Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, just my dry wit. This kinda funny piece of fanfiction is for entertainment, not profit.

...

The first thing I do as Hermione Granger is ask for a lawyer, barrister, whatever the Wizarding equivalent happens to be. To my non-surprise, I'm not offered one when the request is made. Such a profession does not exist here, evidently. Furthermore, no one seemed to understand what I meant when I asked for a chance to telephone a representative at the British Embassy, either. Most of the guards accompanying me had evidently not even heard of such an organization, furthering my personal opinion that I am, indeed, serving as the butt-monkey of an epic joke with me as the punchline.

Just for kicks and giggles, I proceed to repeat my request at the general audience, garnering the attention of some of the spectators in the Courtroom for their reaction and character types. Again, almost everyone appeared genuinely confused. The people who did know what I was talking about were expectedly disdainful. A middle-aged man with a beer gut actually laughed and cackled "Now what would you need those Muggles for? They can't even find their way to Diagon Alley." Another distinctively toad-like one whispered that I was a Muggle; ergo, I would be expected to make such foolish mistakes.

Being Muggle appears to be a liability, especially on the knowledge front. The question wasn't whether or not being a Non-Muggle was a liability; rather, it assumed that being Magical was the end all be all. I mark "HOW?" In bright capital letters in my head for future pondering. Not for the first time, I wonder if I have Time-Traveled to an alternate dimension where the people are simply insane. The thing is that everyone appears to be sane, that is, they were deeply committed to this illusion that wizards, witches, and, indeed, magic was real and that people such as myself (non-Magical "Muggles") would be able to learn such things as turning rats into tea cozies and blasting people into smithereens with a stick, and that this was somehow better.

Sorry, wand. I must remember to refer to it by its proper name, lest I forget again. Wouldn't want to appear as an ignorant Muggle too often, though nothing doesn't stop me from feeling increasingly baffled and bewildered.

With that in mind, I hastily request the next best thing in lieu of a barrister- books, as many as I can get my hands on, as well as accompanying statutes of law pertaining to my rights as an accused.

In any case, with my requests for counsel was thusly ignored, the proceedings begin with a razor-dry rendition of obscure magical statutes that probably haven't changed since the first Wizengamot meeting of 1389. Several of the jurors fell asleep during the reading, though I, of course, force myself to remain awake in an effort to understand what was happening. Eventually, however, the duties of the Supreme Mugwump in regards to Wizarding Fashion tenets simply proved too bland and I, too, fell into an unpleasant internal musing.

On the bright side, I hadn't expected such a thing as due process to exist in this alleged Wizard World. I was rather expecting to be blown to smithereens by one of those wands, after all. On the not-so-bright side, due process involves a lengthy trial with unknown conventions and politicking that I had yet to grasp. Great fun for my inner Machiavelli, not as great for my general well-being, as the penalty for losing the game is being kissed by someone named Dementor, whom I gather is your average Romeo or Casanova if they ate souls instead of ghosting you after the second piece of garlic bread.

Right. Can't focus on that yet. Need to identify the players first. Gotta at least attempt the game, right?

The other players look more or less pressed from the same medieval fashion mold. Each and every juror is dressed in robes of varying fabric types; I find, with a little observation, that the ones wearing velvet appeared to have the most influence, followed by the ones in silk, then the ones in ermine. An old man with a particularly spectacular purple outfit with matching pointed hat and a long, Gandalf-like beard as well as half-moon spectacles served as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, meaning he was the Head Loon presiding over my trial by Lesser-Head Loons. About fifty or so men and women of various ages and sizes wearing plum-colored robes emblazoned with silver W sit in neat rows around the room. Some are taking notes with old-fashioned looking quills and parchment, if quills moved on their own with flourishes and swirls.

I don't get much of a chance to gape at the self-moving quills (is it live wires? Magnetic currents?) before I'm unceremoniously shoved in a wooden cage-like chair in the middle of the room. Everyone else is is standing, but apparently the accused can sit in the most uncomfortable chair known to Man fot the opening ceremony.

I sigh mentally as Head Loon begins speaking.

Game Start.

...

As you can guess, my first day in Court went about as well as vacuuming milk with your nose when you have a cold. Equal parts confusing and painful with a dash of solid embarrassment. Problem one for the prosecution (i.e., the plum robes) is establishing that I am, in fact, Hermione Granger. My strenuous protests to the contrary notwithstanding, I can see how establishing my identity would be a difficult task to establish given my extensive memory loss.

Who is to say that I am or am not Hermione Granger? Who is the real Hermione anyway, and what is it about me that reminds people of her?

Instead of going the obvious route of asking people who knew Hermione Granger to make an identification (a solution precluded by something about Polyjuice and also Imperius, not that I know what either of those are), I am presented with...a stick. The same pretty one that belong(s/ed) to Hermione.

I'll just leave my astonished gaping on the record here without further sarcastic commentary.

Someone named Gaelic (not his real name) Ollivander is brought in to give evidence in short order. The lead prosecutor is a woman with a reedy voice that I mentally term Fluffy due to the three-headed dog pin she was wearing. A decidedly ferocious-looking creature that had a tendency to bit dust motes, though I'm not sure where the Fluffy part came from. Perhaps I was developing a sense of gallows humor due to the sheer craziness of the situation or, more likely, my brain short-circuited at the sight of an animatronic barking brooch more suited for a Universal Studios ride.

When questioned about the stick, this odd, spiral-looking man claimed he sold it to me when I was eleven. "Ah, yes. Miss Granger, 10.75 inches, vine wood, dragon heartstring. Excellent for Charms work and picky wand; you can imagine how difficult it was to sell. Rejected a good thirty owners before finally choosing Miss Granger."

At Fluffy's prodding, Ollivander identifies me as the same Miss Granger who purchased the wand.

"What is the likelihood of this wand identifying another owner besides Miss Granger? How confident are you that this wand will identify Miss Granger and only her as its true owner?"

Ollivander doesn't even hesitate before nodding; thanks a lot, wizened old prune. "Absolutely certain. This wand would only work for Miss Granger. This is not a wand to willingly go to another owner. This wand craves character and intelligence. Wouldn't just go willingly to any Merlin or Arthur wannabe. This wand chose Miss Granger, and, based on that, we can expect great, if terrible, things from her."

The gallery shivered with an undercurrent I didn't quite get. This asssessment brought out a latent undercurrent of fear, and not of just me, either.

Before I can ponder this further for alternative solutions, The Plums vote to have me try the wand to ascertain my identity.

Please wave it, Miss Granger. The wand will recognize your magical signature.

Yeah, sure, why don't I try balancing a table on my pinkie while I'm at it?

Swallowing my protests about A. my obvious lack of magic, B. the impossibility of binding an ephemeral concept of "magic" to an object, C. attribution of human characteristics such as "memory" to inanimate cells, D. utter disregard for modern scientific methods such as fingerprinting, DNA, voice analysis, etc., I attempt a series of overly exaggerated swirls.

(No one laughed, in case you were wondering, though I got a small smile hidden behind a discreet cough from Head Loon, upgrading him to Mall Santa Wannabe in my inner monologue).

The wand performed an astounding bout of magical Nothing.

I tried again with my other hand, as requested.

Still Nothing.

(I told you so, complete with funky chicken Macarena dance.)

An uneasy murmur percolated through the gallery. The jurors appeared perplexed. Murmurs dribbled. Are we sure that's even her? Why doesn't the wand recognize her? Did she Confound it? Bind her magic?

All of this added up to one question: How does she walk, talk, and act like Hermione Granger but not be Hermione Granger?

Ostentatiously, I flourish again with a bow. Still nothing. The stick merely rested between my fingers, as cool and immobile as ever.

Fluffy looked very affronted plucking the stick out of my hands with an exaggerated show of delicacy. "If you please, Mr. Ollivander, confirm that this wand has not been tampered with?"

Ollivander turned the wand over in his hand, running one calloused finger against the grain of the wood with a small frown. A small shower of red and gold sparks appeared, nearly scalping Fluffy. (Santa and I shared a cough-laugh again.)"This is the wand of Miss Granger. I remember every wand I have ever made and sold, although-" he cut off with a strange croak, the stick dropping from his fingers with a solid thunk as the smell of burning filled the room.

"Well?" Prompted Fluffy impatiently.

Cradling his now-injured hands, Ollivander looked uncomfortable. "Well...That is to say, this wand is and is not the one I originally sold to Miss Granger."

"Excuse me?" I cut in eagerly, trampling several procedural customs in the process and not caring in the least. This was the opening I've been waiting for. "How can something belong to someone and yet not belong to someone? If this wand was sold to Hermione Granger and would not have accepted another owner, then by definition it would impossible for the possession of this wand to be split between more than one entity."

The old man sighed as a sliver of smoke rose from the wand. "I mean that this wand has been bewitched by Miss Granger to obey more than one owner. That would have taken powerful magic, a feat that Miss Granger was more than capable of."

"Did you not testify earlier that this particular wand was intensely loyal to Miss Granger and only Miss Granger?" I press forward. "How can she or anyone else override this intense loyalty even with magic?"

Ollivander looked aggrieved. "I don't know. Magic is capable of wondrous and terrible things. I can describe the wand's behavior as follows: it will accept the touch of Miss Granger and everyone it was bewitched to follow and no other." Holding up his palms, he pointed to two thin red lines. "The wand will burn all other hands, including the ones that made it. And since you were not burnt when you handled the wand, you must either be Hermione Granger or a trusted owner."

I ponder this development for a second, then decided to store it for future reference. "That sounds like unsubstantiated supposition. The fact that the wand may answer to me is not proof that it does, in fact, answer to me. The possibility of existence is not evidence of said existence. The wand burnt you, Mr. Ollivander, but it also produced sparks which I assume is a reaction to your magic. The wand did not burn me, but it failed to produce any magic-related reactions. Is it possible that this wand only reacts to those with magical ability and is simply dormant for non-magical people such as myself? In other words, I do not have to be Hermione Granger or a trusted owner of the wand to elicit an adverse reaction?"

Sensing her case going south for winter, Fluffy chooses this moment to Object to my "baseless inferences."

"I am merely engaging logical reasoning, ma'am." I retort acidly. "And, of course, utilizing my rights listed under Rights of UnderAge Wizardry Decree 280 Section C to cross examine witness evidence. Now Mr. Ollivander, are there any prior instances of wands charmed to obey more than one owner? Could you please provide us with an explanation as to how this magic operates and how it can be confirmed?"

Poor Ollivander is melting into the floor. "This is the first occurrence of a wand answering to multiple current owners at the same time."

"I see." I summarized, waiting just a little too long before continuing in order for the message to percolate. "To wit, it is completely possible that this wand belonged to Miss Granger as well as a potentially infinite number of people, meaning that any one of them could have utilized this wand to commit the crimes that Miss Granger is accused of. That is theoretically a very large suspect pool. Might I ask how we can determine who these other owners are so we can question them as well, if only to eliminate them as persons of interest?"

"Well, yes, theoretically it is possible to find all the owners, however, wandlore would indicate that the most likely suspect is Miss Granger herse-"

I cut Ollivander off, sure that he was about to dive into a tangent that would inevitably derail my hard-won logic. "Am I correct in stating, Mr. Ollivander, that it is entirely possible that someone or multiple someones framed Miss Granger?"

Looking defeated, Ollivander nodded reluctantly. "That is possible, yes."

The plum woman is not as easily impressed and rounds on me sharply. "It is also possible and very likely that Miss Granger and multiple accomplices committed the crimes. For example, would you care to explain why Prior Incantato showed the very last spell performed with this wand to be Obliviate?"

I freeze.

"Ob...Obliviate?"

...

A few hints if you're taking a crack at solving the mystery:

1. Constant vigilance.

2. Suspect everyone.

3. C-TOMATOES-2