Chapter 10
Hermione didn't know whether their torture had lasted hours or minutes. Everything merged into one continuous stream of pain, screams, and helplessness. Time lost all meaning; there was only suffering—her own and Ron's, which was almost unbearable.
Her mental barriers were hanging by a thread. Each time she heard Ron's scream, she felt another part of her resistance crumble and fall apart. Bellatrix knew exactly what she was doing—alternately torturing first her, then him, not allowing either of them to faint for more than a few moments.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
That sound still accompanied her like a ghastly accompaniment to their torment. Monotonous, relentless, hypnotizing.
At one point, Bellatrix stopped the spell and began to laugh—a high, maniacal laugh that echoed off the dungeon walls.
"You know, Mudblood," she said, leaning over Hermione, "I must admit that Muggle equipment sometimes has its uses."
She waved her wand, and an object materialized from thin air that Hermione recognized immediately. A hand saw—with rusty teeth and a wooden handle. An ordinary tool that in this context became an instrument of pure terror.
She approached Ron, who lay half-conscious on the floor. With one motion of her wand, she immobilized his leg and placed the saw against his thigh.
"I wonder how quickly a blood traitor will bleed out," she pondered aloud, moving the saw's teeth along the material of his pants, slowly cutting through it. "Perhaps we should find out?"
Hermione felt something inside her break. This was the end. She couldn't watch this.
"Ron!" she screamed, jerking against her bonds with new energy.
Ron raised his head, his eyes meeting her gaze. Despite the pain and exhaustion, his gaze was clear and full of determination.
"Don't tell them anything, Hermione," he rasped. "Don't give in. Not for me."
Bellatrix pressed the saw harder; the first drops of blood appeared on Ron's leg.
"Last chance, Mudblood," she said in a sing-song voice. "Let me into your mind, or your beloved will lose more than just fingernails."
Drip. Drip. Drip.
"No, Hermione!" Ron shouted, but it was already too late.
Hermione closed her eyes, lowering her mental barriers. She surrendered. She couldn't fight any longer, couldn't watch his suffering.
"Legilimens," whispered Bellatrix, and Hermione's world exploded in pain.
Memories swirled around her—Hogwarts, parents, Harry, Ron, the hunt for Horcruxes... And then emptiness. White spaces. Erased fragments. Hermione felt Bellatrix tearing through her mind, searching for information about Harry, about Horcruxes, about their plans.
But what she was looking for wasn't there. Hermione herself didn't know. The memories were erased—precisely, methodically removed.
Bellatrix withdrew from her mind with a furious roar. Her face contorted in a grimace of pure fury.
"You little, devious Mudblood!" she hissed. "You've had your memories erased too!"
Hermione collapsed limply in the chair, exhausted by the mental attack. She barely registered the words, barely understood what was happening.
"You thought you could outsmart me?" growled Bellatrix, her voice trembling with rage. "That you could hide information from the Dark Lord?"
She waved her wand violently, almost uncontrollably.
"Diffindo!"
Ron's scream filled the dungeon—not like before, but a piercing, inhuman shriek of agony. Hermione opened her eyes and saw the nightmare that would haunt her for the rest of her life.
Ron's leg—severed just above the knee—lay a few feet from his body. Blood gushed from the wound in a pulsating stream, spreading across the stone floor. Ron howled in pain, his body arching in convulsions.
"No!" Hermione screamed, jerking against her bonds with such force that they cut into the skin of her wrists. "RON! NO!"
Bellatrix watched the scene with a mixture of fury and satisfaction.
"This is your fault, Mudblood," she said quietly. "Your fault."
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Now the sound was different—louder, more insistent. It wasn't water. It was Ron's blood, dripping onto the stone floor from his severed leg. Hermione screamed until her throat was raw, until she could no longer make any sound.
* * *
The Ministry of Magic at dawn was a strangely peaceful place. The corridors, usually filled with the rush of officials, the murmur of conversations and the slamming of doors, now remained in an almost reverent silence. The sound of Hermione's footsteps echoed as she walked toward her office.
She had come absurdly early. Wizengamot hearings never began before ten, and it was only half past seven. But she couldn't lie in bed any longer, staring at the ceiling, replaying Harry's words from yesterday in her mind: "Malfoy asked to speak with you. Alone."
The sleeping potion and calming draught had given her barely three hours of restless sleep, full of nightmares in which Draco looked at her with contempt, mocking her naivety, her weakness, her addiction. She woke up drenched in sweat, her heart beating wildly. And then she couldn't fall back asleep.
Now she sat at her desk, trying to focus on documents, but the numbers swam before her eyes, and her thoughts escaped to the dungeons of the Ministry, where Draco had spent the night in a cell. How did he feel? What was he thinking? What did he want from her?
She looked at the clock. Still an hour until the hearing. Harry would probably arrive in half an hour, with his folder full of evidence and theories. Kingsley was already in the building—she had seen the light in his office when she passed through the corridor. Members of the Wizengamot would begin to arrive in about twenty minutes, dignified in their purple robes.
And Draco sat alone, waiting.
The decision came suddenly, as if someone else had made it, and she was merely a passive observer. She stood up abruptly, adjusted her robes, and headed toward the elevators. When the metal grating closed behind her, she pressed the button with the number nine—the level of the Department of Mysteries. But she wasn't intending to go to the Department. Right by the elevators was an inconspicuous passage leading to the Ministry cells where suspects were held before hearings.
The corridor leading to the cells was dimly lit and cool. At the entrance sat a bored Auror who straightened up sharply at the sight of her.
"Mrs. Granger? What brings you here?"
"I need to talk to the detainee. Draco Malfoy," she said, trying to make her voice sound official and professional.
The Auror frowned, looking into the duty log.
"I don't see any note about a scheduled interrogation..."
"This isn't an official interrogation," Hermione admitted. "But I may have information that will help in the hearing. Potter knows about this," she added, hoping that Harry's name would be enough.
It worked. The Auror nodded, though he still looked unconvinced.
"Of course. Please follow me. I'll have to stay outside the door, according to procedure."
"Naturally," she agreed, feeling her heart speed up with each step.
The cell corridor was long, with small, magically secured doors every few meters. Most cells were empty—the Ministry rarely kept suspects in its own facilities, preferring to send them directly to Azkaban. But Draco was an exception—too important, too influential to be treated like an ordinary criminal.
The Auror stopped at the last door.
"Cell number seven. You have twenty minutes, then I'll have to ask you to leave. The hearing starts at ten, we need to prepare the detainee."
"Thank you," said Hermione, and her voice sounded foreign in her own ears.
The Auror tapped the door with his wand, which opened quietly. She took a deep breath and entered.
The cell was small, but surprisingly neat—no chains or torture devices that existed in Muggle imaginings of prisons. A simple bed, a table, a chair, a small window with a view of a magically conjured landscape, currently showing a turbulent sea. And Draco Malfoy, sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out the window.
When the door closed, he turned around. For a moment, just a fraction of a second, something flashed in his eyes that could have been surprise, relief, or even joy. But he immediately replaced it with an expression of cool indifference.
"Granger. What a surprise."
Hermione froze, staring at him. Draco Malfoy, always impeccable, perfectly dressed, with every hair in place—now looked like a shadow of himself. His face was pale, more than usual, accentuating the deep, purple shadows under his eyes. His platinum hair, normally perfectly styled, stuck out in disarray, as if he had repeatedly run his fingers through it nervously. The Ministry uniform for detainees—gray robes devoid of any ornamentation—hung awkwardly on him, emphasizing how much he didn't belong in this place.
"Harry told me you wanted to see me," she said quietly, taking a step toward him. "That you have information you'll only share with me."
Draco laughed softly, but it was a laugh that had nothing to do with amusement—empty, almost hysterical sound.
"Potter finally passed on the message? How gracious of him," he replied, his voice balancing on the edge of calm and something much more dangerous. His fingers drummed nervously on the edge of the bed, in a rhythm that seemed completely chaotic. "I wondered if he would. If he would let you come here. Or maybe he would decide to protect his friend from the evil Slytherin."
He suddenly stood up, in one violent motion that made Hermione instinctively step back. He began pacing the cell—three steps in one direction, three in the other—like a caged animal that had forgotten what it was like to move freely.
"Look at me, Granger," he said suddenly, spreading his arms. "Do you like this? Seeing me here? Humiliated, locked up like an animal? Is that what this was about all along?"
Hermione didn't answer. Instead, she took a deep breath.
"Harry said you asked to meet with me," she reminded him, avoiding the subject. "That you have information you'll only share with me."
Draco stopped mid-step, turning to her. His eyes were strangely bright, almost feverish.
"Of course I asked. What was I supposed to do? Tell Potter the truth? 'Listen, I want to talk to your friend because for the past six months we've been fucking in seedy motels, and now I don't know if she arrested me for professional or personal reasons'? That would have ended well, right?"
Hermione paled. She heard blood rushing in her ears.
"You're here because evidence has been gathered against you. It has nothing to do with us."
"Us," he repeated, and his laugh was sharp as a razor. "So there is some 'we.' Interesting."
"You know what I mean," she said, feeling her cheeks burn.
"No, I don't know, Granger," he replied, suddenly lowering his voice to a dangerous whisper.
"You told Harry you had information..." she tried once more.
"I lied!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls of the small cell. "I lied, Granger! I wanted to see you. I wanted to look you in the eye and ask what this is all about. Is this some twisted revenge? For Hogwarts? For the war? For my aunt torturing you for weeks and killing your boyfriend? Or do you just feel lonely and desperate?"
She was shocked by the intensity of his reaction. She had never seen him like this before—shaking, emotional, on the verge of losing control.
"Draco, calm down," she said quietly. "Someone might hear you."
"And so what? What else can they do to me? I'm already sitting here. I've already lost everything I cared about."
"You haven't lost everything," she replied calmly. "Today is the hearing. If you're innocent, you'll get out of here."
"Do you really believe that?" he asked, his voice suddenly changing—becoming quiet, almost resigned. "Do you really believe Potter will let me go? After everything that's been between us? After Voldemort made me a Death Eater? After I let his followers into Hogwarts?"
"That was a long time ago," she said. "You were a child. You were forced."
"Tell that to Potter," Draco snorted. "He sees only my father in me. A Death Eater. Evil that must be destroyed."
Suddenly something broke in him. He started laughing—a wild, uncontrolled laugh that gradually turned into a sound resembling sobbing. He grabbed his head, tangling his fingers in his hair and pulling with such force that a few light strands remained between his fingers.
"Hermione..." Her name in his mouth sounded foreign, desperate. "Hermione, do you even understand what's happening here? What awaits me?"
He looked at her with the eyes of a person on the edge of madness, his pupils were dilated, and his eyes shone unnaturally. Sweat ran down his temples despite the cold in the cell.
"Azkaban," he whispered, and then repeated louder, almost shouting. "AZKABAN! That's where I'll end up when Potter gets what he wants! And there I'll stay, for five, ten, maybe fifteen years! Do you know what fifteen years in Azkaban is?!"
He began circling the cell, hitting the walls with his fists at each turn, leaving streaks of blood on the stone blocks as the skin on his knuckles began to crack. He seemed not to notice the pain.
"My father has been sitting there for years. Have you ever seen him? Have you seen what's left of him?" His voice trembled, his lips twisted in a painful grimace. "He was once a proud, powerful man. Now? He's just a shell. He doesn't recognize his own son! He looks at me with empty eyes and asks who I am! Do you know what it's like when your own father... your own father..."
He broke off, as if he couldn't bear the weight of these words. His breathing became irregular, shallow. Tears flowed down his cheeks, which he seemed not to notice. Suddenly he froze in place and looked at her with such intensity that she involuntarily stepped back.
"And you..." he whispered, "you want to send me there. For something I didn't do. WHICH I DIDN'T DO!" He shouted the last words, hitting the wall with his fist with such force that an echo carried.
He suddenly rushed toward her, stopping just centimeters from her face. His eyes roamed over her features, looking for something—compassion, understanding, any trace of emotion.
"Is this some kind of revenge?" he asked, his voice now strangely calm, which only heightened the impression of madness. "Some sophisticated plan? 'Let's seduce Malfoy, make him think he has everything under control, and then destroy him for all the wrongs'? Because if so, congratulations. You really succeeded."
He stepped back unsteadily, staggering like a drunk person, though there wasn't a drop of alcohol in the cell.
"Maybe it's therapeutic, huh? Fucking the enemy and then sending him to Azkaban? Some new method of treating war trauma?" His laughter was empty, devoid of any joy. "By Merlin, how stupid I was... how could I believe... how could I think that..."
He broke off, breathing heavily. He leaned his back against the wall and slowly slid to the floor, his legs no longer able to support the weight of his body. Sitting like that, with knees pulled to his chest, with bleeding hands and disheveled hair, he looked like a completely different person—not like the proud Malfoy, but like a frightened, broken child.
"If you really believe I'm behind Claritas," he said quietly, so quietly that she had to strain to hear him, "if you really think I could deliberately poison people for profit... that's fine. Let Potter throw me into Azkaban. Nothing matters anymore anyway."
He raised his eyes to her, and in them was something she had never seen before—complete, absolute resignation.
"But if you're doing this out of revenge... if this is your way of punishing me for what was between us... for allowing yourself to... to me..." his voice broke. "Then it's so damn low, so cruel that even I wouldn't be capable of it. And supposedly I'm the bad one."
Hermione stood motionless, shocked by the intensity of his outburst, not knowing how to react to this raw, brutal honesty.
For a long moment, there was absolute silence. Only Draco's heavy, uneven breathing and the distant dripping of water somewhere in the corridor disturbed the dead silence.
Without a word, without the slightest gesture, she turned and headed for the door. Her steps were mechanical, her face expressionless. Without looking back, she knocked on the door, signaling to the guard that she wanted to leave.
When the heavy metal door opened, she left without a single glance behind, leaving Draco alone with his despair and resignation.
The door closed with a dull thud, cutting her off from the sight of the broken man on the floor, but not from his words, which still echoed in her head like an echo.
* * *
Just twenty minutes before the hearing, the door to Hermione's office opened violently. Harry burst in, holding the familiar folder with documents from Narcissa. His hair was in even greater disarray than usual, and his eyes shone nervously behind his glasses.
"We checked the financial documents," he said without preamble, throwing the folder on her desk. "They're not falsified. The goblins confirmed their authenticity."
Hermione looked at him, feeling her stomach tighten into a knot.
"So Malfoy was telling the truth? There's no connection to Claritas?"
Harry ran his hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration.
"It's a bit more complicated. We didn't find any direct transactions related to this potion. And indeed, Malfoy was at his estate in Provence when the first batch of Claritas hit the market."
"So he's innocent," she said, standing up from behind her desk.
"Not so fast," Harry shook his head. "This doesn't exonerate anything, Hermione. He could have made transactions completely anonymously or through a trusted intermediary. You know how this world works—you can always find someone who, for the right price, will lend their name."
"But the trip—"
"The trip doesn't exonerate him either," Harry interrupted, gripping the back of the chair. "He could have planned the distribution before leaving and deliberately gone away to avoid suspicion. It's an old trick, Hermione. Create an alibi far from the scene of the crime."
Hermione was silent for a moment, analyzing Harry's words. Theoretically, he was right—everything he said was possible. But was it probable?
"What does Kingsley say about this?" she finally asked.
"He's... cautious," Harry replied. "He wants the Wizengamot to review these documents, but he's not planning to withdraw the charges."
"There are too many clues pointing to Malfoy."
"What clues?" she asked, feeling growing irritation. "Besides the fact that he runs a company dealing with potions? Besides the fact that we've disliked him since school?"
Harry looked at her with surprise.
"What's happening with you, Hermione? You're defending him, after you decided to arrest him with me?"
"I'm not defending him," she answered quickly. "I just want to be sure we're convicting the right person. Percy and Padma are our friends, Harry. They deserve justice. Real justice, not a scapegoat."
Harry sighed heavily.
"Time to go," he said, heading toward the door. "Are you coming?"
"In a moment," she replied. "I need to check something first."
When Harry left, Hermione sank heavily into her chair, burying her face in her hands. She felt as if she were trapped in her own mind, her own conflicting emotions.
On one hand, she had evidence of Draco's innocence. On the other—Harry was right. This could all be part of a well-thought-out plan.
But would Draco be capable of that? Could the man she saw this morning—shaking, terrified, on the verge of breakdown—be a cold, calculating murderer?
She didn't know the answer. She only knew that in a few minutes she would have to enter the courtroom and look him in the eye as his fate was placed in the hands of the Wizengamot.
* * *
The courtroom was exactly as Hermione remembered it—cold, gloomy, overwhelming in its vastness. Rows of benches rose high on both sides, forming a semicircle, in the center of which stood a single chair with chains. The chains, which once automatically restrained the accused, now lay limp on both sides—one of many of Kingsley's post-war reforms.
Members of the Wizengamot in purple robes were already taking their places, whispering among themselves. Hermione noticed many familiar faces—war veterans, former professors, retired Aurors. All of them were to decide Draco Malfoy's fate today.
She took a seat in the third row, next to several other officials from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Harry sat in the first row with Kingsley, both bent over a stack of documents.
The door on the left opened, and Draco entered, escorted by two Aurors. He looked completely different than he had a few hours ago in the cell. His hair was carefully combed, and he wore elegant, dark blue robes. Only the deep shadows under his eyes betrayed that he hadn't slept the night before the hearing. Beside him walked an older wizard with a stern look—undoubtedly his magical defender.
To Hermione's surprise, Narcissa Malfoy also entered the public gallery. She was alone, without her daughter-in-law—which in itself was a kind of statement. Her face was pale and inscrutable, but her eyes never left her son for a moment.
When Draco sat down in the chair in the middle of the hall, silence fell. Kingsley Shacklebolt rose, and his deep voice echoed through the chamber.
"We begin the disciplinary hearing on the twenty-third of October in the matter of charges against Draco Lucius Malfoy, residing in Wiltshire. The prosecutors are: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic; Harry James Potter, Head of the Auror Office; Hermione Jean Granger, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement."
Hermione flinched upon hearing her name. Theoretically, she was a prosecutor, as one of the people who conducted the investigation. But after the morning meeting in the cell, after the information from Narcissa, after the conversation with Harry—she no longer knew which side of the barricade she stood on.
"The accused is represented by Tiberius Ogden, magical defender," Kingsley continued. "The charges are as follows: knowingly and deliberately introducing an unapproved potion called Claritas to the market, which led to serious health injuries and a state of coma in at least twenty-five people."
Kingsley cleared his throat, looking at Draco over his documents.
"How do you respond to the charges, Mr. Malfoy? Do you plead guilty or not guilty?"
Draco stood up, and his voice was cool and composed—the complete opposite of the broken man Hermione had seen in the cell.
"I plead not guilty to any of the charges, Minister. I have absolutely nothing to do with the Claritas potion, its production, or distribution."
"Thank you. Please be seated." Kingsley nodded toward Harry. "Auror Potter will now present the evidence against the accused."
Harry stood up, holding several scrolls of parchment.
"Esteemed Wizengamot, Claritas is a potion that appeared on the British market, advertised as a means to improve concentration and mental efficiency, quickly gaining popularity among ministry workers and people performing intellectual work. The first cases of adverse effects appeared two weeks after its market introduction, and we currently have twenty-five patients in a comatose state, a number that increases every day."
Harry took a few steps to the side, as if wanting to look at the case from a different perspective.
"We have reasons to suspect that Mr. Malfoy is behind the production of this potion. First, he is the owner of one of the largest potion-producing companies in Great Britain. Second, he has the resources and knowledge necessary to create such an advanced substance. Third, he has access to the distribution channels needed to introduce the product to the market."
Harry took a deep breath before continuing.
"Furthermore, in the apartment of one of the victims, Padma Patil, we found a vial of Claritas which, according to magical analysis, bears traces of magic characteristic of potions produced by Malfoy Industries."
Here Hermione frowned. She knew nothing about this. Harry hadn't mentioned any magical analysis before.
"We also have testimony from a witness," Harry continued, "who confirms seeing Mr. Malfoy in an apothecary in Diagon Alley, handing over a small package to the owner, just before Claritas appeared on the shelves."
Hermione felt her heart speed up. This evidence was also new to her. When had Harry conducted these investigations? Why didn't she know about these findings?
"And finally," Harry looked directly at Draco, "we have evidence that the accused deliberately created an alibi for himself by going to France during the first distribution of the potion to avoid suspicion. All this adds up to a picture of a conscious, planned crime that led to serious health consequences for innocent people."
When Harry finished, silence fell over the hall. All eyes turned to Draco, who sat motionless, his face betraying no emotion.
"Would you or your defender like to respond to these charges?" asked Kingsley.
Tiberius Ogden, the magical defender, rose from his seat. His voice, despite his age, was strong and decisive.
"Esteemed Wizengamot, the charges presented by Auror Potter are at best circumstantial, and at worst—fabrications. My client has nothing to do with the Claritas potion, and I can prove it."
Ogden took a small object from his robe pocket and enlarged it with a spell—it was the same folder that Hermione had received from Narcissa.
"I submit as evidence the complete financial records of Malfoy Industries for the past two years. These documents have been certified by the goblins of Gringotts and are irrefutable. There is absolutely no trace of purchasing ingredients needed to produce Claritas, nor any transactions that might indicate involvement in its distribution."
Hermione noticed Harry and Kingsley exchanging glances. They knew the documents were authentic—they had confirmed it themselves this morning.
"Moreover," Ogden continued, "my client was indeed in France at the time Claritas was introduced to the market, but not to create an alibi. Mr. Malfoy regularly visits the family estate in Provence, which can be confirmed not only by his mother and wife but also by numerous people he met during his stay, including French winemakers and local notables."
Ogden took a few steps toward Harry.
"As for the alleged magical analysis of the vial... Well, I would like to see this evidence, as it was not presented to the defense before the hearing, as required by procedure. And as for the mysterious witness who allegedly saw my client in the apothecary—why is he not present today? Why can't we interrogate him? Could it be because he doesn't exist?"
Whispers erupted in the hall. Hermione observed some members of the Wizengamot leaning toward each other, discussing fervently. Harry looked irritated but did not respond to Ogden's accusations.
"If I may, I would like to call a defense witness now," said Ogden, addressing Kingsley, who nodded in response.
"I call Theodore Nott to the stand."
The side door opened, and a tall, thin man with a piercing gaze entered the hall.
Nott took the witness chair, made a magical oath to tell the truth, and looked calmly at those assembled.
"Mr. Nott," began Ogden, "please tell the Wizengamot what you do for a living."
"I am the owner of Nott Imports," Theodore replied in a calm, measured voice. "We specialize in importing rare potion ingredients from Asian countries."
"Are you familiar with a potion called Claritas?"
"Of course," he nodded. "It's one of the newest products on the market. My company received several inquiries about supplying ingredients needed for its production."
"Who made these inquiries?"
"From Draconis Herbarium in Romania. They are the producers of Claritas."
"Did Mr. Malfoy or his company ever contact you regarding ingredients for this potion?"
"No," Nott answered firmly. "Mr. Malfoy is our client, but he has never ordered ingredients characteristic of Claritas. He mainly purchases ingredients from us for his standard healing, cosmetic, and calming mixtures."
"Have you ever noticed anything suspicious in Mr. Malfoy's orders?" asked Ogden.
"No, everything was always fully documented and compliant with regulations," replied Nott. "Malfoy Industries has a reputation as one of the most scrupulous companies in the industry when it comes to the legality of ingredients."
"Thank you, Mr. Nott," said Ogden. "Does the Wizengamot have any questions for the witness?"
Several hands were raised. An elderly witch in the second row asked first:
"Mr. Nott, in your opinion, is there a possibility that Mr. Malfoy could have ordered ingredients through intermediaries?"
"Theoretically yes, but in practice it would be very difficult," Nott answered. "Imported potion ingredients are subject to strict control. Each transaction is registered with the Ministry, and each batch has its magical signature that can be traced. In the industry, we all know who buys what."
"Mr. Nott," spoke an older wizard from the first row, "do you know Mr. Malfoy personally?"
"We attended Hogwarts together, and we still maintain close contact."
Hermione observed Nott carefully. His testimony seemed impartial.
Ogden, sensing a favorable moment, continued:
"I would also like to draw the Wizengamot's attention to one very significant fact. Blaise Zabini, a longtime friend of the accused, is also among the victims of Claritas. He has been lying in a coma at St. Mungo's for several days, after taking this potion."
A murmur of surprise spread through the hall.
"Is the prosecution really suggesting that my client deliberately poisoned his friend?" asked Ogden, his voice now icy. "Does that fit the profile of this alleged crime?"
Harry stood up, clearly irritated.
"This type of emotional argument has no place in court, Mr. Ogden," he said sharply. "The fact that Mr. Zabini is a victim does not exclude Mr. Malfoy's guilt."
"No, Mr. Potter," replied Ogden, "but it adds another layer of absurdity to your accusations. You're asking the Wizengamot to believe that my client—a man who has rebuilt his reputation after the war, who runs a legal, profitable business, who is a husband and son—suddenly decided to release a dangerous potion on the market, thereby endangering not only random customers but also his longtime friend? For what purpose? For money, which he doesn't lack anyway? This makes no logical or psychological sense."
Hermione noticed that many members of the Wizengamot were nodding discreetly. Ogden's argumentation was convincing.
"Thank you, Mr. Nott," said Kingsley. "You may step down. Would the prosecution like to call its own witnesses?"
Harry stood up abruptly, his face expressing determination bordering on fury.
"Esteemed Wizengamot, the prosecution planned to call a healer from St. Mungo's who is treating Claritas victims as a witness, but due to the critical condition of the patients, her presence was impossible. Instead," Harry pulled several documents from his folder, "I wish to present a report of the analysis of vials found in the victims' apartments."
Ogden immediately jumped to his feet.
"I object! The prosecution did not provide the defense with these documents before the hearing, which is contrary to procedure!"
"The report was completed this morning," Harry replied emphatically. "There was no time to pass it to the defense, but its significance to the case is crucial."
Kingsley looked sternly at Harry.
"Auror Potter, you know this is a breach of procedure. However, given the gravity of the case, I will allow the report to be presented on the condition that the defense is given time to review it."
Harry nodded and continued:
"The magical analysis of the vials showed clear traces characteristic of processes used in Malfoy Industries laboratories. Each potion producer leaves their unique magical 'fingerprint' on their products. It's like a signature, impossible to forge."
"This is absurd!" exclaimed Draco, unable to restrain himself. Ogden quickly placed a hand on his shoulder, silencing him.
Harry ignored the outburst and continued with undiminished passion:
"Moreover, we have testimony from a witness who saw the accused passing suspicious vials in an apothecary in Diagon Alley just a day before Claritas appeared on the market. The witness is ready to testify under Veritaserum."
"Where is this witness, then?" asked Ogden sarcastically. "Why hasn't he been called to the hearing?"
"For security reasons," Harry replied. "The accused has extensive influence. The witness fears for his life."
Hermione watched Harry with growing concern. She had never seen him so determined, so... blinded. As if personal dislike for Malfoy obscured his rational judgment.
Kingsley apparently noticed this too, because his next words surprised everyone:
"Miss Granger," he suddenly turned to Hermione, "as deputy head of the department and one of the people conducting the investigation, what is your opinion on these new pieces of evidence?"
All eyes turned to her. Harry looked at her expectantly, sure of her support. Draco stared at her intensely, his eyes showing a mixture of fear, anger, and... something else she couldn't name.
Hermione stood up slowly, feeling the weight of this moment. What she said could decide Draco's fate.
"Minister, Esteemed Wizengamot," she began carefully, "as someone who has been analyzing this case from the beginning, I must express serious doubts about the credibility of these new pieces of evidence."
Harry looked at her in disbelief, but she continued:
"First, the magical analysis report was prepared in haste, without standard verification procedures. Second, the mysterious witness, whose identity remains unknown even to me as co-investigator, was never interrogated by the department according to protocol."
"Hermione?" Harry hissed, but she ignored him.
"Furthermore," Hermione continued, straightening up in her chair, "the financial documents presented by the defense have been thoroughly verified. The goblins of Gringotts personally confirmed their authenticity, and as we all know, in financial matters they are uncompromising and absolutely honest."
She looked at Harry, and then at the members of the Wizengamot.
"During the investigation, our Aurors conducted a detailed search of Mr. Malfoy's estate, his office, and laboratories. The results were unambiguous—aside from a few potions that do not fully meet the ministry's latest regulatory guidelines, for which Mr. Malfoy will have to pay an appropriate financial penalty and immediately withdraw them from production, absolutely nothing suspicious was found."
She paused for greater effect.
"No ingredients characteristic of Claritas. No notes regarding its formula. No prototypes or test variants. Absolutely nothing that might suggest any connection between Mr. Malfoy and this dangerous potion."
Absolute silence fell over the hall. Kingsley watched her carefully, Harry looked as if she had just betrayed everything he believed in, and Draco... Draco stared at her with a mixture of shock and something that resembled gratitude.
"Mrs. Granger," Kingsley finally spoke, "are you suggesting that Auror Potter is acting hastily, without sufficient evidence?"
"I suggest," she replied emphatically, "that we are all acting under enormous pressure. Our friends are in comas. Percy Weasley, Padma Patil, Blaise Zabini—all are in critical condition. It's natural that we want to quickly find the guilty party. But we must be sure that we are accusing the right person."
Harry couldn't take it.
"So according to you, Malfoy is innocent?" he asked, his voice full of disbelief and anger. "You are completely convinced of his innocence, since you're defending him so eagerly?"
"I'm not defending him," she replied firmly. "I'm defending justice. And truth. If there is evidence of his guilt, let's present it. But this report..." she pointed to the documents in Harry's hands, "...prepared hastily, without verification, and a mysterious witness whom no one has seen—these are not evidence on which a conviction can be based."
Kingsley cleared his throat, interrupting the tense exchange.
"Thank you, Mrs. Granger," he said in an official tone. "Mr. Potter, does the prosecution have anything else to add?"
Harry looked as if he wanted to say much more, but limited himself to a brief:
"No, Minister. The prosecution maintains its position."
"In that case," Kingsley looked at those assembled, "the Wizengamot will retire for deliberation. Please remain in your seats."
The members of the Wizengamot stood and left through the side doors. Hermione sat back in her place, feeling Harry's murderous gaze on her.
"What are you doing?" he whispered furiously, leaning toward her. "You just helped Malfoy escape justice!"
"No, Harry," she replied quietly but firmly. "I prevented you from making a serious mistake. This evidence is questionable at best, and you know it well."
"But it's Malfoy!" Harry insisted. "Who else could be behind something like this? Who else would have the means, knowledge, and complete lack of conscience to release a deadly dangerous potion?"
"That's exactly the point, Harry," Hermione said emphatically. "You're accusing him because he's Malfoy, not because you have evidence. And that's exactly what we can't do if we truly want justice."
Harry shook his head in disbelief.
Further conversation was interrupted by the return of the Wizengamot members. They returned surprisingly quickly, which usually indicated unanimity in the decision.
Kingsley took his place and unrolled a parchment.
"The Wizengamot has reached a decision in the case of the accused, Draco Malfoy," he announced in an official tone. "Due to the lack of sufficient evidence confirming the accused's involvement in the production and distribution of the Claritas potion, the Wizengamot dismisses all charges. Mr. Malfoy is released from all charges against him and is free."
A murmur spread through the hall—a mixture of surprise, approval, and disapproval. Narcissa Malfoy, sitting at the back, allowed herself a slight smile of relief, the first display of emotion since the beginning of the hearing.
"However," Kingsley continued, "in view of the seriousness of the situation related to the Claritas potion, the Wizengamot orders the immediate cessation of sales and distribution of this product, and the undertaking of intensive actions to determine its actual composition and source. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement and the Auror Office receive full authorization to conduct further investigation."
Kingsley looked at Draco.
"Mr. Malfoy, you are free. The chains of the decree breaking the apparition spell are removed from the room. The hearing is concluded."
Draco rose slowly, his movements stiff, as if he didn't fully believe what had just happened. Ogden placed a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of support.
Members of the Wizengamot began to leave the hall, talking in hushed voices. Hermione sat motionless, staring at Draco's back as he now spoke with his mother.
For a moment their gazes met—his gray eyes were unreadable, but intense. He looked at her for a long moment, as if trying to convey some message without words. And then he turned and left the hall accompanied by his mother and defender, leaving Hermione alone, knowing that her relationship with Harry had just been put to the most severe test.
She hadn't even managed to get up from her seat when she felt a strong grip on her shoulder.
"To my office. Immediately," Harry said through gritted teeth, not looking her in the eye.
Without a word, she followed him. She felt the gazes of other ministry employees on her, some curious, others full of disapproval. News in the Ministry building spread like wildfire.
As soon as the door to Harry's office closed behind them, he exploded.
"What the hell was that?!" he shouted, sweeping a stack of documents off his desk with one violent motion. "You destroyed the entire case! You made me look like a fool in front of the entire Wizengamot!"
"Harry, listen—"
"No!" he interrupted her, punching the wall. "You listen! People are in comas, Hermione! Percy! PERCY! Ron's brother! Does that mean nothing to you?!"
"Of course it means something," she replied, trying to stay calm. "That's exactly why we need to find the real culprit, not—"
"Not what?" Harry turned to her, his eyes burning with anger. "Not convict Malfoy? The same Malfoy who treated you like dirt for years? Who let Death Eaters into Hogwarts? Who stood and watched while Bellatrix tortured you?!"
Hermione felt her own anger rising.
"That was many years ago, Harry! We were children in the middle of a war! If we can't look beyond school injuries, then—"
"This isn't about school injuries!" Harry roared. "It's about evidence! Facts! Those damn vials with his magical signature! The witness who saw him!"
"How did these 'pieces of evidence' appear out of nowhere just hours before the hearing?" she replied, also raising her voice. "Why didn't I know about them earlier, since I'm one of the prosecutors? This doesn't look like a solid investigation, Harry, but a witch hunt! Or in this case—a wizard hunt!"
Harry laughed bitterly, without a trace of amusement.
"So now you're defending Malfoy? Really? After everything he did?"
"I'm defending justice!" Hermione shouted. "Just as I defended you when the Ministry tried to discredit you! Just as I defended every innocent person in this war!"
"Innocent?" Harry almost choked. "Malfoy? Innocent?! Can you even hear yourself?!"
"Harry," Hermione took a deep breath, trying to calm down, "I understand your frustration. I really do. But we can't convict a man without solid evidence just because we don't like him. That's not justice. That's revenge."
"Then let's pour Veritaserum into him and find out the truth! That will be solid evidence!"
"You know very well that can only be done in special cases!"
"And Malfoy isn't a special case?"
"He's not. He's just been acquitted. And you want to know what I think? I think he's innocent and you're just looking for a scapegoat, just to put someone in Azkaban. Anyone."
Harry stared at her for a long moment, his breathing heavy, his face contorted with anger. And then, as if something in him broke, he said quietly, but with venom in his voice:
"I understand everything now," his words dripped with contempt. "Apparently Malfoy fucks you so well that you're ready to sacrifice the lives of innocent people just so he can keep visiting you at night."
Hermione's face paled violently. She felt as if she had just received a blow to the solar plexus—she couldn't catch her breath, couldn't think, couldn't move.
"That's disgusting..." she finally managed.
"Disgusting?" Harry laughed bitterly. "You're talking to me about disgust? You, who sleep with the man responsible for Percy's condition? For Padma's coma? For the suffering of so many people?"
"You have no right..." she began, but Harry wouldn't let her finish.
"When did it start, Hermione?" he growled, coming closer. "When exactly did you decide it was worth selling your conscience for a few orgasms? Were you meeting him secretly when the first people were admitted to St. Mungo's? Or maybe later, when you found out it was his potion? Maybe that's what turned you on—sex with a man who has blood on his hands?"
"Stop," she whispered, stepping back.
"Stop?" Harry shook his head in disbelief. "You should have stopped. Before you betrayed everything we believed in. Before you allowed Malfoy to go free, ready to poison more innocent people."
Hermione stood paralyzed for several long seconds, her face pale and her hands clenched into fists so tightly that her nails dug into her skin. Tears glistened in her eyes, which she didn't want to show him.
"You have no idea what you're talking about," she finally replied, her voice sounding foreign even to herself—quiet, but full of icy fury. "You're accusing me of betrayal based on what exactly? The fact that I didn't let you convict someone without convincing evidence?"
"There was evidence!" Harry slammed his fist on the desk. "There still is! But you're ignoring it, because apparently your loyalty now lies elsewhere!"
"My loyalty lies where it always has—on the side of truth and justice," she retorted, straightening up. "And if you think my professional judgment in Malfoy's case has anything to do with my private life, then you really don't know me, Harry."
"Don't know you? You're right. I don't know you!" Harry laughed bitterly. "You're acting like a stranger! The Hermione I knew would never have stood up for a Death Eater!"
"The war ended long ago!" she shouted, losing patience. "And he was never a Death Eater by conviction, just a frightened child! Just as we were frightened children! Grow up finally, Harry!"
"Grow up?" Harry looked at her in disbelief. "I need to grow up? While you're arranging romantic rendezvous with the enemy?"
"I don't have any 'romantic rendezvous' with Malfoy!" she denied firmly, though she felt a pang of guilt. Maybe not romantic, but...
"Then why are you defending him?" Harry moved closer to her, looking her straight in the eye. "Why are you ready to destroy our friendship, your career, everything... for him?"
"Not for him," she answered quietly but firmly. "For myself. Because I can't live with the knowledge that I helped convict someone based on questionable evidence just because I don't like him."
For a moment they looked at each other in silence. In Harry's eyes, anger battled with disbelief and the pain of betrayal.
"You've gone too far, Harry. Some words can't be taken back."
She turned and headed for the door, feeling her legs trembling beneath her.
"What's between you and Malfoy?" Harry called after her.
She stopped with her hand on the doorknob, but didn't turn around. Her shoulders tensed, then fell, as if under the weight of some enormous burden.
"That's my business. And it has nothing to do with how I do my job."
She left, closing the door behind her, not looking back. In the corridor, she stopped, resting her forehead against the cold wall, trying to control the trembling of her hands and her breath, which had become shallow and jerky.
She didn't know what hurt more—losing a friend, or the awareness that in his eyes she had become someone worthy of contempt. Someone who would sacrifice friends, principles, everything for sex with an enemy.
The worst part was that somewhere deep in her soul, she wondered if he was right.
In the evening, Hermione could no longer bear being in her apartment. The walls seemed to close in around her, and the silence roared with accusations in her head. Harry's words echoed back, mixing with her own thoughts—increasingly chaotic and accusatory.
She paced around the living room like a caged animal, trying to occupy herself with anything—reading, organizing documents, even mindlessly staring at a magical photograph from their Hogwarts days. Nothing helped. Her hands trembled more and more, and her mind alternately replayed the scene from the hearing and the painful confrontation with Harry.
On one hand, she felt guilty for letting her friend down. Harry had trusted her, counted on her support, and she had publicly undermined his accusations. She could have done it differently, more discreetly. She could have talked to him earlier. Instead, she made him feel betrayed and humiliated.
On the other hand, the thought of Draco triggered a wave of shame and guilt of a different kind. How close had she been to destroying him? To sending a man whose guilt had not been proven to Azkaban, just because she needed someone to take it out on? For what exactly—for allowing him to touch her, for craving his closeness, for becoming addicted to their meetings? Or perhaps for the fact that after their last meeting, after that kiss, she couldn't stop thinking about him?
When the clock struck ten, Hermione made a decision so sudden and irrational that she herself couldn't believe it. She took a clean piece of parchment and an elegant quill from the drawer. Her hand trembled as she wrote a short note with an address—of a small but decent hotel on the outskirts of wizarding London. Not a motel, not some seedy dive, but a normal place where they wouldn't have to hide.
Instead of a signature, she used a spell to transmute one of the flowers standing in a vase into a single black rose. For the first time, she was initiating a meeting. For the first time, she felt she wanted to see him not to punish herself, but because... she didn't know why herself. Maybe she needed explanations. Maybe confirmation. Or maybe she simply needed him.
She sent the message. And then, not giving herself time to change her mind, she Apparated to the indicated address.
The hotel room was simple, but clean and tidy. No stains on the walls, no broken faucet, no scratches on the mirror. She sat on the edge of the bed, feeling strangely out of place. This wasn't their usual setting.
Half an hour passed. Then an hour. Hermione still waited, nervously checking the time. Maybe the owl was late? Maybe the message hadn't arrived?
After two hours, she began pacing the room, increasingly restless. She felt more and more like a humiliated, wretched shadow of herself. What an idiot she had been, thinking he would come! That he would want to see her after she had almost sent him to Azkaban?
The third hour passed, and she was still sitting there, staring at the door that remained closed. The tears she had held back for so long finally flowed—first quietly, then developing into sobs that shook her entire body.
Draco didn't come. Of course he didn't come.
She was left alone, surrounded by the walls of the room that was supposed to be the place of their meeting, but became just another witness to her loneliness. A symbol of everything she had lost—a friend, a job, dignity, and now even that toxic, destructive addiction that Draco Malfoy had been for her.