any further, I must confirm that you understand why you are here—"
"I don't understand! It was never explained to me, I never received a summons, and Bragwit—"
"Enough!" Umbridge shouted, beating her gavel upon its mahogany block. "Might I remind you that this is a court of law, Miss Granger!"
And so it was. The whispers of the crowd and the clicks of the many cameras reached a sudden decrescendo, leaving only the hurried scratching of Rita Skeeter's shameless Quick-Quotes Quill. It was the first time Hermione found she quite liked the quill. In a room paralyzed by fear, it kept moving, kept writing, kept rebelling.
"Hermione Granger, you face charges of disloyalty to the Ministry of Magic based on suspicions from a multitude of your peers. Now do you understand?"
"No, you haven't told me what their suspicions were ."
Umbridge thumbed through several parchments. "Misfiling government paperwork . . . inability to make deadlines . . . false reporting . . . These are just the complaints I've received in the past seventy-two hours. If we were to reference former complaints—"
"Which we won't, because it's against the law. I was cleared of those charges and therefore, they bear no weight in today's hearing."
Umbridge's confusion must have been rather newsworthy, because several cameras flashed in her direction just then.
"Well, that may be, Miss Granger, but I thought them worth mentioning to the Wizengamot. Regardless, we will be in this courtroom until we see through today's proceedings, so let me ask again: do you understand the charges?"
"I understand there are charges against me, yes, but I'd like it to go on record that I vehemently disagree with them."
"Then you will be pleading your innocence?" Umbridge deduced.
"I just said that."
"Hmph. Very well, then. The Wizengamot should note that Miss Granger maintains her innocence."
"The Wizengamot should also note that I did not receive a formal summons. Instead, an Auror pulled me out of a Pensieve by my wrists."
Several gasps could be heard from the crowd. The scribe looked questioningly to Umbridge, as though she were unsure whether or not to record what had just been said.
"We don't issue a summons anymore," dismissed the High Inquisitor.
"Since when?" Hermione spit back.
Umbridge's lip twitched. "The change was recent."
An older member of the Wizengamot, a wrinkled man with a large gold ring, raised a shaky hand. "Is this new process in legislation?"
"The paperwork was expedited this morning. Now, if everyone would please hold their questions, the prosecution would like to call one of Miss Granger's complainants to the floor." Umbridge idly fingered her gavel. "Does the Wizengamot have any objections to this?"
Corban Yaxley grunted. Hermione wasn't sure what he meant by it, but when he added nothing, she decided he was simply annoyed he had to be there.
"In that case, the prosecution calls Pansy Parkinson to the floor."
Hundreds of soft murmurs permeated the room. The excitement from the press was emphasized by the sudden flood of photography, and while some were delighted to see the respected Pansy Parkinson, others were more interested in the implications of her presence.
"She's like a hawk," one man said. "When she wants you gone, she'll watch you, then dive in on you when the time's right."
Alas, as her former classmate crossed the center floor, Hermione did not see a hawk at all.
Pansy's usual haughty air was now stale and tired, and rather than standing tall and composed, her shoulders slumped and her lip curled. Unrehearsed, the Head of Ministry Affairs was a reflection of her younger self: pinched in the face and prepared to quarrel.
The woman in her memory may have been a bird of prey, but the woman she observed now looked more like a fussy housecat.
"Miss Parkinson," Umbridge lilted. "It was you that brought the issue with Miss Granger to my attention. Do you mind explaining your concerns to the Wizengamot?"
"Well, she claimed she carried out a non-order execution in the Department of Mysteries. The problem is . . . I know for a fact she wasn't there."
Both the audience and the Wizengamot began whispering amongst themselves.
"And you can prove that?" Umbridge asked.
"Easily. I have troves of paperwork associated with a project there, including a scheduling sheet proving I was in the department that night."
"And can you elaborate on this project?"
"I had to stand in to supervise some research."
As she sauntered towards the Wizengamot, Hermione finally saw the hawk in her. She was circling, targeting her prey from afar.
"As you know, the Ministry's standard is that every moment of work is logged when performed outside of the common hours," Pansy went on. "We can account for three hours of our time. I have a feeling the defendant won't be able to do the same."
"Logging isn't required for— wait . . . The only overnight research that's approved right now is on werewolves !" Hermione bleated. "That's Mortman and Gimble and their office is—"
"Close enough that I should've felt the floor quake. The Gateway of Quietus was your listed method of execution, was it not?"
"Well, yes, but—"
"And you stand by the research that you have done?"
"Last I checked, witnesses aren't supposed to ask the questions," Hermione muttered, sourly.
"Yes, thank you, Miss Granger," Umbridge drawled. "You are right, indeed. Witnesses are not supposed to ask the questions. However, I can."
She snapped her fingers and several paper airplanes zipped through the letterbox and into the room. All nine of them unfolded neatly in front of her, ready to be read, ready to sentence Hermione to her fate.
"So, Miss Granger," Umbridge continued, " do you stand by your research? Because according to the paperwork I have here, 'the Gateway of Quietus is magic well beyond any that we know in Britain. When it comes into contact with any object, the gateway swallows it whole, releasing magic so powerful that the entire level shakes with enough force to knock portraits off most walls.' Those are you words, are they not?"
"Well, yes, but—"
"But what? Did you lie when performing official Ministry research?"
"No!" Hermione exclaimed. "But we've studied it so little, there's no saying why it may not have—"
"And here," Umbridge interrupted, shuffling through the parchments. "I have several reports all completed by you, and each of them claims the room shook when you did the deed. Are these lies?"
"Of course not!"
"So why should I believe that, all of a sudden, the ground did not shake in the way that all of this research suggests it should've?"
Panicking, Hermione replied, "I'm—I'm right beside it—when it happens . . . I—I can't say what people feel in nearby rooms. And I really don't know what people feel when they're twelve doors down."
"But here, in the report Miss Parkinson claims you misfiled, it states that you had to fix several doors in the department once the deed was done. Doors that were closed before you began. If the force is powerful enough to rattle several enchanted doors off their hinges, wouldn't Miss Parkinson feel it from an office on the same floor?"
"Well, maybe . . . Considering she wasn't in the actual room with me, I don't see how it's relevant."
"Based on your research, Miss Granger, I would say it's very relevant."
A supercilious laugh came from Pansy's nose.
"I think that will be all, Miss Parkinson."
Clearly satisfied with herself, Pansy maundered back to her seat, followed closely by the din of the swarming press.
"Miss Parkinson, can I get a word?"
"Miss Parkinson! Great work out there today!"
"Miss Parkinson, down here!"
"Miss Parkinson!"
"Miss Parkinson!"
"Miss Parkinson!"
Even through the stars of the flashing cameras, Hermione could see that Umbridge was growing more and more impatient, and for once, she could sympathize.
"QUIET!"
She banged her gavel against the block as hard as she possibly could, sending a mighty wave of accidental magic across the entire room. Hermione grimaced as the gust whipped against her face, blasting through her sweat-laden hair, and concurrently, stealing away many hats from the Wizengamot.
Several women screamed, the reporters went silent, the Wizengamot gasped, and most notably, a tinge of pink stained Umbridge's cheeks.
"Well," she said, softly. "Now that I have your attention . . . let's continue with our witnesses, yes? Ahem . . . The prosecution calls Jonathan Bragwit to the floor."
From the shadows, Bragwit emerged. His hair was mussed from Umbridge's unexpected outburst, and as he quietly found the center of the room, Hermione could feel the fear emanating from him.
Perhaps, it was only because he was standing so close. Too close.
"Mr. Bragwit," Umbridge started. "Do you remember where you were on the twenty-fifth of July?"
"Er, yes—I do."
"And? Can you tell me where that was?"
"Er . . . I would've woken up at five, like I always do . . . Erm—had breakfast. Beans on toast, if my memory serves me right . . . Then, I took the Floo in, worked all day, didn't take a lunch, and then I—er—I finished up at the Leaky for some drinks. That's er—that's where I ran into Granger."
"And when you saw Miss Granger—what was she doing?"
"She was looking for the landlady," he said, a bit more confidently than before. "She was quite eager to see her, actually."
Low murmurs whirred around the Wizengamot members. Several of them still appeared to be adjusting their hats.
"The landlady at the Leaky Cauldron is Hannah Abbott. Is that correct?"
"Was Hannah Abbott."
"Was?"
"Well, she's dead now, isn't she?"
It wasn't a question.
"Perhaps," Umbridge purred, "but perhaps not . . . Mr. Bragwit, what happened when Miss Granger found Miss Abbott?"
"They went to a room," he replied, seeming rather nervous again. "They—they erm—they weren't anywhere that we could see them. Couldn't hear them, either."
"And did they come back?"
"No."
"I see . . . And what time was it when they went to that room?"
"I don't know," he said, hesitantly. "I was—I was drinking."
"You don't even have an estimate?"
"I—I really don't know. Sometime between eleven and one thirty?"
"That's a s ubstanti al gap, Mr. Bragwit."
"As I said, I was drinking."
Hermione frowned. Under the pressure of the courtroom, the Auror was unpredictable.
"Very well, then. Mr. Bragwit, you may go." Umbridge sounded disappointed, but it was short-lived. Whatever trace of chagrin had been there quickly dissipated as she veered her attention towards Hermione. All that remained was wrath. "Given the circumstances, it's my recommendation that Miss Granger is questioned under Veritaserum. Does the Wizengamot agree with this assessment?"
The quiet deliberation barely lasted a minute.
"The Wizengamot agrees."
Giddy, Umbridge struck her gavel, much more patiently than before.
"Bring forth the Veritaserum."
The court roared as an Auror emerged from the wings and approached Umbridge's podium. The woman uttered not a word. She simply presented Umbridge with a small phial, allowed her to examine it, and then turned to face Hermione, her hands clasped behind her back.
Her arctic eyes, even from afar, were clouded and lifeless.
"It's a pity it's come to this, but you leave me with no choice, Miss Granger," Umbridge whispered. "All of your darkness will come to the light now. I hope you're prepared for that . . . Maureen, if you will?"
The Auror marched towards Hermione, who leered at her, but parted her lips, nonetheless.
It was putrid. It was sour. It was painful.
Just as she expected, her mouth was the first to experience the terrible agony. The back of her tongue swelled and contorted like it was being pulled apart by sheer, animalistic force. Her throat burned like she had swallowed hot coals, and her stomach —her stomach felt like it was melting from the inside.
When Umbridge finally spoke, it echoed as though she were a mile away.
"Miss Granger," she began, "what is your full name?"
"Hermione Jean Granger."
Suddenly, her tongue relaxed and her stomach calmed. The burning subsided, even if only a smidgen: a light reminder that Veritaserum, no matter how barbaric, worked.
"And what is your blood status?"
"You know I'm a Muggle-born."
"Indeed," Umbridge denoted, offering the scribe a pointed look. "And would I be correct to say you've been known for your undying loyalty to rebellious efforts? Efforts such as, but not limited to, Dumbledore's Army and the Order of the Phoenix?"
"Yes," Hermione growled.
"And do you have a close personal relationship with a rebellious organization at this time?"
Her heart thundered in her chest. Her tongue twisted and expanded and began blocking her esophagus, and as she felt the affliction radiate to her legs and her hands, she choked out one word.
"No."
"No?" Umbridge repeated. "Excuse me, Miss Granger, perhaps you didn't hear me quite right—"
"I heard you just fine," Hermione interrupted, despite her throbbing head and cramping muscles. "I'm not in Dumbledore's Army, the Order of the Phoenix, or any other organization even remotely like them. I work for the Ministry—and only the Ministry."
The room was getting loud again, and Hermione's skull felt like it was being split open with an axe. Umbridge was silent, the Wizengamot was arguing, the reporters were sputtering, and the audience was devolving into chaos.
She pressed her lips together as tightly as she could, ignoring the voice in her head telling her, demanding her to retract her statement.
"SILENCE!"
The parchments on the podium zigzagged apart with another diminutive burst of accidental magic.
"Dolores," hissed a man from the Wizengamot. "Do calm yourself."
Umbridge was shaking with rage, and even though Hermione could see this, she couldn't fully process it. After all, she coudn't process much of anything.
"You misfiled your paperwork!" Umbridge shrieked. "Miss Parkinson was there and you weren't. Now, I don't know what you're playing at, Miss Granger, but—"
Her hands were clammy. Stars speckled her vision. The blood in her veins thrashed.
She needed relief. She would do anything for it. Perhaps, she could afford a small reprieve. Perhaps, she could—
"All right! All right, I admit it! I—I wasn't sure of the time! It was late and I was tired and—"
"And you lied on the paperwork," Umbridge finished for her. "So you admit it then."
"I—I suppose it was a lie. I—erm—it was more of a—"
"And as for Hannah Abbott? Is she truly dead?"
The metallic taste of blood touched Hermione's tongue.
"Yes."
Trails of sweat ran down her face as she fought the urge to scream. That mistruth hurt much more than the rest, but Hermione knew she was going to finish the trial with poise. Months of training led up to that inevitable moment, and she wasn't going to let it all go to waste.
"And you executed her?"
"Yes! Yes, I—I did!"
"Why?"
"Because she was going to do something stupid!" Hermione cried, reveling in the little bit of truth. "I know Hannah. If—when she found out something happened to Neville Longbottom, she would've hurt Ministry personnel."
"You know her? How well do you know her?"
"We were in the same year. I see her at the Leaky Cauldron. That's it. But I know her type."
"Her type?" Umbridge pressed.
Hermione blinked back tears. Another bit of reprieve, offered by Umbridge herself. "She would have done anything to avenge Longbottom—and she had unfettered access to countless Aurors."
Umbridge looked unconvinced. "Misfiled paperwork. A fireable offense."
Several members of the Wizengamot scoffed, but the former Death Eaters appeared all too pleased.
"The Wizengamot will now discuss what is to be done with you," Umbridge announced. "On that note, it is my recommendation that you are terminated at once."
The words entered Hermione's ears, but she barely heard them.
"My name is Hermione Granger," she whispered.
She repeated it like a mantra as the Wizengamot held their debriefing, still holding in her tears and stubbornly holding on to her pride. Each truth was but the slightest amount of relief, and she was desperate for more, desperate to do away with the searing pain.
After what seemed like hours, the smallest member of the Wizengamot climbed onto the bench.
"The Wizengamot has come to a decision!" she announced.
"Ahem." Umbridge narrowed her eyes. "And what have you all decided?"
"I—er—H-Hermione Granger, your employment with the Ministry of Magic will be hereby terminated—"
"That's not what we said!" another member hissed. "Angela!"
"Yes, yes, sorry . . ." She wrung her tiny hands. "Your employment will be terminated . . . unless you can find someone to Vouch for you."
The crowd was buzzing again.
Even through her pain, Hermione understood the weight of the situation. Nobody would Vouch for her. Nobody would be willing to take on such a risk when her past was so troubling, so teemed with controversy.
"Anyone?" Umbridge asked, grinning her toadish grin. "Anyone at all?"
Nobody answered.
"Then, Miss Granger, I will be relieving you of—"
"Wait!"
It was a familiar voice. Warm and firm, Hermione wanted to both bask in its presence and drive it away—for his sake.
Umbridge's face fell. "Mr. Krum. I didn't see you here."
"Yes, vell, I almost did not make it here," he snarled, descending down the stairs. "Considering I did not get a summons like everyone else, I think it is lucky I managed to find a seat."
"Yes . . . lucky." Umbridge retrieved her wand, only to finger it in a manner that may have been threatening to a lesser man, but not to the likes of Viktor Krum. She cleared her throat. "You do understand the implication of Vouching for Miss Granger?
"I do."
"And you know that if she is found guilty of any future crime, you will pay consequences equal to hers?"
"I do."
Hermione wanted to tell him not to chance it. She wanted to tell him that she wasn't worth it, and that he should never tie himself to anyone that way, but her least of all. She wanted to admit she was with the Order, and beg him to come with her where he would be safe.
Alas, the cause was on her mind, and they were in a full courtroom.
So she swallowed the urge.
"Very well, then." Umbridge finally said. "Perform the spell, Maureen."
"But, High Inquisitor—"
"I said to perform it!"
The Auror nodded and met Krum by Hermione's torturous chair.
"Your hand must be up," Maureen explained. "You're taking an oath."
Krum nodded and held up his hand. Hermione was quite certain her ears and gums were bleeding from staying silent, and now that Viktor was involved, it took every iota of her strength not to warn him of her treason, not to beg him to run and never look back.
But she had already betrayed so many of her friends.
What was one more?
"Reach out to her," Maureen explained. "The top of her head."
Hermione's teeth were sinking into her tongue. Of all the places he had to touch her, it had to be her pounding head.
She closed her eyes, as though it might help the pain subside.
It didn't.
"Do you, Viktor Krum, Vouch for Hermione Granger's actions as an employee of the Ministry of Magic?"
Hermione's mouth twitched. She bit down on her tongue harder, drawing a mouthful of blood.
"I do."
"And do you agree that all punishment that may befall her will befall you, too?"
"I do."
If she had not studied the side effects of Veritaserum so closely, she might have thought her brain was going to implode.
"And do you, Hermione Granger, accept this act of trust?"
Hermione swallowed the blood. She swallowed the fear and her questions and her hopes—but mostly, she swallowed her moral compass.
She could only apologize with the tears running down her cheeks.
"I do."