"Ms. Granger, I'm Neville Longbottom," he offered her his hand to shake. "Please, have a seat." Mr. Longbottom was quite a handsome boy, with an honest smile and thick sandy hair. He was a stark contrast to his brother, who glared at Hermione from across the interrogation table.
Hermione had found herself early Tuesday morning in the interrogation room of the courthouse, the very same that Father used for his work. Hermione had heard Father boasting about how he and The Judge would successfully draw confessions using deception and intimidation, and Hermione was acutely aware that she may face such an unpleasantry. She wished dearly that Father had been permitted to represent her, but "we're just asking questions," Mr. Malfoy had assured Father.
Mr. Longbottom didn't make Hermione feel unease, but Mr. Malfoy and his other son both took seats across from Hermione, their eyes cold. Mr. Longbottom, it seemed, preferred to stand.
"Ms. Granger," Mr. Malfoy spoke. "May I call you Hermione?"
Mr. Malfoy spoke calmly towards her, and if she hadn't witnessed his harsh demeanour when he searched her home, Hermione would have thought his tone polite. His long hair was tied at the base of his neck, strands escaping to frame his face. He was also quite handsome; Hermione hadn't noticed when he was insulting her home. He held Hermione's gaze, only looking away briefly to refer to the notes on the loose pages in front of him.
"Ms. Granger is more appropriate, Mr. Malfoy," Hermione said, meeting Mr. Malfoy's gaze with a look she hoped conveyed cooperation and innocence.
"And your mother is deceased? Is that correct?"
"That is correct." Hermione grit her teeth. Cooperation and innocence. That is what Father instructed.
"Must we speak slower, Draco?" Mr. Malfoy turned his attention to the son beside him, who had been tasked to scribe the interviews into a thick leather-bound journal. His handwriting was quite neat, Hermione wondered about the rest of the contents of his journal, and if the Malfoys brought with them literature from the Old World.
Mr. Malfoy's Son didn't answer his father. Instead, he wrote faster, sacrificing the straightness of his lines for the sake of keeping up.
"I hear you witnessed a Mr. Crabbe Goyle hanged from the Town Square early in the Summer."
"That is correct."
"And you are the one who found the body?"
"No, sir."
"You were the one who reported the body."
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Malfoy looked displeased at Hermione's curt replies. Hermione knew from Father that interviews often created leads when the conscience took over, and that Mr. Malfoy was relying on Hermione's mind to slip and expel any relevant secrets.
"Tell me, Ms. Granger, how you came to find Mr. Goyle."
Hermione glanced towards Mr. Malfoy's Son, who dipped his quill in ink, anticipating a long response.
"I woke early Sunday morning, I had a question for The Pastor." Hermione paused, waiting until Mr. Malfoy's Son finished writing before continuing. "I –"
Hermione cleared her throat, suddenly aware of a dryness on her tongue and a scratch travelling down her oesophagus. She pictured her morning: waking before the sun, dressing in her tan summer dress, reciting her questions for The Pastor from her nightly readings of The Bible. She envisioned her departure from home, but the Town Square was East, and The Church was North. She did not remember why she had deviated from her path.
"Take your time, Ms. Granger. The truth often takes time," Mr. Longbottom spoke warmly from behind Hermione.
"What persuaded you towards Town, Ms. Granger," Mr. Malfoy asked.
"I seem to have forgotten," Hermione confessed. "I only remember leaving my home, and then the body."
"Trauma is often associated with memory loss, it's nothing out of the ordinary," Mr. Malfoy assured.
Hermione nodded sullenly. There was an urgency within Hermione to recall that morning; her heart quickened, and her temples throbbed.
"And who was at the body at the time of your discovery?" Mr. Malfoy asked.
"Nobody, sir."
"You said that you weren't the one to find the body, that insinuates that you are aware of another presence before your arrival," Mr. Malfoy's Son accused. He stared at Hermione, his eyes dull with lack of interest in her.
"Did I?" Hermione felt a stab behind her eye; she had been prone to headaches as of late.
"Yes, I've written it here," Mr. Malfoy's Son pointed to the line he had written - No, sir.
Hermione's head throbbed as she searched her memory again. There was a whisper of a familiar voice, and a silhouette stood before the boy who swayed in the summer breeze.
"I was looking for someone that morning, I cannot remember who." Hermione remembered. "I saw them take the path towards Town Square and followed them from my home. I found them at The Butch– Mr. Goyle's body." Hermione rubbed her temples to soothe the ache.
"Can you describe the state of Mr. Goyle, to the best of your ability." Mr. Malfoy asked.
"He was still," Hermione whispered. "He was so still."
Hermione had not gathered that The Butcher's boy was dead until she was upon him. She could remember the buzzards circling in the sky, and the emptiness of his eyes when she searched his face for life.
Hermione felt the tears surface; she wiped them on her sleeve before they fell. She didn't need the Malfoys, or Mr. Longbottom, to see her cry.
"He had rope around his neck. His face was blue. The birds had already come."
"And when did you report the body?" Mr. Malfoy asked.
"The sun rose, I saw The Doctor–"
"Dr. Price?"
"Yes, sir. I saw Dr. Price headed towards his office and hurried to him."
Hermione watched Mr. Malfoy's Son write furiously to keep up with Hermione's words. She took a moment to collect her breath, and wipe stray tears.
"I thought he could still save him."
"That Dr. Prince could save Mr. Goyle."
"Yes, sir."
"And where was Ms. Betsey?"
"Pardon, sir?"
Hermione stared wide-eyed at Mr. Malfoy. She hadn't mentioned Betsey, and Hermione certainly didn't remember Betsey's presence that morning.
But she did remember someone there, someone her memory could not reach. She knew them, that much was certain.
"Your housemaid, Ms. Betsey," Mr. Longbottom said. "She was placed at the scene of the body."
"There appear to be a number of witnesses who could place your housemaid at the incident," Mr. Malfoy clarified.
"I don't remember for certain," Hermione said. "Betsey has Sundays off."
"Your honesty is admirable, Ms. Granger," Mr. Longbottom said. "Many would cover for one they love."
Hermione frowned. It hadn't occurred to her to gift Betsey an alibi, but perhaps Mr. Malfoy already had his answer, and the interview was nothing more than a test.
"Betsey did nothing wrong, that I am certain," Hermione said. "Creating a lie would only create more problems for her down the line."
"So you admit? You have love for Ms. Betsey?" Mr. Malfoy asked.
"Yes, sir, I do. She raised me and my sister, she's family."
"A mother, perhaps?" Mr. Malfoy asked.
"Of course. Betsey raised me. My birth mother is deceased, Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps your son can read the transcript if you don't remember."
Mr. Malfoy's Son scoffed, Hermione recounted their first meeting, and the harshness of his words towards her. She had thought him a man when she first saw him, but she saw the youthfulness in his still rounded face and the hesitation -his doubts- that were common during adolescence. He was not much older than she, if at all.
"How curious that your housemaid could live up to such expectations as a mother figure," Mr. Malfoy remarked.
"I believe you refer to Mr. Longbottom as your son, Mr. Malfoy. Surely it isn't so different."
"Do you get your tongue from Ms. Betsey as well? Or perhaps your father."
"Father claims it must have skipped generations." Hermione admitted.
Mr. Malfoy took a moment to read through his notes. Hermione stilled her face lest a smile show her triumph.
"Do you know Mrs. Cherish?" Mr. Malfoy asked.
"I've heard the surname, yes, but I'm unfamiliar with the woman."
"And her children?" Mr. Malfoy asked. "Her son passed away Sunday evening. We've heard he was a friend of your darling sister. Evelyn? Is it?"
"Yes, sir, Evelyn Granger." Hermione straightened in her chair. "I was not aware Ms. Cherish had children. If he was a friend of Evelyn, I'm certainly not acquainted. Ms. Molly may know more than I."
"And you haven't heard Ms. Evelyn speak of her deceased friend?"
"No, sir."
"This is a waste of time," Mr. Malfoy's Son said. "If she knows anything, she's not telling. Her father taught her as much."
"On the contrary, Draco, she's given us quite the insight." Mr. Malfoy stood from his chair and gestured to Hermione to do the same. "That is all for today, Ms. Granger. If you remember anything more, please do not hesitate to tell me. I believe we are neighbours?"
Hermione felt lost for air when she exited the courthouse. The interrogation room had been stifling, and the cold demeanors of her prosecutors abetted her anxieties. The street was nearly empty, as most the town had already begun their labours of the day. Hermione often preferred the empty streets to the bustle of the town square. Nature was easier to admire without the presence of man, and Nature was blessing from God. She took not but three steps down the cobbled path before hearing the courthouse doors open harshly behind her.
"Off in a hurry, witch?"
She needn't turn to know it was Mr. Malfoy's Son.
"If you must know, I've errands to run." Hermione turned to face the son. The morning light shone upon him in such a way Hermione thought him divine – but then he scowled down at her and she remembered him The Devil.
"Father says I should see you home," the son said. Hermione met his gaze, his eyes so grey they could have been clear. He was so near her that Hermione could see his lashes, blond like Evelyn's.
"I am perfectly capable of escorting myself, Mr. Malfoy." Hermione said. The son's jaw tightened; Hermione could hear the grit of his teeth as he forced his mouth shut.
"I insist."
Hermione, as it seemed as of late, was perplexed. Her heart told her to defy the son, to run her errands and go about her daily life. Her brain, which sounded suspiciously of Father, told her she should follow order, if only to keep suspicions off her. She wondered what Betsey would tell her. Hermione missed her so dearly.
"I've product to pick up from town." Hermione prayed the excuse would defer the son, and that she would be free on her way. She'd not lied, she had a new winter coat made by The Tailor.
"Ah, Ms. Granger." Hermione had not heard The Judge approach. He had come from behind the courthouse, likely from the exits near his office. "And the little Malfoy, what a surprise. How went your interview?" The Judge did not seem surprised in the slightest.
"That's none of your business, Riddle," the son spoke. There was static in the air, Hermione could feel it tickling the tip of her nose and lifting the stray hair that escaped her bonnet. "We were just on our way."
"How scandalous."
"Do you always do what your father says?" Hermione asked the son. He had not looked upon her once after they left The Judge in front of the courthouse.
"Keep your mouth shut, witch." He spat. Hermione studied him a moment, the vein throbbing at his temple, the twitch of his mouth's corner, and his determination to not look her way.
"Do you insist on accompanying me because of Judge Riddle?" Hermione concluded. "He is no danger to me, and he won't tamper me as witness either."
"Naivety will get you killed, surely." He said. "If the stones don't get you first."
"Are you so certain me a witch?"
"No less certain your slave is a witch."
"Betsey is not a witch." Hermione said, coming to a stop in the middle of the road. If she'd continued behind the son she was certain she'd have kicked him, and she knew that wouldn't do her well.
"But you admit she's a slave, then?" He turned to face her, a smug smile creeping across his face. Hermione noticed then he had quite straight teeth, something many often lacked.
"She's family."
"Say it. Say she's not a slave."
Hermione could feel the heat rise to her cheeks, her heart quicken, and her hands clench to fists.
"I see who you are, Ms. Granger." The son stepped close to her, she could smell his cologne, and the faint perspiration from their brisk walk towards town. "You are a charlatan. You think yourself high on the moral hierarchy, but you fail to account for the fact that you're nothing more than a spoiled rich whore." He moved closer still, his words were warm ghosts against her cheek. "Witch or no witch, your inability to distinguish friend from foe will see your end soon, and I hope myself that it's a hanging, so that I may be the one to tie the noose."
"I know enough to tell you a foe." Hermione said, standing firm and tall even when she wanted nothing more than to turn and run. "I need no friends but of Family and God."
"God?" He laughed, startling Hermione. She saw a darkness in his eyes then, just beyond the clarity of the grey. "There is no God, Ms. Granger."
He left her there, frozen in the middle of the path. She stood until he was well out of sight, steadying her breath and gathering her thoughts. Family and God, Hermione thought. That was all who she could trust.