Fear. True fear—fear of torture, fear of death. It left a sour aroma in the air, one that could only be recognized by those that had become familiar with its vile, never-ending presence. It was stagnant and thick and rotten and metallic—like decay and sweat and blood and war.
Regrettably, Hermione Granger knew it well.
Only in the North Corridor had she ever felt it fester in the atmosphere around her; it was the place where fear was born and bred, where it came to thrive, and where it often died too.
Behind the brass door, the Minister toyed with his prey.
She had once been that prey.
Shaking off the thought, she pinned her eyes on the scarred Auror loitering by the door—a wide man with a crooked nose and even crookeder teeth. He watched her each and every move, his hands clasped in front of him and his wand ready for the draw.
"The Ministry no longer exists to protect the people. It exists to protect itself."
Charlie had told her that once. It seemed to grow truer by the day.
"State your business," the Auror growled.
"The Minister requested my presence."
He licked his thin, cracked lips. "Oh, he did, did he now?"
"He did. I received the summons four minutes ago." She proffered him the parchment that had landed atop her desk, prompting her for a late evening of unexpected misery.
"You coulda plagiarized 'at." He reached inside of his robes and extracted an ink-stained scroll. Unfurling it, he grunted, "Name?"
"Hermione Granger."
"Right, and I'm Voldemort himself. Give me your wand, Hermione Granger."
Begrudgingly, she held out her beloved wand—her only sanctuary in the house of horrors that the Ministry of Magic had become. She was always prepared to fight, always prepared to flee, but without her wand, she was helpless—a mere fly in the Minister's web of boundless power.
"Hm, always thought you'd be taller . . . Reckon the blokes at the Prophet want to make their heroes look important though, don't they?"
She managed a pinched smile.
"My wand?"
"Oh, right. Here you are."
Knowing what was to come next, she tucked it in her robes and held out her clammy hand. She had been through the ritual many times before, yet somehow, each time was just as frightening as the last.
He didn't warn her.
The tip of his wand hissed against her outstretched palm as he watched her, his gaze boring into her throughout the entire harrowing process, daring her to make a fatal mistake. Alas, Hermione steadied herself. The Red Chamber's very foundation was pain. It only made sense its entrance was too.
"Don't flinch or else I'll hafta do it all over again."
She nodded. She had made that misstep once before.
Smoke and stench swirled into the empty air and a low whistle snuck past her gritted teeth. The telltale burn melted through her soft flesh and the muscle that lined her bones, but she could not afford to show any distress—not given her public image, not when so much was on the line.
The agony seemed to last an age.
Once the Auror finally gave her a confirming gesture, she quietly studied the angry, marred skin. Yet again, she had been branded with the intricate Mark of the Red Chamber. Yet again, her labyrinthian palm matched the inlay of the brass door itself.
"First time in the chamber?"
"Hardly."
"Then you understand how it works. I wouldn't keep him waitin' if I were you."
"Of course not," she lilted. "I look forward to being of service."
"Very good, then. Long live His Excellency."
"Long live."
Anxious, Hermione approached the entrance of glimmering brass and pressed her palm to its very center. In an impressive feat of magical engineering, the maze-like inlay glowed molten red—welcoming her, warning her.
The searing burn was hauntingly familiar.
"Like dragon's fire, innit?"
Hermione ignored the Auror, though he was quite right.
"I imagine it's what Hell would be like," she'd once told Ron. "Just this deep burning feeling that you feel from your skin to your bones . . . Reminds me of the Cruciatus a bit . . ."
The pain ceased.
Noiselessly, the door rose upward. Its silence was unexpected—a stark contrast to the shrieking of metal on stone that one would expect.
Her eyes shuttered as she stepped inside.
"Ah! Miss Granger! I've been expecting you!"
Never had she loathed a voice more. It was baritone and suffocating and it echoed throughout the massive chamber like a string quartet.
It was inescapable. He was inescapable.
"I believe you know my guest."
The slam of the brass door sounded behind her—a subtle reminder that the magic was imperfect after all, or perhaps, it was meant to be loud, meant to intimidate. Slowly, trepidatiously, she opened her eyes.
How instant regret could be.
"Neville?"
He hung in the air, his spine arched beyond all that was natural and his mouth ajar. No screams. No pleas or cries.
Only silence.
"I thought you might want to join us for a little reunion," the Minister said with a smirk. "It's my understanding you two fought in the war together. Is that right?"
Seated upon his dais, he stroked his yew wand. He barely had to touch it to hold the spell.
"Yes," she whispered. "We did."
"And he fought bravely, I presume?"
"Y-yes, Your Excellency. He fought very bravely."
"I'm not surprised . . . given his decorated background. First Order of Merlin, former Auror." The Minister pushed his long, dark locks away from his face. "The history books certainly hold him in high regard."
Hermione knew better than to respond. She simply waited for him to make his point.
"Which is precisely why I was so disappointed when Aurors discovered him with this."
The Minister's warped shackles, a cursed pair he wore in the loops of his belt, jangled discordantly as he reached inside of his robes. He pawed at the fabric for a moment before finally producing a bloodstained scroll; it was far too thick to be the common list, but far too slim to be any other Ministry record Hermione knew. Her attention was fixed upon it, because whatever it was, it was fully capable of leading to Neville's death.
"Do you know what this is, Miss Granger?"
Hermione shook her head, careful not to glance above him. If she had to look at her longtime friend, she might have lost her feigned equanimity, and that, she could not afford.
"No, Your Excellency. I do not."
"Well, my murderous Mudblood, this is a map," he explained. "A map of which I am the sole possessor. To obtain it, Mr. Longbottom would have to have been inside my office without my consent." He tucked the parchment back inside of his robes. "As you know, that in and of itself is worthy of a lifetime sentence."
Never had silence been so deafening. Still, Neville floated above, his body contorted inhumanely as he rotated in a macabre display for two.
"You're rather quiet, Miss Granger. Surely, you don't disagree with my assessment?"
Harry had told her she would have to hurt her friends, yet somehow, she never imagined it would be Neville.
"I—" she faltered momentarily. "Ahem, no, Your Excellency. You're quite right. There must be consequences—n-naturally."
The Minister stepped down from his dais, stalking towards her like the apex predator that he was. His bright blue irises, so human, so unlike Voldemort's slits of red, glinted.
They could have been the eyes of Dumbledore himself.
"And what of the severity of these consequences? Have you any suggestions?"
Blood pounded in her ears. By the torchlight, she could see Neville's shadow upon the stone floor—the same stone floor that had been stained with the organs of a dozen Order members before him. She had to choose her words meticulously, for if she didn't, his fate would be quick to follow theirs.
"He would be a valuable asset," she said, careful of each and every syllable. "If you only allowed him to rehabilitate, he could help us. He could . . . spy for us, even."
The Minister backed away from her and craned his neck. If Hermione did not know any better, she might have thought he was considering her proposal.
"Perhaps, I didn't give you the necessary details, Miss Granger. The map that he stole is no ordinary map . . . It's a map of Stafhelm. On it is every entrance, every exit, every cell." He appraised her for a moment. "You see, I believe Mr. Longbottom was plotting Potter's escape."
"Escape? From Stafhlem? It can't be done, Your Excellency, you've said it yourself."
"You're right," he said, his tone bored. "It can't be done, but if anyone were to try, is Mr. Longbottom not a prime candidate? He has a history of heroics, he resigned from the department as soon as I became Minister, and he's been associated not only with Harry Potter, but also with Ginevra Weasley and Xenophilius Lovegood. Now I know these were once your friends, Miss Granger, so please forgive me when I say that traitors keep the company of traitors. Some, such as yourself, can be rehabilitated. Others—" He looked up at Neville's suspended form. "—cannot."
He snapped his fingers.
Neville, his eyes darting to and fro with terror, collapsed onto the stone floor in a symphony of breaking bones. He was still immobile, but his mouth was ajar as he silently attempted to scream, desperate to be freed from the infamous room—desperate for Hermione to save him.
Blood filled the mortar crevices of the cobblestone.
"Yes, prison simply won't do," the Minister said, softly. He circled Neville, occasionally stopping to press the toe of his boot to the rebel's quivering gut, testing Neville's humanity as he often did with his victims. "The guards in Azkaban are too weak—too kind to the prisoners. And even with the Dementors reinstated, there are too few to issue the Dementor's Kiss quickly enough . . . No, we won't waste our resources on traitorous thieves. Swine of this sort—" He stepped on Neville's face, earning an agonized wince. "—deserve death."
Capital punishment.
Hermione felt like the room was closing in on her as she tried to process the dreaded proclamation. The loss of Neville could mean the final collapse of the Order of the Phoenix, for their numbers were already far too few.
"Protect the Order, Hermione. Whatever it takes, you must protect the Order."
She could not fail Harry. She could not fail the Order of the Phoenix.
"Excuse me, Your Excellency, but what about a different type of rehabilitation?"
The Minister removed his boot from Neville's contused face. The dark leather was stained crimson, and as Neville's head slumped sideways, a tooth clattered to the floor.
"Elaborate."
"W-well, there are other methods, aren't there?" Hermione stammered, trying to shake her disquietude as she examined her friend's mangled nose and bleeding ears. "I-in fact, you've already started one of them."
The Minister's mouth stretched into a mischievous grin. "Torture."
Betrayal was bitter, but it was a flavor Hermione knew well.
"It's worked before. I-it could work again, couldn't it? As I said, he would be a valuable asset, not only for ranks within the Ministry but also as a warning to any other rebels. It will—it will dampen their spirits, losing someone like Neville. He's—erm—he's a bit of a hero of theirs—kind of like Harry Potter."
"His death would dampen their spirits just as well, then."
"Y-yes, but e-excuse me, sir, if I may . . . I—I know most of the Order, personally. It would embarrass them—affect them more, if they saw someone like him working for the Ministry. If he—if he dies a hero . . . Well, he'd be a martyr, sir."
"And what does that matter to me?" the Minister asked.
"They'd want to retaliate," Hermione said quickly. "And—and we have a unique opportunity with him, sir . . . He has the highest level of clearance within the Order and would provide us valuable information. Information no one else could offer. If he were a spy, like I mentioned before—"
"We couldn't trust him as a spy."
"Then you could keep him solely working for us!" Hermione exclaimed. "But if you kill him . . . they will—they'll come for him. In full force, if my prediction is right."
The Minister stiffened.
It was a slight tell that few were astute enough to notice, yet Hermione always did. What he was about to say—it would be a test.
"Perhaps he's already learned his lesson," he uttered, squatting down beside Neville. He drew a line in the blood upon the other man's bruised cheek. Shining garnet in color, it was the evidence of internal bleeding.
"Sir?" Hermione said.
"Maybe this little meeting has shown him where his loyalties should lie," the Minister went on, rubbing the blood between his thumb and forefinger. "You're the Dealer of Death—what do you think? Has his rehabilitation begun?"
Harry Potter once told Hermione she would have to do many things she didn't want to do. Back then, she didn't know that would include facilitating the torture of her friends.
"Stay strong, Hermione. The Order depends on you."
Harry's words echoed in her mind like a mantra, a dystopian war cry that reminded her that everything she did was for the greater good. Toeing the line between black and white, Hermione Granger would swim in grey, and it was what she did in grey that would save Harry—that would eventually save them all.
She had to pass the Minister's test.
"No."
The word barely sounded like her own.
"No?" he repeated. "Then, you think he still favors the rebels."
The next words could lead to Neville's end. Still, Hermione knew what she had to do.
With her mask firmly in place, she choked out, "Yes, sir. His will is strong."
The Minister twisted his wand between his fingers, circling her, almost appearing nonchalant as he spoke of a man's torture. His boots were nearly silent against the reddened cobblestone, yet still each step made Hermione's heart hammer faster.
"How long do you think it could take, to rehabilitate him properly?" he asked.
"It could be hours, Your Excellency," she replied. "Possibly days."
The Minister stopped in front of her.
"Like his parents."
Hermione swallowed and nodded.
"Yes, sir. Like his parents."
The Minister chuckled wickedly and started towards Neville again, clearly delighted by the disturbing comparison. Hermione passed the test, but she only felt worse for it.
How peculiar it was, the greater good. So often it did not seem very good at all.
"This idea of yours, Miss Granger—it may be the best I've heard all month." The Minister pressed his wand to Neville's temple, his knuckles white with anticipation. "If it works, you may be in for a promotion."
Then, he whispered the curse that Hermione loathed more than any other.
"Crucio."
Neville's teeth, crimson with his own blood, ground together as the Dark Magic wracked his entire body. The charm suppressed his screams, and in a way, it was even more terrible than if she could hear the din of his misery.
"Imperio!" the Minister shouted, maniacally.
Neville began beating his own head against the floor, and the pained expression he wore told Hermione a story she already knew: She had experienced it herself. She had seen it happen to nine others. She was complicit.
If everything she did was to protect the Order, how was it that she felt like a traitor?
"I do have to thank you for your recommendation, Mudblood. This is quite the treat."
With the inflection of the final word, the Minister gave his wand an abrupt jerk—then another—and another. Neville's head was moving more quickly than Hermione thought humanly possible, positively vibrating against the floor he was beating it upon. Hermione held in her panic, allowing it to eat her away.
The Minister didn't notice.
Instead, he barked a gleeful laugh, and while she expected him to cry out another Unforgivable Curse, he slashed the air with his wand and shrieked something else—a word she did not know.
Alas, she did not need to know it to recognize it.
Twelve years prior, Antonin Dolohov had cast the very same curse upon her.
"You seem surprised to see this magic," the Minister noted, his gaze suddenly trained on her rather than Neville's widening eyes. "You know it well."
Trembling, Hermione nodded. "Y-yes, Your Excellency. In the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, your—your father used it."
"On you."
"Yes, sir. On me."
"Fascinating . . . It's been a family favorite for many centuries, so I suppose it's no surprise. Interesting you've never mentioned it, though." As he looked at Neville, he seemed wistful. "The effects are long-lasting if the victim lives. Do you know how it works?"
Hermione shook her head slowly. "No, sir. I'm afraid not."
He trailed the tip of his wand across Neville's cheekbone, only to push it sadistically into the swelling around his mouth. If Neville was reacting, he was too deformed for it to show.
"It mutates the scar from the inside," the Minister explained, "causing miserable, bone-deep pain for years to come—though I'm sure you know that already."
Hermione said nothing.
"Just as that pain follows you, Miss Granger, it will follow Mr. Longbottom—that is, of course, if he survives."
"Neville is strong," she replied, thickly. "He'll survive. Then, you—then, you will see his value, sir."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "We will see."
Hermione knew not what the next wordless curse was, but it was callous and unmerciful and she found herself wanting to vomit as the Minister danced around with sickening jubilance. Neville's head quaked and he frothed at the mouth, scarlet bubbles dribbling down his violently purple neck and heaving chest. The more his state worsened, the more joyous the Minister became.
If Hermione did not intervene, he would die or be driven to madness.
"He's a pure-blood, you know!" she cried out.
The Minister halted and raised a single bushy brow. "Pure-blood, you say? How rare."
"To add even more value to your ranks," she continued. "The new members of the Wizengamot will favor him, which could prove quite helpful for your noble cause."
Unmoved, the Minister grunted, "Pure-blood or not, he's still a Longbottom."
"They'll accept him in due time, Your Excellency. More than they'll ever accept me. Voldemort himself was willing to find a place for him."
"I do not care what Tom Riddle was willing to do," he spat. "Blood purity means nothing to me, which is lucky for you, might I remind you, Miss Granger." He turned back to Neville. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more work to do. . . After all, if he is ever going to work for the Ministry, he must have learned his lesson. You said it yourself, did you not?"
She had, and if she did not stand by her word, she would sign his death warrant—as well as hers, and that of the cause. There was a chance that he would survive. No matter how little, there was a chance.
"Imperio!"
Again, Neville beat his own forehead against the stone floor, but this time, with much more force. Hermione recognized the change in him as the robotic movement of an Imperius victim turned to the uncontrolled chaos of a seizure, and though she desperately wanted to step in, she knew that she could not.
Harry's voice echoed in her mind.
"No matter what happens, you have to do what they say."
The seizing stopped.
Frowning, the Minister approached Neville, only to toe his mutilated face just as he had earlier. His eyes may have been swollen shut, but behind those bruised lids, Hermione knew that they were lifeless—glassy pits of mortality like those of Luna and Arthur and Ron.
All her friends were dead or dying.
"Pity. You made him sound like he would have been quite the asset."
Struck by sudden grief, Hermione watched helplessly as the Minister took Neville's wand and spun it between his fingers. It was yet another trophy to add to his ever-growing collection, another showpiece to keep his followers in line. Unlike wands from lesser wizards, it was a trophy that might even turn the tides of some allegiances.
In less than a day, Neville had been demoted from a hero of the Order to a corpse in the Red Chamber.
"Clean up this mess," the Minister commanded. "He's to be taken to the fourth floor for incineration. I don't want his friends thinking they've earned the right to bury their dead."
The stink of murder was in her nose, suffocating her. Dizzying her. But Hermione, with the weight of the cause on her shoulders, managed a tremulous bow.
"Yes, Your Excellency."