Author's Note
I finally have a beta to catch my spelling and/or grammar errors. Thank you, hpfanfictionreader! You're wonderful :)
I hope you enjoy it, please let me know what you think!
Any dialogue you recognize is from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows or Binding Darkness. I took a few bits from the Ministry scene I wrote in that story since I really just wanted to finish this chapter and get started on the next. The next is where it really becomes canon divergent….
I'm not J.K. Rowling, so I don't own anything.
Ch 9: Ministry
"That worked well. Reckon we should check her office?" Harry, disguised as a burly Ministry worker, suggested. He was looking around the bustling Atrium they'd just entered as though he couldn't quite believe they'd pulled off the first part of their plan. It was the only part they'd actually had any luck planning out in detail, but that was how it usually went with them.
And not for lack of time.
They'd waited a month to do this since Hermione had needed that long to prepare the Polyjuice Potion. Luckily, Snape had included all the ingredients in the box he'd given her, minus the hairs, which had been easy enough to get with the help of some of the twins' gag sweets. He must have suspected that she'd require it at some point.
It really was ideal for subterfuge, and he was amply aware of her affinity to it.
Harry had been impatient about the delay, but there'd been no help for it. At least he'd had staking out the Ministry and formulating a plan to get them in to occupy his time. He and Ron had taken turns collecting all of the information they possibly could, which had included everything from surveying the Ministry itself to drawing on Ron's knowledge from previous visits to his dad's office and facts Mr. Weasley had mentioned over the years.
Despite those efforts, they were all more than aware that it wasn't nearly enough, but they'd risked more for less before. So it was actually rather refreshingly normal to be doing so again now.
"Yes. The sooner we get the locket, the better," Hermione agreed, a mental clock ticking steadily in her mind, reminding her that their time was limited – be it the potion wearing off or those they'd impersonated being discovered. Each second they stood there was another wasted and one that brought them a step closer to failing.
Except she'd never been able to handle failure. Her boggart was a testament to that.
Clicks and clacks sounded all around her as people hurried across the smooth marble floors, and the three fell in step, passing the place where the splashing fountain with its obscene misrepresentation of magical creatures and their roles in society had once stood. She'd hoped after the battle in the Department of Mysteries when Dumbledore and Voldemort had destroyed it that those in charge would see fit to replace it with something more progressive and inspiring, but the new choice was infinitely worse.
Dominating the expansive Atrium, with its domed roof and filigree accents, was a massive carved black stone. It depicted a regal witch and wizard crushing hundreds of Muggles beneath the elaborate thrones they sat on. And across the base sprawled the words MAGIC IS MIGHT.
It was horrific. So much so that Hermione froze in place, shaking her borrowed head as though she could physically dispel the sight before her. It didn't work.
"Come on. Hopefully we can corner her alone," Ron said gently, tugging her arm to get her walking again.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Time hadn't stopped. It was a thief, and one that couldn't be bargained with. She could process the absolute wrongness of the new ideology later, when they didn't have a clock on them.
Except, before her was a scene equally as alarming. A crying man weighed down in lengths of chains was being escorted from the lifts they were heading toward. Even from a distance and in spite of the chaos and noise of people arriving for work they could hear the man insisting a mistake had been made because he was the grandson of the broomstick designer, Arkie Alderton.
Nearby, a wizard called out, "I've got another for you!"
They watched as he led a hysterical woman over to a group of frightened and cowering people assembled by the lifts. Four other formidable witches and wizards stood around the perimeter, obviously forming a guard. The woman being led struggled against the hold on her arm, frantically looking about the hall, searching for an escape that simply wasn't possible.
"Said she was waiting for her husband to arrive," the wizard added, sneering with disgust, as though he found the idea both improbable and unlikely.
"What's that about?" Harry asked, appearing ready to intercede. Hermione longed to do the same. But they were here for a reason. Too much was riding on them to get sidetracked.
"I'm not sure," she said, though she had a strong suspicion that it wasn't anything good.
They'd just reached the lift when someone spoke to them, saying, "Disgusting, isn't it?"
"Pardon?" Harry asked, forehead wrinkling in confusion. The newcomer nodded at where they'd been blatantly staring.
"That we have to watch them making a spectacle. Bad enough they stole magic from those more deserving, but to go on about it and grovel as though we'd take pity on the guilty."
Harry's fist clenched, and Hermione saw that he was clutching his wand, preparing to curse the man. As discreetly as possible, she caught his wrist, squeezing as hard as she could to warn him off. She wished the lifts would hurry up already. She didn't think she could stand here much longer herself without reacting to the blatant injustice.
"Oh," Ron said, face going slack as he seemed to finally get the full significance of what was happening.
"Too right," someone else agreed, then seemed to catch sight of Hermione. For a second, she worried he saw through her disguise, but his words squelched the fear. At least once she'd realised he was addressing her borrowed identity. "Ah, Mafalda, excellent. I was just coming to find you. Dolores could do with a scribe down in courtroom 11."
"Y-yes, all right," she agreed, seeing no alternative. Besides, he'd mentioned Umbridge – the very reason they were there in the first place.
"Find a way to take a break and meet us back up here in twenty. I'll check her office," Harry instructed beneath his breath as the lift finally dinged, signalling its long-awaited arrival.
"For what? The locket won't be there. We know she's wearing it," Ron muttered as those under guard were all slowly ushered into the lift before them.
"Reg! Reg! He's my husband. Please, let him go down with me," the witch they'd seen early begged, waving at Ron's masked form.
"Ron'll come with me. You wait here and try to act natural," Hermione said quickly, seizing the opportunity and pushing Ron ahead of her into the minimal space remaining. The gilded grill slammed shut behind her, and she caught only the briefest glimpse of Harry's surprised expression before they were speeding off.
She didn't think she'd ever been packed so tightly into a closed box. It felt suffocating, particularly with the jostling of the woman trying valiantly to reach them from the other side of the confined space.
"He's not going to be happy about this," Ron warned, making a token effort to wave at the struggling woman as though he really were her husband.
"We didn't have time to debate. It'd look more suspicious if he was trying to act as my bodyguard."
This was by far the safer option. Harry was a loaded gun, the hammer cocked and primed to go off. His temper and rashness was bound to get them in trouble if he'd come with, as demonstrated by his reaction moments ago.
"I just hope he goes without us if we're not back before the potion starts to wear off," Ron said wearily, surprising her a bit. Honestly, now that Ron had mentioned it, she was actually afraid Harry wouldn't. Just another worry to plague her. As if she didn't have enough to worry about while crammed into a tin can dropping into Umbridge's playground – also known as a sane person's hell.
A soothing voice spoke, announcing their arrival at the lowest level. The cold seeped into the lift before the doors even opened, and dread clenched her heart. As they got out, Hermione grumbled, "'We'll be fine,' he said. 'It'll be easy to grab it and go.' Right."
"To be fair, we all knew he was lying," Ron murmured quietly. He looked supremely uncomfortable as the beset woman threw herself into his arms and began sobbing against his chest.
"Not helping," Hermione said, offering a final nod before she reluctantly headed away from Ron before someone wondered at their conversing.
Ron's crack had at least served to take her mind off her mounting fear. He certainly had a knack for making the perfect quip to dispel tension in these situations.
He'd surprised her during this last month. After their talk, she'd expected him to be moody and spiteful. Resentful and angry. But he hadn't. Just the opposite, if anything. Confirming that they'd never be together romantically had seemed to free them both in a way. All of the uncertainty and insecurity and pressure had vanished, leaving a friendship forged through years of life-and-death situations, and inside jokes.
Hermione didn't need Ron to say it to know they both felt lighter and happier with the outcome than anyone would have predicted.
The guards led the prisoners to a wooden bench in the hall, ordering them to sit down just as a woman was being carted off. Three young children clung to her legs, screaming and begging, but a guard ripped her from them, apathetic to the heartbreaking scene.
The woman slumped, all fight fleeing as she surrendered to her inevitable fate. She was little more than a sack of grain as the guard hauled her away, leaving only two in the hall with the rest of the newcomers.
"If she wants to be a mummy so bad, she can look after the Mudblood firsties when she gets to Azkaban," the guard joked crassly to one of the others heading back upstairs, but Hermione heard him clearly, the words echoing off the stone walls.
What?
Mudblood firsties….
When had they been arrested? Over the summer? When they'd gone shopping for school supplies? When they'd been in the Great Hall, waiting to be sorted into their new houses?
Eleven-year-olds, Muggleborns, in Azkaban, simply for being born with magic. As though they'd asked for it. As though they understood why they were born different.
Hermione still remembered finding out about the wizarding world.
It was incredible, certainly, but also terrifying to realise you were different. At least until you got to Hogwarts and found the place you belonged with others just like you.
Except now that thrilling experience was being taken away. Replaced with a hellish nightmare beyond comparison. Instead of a mysterious castle, it would be a cell with bars. A place filled with dementors and constant fear. Those wrongfully imprisoned would likely be insane by the time they were released. An entire year group with all of their potential and hopes and dreams…squandered. Eliminated.
Had they arrested the Muggleborns from the other year groups as well? Or had they all gone on the run like her trio had, aware of the fate awaiting them if they tried to return to Hogwarts? At least they understood the dangers and risks, unlike the first years who'd been ignorant.
And all of this was happening because of ridiculous prejudices. It could have been her, if she were seven years younger.
What did the parents think when their children were taken, when they never heard from them? Death Eaters probably erased their memories, so they didn't even remember that they'd lost a child…just like what she'd done to her parents.
She was as horrible as them, messing with peoples' minds.
Hermione was still numb with shock and self-recriminations when she took her seat beside Umbridge halfway down the long row of chairs partway up the benches forming a half-circle around the perimeter of the room. A quill and parchment appeared before her, and she didn't dare try to speak, conscious of the fact that she'd probably vomit all over the horrid witch if she dared try.
So to that end, Hermione began methodically scribbling notes on the events taking place, pretending she did this everyday and that it didn't make her violently ill to see people treated as little more than vermin. The accused man trembled visibly, shrinking back from the prowling dementors as he struggled to answer Umbridge's questions.
When Hermione's hand shook, smearing the fresh ink staining the once pristine, off-white surface of her page, she flexed her fingers and started over. Slow breaths. In and out. The frigid air sawed through her chest, cutting like razor wire. She erected a wall in her mind, burying all of the negative thoughts so deep the dementors prowling the room couldn't gain access.
Umbridge's cat patronus only helped so much. It tended to get lazy in its pacing and leave her area for a bit too long, hovering before its caster more than the rest of them, leaving room for unpleasant thoughts to take root.
At least she could see Ron pacing in the hall, walking swiftly back and forth past the open door. Hermione knew to an outsider it would look like he was anxious for his wife's upcoming trial, but Hermione knew he was really doing it to keep an eye on her so he could jump in if she needed help. That support was what she needed to focus on. It would help her banish the dementors' effects.
"Can you imagine? He actually believes he deserves to be called a wizard! But we know better, don't we?" Umbridge chirped in her false, girlish voice, speaking to Hermione as though they were in cahoots with this whole matter.
"Yes, Dolores," Hermione replied dutifully, offering a strained smile.
Sitting passively as Umbridge degraded and threatened the lives of these innocent people, all to make herself feel more important made Hermione want to beat the woman senseless. If only she could simply force her to confess where she'd hidden the locket and be done with this charade!
But speaking to Umbridge at least gave her an excuse to look at the woman. Hermione scanned her, glancing over the hideous pink cardigan set the witch wore, but the locket wasn't there. If she wasn't wearing it, where would it be? Had Harry been right? Had she left it in–
"They're all the same, insisting they be allowed a wand to demonstrate their magic," Umbridge announced disdainfully, wide lips turning down at the corners in a way that made her appear even more toad-like than she ordinarily did. "As though I'd trust them with something so precious. Not that it would matter. Their kind don't really have magic, not their own, at least."
Wait. There! It was tucked beneath her collar. Hermione could see the thick, golden rope of the chain encircling her neck.
"Hmm," she forced out, knowing some response was required. The little hum of agreement tried to get lodged in her throat, the bile coating it sticky and cloying.
The toad likely knew they'd curse her if she did, and she'd deserve it too for daring to pull this stunt. And the accused could, because everything Umbridge said was a lie. They had magic, they'd graduated from Hogwarts, and everyone knew it. Yet somehow this was still happening!
"All that would prove is that they've stolen it from an upstanding wizarding family. That wouldn't do at all," Umbridge sighed, shaking her vile head.
"Oh, no. Not at all," Hermione parroted, staring at the chain encircling the woman's pudgy neck that had wrinkled slightly with her movements, squished between rolls of fat.
The wretched woman leaned close to Hermione, and she had to resist the urge to scoot her chair back, disliking the proximity to the sorry excuse for a witch – sorry excuse for a person, really. But the new position allowed Hermione to catch a glimpse of the locket tucked beneath the left flap of the sweater. Hermione could just make out the emeralds patterned in the shape of a serpent looping across the front to form the S.
Hermione could take it from her and be gone. She could avoid lingering in the doom and gloom a moment longer than necessary. But how to do it without getting caught?
She tried to catch Ron's eye. It didn't take long, since he glanced at her on every pass he made, and Hermione tried to be nonchalant as she tipped her head at Umbridge, but Ron jerked his chin the smallest fraction. No? Why? What was happening in the hall?
"Did you know, the rise in squibs among some of our oldest and most noble families is their fault? They've been stealing the magic that rightfully belongs to those with the purest of blood. They're stealing it from the babies before they ever show their first signs of being magically inclined, so the families never know differently."
"No!" Hermione gasped, appalled that she was daring to spread such lies and propaganda. But was it really any worse than rounding up children and sending them to Azkaban?
"Yes, it's true," Umbridge countered, patting Hermione's hand as she mistook her reaction. "I know it's so dreadful to learn that anyone could be so awful, imagine hurting children! That's why our work here is so important. We must punish all of them for what they've done. Fortunately, I was too strong for them to take mine. Now I can do what must be done, and you can help me!"
Umbridge returned to toying with the wizard before her, playing with him like a cat with a mouse as she pretended to consider his sentence.
It was ironic that Umbridge would condemn anyone for hurting children when she'd made a sport of doing that very same thing during her time at Hogwarts with her blood quill.
Not that it mattered. Not right then at least. The locket was just there, only an arm's length away, but what to do? Time was running out. Tick, tick, tick. They had maybe fifteen minutes left, and that was if the potion didn't wear off early.
The man before her could be Hermione. Probably would be soon. She was going to get caught. It was going to be her bound in chains and led away. She was going to fail and Voldemort would never be stopped.
How had things escalated in the world so quickly? Were all of these officials under the Imperius Curse, or were they always this hateful and fearful?
How did Mafalda Hopkirk sit there day in and day out witnessing and recording the events of these trials without intervening? Did she buy into Umbridge's lies? Did she do it because she was scared for herself? Didn't she have anyone she wished to protect? Or was that her reasoning? But didn't she understand that doing nothing wouldn't save them in the end?
If no one stopped this, eventually, no one would be left to protest.
The dark thoughts plagued her. She wished she'd gotten a better look at the spell Snape had used on the heart and Dolohov had used on her. If negative emotions were required to work the Dark Arts, Hermione currently had them in spades.
Hermione felt sick as she glared at the prowling cat, willing it to return or do a better job of pacing before them. She was drowning in negativity. Her mind was a pool of darkness weighing her down, she wouldn't be able to tread for much longer. Already she could feel the water lapping at her scalp, waves threatening to submerge her entirely, permanently.
Again, she glared at the cat Patronus. She was surprised Umbridge was even capable of conjuring such a pure spectre. Then again, the woman got off on lording her power over others. These farces, or so-called trials, probably provided all manner of happy memories for her to draw from.
"I'm afraid I cannot sit here any longer and listen to your lies," Umbridge said, speaking as though to a misbehaving child. She clucked her tongue, pursing her lips, and looked thoroughly disappointed.
Of course it was all an act. Just for show. Beneath the facade, Hermione sensed the vile woman revelling in the man's obvious, near-tangible fear.
"You have been found guilty of stealing magic, and are hereby sentenced to life in Azkaban for your crime."
Umbridge struck a gavel on the stone bench, the ominous crack reverberating through the room, startling Hermione. Her whole body jerked at the finality in the thud, but the noise of her pounding heart drowned out the aftermath. It raced so fast she could feel it painfully knocking against her ribs.
It galled Hermione that she couldn't make a stand right then and there. But she had to think of the end game. Too much was at stake. Hermione already had a mission – help Harry defeat Voldemort. It was up to others to do their parts as well. Hopefully someone would here too.
But if today was any indication, she wasn't going to hold her breath.
The way people were so quick to turn on each other, to point fingers at others over nothing just to protect themselves made her sick. History was full of examples, but she had never wished to experience it for herself. No one did, of course. Yet time and time again it happened.
As the man was led out, stepping past where Ron stood just outside the door, Hermione saw him tap his leg, five fingers extended. He tapped again, removing one digit. Four. What in Merlin's name? They'd not actually come up with any sort of plan! Again. Three. What was he thinking? He stared down the hall, watching something beyond her line of sight. He tapped again. Two. And one last time. One.
He was as bad as Harry! They were severely outnumbered.
But Ron was already turning on the only guard stationed in the room, his wand moving fast as lightning. Hermione did the same, trusting Ron – more out of sheer desperation than confidence that this was the right move – aiming for Umbridge and crying, "Stupefy!"
Both figures slumped where they were.
It worked. Neither had prepared for the attack or been able to react in time to stop it.
Then the temperature in the chilly room plummeted. Thoughts nagged at her, mocking her efforts and promising failure. It had only been a fluke that they'd knocked Umbridge and the guard out. The cat Patronus was gone, taking with it what meagre protection it had provided. The five dementors scattered, three heading for Hermione and the other two for Ron.
Hermione tried to think of something happy, gasping, "Expecto Patronum!" The words were little more than a feeble squeak. Desperately, she tried again, noting Ron had successfully cast his own, the little terrier prancing before him as he headed for Hermione. A flash of Snape, his face pressed against the sheets as he laughed, the deep baritone startled, but truly amused sprang into her mind, and again she cried, "Expecto Patronum!"
Her otter burst forth, swirling and diving around her, encircling her and forcing the approaching dementors back as she grasped the locket and tugged it over Umbridge's head, careful not to dislodge the freakish, little-girl bow that sat high on her head.
Frantically, Hermione searched her memory for the duplication spell she'd read about. It was something to do with twins. Geminum maybe? No, that wasn't quite it. She had to remember. Panic was cluttering her thoughts.
They didn't want Umbridge realising the locket was gone and coming after it – they'd need all the time they could get to escape. Especially since the potion was starting to wear off. Already her hands had shrunk, the fingers becoming more slender. They also didn't want Umbridge knowing and telling the wrong person about it. That had the potential to get back to Voldemort. It was imperative that he not learn what they were up to before they had a chance to succeed.
The spell came to her just as Ron reached her side. Quickly, she said, "Geminio! There…that should fool her."
"Good thinking. Can you modify her memory too? Make her think you aimed for me?" Ron suggested practically, watching the door in case anyone new entered.
"Yes," Hermione said, wishing she'd thought of the idea first. "Obliviate!" she yelled, thinking of the necessary changes, including that "Mafalda" had chased the wizard, and that was the reason she'd left the courtroom.
The whole incident had taken less than a minute.
She'd barely lowered her wand when Ron, his hair taking on a ginger cast and growing longer and thicker by the second, grabbed her and began hauling her out of the room, forcing her to sprint to keep up with his long strides. The other people awaiting their trials stared after them, most too confused to move.
"Reg? Reg, where are you going?" Mrs. Cattermole called.
"Run while you can. Disappear for good!" Ron hollered, not letting up as they raced down the corridor.
Hermione heard a couple people chasing after them, and tried to look back, worried it might be another guard. It wasn't. Just two of the six awaiting trial.
"I waited until the guard was escorting the last guy up. Mrs. Cattermole was next. They're going to think I did it to save her," he explained, pressing the button for the lift as they panted and gasped, heaving in great lungfuls of air. When it didn't immediately open, he began frantically pounding it.
A scream sounded from down the hall, echoing after them as the grill slid open with a rattling clang. Ron shoved her in, the other two people following. He didn't even wait for it to shut before he repeatedly pushed the button for the Atrium.
"The dementors! Wait, we can't leave the rest!"
"We have to. Word has probably already reached the wrong ears."
They were already speeding off, but still she tried, "No, they–"
"You're Muggleborn. I have to get you out of here!"
"But–"
"You can't make someone save themselves, Hermione. We did our part. The rest was up to them," Ron said harshly, grabbing her hand and pulling her to the very front of the lift, preparing to bolt the instant it opened. Hermione tripped in her borrowed shoes, her regular feet much smaller, so much so that the heels didn't fit right. She was about to kick them off when his words fully registered.
"Ron!" she gasped, stunned by his statement.
"I don't like it either, but sometimes you have to sacrifice a pawn to win the game."
It was just like in first year when they'd gone after the philosopher's stone. Except then, Ron had been willing to sacrifice himself. He reminded her of Dumbledore, and the lengths he went to in order to ensure the outcome he desired. Was this really any different? Hermione had the locket, so Ron was doing whatever it took to get her out of there. And he was protecting her.
She didn't protest further, knowing that he was correct even if she resented it. At least two had come with them. It was better than none.
"Harry had better be waiting where we left him," Ron muttered when the announcement sounded that they'd reached the Atrium.
"He is – there!" she gasped, relieved that he was, in fact, right before them. It was a bloody miracle they'd managed to join back up.
Ron and Hermione flew out, snagging Harry, who was valiantly trying to keep his head down, as they went past. Hermione immediately noticed why he'd been doing it. His scar was visible on his forehead and his eyes had brightened from muddy brown to spring green.
"Harry Potter!" a woman gasped, triggering a string of gasps and shouts. They travelled through the room faster than the trio could move.
Hermione tripped again in her heels, nearly toppling over, but Ron hauled her up, his grip on her arm unrelenting. She should have taken them off in the lift. They raced forward, shoving their way through the thong of people gaping at them. Several began pointing just as an alarm blared, ringing deafeningly through the cavernous space.
"They're sealing the Floos!" Harry warned, though that was obvious. Metal barricades covered the opening of several, slamming into place before they could reach them.
"It's Potter! Stop him!"
"Harry Potter is attacking the Ministry!"
"He's trying to free the Mudbloods!"
They ignored the enraged yells calling after them and the flashes of light from spells fired, and dove for the first open fireplace they found. Hermione was near hyperventilating as they spun towards the room where they could Disapparate from.
They'd barely stopped spinning, the air by her cheek still seeming to crackle with electricity from where one of the spells had barely missed hitting her.
A wizard stepped into their path, blocking their exit.
"Stupefy!" Harry yelled, a jet of red light erupting from his wand.
Hermione grabbed each of the boy's arms and turned on the spot, hoping against hope that they'd not fight her. She shrank inside herself, darkness swallowing them as she pictured the front stoop of Grimmauld Place.
It felt strange, and Hermione realised that either Harry or Ron had tried to do the same thing. Luckily, they'd picked the same destination or they'd have been screwed.
An iron grip caught her shoulder, bearing down with the strength of the iron manacles that had just been used to restrain the Muggleborn prisoners. As solid ground materialised beneath her feet, she kicked out, towards the unwelcome presence that had hitched a ride with them. She put all her might into the action, screaming from the force of it as she did. The instant the hand fell from her, unprepared for the assault, she turned on her other foot, losing her balance in the process, the too big shoe coming off as she tried. Hermione stumbled, pitching forward on the step and feeling her hand almost slip off Ron entirely as she fell.
Somehow, they were still able to Disapparate, but this time it felt all wrong – the deliberation D not precise enough. She could feel a separation, an urge to abort and retreat. She refused to stop willing all of herself inward though, dragging her passengers with her. But she didn't have a destination either. Another D missing. Only the determination D was getting them away from their enemies.
They needed to hide. It was imperative. But where could they go that was guaranteed to be empty?
The field! The field from the Quidditch World Cup!
Picturing their campsite, Hermione discovered it abruptly before her – just as something hot and sharply metallic sprayed against her chest and throat as she fell, her ankle turning from the oversized heels.
Instantly, she knew Ron was injured as she tumbled to the ground right along with him. She didn't need to hear his agonised groan or watch him collapse to know their trip had gone horribly wrong along the way. She'd messed up, and Ron was hurt because of it – after he'd done so much to keep her safe and protect her.