The trial of Adrian Pucey was two weeks later. Hermione and the other Aurors in attendance wore their stuffy, uncomfortable, official dress robes — one of the few times they changed out of more practical street attire. As she had been concerned would happen, the Wizengamot had indeed convened the full assembly over a teacup; the headlines would be ridiculous. Of course, these criminals should face justice, but she abhorred the political circus that this had become. Hermione, Harry, and the entire squad, would waste their entire afternoon sitting on the cold stone benches of the ancient chamber — essentially relegating them to the role of showy pawns in a game of Ministry tug-o-war. She couldn't wait for the elections to be over.
At precisely 11:15 am, the Wizengamot filed into their seats, and the audience quieted; the occasional snap from The Daily Prophet photographer was the only exception. Once seated, the Chief Warlock nodded to the Clerk to begin the proceedings. The trial would follow the usual format; the Wizengamot had received many of the details beforehand. They were going to have to sit through testimonies and character witnesses before Pucey was brought in to provide his own defence. Afterwards, the Wizengamot would deliberate and pass judgement.
Today, instead of providing testimony herself, Hermione had asked several of the junior Aurors to provide their testimonies instead. In such a straightforward case, this was a low-risk way for the less experienced Aurors to gain courtroom experience. Shacklebolt hadn't been particularly happy when he was informed that Hermione wasn't providing the testimony herself; he liked to use trials as an additional photo-op whenever possible. In the interest of compromise, Harry and Hermione had reluctantly agreed to remain afterwards to pose with The Minister for a few photos in The Prophet.
During the testimonies, several members of Hermione's team were asked to provide clarifying comments on the details of the investigative process, including other Dark Artefacts that they traced to Pucey. Courtenay provided a detailed recounting of his experience undercover and a list of the other items Pucey claimed to be able to procure for him.
Hermione's mind wandered as the trial wore on, and she began mentally tabulating the contents of her potion cabinet. She wondered if she needed to order more banesberry or dragon blood before she attempted another experimental batch of Stoneskin Salve — a potion she'd been developing to make the user more resistant to cuts (similar to Muggle Kevlar vests). Her experiments were coming along nicely and it would be ready for field testing once she figured out how to eliminate the full body rash that accompanied the toughened skin.
"Draco Malfoy, you may speak before the Wizengamot."
Hermione's head whipped around the courtroom. From behind her, Draco Malfoy — supposedly reformed Death Eater and her childhood tormentor — descended the stairs quietly, in elegant black robes that looked made for him. Back straightening, she shot him a withering glare; he didn't see it.
"Why is he here?" She practically spat the words at Harry, glaring hard at the back of Malfoy's head as he descended the stairs.
Not answering her question, Harry instead fixed her with a calm, level stare until she met his eyes.
"Are you going to be alright?" he asked in a low voice.
She took a deep breath, nodding as she tried to relax her grip on her wand. Harry always dealt with these things so calmly, but for Hermione, encounters with Draco Malfoy — the only known Death Eater not dead or serving a life sentence in Azkaban — were sure to trigger the worst of her memories from eight years ago.
A cold marble floor. Ron screaming her name over and over. "Tell the truth!" The bite of a knife. Pale blonde hair as he turned away.
A solid grip on her arm brought her back to the present — her body was shaking.
"Breathe with me, Hermione." Harry's voice was quiet and reassuring.
Using Harry's firm grip as an anchor, she matched her shallow breathing to his as he gradually slowed and deepened his own breathing until she calmed. It had been years since a flashback had sucked her in with such vivid detail, and she knew exactly whose fault it was. Feeling light-headed, but unwilling to flee the chamber, she listened.
"—was one of the first to seek my services once I'd returned from America," Malfoy said. "He has made remarkable progress in his rehabilitation program, which has included education, coaching, social reintegration and Muggle relations. While the road to recovery for all of us is long, Mr. Pucey is taking responsibility for the harm he and his family have caused and is working to make amends."
What was Malfoy playing at here? She didn't recall him being close with Pucey, but she supposed they all had a tendency to stay together (especially now). This was, admittedly, a strange angle to take. "Rehabilitation Program" sounded suspiciously Muggle.
Malfoy continued, "Regrettably, due to social stigma, Mr. Pucey was unsuccessful in finding stable employment, driving him to seek less savoury means of earning money. Counter to what you might read in The Daily Prophet, most purebloods are not independently wealthy."
Since the war, it had been difficult for purebloods to find employment, unless (like the Weasley's) they had very clear allegiances against Voldemort during the war. Public sentiment remained strong, and many old houses had fallen far from the upper echelons of society. As a result, estates already struggling after paying reparations were on the brink of financial ruin, driving some to take desperate measures. Adrian Pucey was a prime example. The Pucey family, though old, had not been especially wealthy, and after being unemployed since losing his job during the war, he was out of options. He'd had no prior criminal record and wasn't someone Hermione would have pegged as a future delinquent when they were in school together.
Regardless, Hermione rolled her eyes, and a derisive snort escaped her, drawing a few eyes. Poor purebloods, she thought to herself. Never mind all the years that Muggle-borns could hardly find any jobs beyond the lowest of office work and hardest of labour. Until recently, the idea of someone of her background holding a senior Ministry position would have been unheard of, and all but impossible.
Apparently, Malfoy wasn't done speaking. "Yes, Mr. Pucey clearly broke the law. However, I'd ask you to be lenient with him in seeking minimum sentencing so that he can continue his treatment and recovery. Perhaps if the Ministry reconsidered its informal policy of prohibiting purebloods of unknown allegiance—" He sneered, showing his disdain for such labelling. "—from government work, it would force fewer of them into the underbelly."
Hermione scoffed.
This time, Malfoy's cool grey eyes met hers and she felt as if she had been hit with a bolt of electricity, despite the lack of any emotion in his gaze.
Harry elbowed her, hard.
Between her annoyance over the trial, Malfoy's unexpected presence, and sleepless nights brought on by nightmares (they were always worse near the anniversary of the Snatcher incident), Hermione was at her limit and she knew it. Under normal circumstances, she would never have let her outward frustration or disdain show in such a way.
"Sorry," she murmured; she wasn't.
As Malfoy's testimony continued, she focused on blocking out his presence. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the scratching quill of the Clerk and recited Most Potente Potions by Phineas Bourne in her head — a distraction technique she'd picked up in Hogwarts. As he returned to his seat, she felt his gaze again, and a shiver slithered down her spine.