earlier that same night,
Hermione had just left from an extensive debrief about rules and responsibility from Professor Dumbledore (he was far too kind about it) around nine thirty on the clock; it was upon her walking towards Professor McGonagall's office that she began to feel strangely ill. She hoped it wasn't from dessert... she had inhaled the pudding.
This school year was promising— she'd started the summer in a full blown panic over how to pick classes— and to her ceaseless amazement Professor McGonagall had returned her embarrassingly rambling letter with a grand offer: turning time.
Hermione had to lie down after reading that. She re-read it a few more times, and it still hadn't sunk in: magic could manipulate time. She thought of her parents puttering about downstairs and how their worlds would fracture at the thought of it. The surreal moment was soured by McGonagall's dour warning attached: primarily a study tool of the utmost secrecy, regardless of your trust.
Professor McGonagall had put her faith in Hermione Granger, and had said as much, and it so pained her to have to write to Harry and Ron like nothing earth shattering had happened at all. Ron Weasley and Harry Potter were her best friends in the whole world, and she had to practice forgetting about the Time Turner entirely before meeting up with them in Diagon Alley. It felt deceitful in the worst way— that is, the lonely way. They were her best friends, her only friends, and she couldn't tell even them.
They'd explored further into the winding streets of Wizarding London that day, and although Ron was uncharacteristically quiet and Harry oddly open, even in stance, it was alright in the end. Hermione managed all the way to Hogwarts to keep the secret. Here she was now, marching to Professor McGonagall's office to further discuss the brilliant possibilities of a Time Turner.
She knew from her frequent step-ins during office hours that she needn't knock. The thick wood door eased itself open for her without a sound.
"Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall wasted no time. "The pamphlets from the ministry about the six-hour window, well, I'm certain you have a good grasp on it? Professor Dumbledore has been thorough, hasn't he?" She looked down over her glasses sternly.
She nodded. "Yes, I've read everything front to back. Most interesting was the conflicting views about the sleep cycle from Rothbards and Evlie… I myself don't understand how the extension of the day is different from the return cycle?" A smile, although relatively small, was pressing at the corners of the Professor's lips.
"There is a lot of fascinating discussion circling long term usage, but fortunately for you the ministry approved Time Turner is usually no more than a one year period." From her top pocket, nestled in left side of her sweeping robes, she removed a beautiful hourglass of golden sand hanging from a thin chain. Hermione felt hypnotised by it's glinting in the low light. "Before I can entrust you fully with this, we will practice the next few days. No more than three cycles, and fairly simple ones… are you listening, Miss Granger?"
"I— yes, of course," she ripped her eyes away from the Time Turner to look to the Professor. "It's very, well, it's well crafted and I have been a bit nervous, and I was feeling ill earlier, see, from dessert maybe. It's just- a Time Turner!"
"Understandable," Professor McGonagall said warmly, enjoying her enthusiasm. "Especially for a Muggleborn," she added kindly.
"It's incredible," Hermione repeated.
"Well—" Professor McGonagall moved forward with the Time Turner dangled from her left hand. "Miss Granger, I believe wholeheartedly you will make the most of this opport- " But something happened as Hermione reached out for the Time Turner, she leaned her whole body forward because it was like she was seeing something glinting in the glass- like a clock, a funny looking one, and a kitchen - and then she touched it, and the world felt like it was folding in and simultaneously exploding out. Her eyes were everywhere that never existed (not anymore) —
"Professor," she gasped out with the Time Turner tight in hand. "Professor— I think I'm going to be sick—" and she ran out the door, ran like her life depended on it, ran like she ran from the Snatchers, ran all the way to Gryffindor Tower, determined to break her way into the boys' dorms if need be— but there.
Ron Weasley, sitting morosely on the couches by the fire.
She burst into loud, hysterical tears like she'd never done in her life and he jolts up, and she laughs a bit too. She thinks she looks quite mad to the few other stragglers in the common room.
"Where's Harry, need to see him," she says. "It's okay, I'm here— Ron!"
"Oh!" He shouts, and got a few glares from those late night students finishing summer work. "Hermione!" He rushed over, vaulting over the sofa, and nearly barrels her over— but he's not so strong yet, he's only thirteen now.
It's 1993 again, and Hermione Granger has done this before, with the same Time Turner clutched in her right hand.
Harry was holding Hermione's arm like it would vanish, and Ron was right beside him, looking rather at peace.
"You remember this summer," he was asking.
"Twice over— rather confusing, and merlin why on earth was Lavender talking to us, didn't even know Ginny knew her."
"The tattoos!" Harry said. "I thought that was odd— because she's said something similar before,"
"But not yet," Ron finished. "I didn't know that Cho knew you existed before the Tournament."
"Well, she is the seeker for Ravenclaw," said Hermione. "And you are Harry Potter. It's not impossible she knows who you are, generally."
"I don't know." Harry frowned and began to loosen his grip on Hermione's arm. He straightened his back and looked across the dorm to Dean's bed. His curtains were open and he was fast asleep, spread across the bed like a starfish. "I don't remember any silly rumours so early, but then again I didn't really talk to anyone but you two."
"We were a bit antisocial," Ron admitted. "I at least talked to the upper years—"
"Hang on, you think that I'm the antisocial don't you?" Harry looked affronted. "Wasn't much opportunity for social skills at the Dursleys', if you'd excuse me."
"It worked," Hermione spoke and they both turned back to her. She looked so happy, like she hadn't for a long while. "I just can't believe it. I can't even remember how we've done it, it seemed so simple- "
"And then suddenly, we'd decided to travel back in time and it worked," Harry finished. "It's strange."
"Undoubtedly," Ron said. "But mostly fantastic. Being at the Burrow again… it's so full and I love it. I really do."
"My parents!" Hermione exclaimed. "I wasn't really there but now I have two sets of memories of this summer, and in holidays… oh, I can go back for the holidays- Harry, sorry—"
"No, please," he said. "I would if I could. This is what we're here for."
"But it is strange," she said hastily, changing the subject. "I can't remember how we've done it at all."
Ron suddenly snapped his fingers. "And that's not all- Hermione do you remember reading the news recently? In your new set of summer memories?"
"Oh, well, vaguely. Mostly in France, I spent a lot of time reading and working on my French. Wizarding news was harder to come by, the Wizarding French have very strict customs."
Harry leaned forward with interest. "Do you remember reading about the creature regulations?"
"Not particularly, vaguely, yes."
"We think things are different," Ron said plainly. "There was a kappa, near the Burrow… nearly drowned Ginny."
"Japanese water demon? But breeding in the UK was criminalised in the late eighteen hundreds. They aren't overly fearsome either, so people lost interest anyway. That's very strange, Ron, and I don't—"
"Remember that happening last time," he said tiredly. "But the Ministry has been making headlines and the dementors aren't at Hogwarts— big things have already changed."
"The dementors are hardly a loss, but oh, if things change too much… we'll lose a lot of advantage. Knowing how the next years pan out will help us save lives."
"We'll just have to move faster," Harry determined. "Whatever's changed, we can't just sit around making guesses about it and biting our nails. I know it's risky— and it can change so much— but I can't not help Sirius."
"Harry," Hermione placed her hand on his arm, "of course."
"It was terrible, Hermione, thinking you were gone," Ron rubbed his face. "It felt like a part of us had up and vanished."
"We're all here now," she said. "RON!" and he jumped.
"What? "
"The, erm, rat."
"Right, well, I've kept him well. Haven't said or done anything out of the ordinary, until we've got a solid idea."
"Great Hall," she said immediately.
"What, now?"
"No, tomorrow," she continued. "We'll at the very least bring Pettigrew into this mess. You're right Harry, there's no point in twiddling our thumbs- I'm nervous about these changes but we can't freeze up. We need to know what will happen, but we can't try to relive everything- that's not the point. It's got to go better."
"It will." Harry took a deep breath. "It has to. We can't do this again."
"I remember that too," Hermione said slowly. "I know we can't do it again..."
From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Dean arch his entire back and flop before returning to snoring. "You two want to head downstairs, about er, you know. To talk about Pettigrew, tomorrow, and we can just..."
"Be together," Hermione offered.
"Yeah," Harry said. "I mean, I don't want to freak out anyone who wakes up. It is third year, and we have a girl in the dorm-"
"Oh shush," Hermione rolled her eyes. "I don't think anyone knew I was a girl until fifth year!"
"Alright, I was a prat- "
"I didn't say anything- "
"You heavily implied- "
The common room had emptied itself of the last of the late night stragglers and as they sat around an empty chessboard, Hermione clutched a hand to her forehead. "Oh no, I ran out on Professor McGonagall! She'll think I'm not ready for the Time Turner, it was so terribly rude!"
"You're the best, Hermione, she'll understand you've had a bad night." The girl sunk into an armchair.
"I hope so, I really do- it's far too late to go back to her office now..."
It was nearing two in the morning, and the three were still under the Muffliato, and Harry was fighting for his life in the eighth chess match.
"Aha, the shit's gone Bombarda!" Ron crowed.
Harry blinked. "What's it?"
"Blasted to bits," Ron explained to him slowly. "Really big boom. Totally destroyed. No chance of recovery- "
"Oh Ron, alright," Hermione said fondly. "We get it. And would it kill you not to interject a swear into every sentence- "
"I didn't even!" Ron protested hotly.
"You did," Harry said mildly, without looking up from the chessboard. "Shit counts, mate. You said 'the shit's gone Bombarda'. And so you swore. With 'shit'."
"I said shit?" Ron tilted his head. "Oh shit, no I see I did. So, well, that's not even that bad. I'd reckon when I said it, it just immediately slipped my mind that I did, Hermione. Very minor shit."
She looked at the two of them back and forth, incredulous. "I don't know why I bother."
"Me neither," Ron said cheerfully. She smacked him upside the head.
"Harry you're really no help, if anything you encourage it-"
"I'm not a Ron-shepherd," Harry protested as he moved his knight.
Ron bobbed his head. "Wow." Harry winced.
"That bad?"
"You do know you're supposed to think ahead, right?"
"Oh what, of every possibility-"
"-it's predicting- "
"Are you taking Divination then?" Harry said abruptly. And the two boys burst out in a loud laugh.
"You two are so full of shit," Hermione laughed. "I'm so happy to be here."
"Me too," Ron said.
"Thirded," Harry poked his pawn. "Ron just kill me already, I'm never going to win."
"Not with that attitude," but his smile said he was enjoying this.
It was a late night, they were tired, but home was right there; in the flickering firelight, the dark windowpanes, and the plush armchairs of the common room. Being together again was more important for the moment, then a good night's sleep.
Morning broke early on September the second.
The white sunshine poured through the glass and swept over the sofas and rugs and armchairs and even reached the tall portraits on the opposite side of the commons. There were only a few early risers- Percy Weasley, who looked miserable to be alive but if you asked him how he was doing, he would answer with the exact minute he woke up, proudly - and a group of suspicious seventh years that likely hadn't slept at all up in their dorm.
Percy had woken up the three third years sprawled around the chess table. "The first day," he was saying. "Ron, really, you've been trying to develop better habits this summer- "
"Oh, Percy, please, shut up!"
Hermione went right away upstairs to get changed for class, and Harry simply watched the fight dissolve between the two brothers. As he became more and more awake, he became more and more antsy. They had an outline of a plan of how to out Peter Pettigrew without getting themselves involved. It seemed effortless, which was very suspicious. Harry had a knack for making simple things very complicated.
Breakfast would be all they did this morning - or so it would seem to those not in the know. Ron finally managed to shake off Percy, and they went to collect their own things for class. Ron had to retrieve the special guest, too.
"Good morning Scabbers, little guy," he said. "I'm thinking a nice breakfast for you today. We'll get you some fresh baccie." He scooped up the pliant Death Eater into his palm and then tucked him gently into his upper pocket.
Harry tightened his fist, felt his nails press deep into his palm, and released a controlled breath. Things were changing.
He saw Lee looking under the couches and became instantly more aware of his surroundings- the boy had a nasty habit of losing his tarantula for days and many unfortunate souls tended to find the thing... once it was in the hood of Ron's cloak, in fourth year, until third period when it decided to climb up his neck for a better view.
Ron didn't talk to Lee for nearly a month.
This time around, Ron noticed Lee's searching too, and groaned. "I mean honestly, who keeps a bleeding pet spider?"
"Hey!"
"That very much was directed at you, mate," Ron clarified before stepping out of the portrait hole after Harry.
The Grand Staircase had never felt so winding and long of walk from the seventh floor before. Harry felt his veins pumping under his skin, and thought of Sirius' sunken eyes, ratted clothes, and dedication to his friends. He couldn't undo Azkaban, but he could try to do something. Harry remembers well the feeling of being unable to do anything at all, and it wasn't true this time. He wasn't truly thirteen anymore.
They would get to the Great Hall, where Hermione was already sitting and had potioned a few slices of bacon on her plate, which she would offer to Ron because she wasn't hungry anymore- and Ron would simply, casually give them to Pettigrew. The potion itself was something she'd stolen right after leaving the common room- she took a few turns down into the first halls of the dungeons to one of Professor Snape's many storerooms. It didn't take long to find a stable, non-active vial of Duodeci Faci. After so much experience with Animagi in the past, she'd done her homework. She was no longer a thirteen year old girl.
It had been possible that there wasn't any in Snape's storerooms, but worst case they'd agreed to move in a crowd and cast the Revelio charm after disorienting the rat- it would only take a well powered Confundus to keep him out of transfiguration, and as long as it was in full purview of staff, it would work. Duodeci Faci isn't so complex, and generally is used as a traceless identity check at larger private functions. Any potioneer making an income from selling would likely have a few on hand.
For last minute, it was fairly thorough.
"Morning," Ron said.
"Oh, finally," she said. "You two took ages, I was up in the dorm and down here forever ago."
"Well, I had to shake off Percy," Ron began.
"And I was moral support." Harry sat down, too, and took a muffin.
"Ron, you want the bacon? I'm stuffed."
"Well, actually- " he reached into his upper pocket and pulled out Scabbers. "I think that'll be his breeakfast- he's been losing weight all summer. Maybe a Hogwarts breakfast will make him feel better."
"You sure?" Hermione said doubtfully, perfectly in character. "He does look a bit ill- maybe Madam Pomfrey- "
"Oi, Hermione, it's alright, go on Scabbers, go for the baccie, good boy!"
Scabbers skirted forward and Harry could've swore the rat was sending furtive glances to the Head Table (yes, Remus Lupin was there), but still he chomped down on the bacon right away and didn't show signs of hesitation. When he started in on his second slice, he began to chew slower... and then he squeaked loudly and leapt from the table- very kamikaze-
"Ron, I think your rat's making a run for it!" Seamus warned. Peter must've felt something in his body shift as he was eating the potioned bacon because he was bolting for the entrance hall now.
"Scabbers!" Ron jumped up, still in character. But he didn't need to bolt after the man, because his furry legs were stretching, bulging, ripping apart in seven different places. His stomach was shedding it's hair and his neck emerged to a distinct separation up to a balding head. With a furious cry tempered by fear, Peter Pettigrew in all his grimy glory tripped over his own feet amid chaos of overlapping shouts and general confusion.
"Who's that?"
"Did you see it!?"
Seamus was gap-jawed. "Ron... was that Scabbers?"
Ron was wide-eyed, appropriately horrified, and still standing. He dramatically thrust out an accusing finger: "Who are you? Scabbers!?"
From the floor, Peter was scrambling to get up again with his newly returned human limbs but a swift Stunner from the Head Table stopped him in his tracks. Literally.
With a wand to his throat, Dumbledore announced to the Hall at large, "I will ask you all remain seated. Professor Flitwick will escort this man- " true to his word, the compact Charms Professor was bustling down towards Peter's still form. "to be investigated- "
"Is it Black?" Came one shout. "Sirius Black? He was sighted! Not but thirty miles from here!"
"I am of a certain confidence he is not, Mister Kilmore, but I will reassure you, you are not in any danger, any of you." He lowered his wand again and the hall broke out into chatter, people where craning over one another to get a better look before Flitwick completely lifted Pettigrew out of the hall.
"I swear that was your rat, Ron," Seamus was pale.
"I wish you were wrong," he said.
"...don't think I am."
"Ron, reckon we can ask the Professors about this- "
"Right," and he got out of his seat entirely, Harry and Hermione behind him. "Right, we should let them know."
Seamus rolled his eyes. "I swear you lot got to have your noses in everything, but tell us what you find out alright?"
"Alright, Seamus," Hermione said as they left, with a little bit of wry smile. He wasn't wrong, after all.
The rest of the staff had streamed out through the back entrance at the Head Table, and as Ron made headway out of the Hall he hear a shocked voice exclaim, "Not Peter! Little Peter Pettigrew!"
"Professors!" Ron called before they could be herded away. "I think that man was Scabbers!"
"Not you three," Snape looked nauseous.
"Scabbers, my rat," Ron said. "I think he's... that man..." He took a deep breath like he holding back sick-up.
"Oh dear," Professor McGonagall bustled over to them. "That is, interesting indeed. I am terribly sorry, Mister Weasley- and Miss Granger are you feeling any better about last night?"
"Professor I'm really, truly sorry, I was so awfully sick! I felt terrible about running out like that, Professor, it won't happen again, not ever."
"Your enthusiasm is noted, and I appreciate the sentiment, Miss Granger. I am glad you feel better, now, all of you three- must return to the Great Hall. Mister Weasley, we will likely speak with you later but this is all very strange- "
Professor Sprout spoke up, "To think, a man thought dead for twelve years... and shortly after he got out-"
"Pomona, not now," McGonagall interrupted. "Now, if you will, return to the Great Hall. Please be calm, and we... will handle this."
Like never before, the three listened and returned to the tables. A soft cloud of relief was wrapping its way around Harry. They had Peter. This was a good change.
It was September the third today, and the sun was still holding onto its summer powers. This morning rose just as brilliantly as the day before, and Harry awoke much better rested and much more hopeful than he had been in a long while. Nothing had gone wrong, and Peter Pettigrew was in Auror custody last he had seen. His faith in the ministry was weak at its best, but they were not claiming the Dark Lord Voldemort had returned... so perhaps Fudge would be more amenable to follow the word of the law in this investigation.
He hoped to see it in the Prophet as soon as possible, even if it was written in the acerbic scrawl of Skeeter, so he raced to dress and wake Ron, who was still buried under his duvet. Ron had been proper grilled by the Professors, and his mum and dad had been Floo'd in to hear the news: a strange man had been masquerading as their pet rat for years.
"But I knew Pettigrew," Mrs. Weasley exclaimed. "He was the short one, with the kind eyes! He was quiet, nice even. Why on earth..."
It was altogether draining, and classes had been altogether cancelled once the clock struck nine and the Aurors arrived. Harry and Hermione glued themselves to Ron, as Ron relayed all he could about Scabbers the rat. Percy was far more enthusiastic in giving an unnecessarily detailed description of his feeding habits, but the discomfort still shined through, even on him.
Harry tried to be just be quiet and supportive, but he couldn't his general air of contentment. Snape was giving them a particularly dirty side eye after the Aurors had given him a bit of difficulty- what with his history likely- and Harry had the inner peace to offer back nothing but a smile. He got a raised eyebrow in return, and Snape didn't look their way for the rest of the investigation. Not as far as Harry knew.
The day was long, and nobody understood what was happening- except for the three perpetrators themselves. It was determined that under extreme circumstance that Pettigrew's case could be charged as a sex offence, living hidden with children with no explanation, that Veritaserum could be legally administered. People were potentially actively in danger, and that was reasonable cause.
He was thankfully not, as it turned out, a peeping Tom- but he was a Death Eater and a murderer of at least thirteen muggles. Once he was whisked away to a holding cell the Aurors had to start asking themselves... if Pettigrew killed all those muggles, then what was Sirius Black guilty of? Clearly Pettigrew was alive. Was Black still a Death Eater? The last thing anyone told the children was offhanded- but they were told that there would be a legitimate trial for Pettigrew, to unearth all his crimes for sentencing.
This good mood carried through to breakfast, where Skeeter fulfilled her scathing talent.
"Oh Harry, look at this," Hermione said. "Oooh, I hate her but she's brilliantly awful."
Fumbling Fugitives: Peter Pettigrew Alive
What followed was a condemnation of the Wizengamot (she was so fond of those) and a great deal of interest was being raised around Sirius Black: The Black heir on the run, innocent of the crime he convicted of: murder. Was Sirius Black even a Death Eater? At the end of the article was a call for readers to write in on information on Black- whereabouts, criminal history, proof of affiliation to the Dark Lord.
Harry walked on air right through Snape's potions lesson. The news seemed to have soured the man further, but Harry could hardly care. Professor Lupin however, in the following Defence Against the Dark Arts class, was exceptionally upbeat. He seemed to be wearing his best robes, with the least amount of patches.
On September fourth, a cloudy Thursday, everything good went away with the sun. It began at breakfast, spirits still high on yesterday. And of course, like clockwork, Malfoy made his rounds to the Gryffindor table... simply to darken the atmosphere. With no particular prompting, or even vague acknowledgement, he proceeded to announce directly into Harry's face (which happened to be eating porridge) his most recent plans.
"I'm to be excused, for the weekend," Malfoy said, with an air of smugness. His nose was turned up, and it was impressive he could still hold eye contact.
"Grand," Harry said. Once he had swallowed.
Something ugly, something that maybe could've been a smile on anyone else, crawled onto Malfoy's face. Harry shared a look with his best friend, the redhead beside him.
"We'll make the most of it," added Ron. That little pointy nose flared, but he said nothing else and beckoned his two bodyguards away with him.
When Malfoy had strutted a significant distance away, Hermione wondered aloud, "He looks too smug for someone who's just lost the Black family inheritance."
"There hasn't been a trial," Ron corrected. "He couldn't know, unless his father gossips as much as his son does."
Harry corrected him. "Not yet. There will be one."
"Maybe he reckons that Peter'll win, somehow. It would help if Sirius turned himself in."
"How would Peter win?" Harry challenged. "And I don't blame Sirius... the Ministry hasn't exactly done right by him."
Ron put his hands up, a little defensively. "I don't agree. Peter's fucked, it's just... what could put Malfoy in a good mood besides you suffering?" Harry took a deep breath and deflated.
"Peter's fucked," he said a tad petulantly.
"Yes he is, Harry," Ron soothed. "Yes he is."
"Language, Mister Potter."
"It's celebratory, sir," he protested. The spectral figure of Severus Snape had been strutting down the aisle between the tables and conveniently arrived in time to chastise- he was terribly good at that- and wasn't having Harry's weak excuse. He grimaced down his nose.
"Detention, 7 o'clock."
"Wow," Ron said as the man drifted away. "Isn't he cheery."
"I was too happy yesterday," Harry said. "He's got to balance it out."
"Don't get what you see in him," Ron went on. "It's tragic, really."
"No, no, no," Neville moaned. "No."
"It's only a detention, Neville, don't worry yourself."
But Neville wasn't even looking up. In fact, he looked far, far away and likely hadn't been listening at all; his hands were still gripping the newspaper - The Daily Prophet - and his face was no longer milky, it was sickly pale.
Hermione leaned into him, slowly, as if she too could learn tact in moments of great need. Her eyebrows shot up quickly, disappearing into her hairline. She gave Ron and Harry a quick, intense look that spoke volumes.
"That's quite..." she looked around the entire Hall, and Harry too felt the urge to do the same, although he still had no idea what was going on. People were gaining some sort of momentum, energy was rising in the Hall. And most everyone was with a paper, or near to one. The rest of their little group was looking around curiously, and the phenomenon was at the Gryffindor table too. Fred and George looked unusually earnest in their confusion and were in a semi-argument with Firth Polkins, who was gesturing violently.
Hermione turned back to Neville, who'd finally looked up from the paper - but hadn't let it go. He seemed to be frozen in the spot, petrified like Mrs. Norris the last year. She leaned into him, and began to read aloud from the front page,
Minister Abides Azkaban Release, Retrials
Bartemius Crouch of the DMC; to head massive overhaul of the mass arrests between Oct. 1981 - Feb. 1982 following preliminary hearing for Peter Pettigrew. Minister is questioned on extending this policy to the summer of 1976, due to 'extenuating circumstance' under which the FW is handled.
"FW?" Harry repeated.
"Shorthand," Ron answered. "Factions war, Voldemort's first war. I mean, I haven't heard anyone call it that in forever- but it used to be thought of as a factional divide. Everyone was afraid of the term 'civil war'."
"What'd you mean, first war?" Neville asked. Harry slowed turned his head to face the other boy.
"Yeah," he said even slower. "Just the one, Neville."
Neville eyed him. "Right," he said.
Hermione read on, and the main text was far more enlightening and incriminating.
"In a surprise move from notoriously titled 'jobsworth' Minister Fudge, the appeal for public peacetime trials of all wartime detainees was accepted early yesterday morning according to sources. To showcase the change the Ministry has underwent, Foreign Minister Crouch oversees the process which will commence 'as soon as possible'." Hermione did little air quotations around the end.
"Considering Crouch's personal manhunt of '82, it suggests that the Minister is not as amenable to the appeal as he would like to seem. Many may find it hard to believe that FM Crouch would repeal the temporary measures taken up and in part,written, by himself.
There is, however, one condition of the appeals that the Minister fully acquiesced to under heavy demand; the conditional full-time release of all- oh no-"
"Hermione, what is it?"
"... the conditional full-time release of all aforementioned wartime inmates... under the condition of the application of the Trace. This decree will be sent into affect as soon as September 5th, and from there on is at the discretion of family members or the detainees themselves."
"The Trace?" said Ron faintly.
"Well," Hermione said, "maybe to track and make sure... it's like parole - " She looked ashen.
"I - I know what the Trace is, Hermione," Ron said, his face grim as Harry felt. "They let them out? All of them are - they let them out ?"
He turned to Harry, who was looking at Neville, knowing now just who he must've been thinking of. Harry couldn't wrap his mind around it in the first place.
This was much worse than curious creatures and strange regulations. The largest change in time - was all this from not blowing up his Aunt? They had condemned Peter- but somehow his retrial was freeing Azkaban inmates? His thoughts kept stuttering, restarting, and circling back around.
What is causing this, Harry wondered. And what will this change now?
"Harry," Ron said. "I think dear Draco is heading home for a family reunion, this weekend."
"Narcissa's playing house," he muttered. "Well. Shit."