A/N: It's a crazy time for much of the world right now; please stay safe, everyone. I hope this chapter can help to stave off the quarantine boredom.

A short flight, abruptly ended. A cheering crowd.

Hermione struggled to her hands and knees, her breaths coming shallow and rapid.

Hyperventilation, some part of her thought. First sign of…

The crowd had quieted. She looked up, and through watery eyes saw Professor Dumbledore rushing towards her, his robes still despite the wind. Behind him was Professor Moody, who suddenly stopped – aimed his wand –

She opened her mouth to warn him, but she was too slow. Too late. Always too late.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The curse took the Headmaster in the back. He burst instantly into a brilliant green flame.

There were screams from all around. Panic. The world had been turned upside down. The greatest wizard who had ever lived had been killed by one of his teachers. A traitor. It had been Moody, all along.

She collapsed back to the grass below. She had run out of fright, run out of shock, run out of anger. It was all over. Everything was.

A sound like cannon-fire. Moody was lifted into the air, his arms and legs kicking as thin silver cords fought to bind them to his sides. At the other end of the cords, pulling them tight and then lowering Moody down to the pitch, was the towering, thunderous figure of Albus Dumbledore. It was impossible. She'd seen the curse strike him, and she'd seen him be consumed by the still-burning flame. Yet there he stood, very much alive.

Flanked by Professor McGonagall and Neville, he strode quickly towards her. He held out his hand as he passed the green flames. They died away, leaving behind a neat pile of ash, from which a small, hairless bird leapt to his hand.

"The Quidditch pitch is not secure," he said, his voice ringing clearly throughout the entire stadium. "All students, from all schools, will return to the castle immediately. All faculty, to me."

The next thing she knew, Neville was pulling her gently to her feet.

"Miss Granger," McGonagall began, her voice shaking, "Are you hurt? To the Hospital Wing, surely."

"No, no, no," she said slowly, her thoughts still thick as molasses. "Not me. But Harry…"

McGonagall's expression turned grim. Stoic as she was, her next words didn't seem to come easily. "Is – is Mr. Potter coming back?"

Hermione couldn't say the word. Couldn't even look at them. She stared down at her shoes, and saw for the first time that they were caked in blood. The whole lower quarter of her robes was soaked with it, in alternating patches of fluid red and charred black. Spidery rivers of it flowed down her front, eventually dripping onto the now-brown grass below. It felt like far more blood than any one person could possibly lose, never mind survive the loss of. And none of it was hers.

She shook her head.

Neville choked down a sob. "No, he – he…"

"It was him," she managed. "He's back. You-Know-Who."

The little colour that was left in Professor McGonagall's face fled instantly.

Then they were beset upon by teachers, sparing her from needing to speak any more. Dumbledore gave instructions to each professor without hesitation, and then took both her and Neville by the arm and twisted.

The world suddenly became a claustrophobic, choking blur, and then, just as suddenly, they were in a circular high-ceilinged room that was dominated by a large claw-footed desk.

"Please have a seat," Dumbledore said, gesturing to a pair of plush armchairs. He sank into the high-backed chair behind the desk, his face inscrutable.

The three of them sat in silence for some minutes. There was nothing to say. Her gaze drifted along the rows of silvery instruments set on the walls of the Headmaster's Office and through the ranks of portraits hung behind the desk.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Neville said suddenly, shifting awkwardly in his chair, his eyes down. "The crowd was so dense, and, and… you know I can't run very fast, I didn't get to Professor Dumbledore soon enough."

She knew that she should say something, but the right words were foreign to her, an abstract concept that she couldn't actualize. How was she supposed to comfort another when she was the one who needed it most?

A knock came at the door and Madam Pomfrey entered, a large tray of bottles and medical supplies floating in front of her.

"Thank you, Poppy," Dumbledore said. "Miss Granger first, I think."

Madam Pomfrey looked Hermione up and down, the tip of her wand moving in little loops through the air. "Relax your hand, dearie," she said, tapping Hermione's right wrist.

Hermione looked down, realizing that her hand was closed in a fist, clenched tightly around a wand. Harry's wand. He must have pushed it into her hand when he – when he—

The memory started to replay in her head, and it took every drop of her resolve to put it away again, to keep back the flood that she knew swirled behind it.

Madam Pomfrey continued to examine her, tut-tutting at the blood that was slowly drying on her legs, before retrieving a small purple-tinted bottle from her tray and turning to Neville.

Another knock. Professor McGonagall burst through the door a second later, her glasses ever so slightly askew.

"No signs of him, Albus," she said, making her way to his desk. "But he would have been kept close, I'm sure."

Pomfrey had finished her brief examination of Neville, and she conversed in hushed tones with the two professors for a moment. Hermione found herself straining to eavesdrop, though why she didn't know, but she could overhear only snippets.

"...not her own…"

"...the sheer shock…"

" ...later, Poppy, she must…"

Pomfrey seemed unhappy with the outcome of the discussion, shaking her head and muttering as she left. Professor McGonagall and Neville followed, her telling him in an uncharacteristically soft voice that it was best he return to Gryffindor Tower to be with the other students.

And so then it was just her and the Headmaster, and the quiet resumed.

"How did you survive?" she asked eventually. She was hardly even that curious, really. The details didn't seem important. But she couldn't handle the silence any longer.

"When Neville told me of Mr. Filch's words," Dumbledore began, "I immediately proceeded to the ground level of the pitch. I took the fortunate precaution of doing so invisibly, under a powerful Disillusionment Charm. I had reasoned that if one of Voldemort's servants had infiltrated Hogwarts – and one must have, to enchant the Triwizard Cup – it was plausible that they would make an attempt on my life, in addition to Harry's. With the help of Fawkes, I thus created a decoy, in order to bait the infiltrator into revealing themselves. I believe you were Petrified at the time, but Fawkes has been a great protector of Harry's in the past, as well."

He gestured, and the small bird Hermione had seen earlier took off out of his pocket, landing gently on a golden perch at the opposite side of the room.

"I am well aware, unfortunately, that that was the only one of our plans for tonight that worked."

She had nothing to say in response to that. They seemed headed for another long silence when a Patronus leapt into the office, cantering once around Dumbledore's desk before dissolving into light. For a single heart-wrenching second she thought it was Harry's, before realizing that it had had no antlers.

"What you have experienced tonight is something that no person, let alone a child, should have to endure," Dumbledore said, seemingly in response to the appearance of the Patronus. "Madam Pomfrey tells me that you will need sleep, time with your friends, and time to begin to recover from this night's events before you are in any fit condition to recount them. She is correct, of course. But I fear that I must once again ask too much of one of my students. The Minister for Magic will be joining us here shortly, along with the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Head of the Auror Office, to formally begin an investigation into Harry's death."

Some part of her pushed back against those last two words. She had implied them earlier, but it was different to hear them explicitly stated, to hear 'Harry's death' acknowledged as a blunt reality. They could all be wrong about it, couldn't they? After all, she hadn't seen it. Maybe he had survived the explosion, maybe it had rapidly cauterized whatever wound he had been bleeding from.

And then what, her rational side asked.

And then he would have been set upon by Voldemort and sixty Death Eaters, with no wand to fight with, and no Portkey to escape with. But he could have found a broom, maybe? Or he might be a natural at Apparition. Maybe he was wandering around the Quidditch pitch even now, calling out for her and wondering where the crowd had gone.

No, that was stupid. Probably.

Dumbledore had paused for a moment, as if choosing not to interrupt her internal turmoil, but now he looked her straight in the eye.

"Miss Granger, Voldemort's return threatens all that we hold dear. Even now, he may be setting long-crafted plans into action. Equally quick action is demanded of all of us, if we are to protect as many people as possible. The Minister must be made aware of the threat tonight, and he must hear of it from the one person who saw Voldemort return. Can you do that?"

"You need me to tell the story." It wasn't really a question.

"I'm afraid so."

A sharp knock at the door. Professor Snape entered the office, his expression solemn. Behind him followed a short gray-haired woman and a tall man with a creased face and coarse tawny hair. Between them, still bound by the silver cords and now unconscious, floated Professor Moody. At the very back of the procession was the Minister for Magic, who closed the door behind him.

"This is an awful business, Dumbledore. Awful, awful business," said Fudge, removing his bowler hat and taking the seat that Neville had vacated. "Another tragic accident in a Triwizard Tournament, and then a near-deadly attack on you, by one of your teachers and one of our own ex-Aurors. Not a good look for the Ministry, not good at all."

"This is not Alastor Moody," Dumbledore said bluntly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"His hip flask, Severus."

Snape handed Fudge the flask that Moody had always kept at his side. Fudge uncapped it and peered inside for a moment before a lightbulb seemed to go off. "You don't mean—"

"Polyjuice Potion," Snape said. "Ask Scrimgeour if you don't believe me, he's surely encountered it."

"Can smell it from here," the gruff Auror said.

"But if he's not Moody, then who is he, really?" Fudge asked. "Who would possibly…"

"An answer will come in due time," Dumbledore explained. "He's been incapacitated for some time; his most recent dose will soon wear off."

He was proven right in short order. Moody's face began to morph, his skin stretching as it shifted to accommodate new features. The glass eye and wooden leg were expelled by their biological counterparts and hastily retrieved by Scrimgeour.

The imposter was pale, with short, choppy blond hair, but Hermione had never seen him before. Judging from the shocked reactions of the others, she was likely alone in that.

"Barty… it can't be," muttered the grey-haired witch.

"Barty Crouch Jr.," Snape said, disgust plain on his face.

The name was familiar, if only barely. Harry had told her and Ron of Crouch Jr.'s trial, which he had seen in Dumbledore's Pensieve. He, along with the very worst of the Death Eaters, had tortured Neville's parents into insanity. He had tried to kill Dumbledore, and had likely Imperiused Filch and Viktor. He had probably put Harry's name in the Goblet.

"No, no," Fudge exclaimed, "it's not possible! Barty Crouch Jr. is dead. I've seen his grave with my own eyes. He died in Azkaban, it's been over a decade since he was a free man. This is some trick, some illusion!"

"Would you like to conduct the interrogation, Minister?" Dumbledore asked kindly, peering at Fudge through his spectacles.

"I - I wouldn't…" stumbled Fudge, glancing at Scrimgeour and the other witch. "Amelia? Rufus?"

They looked just as flustered as the Minister.

"Then you'll understand if I proceed," Dumbledore said amiably, rising from his chair. He glanced over at Snape, who unstoppered a small clear vial and deftly tipped three drops into Crouch's open mouth.

His wand drawn, Dumbledore moved directly opposite Crouch.

"Rennervate."

Crouch's eyes snapped open, and Dumbledore immediately began to question him.

"What is your name?"

"Barty Crouch Jr."

"How did you escape from Azkaban prison?"

Crouch's answer was far longer, a story involving yet more Polyjuice Potion and the sacrifice of his severely-ailing mother. It appeared to satisfy Dumbledore and Fudge, although the latter seemed shocked by the revelation of a second Azkaban escape.

"How can we find the real Alastor Moody?"

"My trunk. Seventh compartment. Keys in the top-right drawer of my desk, beneath a false bottom."

Dumbledore nodded to Professor McGonagall, who set off at once.

"Why did you impersonate Alastor Moody?"

"I was ordered to."

"By whom?"

"By—"

Crouch's sentence came to an abrupt, horrible end. Chains of white fire appeared around his throat, constricting rapidly, and whatever he would have said was turned into a pained gurgle as he fought for air.

Scrimgeour was the first of them to react, swearing loudly. "An Unbreakable Vow."

"He is beyond our help," Dumbledore said, returning to his chair. He conjured a black veil over Crouch, putting him out of sight, but it did nothing to muffle the sounds of his struggle.

"The person that gave him that order," Fudge began, after Crouch finally fell silent, "they were smart enough to have him make an Unbreakable Vow to conceal their involvement."

"Evidently," replied Dumbledore, polishing his spectacles on his sleeve.

"Then there's only one other witness of import," Fudge carried on, turning to look at Hermione for the first time. "Miss…"

"Granger."

"Granger, of course, I remember reading that column. You were there when Harry died, weren't you?"

She nodded.

"Can you tell us what happened to him?"

She took a moment to fortify her nerves before she spoke, and then she began to retell the story, starting from when she and Ron had encountered the panicked Mrs. Norris. Once again she skipped over her use of the Imperius Curse, stating that Filch had already been rambling about the Portkey, Potter, and the Dark Lord when she and Ron had found him. She largely avoided Dumbledore's gaze, meeting it for only a split-second, but even that was enough to give her the sense that he saw right through her.

"Clearly a madman!" Fudge exclaimed, even as a bead of sweat formed on his brow. "Saying such a thing, worrying the students…"

"Argus may enjoy worrying students," Dumbledore said calmly, "but I have never known him to be anything other than observant and honest. In fact, many students have told me he is perhaps a little too observant."

She resumed her account, the words slowly growing harder to find as the story's inevitable, tragic climax approached.

"You were in the maze?" Fudge interrupted, appalled. "Despite not being a champion?"

She could only nod. Then she continued, wanting to end this as soon as she could. She described the brewing of the potion of flesh, blood, and bone, and the ritualistic rebirth of You-Know-Who. As she did, there was a brief moment, one so fleeting that she might have imagined it, in which Dumbledore no longer seemed defeated.

"You can't be serious!" Fudge interjected. "A boy is dead! This is no time for jokes about the matter."

"She is deadly serious, Minister," Snape said quietly, looking at her strangely. He was standing at the very back of the office, his arms folded. His emotions were unreadable, but somehow he didn't seem quite right.

"But it's impossible! He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named died fourteen years ago, everybody knows that. He's gone! And even Peter Pettigrew – I don't care what nonsense you told me last year, Dumbledore – he was blown to pieces by Sirius Black, he's been dead nearly as long! If she's not joking then she's making things up, she's lying, there's no—"

I'm not joking, I'm not making things up, and I'm absolutely not lying.

Everyone turned to look at her, and she realized that she had spoken aloud, that she had just interrupted the Minister for Magic himself.

"Perhaps it would be best to hear the rest of what Miss Granger has to say, Minister," the witch named Amelia said, mercifully breaking the silence.

Fudge opened his mouth as if to object, but then seemed to think better of it. "Carry on, then."

And so she did. In a somewhat meeker voice than before, she described the return of the Death Eaters and the sudden, strange connection between Harry's wand and Voldemort's.

Then she hesitated. Could she say it? Could she make it real? So much of her rebelled against the thought, but Dumbledore's earlier words echoed in her mind. The Minister must be made aware of the threat, he had said. You-Know-Who was back, and there were lives at stake. This was bigger than just her. She had to say the words, even if she didn't believe them. Not.. not yet, anyway.

In pained, brief sentences she described the spell that had killed Harry.

"...and he was gone," she concluded. "A huge fireball. Nobody… almost nobody could have survived that. And it would have been me, if he hadn't—"

Her emotions skidded out of her control, and she felt hot tears begin to roll down her cheeks. Everything she was trying to contain had finally tumbled out. She suddenly found herself wishing there was someone there to help her, someone to comfort her, someone she trusted. Her parents. Professor McGonagall. Ron, even.

As it was, she couldn't continue. Not when he was gone, not when she would never see him again. Not when she would never see another knowing grin on his face, not when she would never again hear him say her name. Not when they had just finally begun to be honest with each other, not when there was now so much that would never be said, so many memories that would never be had, so many chances for joy that had been torn from her.

Why? Why? The unfairness of it galled her. How could this happen to her? After all this, how? How?

"How did you return to the school?" Dumbledore eventually asked, once her tears finally started to slow.

Sniffling, she pulled her feet onto the edge of her chair, hugging her knees tightly. This last thing, she promised herself. This last thing, and then she was done.

"Luck. The Cup. It just landed on me. How can I have so much good luck, but only when it's too late?"

She buried her head against her knees, trying to take deep breaths, but it was no use. Right now, the world was too much.

"Do you see now, Dumbledore?" Fudge asked. "It all makes sense, all of it."

"I agree, Minister. We must immediately begin preparations, in light of Lord—"

"No, no, even you couldn't possibly believe that, Dumbledore. I've always thought your students were telling tall tales, but now one of them will finally be exposed."

The door to the office closed with a quiet thump. "Alastor is safe, and in the Hospital Wing, Albus," Professor McGonagall said. "My apologies for the interruption, Minister."

"All of this nonsense about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, it's all a cover-up. Harry was killed tonight, but not by two wizards who are themselves long dead! By somebody else. It's the only explanation."

"Cornelius, I—"

"Granger is the only person who saw Harry after he entered the maze, by her own admission. And she had a motive, given—"

McGonagall cut in, quivering with anger. "Clearly you know nothing about either one of them! They, and Mr. Weasley, have been friends for..." She tried to continue, but Fudge ignored her.

"—given what's been in the papers lately! But she's smart enough to try to cover her tracks, and so she tells this cock-and-bull story about Dark wizards and coming back from the dead and all sorts of impossible things."

"Cornelius, you must see that—"

Fudge was beyond reason. His face red and his finger waving, Dumbledore's words soared past him, unheard. "Where is your wand, girl? What spells have you been casting?"

"You-Know-Who destroyed it," she said, a lump rapidly forming in her throat.

"Terribly convenient. So then that wand you're carrying, you took it from somebody."

"I was given it. By Harry," she admitted. "He gave it to me just before…"

"Just before you killed him?"

She froze, and it was no small mercy that Dumbledore finally intervened.

"Badgering Miss Granger will bring us no closer to the truth, Cornelius. She has already told her story, and it aligns with the facts we know. The attack at the Quidditch World Cup, the erratic behaviour of Barty Crouch and the sudden reappearance of his son, and even Igor's hasty exit from the stands this evening. I like the truth no more than you, but denying it will only worsen the eventual reckoning."

"There are others who can verify my account," Hermione said, finding her voice. She had to try every angle she could think of, because if Fudge wasn't convinced, everything that had happened tonight had been for naught. "Mr Filch was Imperiused by Crouch Jr., but he remembers receiving commands from him. Commands related to You-Know-Who."

"Mr. Filch has not yet regained consciousness," Dumbledore said quietly. "He is not in any condition to testify at the moment."

"But surely, Minister, the details of Miss Granger's story must exonerate her!" Professor McGonagall insisted. "The Priori Incantatem effect is unspeakably rare, and the knowledge that Mr. Potter's wand shares its core with You-Know-Who's has never been discussed outside of this very room. It is inconceivable that she could have invented—"

"Of course it's not inconceivable," Fudge interrupted. His voice was still raised, but the last minute of listening seemed to have settled his temper. "She's supposed to be brilliant, isn't she? Research, that's all it would take."

"Still," Amelia said, "that does not explain the involvement of Barty Crouch Jr., nor the attempt on the Headmaster's life."

"These are trivialities," the Minister dismissed. "Those details will be explained in time, but the critical evidence is abundant and clear. Miss Granger, you are under arrest for the murder of Harry Potter. Rufus, seize her."

The Headmaster rose from his chair in a flash. The Auror hesitated, looking back at the Minister.

"Rufus, I would warn you in the strongest possible terms not to lay a hand on one of my students."

Hermione was sure that Fudge would explode with rage, but instead he simply laughed, his earlier anger seemingly under control.

"Hear now, Dumbledore," he began, smiling, "the Ministry of Magic has extended you a great deal of tolerance over the years, but now you go too far. In case you had forgotten, I am the Minister for Magic, not you, and the power to issue arrest orders lies solely with me. I will not have that power undermined, not even by you."

"Cornelius, I have no wish to quarrel with you. I merely wish for you to see the plain truth in this matter. Tonight's many events could not have been orchestrated by a fifteen-year-old. The facts suggest only one explanation: the return of Lord Voldemort. It is imperative that all of us act, together, to stifle that threat before it engulfs our world. Bring Miss Granger to trial, if that is what it will require for you to be convinced. But taking her to Azkaban before then is needless. She will appear before the full Wizengamot on any date you request. You have my word."

Hermione's heart pounded. Somehow she hadn't thought about that. Azkaban. She'd seen what even a few weeks there had done to Hagrid. She had no doubt that it would break her. Her last twenty-four hours were practically a parade of awful memories. The thought of reliving them, over and over, while every happy thing she had left was drained from her – it was worse than death.

Fudge waved Scrimgeour off, and a rush of relief washed over her. "In this much we agree, Dumbledore, this case is best heard before the entirety of the Wizengamot." He rose, dusting off his robes, and then added, "There will be public outcry, you know. Harry was much loved."

"I am sure you will see that he is done justice, Minister," Dumbledore said politely.

"Yes, quite. But I must tell you, if you choose to spread these tales of Granger's, justice will be far harder to achieve. There would be panic, fear, even a mass exodus from Wizarding Britain. I would not make an enemy of you, but if you fan these baseless rumours any further, we will find ourselves irrevocably at odds."

"Minister," she tried one last time, "Minister, please, these aren't tales. I wish it were so, but I saw it all happen, even when—"

"I've heard quite enough!" Fudge snapped, shaking his head as if in disappointment. "He is not back! He was dead yesterday, he is dead today, and he will be dead again tomorrow. And all of us have Harry to thank for that, if you had forgotten. Let us not disgrace his memory any further."

He turned and left, not even waiting for his retinue. The two of them rose belatedly, exchanging a quick look.

"We'll need to be taking all of the evidence with us," Scrimgeour said, looking at her. She stared back at him, momentarily confused.

"Harry's wand," Amelia said, almost apologetically, as she reached out her hand.

His wand felt like her last true, direct link to him. Giving it to her had been part of his very last act. But she didn't have any choice.

"I assure you, it will be kept safe," Amelia promised, as Hermione dropped the wand into her hand.

"The Minister," she continued, more formally, "will allow the accused to remain free until such time as her trial. You have vouched for her appearance at said trial, Headmaster, and thus you bear full responsibility for her actions until that time."

"The summons will come next month," Scrimgeour said as he opened the door. "The Minister will not want this to drag on."

"I urge you both, please help him to see reason," Dumbledore said, but the door swung shut without a reply.

The room was suddenly quiet. Dumbledore settled back into his chair, which creaked slightly.

"That could have gone better," Snape said dryly.

"It will, in time," Dumbledore replied. "But for tonight, that will have to do. Best that we get Miss Granger to the Hospital Wing, I think, or else Poppy may become the second of our staff to try to kill me tonight. If you would, Minerva?"

Hermione wanted to protest, to say that there were questions that she had to ask, things that she had to know, but the exhaustion that she'd been fighting all night was overwhelming. Now that the Minister, and the raised voices, had departed, it was becoming harder and harder to keep her eyes from closing.

Blinking hard, she got up and trailed behind Professor McGonagall, who was carrying the purple potion that Madam Pomfrey had left behind.

"We'll speak in the morning," Dumbledore said to her, before turning to Snape, who was idly scratching at his left arm.

The walk back down the castle was wordless. She couldn't read McGonagall's face, but it seemed a safe bet that she, too, was quieted by grief.

The professor pushed open the door to the Hospital Wing, illuminating it for a brief moment. It was nearly full. Ron slept on a bed to the left, his broken arm now positioned at a more normal angle. Ginny, Mrs. Weasley, and Bill had all fallen asleep on chairs surrounding him. On the other side of the wing was Viktor, snoring soundly, and beyond him, two beds that had curtains drawn all around them, obscuring their occupants. McGonagall led her to the only free bed, just next to the Weasleys, and handed her the purple potion.

"Drink this, dear. It'll help you sleep. I'll let Poppy know you're here."

She uncorked it and drank down the bottle, knowing that she needed a respite from her thoughts. She lay down, already feeling distinctly sleepy, as one final train of thought slowly chugged across her mind.

Harry had wanted her to live, not him. He had given his life for hers; if he had kept running, he could have made it to the Portkey. And with You-Know-Who back, Harry was the one who was needed most. If she had died in the graveyard instead, she knew Harry would have stayed strong, and he would have found a way to make Fudge believe the truth. He had defeated You-Know-Who three times by the age of twelve; he was the one cut out for whatever lay ahead, not her. She couldn't fill his shoes. Nobody could. She couldn't even hold on to his wand.

What have you done, Harry? she thought, as sleep finally took her.