She stirred the long-cold tea that sat before her. It was black by circumstance, rather than choice. She only left the Grimmauld Place to watch her old life, but with a month to go until the start of term, Hermione was distracted by two calendar days etched into her mind. The first had arrived abruptly. It felt as though she were standing at the edge of a cliff, the sheer magnitude of the precipice plunging her already exhausted mind into a swirling maelstrom of apprehension. The swirling made her feel sea sick, and the insidious tendrils of her anxiety had her skin clammy and her muscles aching with the effort it took not to shake. She had to return to the Ministry today, her last visits having been in the immediate wake of Voldemort's defeat and being so overwhelming she could barely remember. Really, the dominant memory of the place was their narrow escape from Yaxley. The man who had last violated the dusty home that was her only remaining haven. Her chest tightened when she recalled the sharpness of his grip around her upper arm.
Yaxley never had made it into the home. She had not trusted the Fidelius Charm, or perhaps more honestly, she did not trust her understanding of it to be perfect. The charm demanded that you give up the secret willingly. Normally, wizards thought little of physical enforcement, so she could not be confident that it fell under coercion or force, but when they had returned to the house after the war, the only thing that greeted them was stale air. The stench of emptiness clung to everything, she surmised, as she dressed slowly taking care to absorb the silence around her because she knew it would be the last she had for many hours. She took a moment to look at herself in the mirror, adjusting the neckline of her demure navy dress, before reaching for her cloak and new, more formal handbag. Triple checking the extension charm was working, she took a deep breath and entered the floo network.
Stepping out of the grate, nothing could have prepared her for the twist of heads that turned in the sea of wizards she arrived into. The whispers abounded, as anticipated. She turned her head down a little, to escape the gaze, and focused on the gleaming marble tiles ahead of her. As with most things, progress looked like returning things to their old condition, and the atrium was no different. Lofty ceilings reaching skyward in a graceful arc adorned with delicate filigree and intricate carvings, the same ethereal glow from lanterns,even the fountain had been recommissioned. Evidently, post-war budget priorities started at home.
She felt a squeeze on her arm that reminded her suddenly of Yaxley once again, and she gripped her wand before she connected to the gentle baritone of Kingsley.
"Hermione, are you sure you want to do this?" he asked seriously, as led her through a towering archway to a bank of lifts, and summoned one.
She sighed. Of course, they would try one last time to convince her that this wasn't the right thing to do. She felt more weighed down by her allies than her enemies these days, they sat heavy on her heart.
"Yes, Kingsley."
"Harry wrote a letter, you could still do the same, there is no need to attend the hearing. I can force a delay to give you time to write."
Ignoring him, she turned to the attendant who stood by the controls, "Courtrooms, please," before turning back to Kingsley. "We fought a whole war for the truth, for fairness, for equality. I'm going to uphold those values, Kingsley. Are you going to stop me?"
A half smile on his lips, he stepped out of the lift, and the doors shut promptly after him.
Smoothly, the lift arrived in the bowels of the Ministry, and her mind again hurtled toward memories of the Cattermoles. Arriving at Courtroom Number Six, she found the solid oak doors open, and tentatively stepped through. She immediately felt dwarfed by the chamber. It was solemn, walls adorned with towering pillars of marble and arches embellished with intricate carvings depicting scenes she recognised from History of Magic textbooks. At the heart of the chamber, the raised platform stood, surface polished to a mirror-like sheen and flanked by rows of high-backed chairs reserved for the Wizengamot, albeit who were now reduced in number, many of whom were taking their seats. She stepped forward and presented herself to the usher, who directed her to the bench behind the witness stand.
Kingsley arrived ten minutes later, avoiding eye contact with her as anticipated after his errant last minute attempt to meddle with her testimony. He was clad in plum dress robes, and she suddenly felt the chill in the chamber, feeling a little underdressed. She pulled her velvet-lined cloak in around her a little, and enjoyed the gentle comfort it provided as quiet settled over the chamber. They were about to begin, but for the arrival of one man.
The oak doors swung open, and two aurors entered, followed by the imposing figure of the man she had come to speak for. He looked right through her, face stoic with a tinge of aristocratic apprehension. His blond hair had darkened a little, and he had allowed some facial hair to grow that had him looking more like a viking than a schoolboy. His robes fell heavily, rich emerald fabric, as he took his seat on the platform. He started resolutely ahead, flanked by the aurors he arrived with, and then a man she didn't recognise, but whose robes indicated was his legal advocate.
"In the trial of Draco Lucius Malfoy, for the crimes of treason, use of an unforgivable curse, conspiracy to commit murder, three counts of attempted murder, being an accessory to murder and fighting as an enemy combatant; the defence calls a character witness in Hermione Jean Granger, whose testimony we will hear today," the low rumble of Kingsley's voice began, as he looked across the chamber, being sure to enunciate every crime the boy was accused of.
She was guided to the witness stand, but still failed to make eye contact with him. It frustrated her, if he couldn't bear to look at her, what was she supposed to say in his defence? Before she could get entrenched, however, his advocate stepped forward and began to speak.
"Miss Granger here is an Order of Merlin First Class, and is going to answer a series of questions about the circumstances of my client's position during the war. Mr Malfoy and Miss Granger are peers at Hogwarts and…"
As the advocate spoke, she felt painfully aware of all the eyes on her, and how many people - and who - she was responsible for convincing. Even before that, the number of people she had to speak in front of. The familia exhaustion returned, and her heartbeat drummed frantically against her rib cage, a wild bird seeking escape from its confines. And she was the same wild bird, trapped in this labyrinthine hellhole. She could barely breathe, she felt hot and the court was spinning. She felt her eyes widen, and then for the first time, she felt herself lock onto his steely grey gaze. And everything began to cool down. Her thoughts stopped running wild, and her brain began to feel clear and calm. Such a soothing ointment came from more than eye contact, she knew. He was in her head, entirely inappropriate for a courtroom, but she couldn't bring herself to turn away from the peace he was somehow giving her. He remained silent, his legilimency more a massage than a therapy session. She let him lead, with less trepidation than she really ought to have, as he gently guided her toward a memory. Her reading in the library at school, cosy but not overheated by the fire, at her favourite table. The rustle brought her down a notch with each turn of the page, until she could focus calmly on the court again.
"Miss Granger, perhaps you can begin by telling us your relationship with Mr. Malfoy."
A deep breath, as she longingly clutched at the new calm wave in her head, she began: "We attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry together. While we had our differences, I have interacted with Mr. Malfoy on numerous occasions. This includes at his home, after Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley and I were captured by snatchers earlier this year."
"In your opinion, based on your interactions with Mr. Malfoy, would you say he is a person of good character?"
She paused, and a shudder in the calmness he was providing rippled in her head, "Your Honour, may I offer some context before I answer?"
Kingsley reluctantly nodded, and she continued, "Mr. Malfoy and I were on opposing sides during the wizarding war. He was associated with those who supported Voldemort, but I have seen Mr. Malfoy demonstrate acts of remorse and attempts to distance himself from his actions, and even tried to fight against the situation of, effectively, indentured servitude he found himself in during the course of the war. Mr. Malfoy was born into a family with a long history of allegiance to pure-blood ideology. From a young age, he was subjected to indoctrination and manipulation by his parents, particularly his father, who was a prominent Death Eater. It's important to understand that Mr. Malfoy was groomed from childhood to believe in Voldemort's ideals and to follow his orders unquestioningly."
She felt the calmness collapse to a trickle, but she was running on passion now, it didn't matter. She found his eyes again, and made sure he took in her words.
"Voldemort was notorious for his brutality and willingness to target the loved ones of those who defied him. Mr. Malfoy's family was not exempt from this terror. He was forced into compliance under the constant fear of harm coming to his mother, who he deeply cared for. While this doesn't absolve him of responsibility, it provides crucial context for understanding his actions during that time. I also used unforgivable curses, was fighting as an enemy combatant against the regime at the time, and certainly my actions resulted in people's deaths over the past year. I did so because my life, and the life of my loved ones was at stake. We are not so different, in that respect, the mitigating circumstances are similar. I got an Order of Merlin First Class, he got charged with criminal offences that, if he is found guilty of, will do nothing but brutalise him into being the very thing we accuse him of."
With each word, Hermione peeled back the layers of Malfoy's history, revealing the insidious grip of Voldemort's ideology and the suffocating influence of Malfoy's upbringing within the ranks of the Death Eaters. She spoke of a young boy, thrust into a world of prejudice and hatred, his innocence tarnished by the sins of his forebears. The Wizengamot were all looking at her, eyes fixed, listening intently. For the first time that day, she was pleased to have captured mass attention.
"Draco Malfoy was but a pawn in a game of power and manipulation," Hermione continued, her voice tinged with empathy. "His actions were born not of malice but of fear – fear for his family, fear for his own safety in the face of Voldemort's wrath. He declined to identify us despite great personal risk at his family home, he left with his mother at the earliest opportunity at the Battle of Hogwarts, he does not maintain contact with his abusive father. He made great strides to distance himself from the Death Eaters even at the peak of their power and control over him, which must have taken a great amount of courage."
Silence. The advocate let it sit in the chamber for a moment, before returning to the question, ""So then, would you say he is a person of good character?"
Hermione paused, painfully aware that her words would make headlines, "Draco Malfoy has the character we need to rebuild our world, yes, don't lock him away."
Kingsley did not stand immediately, rather for the first time in the trial, he met her eyes and she saw the tired defeat in them.
"Thank you. The Wizengamot will retire to consider your testimony, as well as the written testimony of Harry James Potter, and will convene on a decision later today."
She exited the stand, keen to escape the Ministry as quickly as possible, but felt his gaze follow her until she was well out of sight. The soothing he offered her lasted even longer, the novel peace ruined only when a large tawny owl rapped on the window later that evening, clutching a paper.
The Prophet unfurled to reveal a headline: "We need Death aters to rebuild our world, Golden Girl claims." Underneath was an image of Draco Malfoy, leaving the Ministry unflanked by aurors, a free man - but all she saw was the unyielding gaze that seeped to meet her eyes even in print. She brought the paper to her room, and for the first time in months, fell asleep while it was still dark.
