Hermione sat rigidly with her arms folded across her chest as Harry and Dumbledore discussed her.

"I do not doubt Miss Granger's loyalties," Dumbledore said, "but you may find the information I am about to impart quite upsetting."

Harry shook his head stubbornly. "I don't care. Hermione's been with me from the start. She can hear whatever it is."

"Very well," Dumbledore agreed, a hint of a smile on his lips. He turned to accept a steaming cup of tea from Arabella, murmuring his thanks, then motioned Harry and Hermione to follow him into the conservatory. As they settled into two of the cushioned armchairs, Dumbledore shut the glass door behind them.

Without preamble, Dumbledore launched into a lengthy explanation of his decision to condemn Harry to the Dursleys after that fateful night almost fourteen years ago. He explained the invocation of an ancient magic — one realised through the lingering protection of Harry's mother's sacrifice. By staying with the Dursleys, Harry was protected from Voldemort by the last remaining vestiges of his mother's bloodline.

Hermione felt her curiosity pique at the mention of blood magic.

"But Professor…" she interrupted, unable to help herself, "when Voldemort took Harry's blood in the graveyard… wouldn't that negate the effects of the protection?"

Harry sat forward with his elbows on his knees, looking between herself and Dumbledore with his brows raised.

"An astute observation, Miss Granger, and one that I had to immediately consider," Dumbledore replied kindly. "The depths of this sort of magic are largely unknown, and it can only be guessed as to how much of Lily's protection Voldemort imbibed within himself by using Harry's blood to return to his body. It is my belief, however, that no matter how large a piece of that enchantment Voldemort took for his own, nothing less than the whole measure would suffice. I am quite confident that Harry's protection there held."

"Held, sir?" Harry asked, tilting his head.

"Yes. Unfortunately, I knew the enchantment could not last forever. It would break in one of two ways: either when you came of age, or when you no longer considered the Dursley's residence to be your home. I believe your decisions tonight may have satisfied the second of those."

"Oh," Harry said, looking unsure about how he should react after Dumbledore's explanation.

"Indeed," Dumbledore said tiredly. "It is earlier than expected, but I assure you, I have planned for every eventuality. Perhaps it is for the best. While Voldemort himself was unable to reach you there, his followers found themselves with no such restriction. With Voldemort gone, there was no reason they should act before, but they grow increasingly bold since his return. I fear that I have put your safety somewhat in jeopardy in that aspect, Harry, and for that, I am truly sorry. Your aunt, uncle, and cousin will of course be relocated and hidden for their protection, as well."

Harry was left speechless at that. Hermione felt a pang, thinking of her own parents hidden far away on another continent entirely. It was she who couldn't meet Dumbledore's piteous look, now. She raised her own steaming cup to her lips to avoid meeting his eyes, sipping steadily as the silence stretched.

Harry's brow furrowed. "Was it Voldemort that sent the dementors after me tonight, sir?"

Studying his cup, Dumbledore tapped a finger on the rim as he thought.

"I do not believe so, Harry," he said finally. "While I'm convinced that the dementors will eventually join Voldemort's efforts, I do not believe they are yet fully in his control."

Harry scratched his nose. "Then who… "

"As to that, Harry, I cannot say," Dumbledore said with a sigh.

"Okay…" Harry said slowly. "So is that all? It sounded like there might be bad news, but if all tonight means is that I can't go back to the Dursleys, well, I'm not counting that as a real loss—"

"Have you experienced any strange emotions lately?" Dumbledore said suddenly. "Emotions that you can't explain? Or any other strange dreams, perhaps?"

Dumbledore leaned forward, meeting Harry's eyes directly for the first time that Hermione had seen tonight. Harry visibly stiffened.

"Yes…" Dumbledore said quietly, almost inaudibly, dropping his gaze to his folded hands. "Yes, it must be."

Hermione watched him with confusion, straining to hear.

Harry also studied his lap, curiously subdued. "I… well, I've had dreams about the graveyard."

Dumbledore dipped his head. "Naturally."

Harry licked his lips, seeming hesitant. "And there are… other dreams." Hermione looked at him sharply as he continued. "Usually just dreams about feeling trapped, I suppose. Long, dark corridors, dead-ends, locked doors and the like."

Dumbledore nodded to himself, seemingly having something confirmed by Harry's answer.

"What does it mean, Professor?" Hermione asked, watching Dumbledore carefully.

When Dumbledore met her gaze, her breath hitched. A deep, aching sadness seemed to dull his usual piercing gaze.

Without looking at Harry, Dumbledore began to speak, looking as if every word pained him. "You know, Harry, of the connection forged between yourself and Lord Voldemort by virtue of the mark he unwittingly gave you all those years ago…"

And Hermione sat rooted in her chair, both riveted and horrified by Dumbledore's words as he revealed his suspicions about the growing connection between Harry's and Voldemort's minds. Beyond Harry's scar hurting when Voldemort experienced powerful emotions, Dumbledore thought that Harry's dreams could be a sign of something much more insidious. Harry's face drained of colour when Dumbledore explained the potential uses of that connection, should Voldemort come to realise it exists.

Dumbledore cleared his throat quietly. "I fear, Harry, that should Voldemort realise our relationship is anything closer than Headmaster and pupil, he will try to force his way into your mind all the more quickly. That is why, for now, I must keep my distance. It seems that you are only inadvertently accessing this connection when you are at your most vulnerable — I mean to say, when you are asleep — and for that reason, I wish for you to begin Occlumency lessons. By learning to seal your mind against magical intrusion and influence, it is my hope that you will be able to close this connection long before Voldemort even realises that he may have access to your thoughts and feelings, the same way you do his."

Harry swallowed heavily. "And who—" he cleared his throat, "who would teach me that if not you?"

With a sinking feeling, Hermione dug her teeth into her lower lip.

"Professor Snape, Harry, is a highly-accomplished Occlumens—"

Harry's eyes bulged and he jumped to his feet. "Snape!" he shouted, his voice pitching up an octave. "No way! I will not take extra lessons with Snape! He hates me!"

"Professor Snape, Harry, and he has my full confidence in this matter. I will see to it that the lessons are arranged."

Harry opened his mouth angrily, but Dumbledore overrode him, his lined face taking on a stern cast. "Surely you now realise how important this is, Harry? And the potential consequences should Voldemort learn that he might be able to force his way into your mind? I am certain that the implications of that alone are enough for you to set aside your disagreements with Professor Snape and give your very best efforts to these lessons."

It seemed that Harry could muster no argument to Dumbledore's logic. He closed his mouth, fuming. Hermione threw a sympathetic look to her friend.

Dumbledore left shortly after that, promising that he would send word as soon as he made arrangements to move them safely out of Arabella's house. A large screech owl arrived within minutes of his departure, bearing identical letters addressed to Hermione and Harry, reconfirming their hearing date for the twelfth of August at eight o'clock in the morning.

Hermione and Harry spent the next several days confined to Arabella's house, quickly coming to feel pent-up and frustrated by the lack of news. It didn't help that Harry, after the revelation on the nature of his connection to Voldemort (and his impending lessons with Snape), had become sullen, jittery, and especially tetchy. After the second morning of Harry falling asleep at the breakfast table, Hermione discovered that he had hardly been sleeping for fear of allowing Voldemort into his mind.

"Harry," she said gently that evening, sitting on the edge of the couch that had been made up for him. "Dumbledore was certain that Voldemort doesn't realise this connection exists yet. I don't think he would leave you alone if he thought you were dangerous."

Whether out of trust or pure exhaustion, Harry begrudgingly came to agree with her assessment. She and Arabella spent the next morning tiptoeing around the house until Harry woke up around lunchtime in a considerably better mood.

Finally, on the fourth day after the dementor attack, they received news. It was a note delivered just after dinner — short, simple, and straight to the point.

Be ready. Half-past ten.

On the dot, Hermione's ears pricked at the tell-tale sound of a car pulling into the drive. They waited in the sitting room with their trunks packed and Hedwig and Crookshanks contained in their respective carriers. Arabella tottered over to draw back the curtain on the front window, peering out into the darkness.

"We're not going by magic?" Harry asked, craning his neck around curiously. Hermione shrugged.

When Arabella opened the door, Hermione was startled to see Alastor Moody stump across the threshold, a bowler hat pulled low to cover his magical eye. He looked the same as ever, despite having been played by an imposter for a majority of the last year. She hurriedly forced down the mixture of unpleasant feelings that sprung up with his arrival, reminding herself that it wasn't Moody's fault that a Death Eater had cursed her under his likeness.

In contrast to Moody's grey and grizzled image, a young woman entered close on his heels sporting short, brilliantly purple hair and studded boots.

"Wotcher, Harry, Hermione," she said, a wide grin splitting her heart-shaped face. Her smile barely faltered when the toe of her boot caught on the console table and she went sprawling.

Feeling reassured by the woman's casual familiarity and genial disposition, Hermione couldn't help but smile back.

After hurried introductions, Hermione handed off her trunk and Crookshanks to Tonks, who disappeared outside to stow their things in the car. She turned to Arabella, her words suddenly sticking in her throat. What could Hermione possibly say to thank her properly, this woman who had taken in a stranger and treated her as a daughter?

Before she could form a single word, Arabella pulled her into a warm hug. Hermione squeezed back tightly, tears pricking her eyes. When they broke apart, Hermione brushed a knuckle across her cheek to catch the growing dampness there.

"Do you think I might be allowed to come back next summer?" she asked wistfully. It surprised her to realise how much she had come to think of this house as a home in such a short time.

Arabella smiled sadly at her. "We shall see. No matter what, know that you are always welcome here. Don't you forget to write, mind. I'll be expecting to hear from you once in a while."

"Of course," Hermione said with a watery chuckle. "Thank you, Arabella."

Much like her departure from Hogwarts only weeks ago, Hermione found herself settled in the back seat of an ordinary Muggle taxi, her trunk in the boot and Crookshanks on her lap. This time, though, Harry was in the back with her, and the two Aurors up front were anything but ordinary.

"Take it easy on the motorway this time, will you?" Moody said gruffly, directing a withering look towards Tonks in the driver's seat. "No need to swerve around like a drunken Hippogriff."

Tonks said nothing, only arching a bright pink brow and throwing Hermione a sly grin.

One wild car ride and several stops off the Underground later, Hermione stood next to the others on a cobblestone walkway, surveying a dilapidated row of houses in an inner London borough. Pale lights filtered through the grimy windows, and a faint sour smell hung in the air from heaps of rubbish piled nearby. At Moody's direction, they remained partially hidden beside a nearby hedgerow.

Harry looked around, his lips twisting to the side. "Why've we stopped?"

"Hold on, boy," Moody growled, rummaging through his coat pockets. He finally grunted in satisfaction, drawing out a slip of parchment. "Now. Read this, then follow me. And I don't want to hear another peep from anyone until we're inside." He handed the paper to Hermione.

The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.

As she handed the slip to Harry, Hermione ran her tongue behind her teeth, feeling an odd sensation settle over her — almost like her skin was suddenly too tight. The feeling faded quickly, but she flexed her fingers at her sides anyway, appreciatively drawing a lungful of crisp night air.

When she looked up, Hermione had the distinct impression that something had changed. Squinting, she examined the row of houses again, searching for number twelve—

There. It looked just like the others, but held a rather unusual adornment on the door — a silver knocker shaped like a coiled serpent. The pieces instantly aligned; she'd just been drawn into a Fidelius Charm.

"What's the Order—" Harry began, promptly realising his mistake and snapping his mouth shut, but still earning a hostile snarl from Moody even so. Harry threw Hermione a bewildered look as they walked mutely to the building.

The Order of the Phoenix, as it turned out, was a secret society formed by Dumbledore himself. It was the core of the resistance to Voldemort, both past and present. It was also where Ron and most of his family had spent the majority of their summer.

Despite the hour, Ron had been eagerly awaiting their arrival, intercepting them right after they'd heaved their trunks into the entry hall as silently as they could manage. Ron's boisterous greetings immediately explained Tonks's whispered instructions to move quietly — Sirius's mother was about as pleasant as a Blast-Ended Skrewt in a temper, and it took Sirius and Mr. Weasley together to force the curtains closed over her screeching portrait.

The house itself was dark, cramped, and antiquated, looking like it had sat untouched for a number of years. Cobwebs dusted every corner and light fixture, and the portraits hanging crookedly on the walls held shadowy figures who followed passersby with glittering, malevolent eyes. The threadbare carpet sent up little puffs of dust with every step, and the wallpaper was curling in on itself around the edges in the musty air. To her chagrin, the first time Hermione caught sight of the mounted house-elf heads lining the staircase wall, a level of horror and disgust washed over her such that she gagged quite audibly.

When Hermione had followed Ginny to the small room off of the first landing, yet another surprise awaited; Luna, the Ravenclaw girl in Ginny's year that had gone with Ron to the Yule Ball, was already there, sitting on the end of one of three narrow beds squeezed inside the room.

Even having interacted with Luna only once before, Hermione was utterly unsurprised to learn that Luna's father was the editor of The Quibbler. Apparently, Xenophilius Lovegood had seen Rita's last article in the Prophet and latched on to the idea of Voldemort's return. The Quibbler always encouraged a good conspiracy theory, and Hermione supposed they were bound to land on something true eventually.

Yet in true Quibbler fashion, Xenophilius had run several of his own pieces about Voldemort's reappearance and how it was part of something called the Sleekeazy Scheme. Hermione mistakenly opened her mouth to ask Luna what in the name of Merlin a hair potion enterprise had to do with Voldemort, earning herself and Ginny a very lengthy and altogether baffling explanation of the nefarious hair potion underworld. By the time Luna had finished, Hermione's lips were threatening to disappear entirely for pressing them together so tightly.

Much like Rita, Xenophilius hadn't taken the threats that he'd received seriously, and the Lovegood home was consequently ransacked and nearly razed to the ground (a subsequent Ministry investigation deemed the entire incident to be some sort of freak accident due to several questionable objects they found in the wreckage). Miraculously, Luna and her father had been out at the time, delivering a batch of freshwater plimpies to their closest wizarding neighbours, the Weasleys. This time, Hermione knew better than to ask anything further about plimpies and their questionable existence, but she still nodded along sympathetically while Luna talked.

"Daddy is going to rebuild, of course," Luna said, bobbing her head up and down. "He's got too much to do to stay here at Headquarters, but now that he knows I'm safe, he'll be working to get The Quibbler back in circulation again."

The next morning, Hermione found Ron and Harry sharing a room on the second floor. Ron had wanted to know all about their summer, understandably curious about how and why she and Harry had been in the same place. Hermione gave him the same version of events she'd given Harry, and Ron's posture slowly relaxed. He hadn't said it outright, but Hermione could tell Ron had been worried about being left out, even if it was only for a few days.

Ron's expression had turned dark when Harry repeated everything Dumbledore told him on the night of the dementor attack.

"And Dumbledore thinks You-Know-Who might eventually figure out he can see what you're thinking and feeling, too?" Ron asked, his brows mashing together.

Harry nodded grimly.

"Blimey," Ron said, looking slightly sick. Then his expression turned thoughtful. "Is it horrible that I'd almost rather have You-Know-Who's nightmares than extra lessons with Snape?"

Harry let out a snort of laughter, and Hermione smiled appreciatively. Ron always did know how to lighten the mood.

Over the course of the next few days at Grimmauld Place, Ron, Fred, George, Ginny, and Luna filled Hermione and Harry in on as much about the Order of the Phoenix as they could. The house belonged to Sirius; it was a relic from the Black family passed down to one of its last surviving members, and much of the house was still contaminated with magical vermin and littered with various instruments of dark magic. The others had met several of the Order members, but Hermione only recognised a handful of names.

With a grimace, Ron informed them that they weren't allowed into Order meetings, but Fred and George had devised a sort of magical tap for listening into conversations. From these, they gleaned that Order members were following known Death Eaters and guarding something else of interest. Something Voldemort was keen to get his hands on.

Now, though, the Order meetings were warded against eavesdropping. Molly Weasley had discovered the Extendable Ears and flown into a rage, the likes of which had only been seen once before: when Ron and Harry had stolen and crashed Mr. Weasley's flying car.

Ginny went on to produce a few recent editions of the Daily Prophet. Focused solely on other preparations at the end of the last school year, Hermione had forgotten to renew her subscription. Harry had been aghast to discover that they were subtly and consistently smearing his name, making him out to be a liar and attention-seeker. Dumbledore hadn't been spared, either; he had been demoted from several prominent wizarding societies and discredited as an enabler for Harry's erratic, dangerous behaviour.

In turn, the others asked Hermione and Harry for a detailed account of the dementor attack in Little Whinging. Hermione felt her cheeks burn when Harry regaled the story, attributing their survival entirely to Hermione. At the time, she hadn't felt heroic at all, only very lucky. She'd been sluggish, disoriented, and terrified, only just managing to produce a corporeal Patronus under the presence of the dementors. When she pointed this out to Harry, he smirked at her, shaking his head.

"That's what I've been trying to tell you all along," Harry said, rolling his eyes for good measure. "The story always sounds a lot better afterwards, but it's mostly just luck and good timing."

"What memory did you use, Hermione?" Luna asked in that cool, dreamy voice of hers. "When you cast the Patronus?"

Hermione started, every eye suddenly on her. "Um, I… just thought about my friends." She smiled weakly around the room, avoiding direct eye contact.

Luna nodded thoughtfully, looking for all the world as if that answer made complete sense. Harry raised an eyebrow, but thankfully didn't say anything else on the subject.

The days leading up to the hearing before the Wizengamot, Hermione began to feel as if there was a coil of pure anxiety in her stomach, cranking tighter and tighter until she might shatter under the pressure. She could tell Harry wasn't much better off, though he tried to hide it by throwing himself earnestly into Molly Weasley's efforts to purge the house of dark artefacts.

At Hermione's request, Arthur Weasley had secured a copy of the bylaws surrounding the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Sorcery for her to peruse. The provisions were very clear in allowing the use of underage magic in life-threatening situations. The Ministry had absolutely no grounds to expel them, or even to issue a warning, really. So why was she still nervous?

One problem, at least, seemed to have sorted itself — Molly Weasley was back to her usual self around Hermione. Whether Molly had forgotten the issue or had softened after Percy severed ties with the family, Molly once again treated her with the same warmth she did everyone else. Hermione supposed she would never know what the issue had been; it seemed Ron's penchant for non-apology apologies had been acquired honestly.

Hermione woke early on the twelfth of August. Not even a hint of sunlight yet pushed past the grime-covered windows. She carefully extricated herself from the room so as not to disturb Luna and Ginny, then made her way to the kitchen in the basement. The thought of food made her slightly nauseous, but perhaps she'd be able to manage a small cup of tea.

Kreacher, the elderly Black family house-elf, was slipping into his den under the stairs just as she arrived. He eyed her warily, muttering under his breath as he edged towards the door.

The first time she'd met him, Hermione had tried to ask after his health, but he had physically recoiled from her in disgust. After that, she tried to avoid speaking to him unless necessary; Kreacher wasn't in his right mind, and there was no point in upsetting him further. She watched him from the corner of her eye until the closed door cut off his hoarse whispers of "Mudblood" and "poor Mistress".

When Hermione turned, she was startled to see another house-elf already preparing ingredients for breakfast at the counter.

"Winky?" she burst out, taking in the elf's neat blouse and matching skirt. She even wore one of the blue hats Hermione herself had knitted last year. Beyond the fact that Winky was here in the first place, Hermione was surprised to see her looking so… well… clean.

Winky turned her head. "Oh, hello, miss," she said with a small smile, not pausing in her preparations.

Hermione gaped at her. "I didn't know you were here. Is everything alright?"

"Oh, yes, miss. Winky is finding good work again. Good work for the Weasley family."

"You work for the Weasleys now?"

"Yes, miss," Winky said, nodding as she sliced up a wedge of cheese. "The Weasleys is a good family. And Winky is doing good, honest work now taking care of them. Poor Master and Mistress are terribly overworked, and Winky is helping take care of everyone."

No wonder Molly Weasley had been in such a good mood lately. When they avoided talking about Percy, anyway.

"I hope they're paying you?" Hermione couldn't help asking.

Winky's smile faltered slightly. "They is… they is paying me," she whispered.

Hermione hurriedly changed the subject. "Are you staying here at Grimmauld Place?"

"No, miss," Winky replied. "Winky is only recently coming here in the mornings to help. Winky is staying at the Burrow other times."

When Ron stumbled into the kitchen for breakfast later, long after Winky had left, Hermione rounded on him.

"How come you didn't tell me Winky was working for you, now?"

"Wassit?" Ron said sleepily, rubbing his eyes. She repeated her question.

"Oh. S'pose I just forgot to mention it," Ron said with a shrug, not looking the least bit guilty. The frown she sent his way didn't alter his expression a whit.

Harry arrived next looking ashen, and the momentary distraction she'd had in finding Winky was forgotten in lieu of their morning plans. Hermione rushed upstairs to change out of her pyjamas into the crisp blouse and pinafore dress she'd chosen for the occasion, then met the few others that were awake back in the entrance hall. In hushed tones, everyone wished them luck as she and Harry followed Mr. Weasley out into the weak, dawning light.

Mr. Weasley thought it would make a better impression for them all to arrive via non-magical means, but Hermione suspected he also wanted an excuse to observe Muggles out and about. He grinned fondly at every interaction, from the man selling tickets at the Underground station to the woman selling crepes at a kiosk on the corner. Normally Hermione would have found his excitement endearing, but she was apprehensive about making the hearing on time.

Given that it was a Saturday morning, at least the crowds were light. Mr. Weasley admitted he found it odd that the hearing would be held over the weekend, but he suspected that Fudge was doing everything in his power to keep this under wraps. At least until the outcome was determined.

They eventually reached the visitor's entrance — an old telephone box with peeling red paint — and began the descent into the Ministry of Magic.

Hermione felt her jaw drop at the sight that greeted her. The atrium was nothing short of grand; the dark panelled wood walls and glimmering, gilded fireplaces lining the hall gave everything a rich, luxurious feel. All was still except for a great golden fountain in the middle, splashing quietly. As they walked to the golden gates at the end of the hall, Harry's head swivelled around to take in the space, awe plain on his features. Neither of them had expected anything so grand.

Just to the side of the gates, a lone-security guard sat with his feet up on his desk and his head lolling over the back of his chair as he snored softly. Once Mr. Weasley managed to wake him, the guard lazily waved some sort of thin, magical probe around them and measured Hermione's and Harry's wands on a peculiar-looking scale before returning them.

Hermione followed Mr. Weasley as he moved on to choose out one of the numerous lifts waiting in the next hall. The golden grilles slid apart smoothly, and Mr. Weasley beckoned them inside, pressing the number nine button. The lift clattered into action immediately, grilles sliding shut and beginning a noisy descent.

A feminine voice announced their destination. "Level nine, Department of Mysteries."

Harry shot a questioning look at Mr. Weasley, who shrugged. "The old courtrooms are down here. I'd wager it's all part of Fudge's desire to keep this incident quiet."

The corridor they stepped into looked nothing like the floor above it. The hall was dim and narrow with plain walls. A simple black door, the only one Hermione could see, sat at the end of the hall. Behind Mr. Weasley, Harry's steps slowed as they neared it. When Mr. Weasley turned off into a small opening with a flight of steps to take them further down, Harry stopped entirely, eyes fixed on the door.

"Harry?" she whispered. Empty as it was, the dark hallway felt almost sepulchral, as if speaking aloud would awaken something dangerous.

Harry's eyes never wavered from the door. "I know this place," he said softly. "There's something—"

"Harry? Hermione?" Mr. Weasley's voice rang up the steps. "Hurry up, you two. It's down here."

Hermione reached out hesitantly, placing her fingers on Harry's arm. At her touch, Harry tore his gaze away from the door, and together, they turned through the opening. Hermione took the steps two at a time, eager to be back with Mr. Weasley and away from whatever lie at the end of that hallway.

They halted outside of a dingy wooden door with a stout lock across it, bearing the words 'Courtroom Ten'. Mr. Weasley checked his watch.

"Looks like we've got a few minutes to spare," he said, gesturing to the bench against the rough stone wall behind them. "Why don't you have a rest and I'll find out if they're ready for you."

They did as suggested while Mr. Weasley strode through the courtroom door. As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Harry turned to her.

"Hermione," he whispered. "That door up there. I've seen it before. In my dreams."

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath. There was no mistaking his meaning. "What could he possibly want in the Ministry? Are you sure it's the same one?" she asked just as softly.

Harry shook his head slowly. "I don't know what he wants… but after having a good look at it, I'm positive that it's the same door."

Hermione rolled her lips between her teeth, fighting to stay calm. "Maybe," she finally allowed. "But what can we do about it? Let's just get through the hearing, first."

Harry grimaced, but didn't say anything else.

Eight o'clock came and went. They waited in silence, both checking their watches at regular intervals as the minutes piled up. Ten past. Twenty past. Half past. Hermione bounced her leg nervously, unthinkingly running her thumb over the monogrammed corner of the handkerchief in her pocket.

Unable to contain herself any longer, Hermione had just begun to stand when the door to the courtroom burst open. Mr. Weasley stepped out, looking harried, and followed by none other than Percy Weasley. They appeared to be avoiding eye contact.

"Harry Potter? Hermione Granger?" Percy asked brusquely, his eyes sweeping over them impassively behind his horn-rimmed glasses.

Hermione nodded numbly while Harry blurted, "Yes, Percy you know who we are—"

Percy cut him off. "The Wizengamot is ready to conduct your joint trial under purview of their authority as decreed by the International Confederation of Wizards. You will follow me." Without waiting, Percy turned on his heel and disappeared through the door.

"I thought this was a hearing," Hermione hissed urgently. "Now we're on trial?"

"Go on," Mr. Weasley urged, mopping his brow with his jacket sleeve. "It's going to be alright. I've got to run — need to send a message — but I'll be waiting right out here when it's over."

Hermione traded a nervous look with Harry, who was attempting to flatten his hair with a hand. Steeling herself, Hermione straightened her back and led the way into the courtroom.

Her first thought was that this courtroom was little better than a dungeon with benches. The walls were hewn roughly out of stone, and the room was only dimly lit by a handful of bracketed torches lining those walls. The tall benches straight ahead held a crowd of shadowy figures, whispering amongst themselves.

Behind her, Harry gasped, and Hermione studied him from the corner of her eye. His face was pale as he looked around, something like recognition washing over his features. They both jumped when the heavy door swung shut behind them with all of the finality of a prison gate.

Once she and Harry found themselves sitting uncomfortably in a pair of chairs with chains swinging loosely from the arms, the proceedings began. Fudge gave his opening statement, starting with the names of those who would be presiding over the high court. There were at least fifty people on the bench, all wearing plum-coloured robes with an ornate letter W emblazoned in silver on the front. While Fudge laid out the charges and listed the corresponding statutes, several of them shifted uneasily. Others seemed outright distracted.

"You may now present your testimony, if you wish," Fudge bit out, waving a hand carelessly towards herself and Harry.

In a raspy voice, Harry gave a full account of the evening of the dementor attack.

"And you maintain that Miss Granger performed the Patronus Charm?" Fudge asked when Harry had finished, a single eyebrow raised.

"Yes," Harry confirmed.

"With your wand?" Fudge asked flatly, disbelief evident in his voice.

"Yes."

Fudge looked at her, as did the rest of the courtroom. "Miss Granger, how do you plead?"

How did she plead? Hermione sucked in a breath. "I… yes. I cast it."

"A corporeal Patronus?" came a voice from a witch on Fudge's left. She adjusted a monocle over her eye as she leaned forward. "With a clearly defined form?"

Hermione nodded mutely.

A soft murmur filled the room as the other Wizengamot members around Fudge began exchanging whispers. Fudge himself gave a curt nod. "Weasley," he said, looking to Percy. "Retrieve the memories we received in conjunction with the night in question. Thoroughly — thoroughly, I say — compare Mister Potter's account to each of those. The court will await your report."

Percy bobbed his head eagerly and hurried from the room, clutching a stack of parchment to his chest. Fudge raised his voice for all to hear. "In the meantime, I have a few more questions for the accused."

Hermione wet her lips with a feeling of foreboding.

Fudge continued. "As the Wizengamot is already aware, the Patronus Charm is considered highly advanced magic, and those with true form are all the more rare."

The witch with the monocle nodded her agreement. On the other side of Fudge, another witch shifted where she leaned back against the bench, her face obscured in shadow.

"Miss Granger. Have you successfully performed this charm before the night in question?"

Hermione cleared her throat. "No."

"And who, might I ask, taught you to perform it?"

Her eyes darted to Harry, who gave a small shrug.

"Actually, Harry taught me the charm," she said finally, uncertain where this was leading.

"Mister Potter, do you corroborate this statement?"

"Yes," Harry said. "I taught Hermione last year."

"And where did you learn it?"

Harry frowned at Fudge's tone. "Hogwarts," he said slowly. "Professor Lupin taught it to me third year—"

"Have you taught the charm to anyone else apart from Miss Granger?"

"Yes—"

"Are you in the habit of regularly practising advanced magic at Hogwarts? Magic well beyond the scope and grade level of the usual curriculum?"

"Er… well, sometimes, but the Triwizard Tournament—"

"I suspected as much," Fudge cut him off with a tight smile. "It is highly unusual to find even one underage individual with the ability to cast a fully-fledged Patronus, and now, here sitting in front of me, I have two." Fudge turned to look at the other members of the Wizengamot "I have to wonder, then, what other advanced spells our students are being pressured to learn before their time? What other dangerous, perhaps even dark lessons are our students being given, and with what intention behind it?"

"What?" Harry burst in. "No—"

Fudge cut him off. "Miss Granger, would you agree that you have been asked to learn and use advanced spells that may pose a danger to yourself or others?"

Hermione blinked at his sudden focus. "I don't think so."

"You don't, do you?" Fudge said with an unpleasant smile. "Then perhaps you would like to tell the court for what noble purpose you recently cast two separate and complex Memory Charms?"

Hermione blanched. Harry's head whipped around to stare at her in confusion.

When she didn't answer, Fudge continued, waving a small piece of parchment. "We have here a list of all spells performed in the last three months from the wand belonging to one Hermione Jean Granger. It is standard procedure upon arrival to the Ministry for visitors to submit their wands for inspection in this manner. Now, Miss Granger, I ask you again: for what purpose did you learn and perform these Memory Charms?"

"Is this relevant to the case, Minister?" she managed to squeak out, still sounding a good deal more confident than she felt.

"Your safety while at school is all of our concern," Fudge countered.

The silence stretched as the entire room waited for her answer. Hermione twisted her hands in her lap, thinking furiously. There was nothing for it, she'd have to admit… Hermione met Fudge's eyes and felt a chill wash over her. Her tongue seemed to curl backwards on itself, sticking to the roof of her mouth. Before she had a chance to unglue it, another voice rang around the chamber.

"Miss Granger's spellwork at school is not relevant to this hearing."

Dumbledore strode to the middle of the floor from somewhere behind them. He stood with his hands folded at his waist, calmly gazing up in the stands. Where had he come from?

The Wizengamot members were clearly thinking the same thing. A few of them had even jumped to their feet in shock.

"Dumbledore," Fudge breathed, his nostrils flaring in anger.

Dumbledore smiled serenely. "What is relevant, though, is the question of why two dementors were in Little Whinging in the first place, attacking without permission."

"Do not change the subject, Dumbledore!" Fudge snapped.

"Hem, hem."

Fudge looked down to the short witch sitting at his right, who finally leaned forward out of the shadows. Beneath a frilly pink bow perched atop her short, mousy curls, her bulging eyes were fixed on Hermione.

She gave a tinkling laugh. "I'm sure I am mistaken, Professor Dumbledore, but it seems to me that you think the administration at Hogwarts should be allowed to run unchecked. That the Ministry should not be involved, even when dangerous practices are in evidence? Whether or not these students' spellcasting history is being used as evidence in this particular case, as our esteemed Minister said before, their safety and wellbeing concerns us all. Surely you could clear up this teensy misunderstanding before the Wizengamot, putting all of our minds at ease. Now, what was the purpose behind those Memory Charms?"

Hermione felt an immediate rush of hatred towards the toad-like woman.

"That information, I regret, is unable to be divulged," Dumbledore responded calmly.

Fudge's fist came down on the stand. "Under whose authority?"

"Mine," Dumbledore said smoothly. "In any case, Miss Granger will find herself unable to answer the question. And as for myself, I am unwilling to."

Suddenly, the chill she'd felt earlier took on a new meaning. Her tongue still tried to cleave to the roof of her mouth whenever she thought about it.

She couldn't let Dumbledore take responsibility for her actions. Swallowing heavily, Hermione opened her mouth. "Professor—" she began, but closed her mouth again immediately at the look of warning Dumbledore flashed in her direction.

There was a beat of silence before angry mutters took up around the room. Fortunately, Percy Weasley returned at that precise moment, lending a temporary distraction from whatever disaster this was certainly leading towards.

Percy gave his report stoically, relating the facts only without commentary. The memories provided had matched perfectly with their testimony. The Wizengamot took an aside for several minutes, talking in hushed whispers, before Fudge returned to the stand to deliver the verdict: cleared of all charges.

Next to her, Harry slumped in his chair in relief. Hermione was relieved too, of course, but it all seemed too easy. Almost like the trial had been a front for something else at work behind the scenes. Without making eye contact, Dumbledore ushered them out of the room quickly, but stayed inside himself when he shut the door behind them.

As they walked back towards the lift with Mr. Weasley, Hermione chewed her bottom lip, only half-listening as Harry relayed the details of their hearing. Would Dumbledore be in trouble for shielding her true purpose behind the Memory Charms? Would the Ministry dig further into why she had been in Little Whinging in the first place?

Lost in her thoughts, Hermione didn't realise when Harry stumbled to a halt ahead of her and ran straight into his back. He was standing so stiffly, though, that the impact hardly moved him at all. With confusion, she looked over his shoulder.

Lucius Malfoy, impeccably dressed in a full set of sweeping black velvet robes, was standing in front of them. His familiar shade of sleek, white-blonde hair glimmered faintly in the pale light of the corridor. Next to him was a gaunt, severe-looking man with only a few wisps of white hair clinging to his head, dressed in moth-eaten robes that looked to have once been fine. Harry hissed softly under his breath in unmistakable anger.

"Well, well… what have we here?" Lucius said, sneering as he swept his eyes across Harry and Mr. Weasley. Hermione couldn't help but notice that those eyes were exactly the same colour as his son's. Or would have been, if they'd held any warmth whatsoever.

"Lucius," Mr. Weasley bit out. His eyes darted between Lucius and the other man, and he casually moved a hand into the pocket of his jacket. "What are you doing down here?"

Lucius's lip curled. "I wouldn't expect you to understand, Arthur, but I have been personally requested by the Minister for some… shall we say… urgent matters of great importance."

At that, Lucius's gaze shifted past Harry to land on Hermione. Something undefined flashed behind his cold, grey eyes, but it was gone in an instant.

"Come along, Nott," he said smoothly. "We wouldn't want to keep the Minister waiting, now would we?" The small smile that pulled at his lips never reached his eyes.

Startled, Hermione shifted her vision to study the other man again. Theo's father? The man's expression remained impassive, but his eyes bored into Harry's with a nearly palpable intensity. Harry, to his credit, appeared to be meeting his stare with an equal level of ferocity.

Without another word, Lucius thrust his head high, looking down his nose at Hermione and Harry while he pushed between them to sweep off down the hall. Nott ripped his gaze from Harry's and made to follow.

Hermione hardly dared to breathe as they passed, instead watching them stride the length of the hall from the corner of her eye. Harry still stood rigidly, seemingly doing the same.

After a moment, Mr. Weasley clapped a hand on each of their shoulders. "Come on, kids. Let's go home."