Cold Water

The silence in the chamber was suffocating.

Every eye was fixed on the figure standing resolutely in the center of the courtroom, her presence commanding and unyielding. 

She had Hermione Granger’s face, but there was something profoundly different about her—something unmistakable yet unplaceable.

Behind her, Draco Malfoy sat restrained, his expression a mixture of stunned disbelief and something more.

At the far side of the courtroom, Harry, Ron, and Hermione—their Hermione—stared in slack-jawed astonishment. Ron, ever unable to hold his tongue, muttered under his breath.

“Bloody hell.”

But even he couldn’t find the nerve to say more as all eyes remained glued to the young woman in red—crimson robes. Her golden skin seemed to glow under the enchanted lights, and her dark chocolate eyes ablazed.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, ever composed and commanding, was the first to recover. 

Rising from his seat, his voice cut through the room like a whip.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his deep baritone sharp with anger. His tone was steady, but the edge of fury was unmistakable. “Mr. Malfoy—are you truly so desperate that you’ve arranged for someone to Polyjuice as Hermione Granger to plead your case? To insult this court, the Aurors, and a witch of her caliber with such a farce is disgraceful!”

A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd and the Aurors stationed around Draco snapped out of their stupor.

They scrambled to retrieve their fallen wands, their eyes darting between Kingsley and the woman.  

But the figure—Hermione, but not—did not flinch. She remained motionless, her expression carved from stone. Her dark eyes—burning with restrained fury—did not waver from the Wizengamot.

But before the Aurors could take further action, the heavy oak doors of the chamber burst open once more with a resounding bang.  

The noise startled everyone, drawing their attention away from the enigmatic figure in the center of the room.

Everyone turned as two Ministry workers rushed in, their robes disheveled, their faces pale and panicked.

Both stumbled forward, stopping abruptly when they caught sight of the scene. Their wide eyes flicked from the Hermione-like figure to Draco Malfoy, still restrained in his enchanted seat—to the stunned Wizengamot presiding over the trial.  

The wizard was the first to regain his composure. 

He turned to the Aurors, his voice frantic but commanding. 

“Stand down! Lower your wands immediately!”  

The Aurors froze, hesitating as their gazes flicked between Kingsley and the newcomers.  

The second worker—a witch—reached the center of the room with hurried steps next to the chair where Draco Malfoy sat, bounded. 

With a flick of her wand, the heavy doors swung shut with a resonating thud, a faint shimmer of magic weaving over the oak’s surface, sealing them with a silent locking spell—followed by a ripple of shimmering energy cascading through the chamber, its presence palpable as it settled like an invisible barrier over the room.

The trio felt an unexplainable chill and warmth in their cores as it surrounded them—and based on the reactions of others, they felt it too as everyone looked around, startled at the sensation.

“What is the meaning of this?” Kingsley’s voice thundered again, his temper barely concealed. His eyes burned with irritation as he addressed the newcomers.

The wizard turned to the crowd, his badge bearing the unmistakable insignia of the Department of Mysteries. 

His voice was steady, but urgency colored his words. 

“This chamber is now under the binding of the Secrecy Vow.” He declared, his voice echoing through the resounding silence as the Wizengamot, along with all the witnesses—journalists, Aurors, testifiers, and the two accused family heads—sat stunned. “From this moment forward, nothing that occurs here will be spoken of or shared outside these walls. Any attempt to do so will result in immediate and severe repercussions.”

The room froze, the weight of his words settling over the courtroom like a suffocating blanket.  

“What?” someone in the gallery exclaimed, their voice cracking with disbelief.

The female official stepped forward, her wand raised slightly. Her voice was more composed but carried the weight of urgency. 

“This is a matter of utmost importance. All present are subjected to the vow that nothing discussed in this chamber will leave these walls. This is non-negotiable.”

The murmurs swelled to a roar, but Kingsley’s booming voice cut through them like a blade. “You have no right to commandeer this trial! The Wizengamot—”

“—will stand down,” the witch interrupted, her voice sharp and unyielding.

Kingsley’s jaw tightened, his formidable presence filling the room as he stepped forward. “You cannot simply seize control of this courtroom. This trial was moments from concluding. I demand an explanation for this blatant interference, or you will face charges of obstructing justice.”

The witch, her breathing still slightly unsteady, reached inside her robes and pulled out a scroll. She unrolled it with trembling hands but spoke in a steady, formal voice.  

"By the authority of the Department of Mysteries, decreed of the higher order, bestowed through the sacred ancient bindings of magic, and edicts enshrined to the Ministry to safeguard the unfathomable and sacred truths, the trial of Draco Lucius Malfoy is hereby placed under immediate suspension.”

Gasps of outrage and disbelief rippled through the room, but she continued without pause.  

“Effective immediately, jurisdiction over this case falls under the purview of Unspeakables Cassiopeia Vane and Elias Draven, duly appointed representatives of the Department of Mysteries.”

“This directive shall be enacted in aid of Lady Hermione Jean Granger. The Department of Mysteries, in collaboration with Unspeakable Liora Caelum, a recognized authority in anomalies affecting temporal and dimensional integrity, shall assume full jurisdiction over the case of Lord Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

At this, Hermione—the real Hermione—jerked as if struck, her wide eyes fixed on the woman who bore her face.  

The witch continued with a measured cadence, her voice growing more resolute.

“Unprecedented disruptions in temporal and dimensional continuity have been detected, disruptions which, if left unaddressed, may destabilize reality itself. As such, the Department of Mysteries has invoked its right to oversee this matter and prevent any further risk.”

She paused, ensuring the weight of her words to settle among the listeners.

“Effective immediately, all individuals present shall be bound under the Department of Mysteries Secrecy Enchantment. This binding shall be enacted immediately upon the commencement of any matter under the jurisdiction of the Department of Mysteries, strictly prohibiting the sharing, discussion, or dissemination of any information observed or heard within the designated location, regardless of the situation or individuals present, without explicit authorization from the Department.”

She paused, her tone firm as her gaze swept the room.

“Any attempt to question or defy the authority of the Department will result in immediate enforcement of the enchantment, including the removal of memories related to the events that transpired in the designated location. Compliance is mandatory and non-negotiable.”

The wizard beside her stepped forward, his presence commanding the room. His voice rang with the same authority as his gaze swept over the chamber.

“By the oaths sworn by Unspeakables to protect the stability of magical law and the integrity of time, this intervention supersedes all prior jurisdiction. Any obstruction, resistance, or unauthorized interference will be dealt with according to the department’s protocol, with severe consequences.”

The witch resumed the proclamation, her tone resolute.

“Effective immediately, the Department of Mysteries assumes full authority over this case and all associated matters. Witnesses and relevant parties shall remain under observation until the Department of Mysteries has resolved this anomaly in its entirety. Further instructions will follow as the situation demands.”

The scroll rolled itself closed with a soft, deliberate snap. The witch lowered her hands but remained firm in her stance, her presence radiating authority as the room fell into stunned silence.

Whispers erupted in the chamber like the hum of a disturbed hive. The proclamation’s heavy words lingered in the air, a testament to the gravity of the situation. 

Among the buzzing murmurs, the Golden Trio exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions shadowed by disbelief and contemplation.  

Ron leaned closer to Harry and Hermione, his voice a harsh whisper. “Bloody hell… does this mean Malfoy’s been telling the truth all along? That it’s not him?”  

Harry didn’t answer immediately. 

His jaw tightened, recalling Draco’s frantic demands for an audience with the Department of Mysteries, the desperation in his voice that had sounded mad at the time.

Hermione, her face pale and eyes wide, shook her head slowly, as if trying to piece it all together.

"His situation must be more serious than we thought," she murmured, her voice trembling slightly. "Serious enough that he wouldn’t risk sharing any information... He refused to say anything more, no matter how desperate he seemed, and kept demanding for the Department of Mysteries."

They sat in silence for a beat before Ron spoke again, his voice hesitant, "Luna... she said something earlier. Before she left the stand.”

Ron’s voice dropped lower as he continued to push, “Remember what Luna said? Before she left? About Malfoy’s core?”  

Harry’s head snapped toward Ron, confusion flickering in his eyes. “You mean when she said he was different?”  

Hermione nodded slowly. “Yes… she said it wasn’t just grey—she could see gold.”  

The weight of Luna’s words hung between them, heavy and undeniable in light of the Unspeakables' sudden intervention. 

Hermione’s mind raced, piecing together fragments of the trial, Luna’s testimony, and the erratic behavior of Draco Malfoy since this ordeal began.  

If the Draco Malfoy being tried was so adamant to say it wasn't him—that he wasn’t responsible for the crimes laid at his feet—then that explained so much. 

His desperation, his refusal to divulge details beyond demanding an audience with the Department of Mysteries and repeatedly saying that they got the wrong Draco Malfoy. 

Was it possible? Had the Ministry come so close to condemning an innocent man?  

Her thoughts churned, pulling her back to the Great Hall. 

She remembered the moment vividly: Draco Malfoy collapsing like a puppet whose strings had been cut. 

The shock that rippled through the students and professors. 

But it was what happened after he regained consciousness that struck her now.  

The way his grey eyes had locked onto her, wide and filled with something unplaceable—concern, relief, even familiarity. The way he had called her love, the way his voice trembled as though he’s hurt to see her in such state. The hurt in his eyes when she backed away.

Hermione stiffened slightly as a startling thought surfaced.

Does this mean that the Hermione standing in front of the Wizengamot and the Draco Malfoy sitting bound in chains are… lovers?

The notion was so absurd, so jarring and laughable that it left her momentarily stunned. 

She glanced at Harry and Ron, who looked equally disconcerted, their expressions reflecting the same conclusion she had just reached.  

Ron’s face twitched as though he wanted to say something, but no words came out. 

Harry simply stared at the woman standing before the court, his green eyes sharp with confusion and a hint of disbelief.  

Hermione’s thoughts spiraled further as another memory surfaced—Mr. Weasley's words last night and how everyone is having difficulty with the preparations of the trial of the Malfoy family—particularly with the youngest Malfoy. 

Mr. Weasley had mentioned how adamantly Draco Malfoy had been asking about her, insisting that she could help him.  

If their theory was correct—that this Hermione and Draco Malfoy were indeed more than just friends—despite how crazy it is to even think of the idea that this Draco and Hermione somewhat managed to have a decent relationship—whether platonic or romantic—with each other that doesn't include slurs and prejudiced that she has faced from him during their years at Hogwarts—then his frantic demands made sense. 

He had turned to her, likely desperate for a glimmer of familiarity, for someone he believed might understand him or believe in his innocence.  

Her gaze shifted back to Draco, who sat frozen in his chair, his eyes locked on the Hermione-like figure standing in crimson robes. 

There was something in his expression, something raw and unguarded—vulnerable—that added weight to their theory.  

The thought left Hermione rattled. If their assumption was true, this situation was more complicated—and far more dangerous—than they had initially realized and had almost mistakenly pushed aside.

The tension in the room snapped back to the Wizengamot as Kingsley Shacklebolt broke the silence, his deep voice steady but edged with hesitation.  

“While the Department of Mysteries has the right to assert jurisdiction under these circumstances,” he began, his gaze sweeping across the officials and the accused, “this court must still address the question of authenticity.”  

His dark eyes locked on the two Ministry officials, then shifted to the crimson-robed figure. 

“How do we know,” he said, his tone measured but skeptical, “that you have not been compromised? That you are not under the Imperius Curse or otherwise influenced? And what assurance do we have that this—” his hand gestured toward the figure wearing Hermione’s face, “—Hermione Granger, is who she claims to be?”  

His voice grew colder, a flicker of doubt sharpening his expression. 

“A witch Polyjuiced to look like Hermione Granger could easily lend false credibility to Malfoy’s claims. How can this court be certain that what you present is not an elaborate ruse to make his implausible story believable?”  

The murmurs grew louder at Kingsley’s pointed words, doubt and speculation rippling through the room. 

The figure in crimson remained unmoving, her expression unreadable, her gaze still fixed on the Wizengamot above her. 

The two Unspeakables, however, exchanged brief glances, their composed demeanor unshaken as they prepared to address the Acting Chief Warlock’s challenge.  

Cassiopeia Vane’s sharp eyes narrowed, her poised demeanor unshaken as she took a measured step forward. Her voice, cool and cutting, resonated through the chamber, carrying the weight of unyielding authority.  

“Does the Acting Chief Warlock,” she began, her tone calm but laced with steely precision, “think so lightly of the Department of Mysteries that he would question our ability to discern the truth? Do you truly believe, Minister, that the integrity of our Unspeakables—who stand as the first line of defense against threats that would unravel the very fabric of our reality—could be so easily compromised?”  

The murmurs that had filled the chamber quieted, a heavy tension descending over the room as her words settled. Cassiopeia’s gaze swept across the Wizengamot, her expression a perfect mask of controlled indignation.  

“The Department of Mysteries has operated in the shadows for centuries,” she continued, her tone never wavering. “We have protected this world from forces and anomalies beyond comprehension, matters so grave they cannot and should not be shared with the public or even most branches of the Ministry. Only we bear that burden, and only we are equipped to handle it.”  

Her eyes flicked back to Kingsley, her voice sharpening ever so slightly. “It is because of this tireless work that you, your colleagues, and every witch and wizard in this chamber have the privilege of debating legalities in peace, without knowledge of the dangers we have thwarted. Yet, you would dare question the competence of our Unspeakables in a matter as critical as this?”  

Cassiopeia paused, allowing her words to sink in. The silence in the courtroom was deafening, all eyes fixed on her.  

“Make no mistake,” she added, her voice unwavering, “we do not act on whim or assumption. The Department of Mysteries has already verified the identity of Lady Hermione Jean Granger through means far beyond the understanding of this court. To question this further is to question the very protections that have kept our world intact.”  

Her words lingered in the air like a challenge, her gaze locked with Kingsley’s. The Acting Chief Warlock’s expression remained stoic, though a flicker of unease passed through his dark eyes. For a moment, the room held its collective breath, awaiting his response.

Kingsley’s expression remained calm as he responded, his voice steady but carrying the weight of authority.

“The skills of the Department of Mysteries are not in question, Unspeakable Vane,” he said, his sharp gaze sweeping from the officials to the crimson-robed figure before landing back on Draco Malfoy. “The Wizengamot is simply exercising caution. The Malfoy family has long been notorious for employing any means necessary to escape accountability, especially when their name and legacy are at stake.”

His eyes shifted to the woman standing in front of him—the one who bore Hermione Granger’s face but carried herself with an air that was anything but familiar. 

“The Department of Mysteries may have verified her identity through their means,” he continued, his gaze narrowing slightly, “but the rest of us know nothing about her. To have Miss Granger—our Miss Granger—seated here as a witness, and another claiming her face and name standing before us, is… bizarre at best.”

Kingsley’s gaze hardened as he addressed the Unspeakables once more. 

“With the war still fresh in our memories, you cannot fault this court for being cautious. The cost of misplaced trust is simply too high.”

The murmurs in the room resumed, and a flicker of irritation passed across the faces of the two Unspeakables. 

Cassiopeia Vane’s lips pressed into a thin line, a flicker of annoyance breaking through her professional mask. Elias Draven, standing beside her, looked equally displeased, his brow furrowing as he opened his mouth to respond.,

But before he or Vane could speak, the crimson-robed Hermione raised a hand and cut them off smoothly. 

“There is no need to defend me, Ms. Vane. Nor you, Mr. Draven.” Her tone was calm, almost disarmingly so, but beneath it was an undercurrent of condescension that quieted the entire chamber. 

Both Unspeakables hesitated, clearly taken aback by her interruption.

Her voice carried a subtle, almost condescending edge as she continued, addressing the Wizengamot directly. “If proof of my identity is required, then I shall provide it.”

The way she said it carried a weight that made everyone in the room feel as though she was merely humoring their doubts, indulging the skepticism of a child.

The Unspeakables exchanged a glance, their unease evident.

“Lady Granger,” Cassiopeia Vane began, her voice firm, “there is no need for you to do this. The Department of Mysteries has already assumed full authority, and the Wizengamot has no right to demand explanations from you.”

Elias Draven nodded in agreement, adding, “We stand by you. This court’s doubts are irrelevant.”

But the crimson-robed Hermione shook her head, her calm gaze unyielding.

“The Department of Mysteries has done enough,” she replied, her voice resolute but not unkind. “This anomaly has already placed a tremendous burden upon your resources. Allow me to handle this matter. After all, the room is already bound by the Department’s secrecy enchantment. Nothing said here will leave these walls without explicit authorization.”

She paused, her eyes briefly flicking to Kingsley. “While Minister Shacklebolt’s skepticism is in direct conflict with the authority of the Department of Mysteries, he still retains certain rights as Minister to voice concerns on behalf of the Ministry and of the wizarding world.”

Then she turned back to the Wizengamot, her voice formal yet clear. “I understand the concerns of the Wizengamot, given what the wizarding world has endured. To that end, if providing clarity will ease your doubts and skepticism, I will answer your questions.”

The Unspeakables exchanged another glance, their reluctance evident, but they ultimately nodded in deference.

“If you require assistance, Lady Granger,” Cassiopeia Vane said formally, “the Department of Mysteries stands ready to support you.”

Elias Draven inclined his head. “Our expertise is at your disposal.”

With that, both Unspeakables stepped back, their expressions guarded as they deferred to the woman in crimson. The chamber remained silent, all eyes now on her as the room braced for what she would say next.

The weight of anticipation growing as all eyes were fixed on the woman in crimson robes. Her gaze, unwavering and piercing, remained locked onto Kingsley Shacklebolt, awaiting his next words. 

Her silence was not passive; it was a challenge, daring the Acting Chief Warlock to proceed.

Kingsley, to his credit, did not falter under the weight of her unwavering stare. After a moment of consideration, he finally spoke, his deep voice cutting through the oppressive quiet. 

“Miss Granger—if that is indeed who you claim to be—you’ve offered no explanation for your presence here.” His tone was firm, measured. “This court demands clarity before moving forward.”  

The crimson-robed Hermione inclined her head ever so slightly, her expression unchanging. Her calmness only seemed to unsettle the room further.  

“I will answer your questions,” she replied evenly, her voice carrying a quiet strength. “But let me state this first: I will stand as witness for the defense of Draco Lucius Malfoy.”

Her declaration landed like a thunderclap, erupting the room into immediate chaos.  

Members of the Wizengamot raised their voices in outrage, and the gallery spectators whispered furiously amongst themselves. 

“That’s absurd!” one of the members exclaimed, his voice rising above the murmurs.  

Another leaned forward, pointing an accusatory finger. 

“She is in no position to defend him! By her own admission, she is not from here! How could she possibly know anything about this Draco Malfoy, let alone stand in his defense?”

Kingsley raised a hand to restore order, his expression darkening as he addressed her directly.  

“Miss Granger,” he said, his tone heavy with skepticism, “you are neither qualified nor credible in this matter. The accused is known to the Wizengamot, and there is no evidence to suggest your testimony could provide any clarity, let alone exonerate him. Your involvement only complicates an already precarious situation.”  

Before Hermione could respond, Unspeakable Cassiopeia Vane stepped forward, her tone clipped and formal. 

“Minister Shacklebolt,” she began, her narrowed eyes flashing with annoyance, “you are neglecting a crucial detail. Lady Granger holds the right to act as a representative in this matter.”

Kingsley’s gaze darkened, and his brow furrowed. 

“And on what grounds does she hold such a right?”  

Unspeakable Elias Draven answered this time, his voice steady and authoritative. 

“Lady Hermione Jean Granger is duly appointed as the official representative of the Noble House of Malfoy, acting on behalf of Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, and Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, former Lord of the House, in all matters pertaining to their son, Lord Draco Lucius Malfoy.”  

The chamber erupted again, the term Lord sparking outrage among several Wizengamot members.  

“This is preposterous!” one shouted, rising from their seat. “The accused has not inherited any titles! To call him ‘Lord’ is a mockery of tradition!”  

“And to suggest Hermione Granger—of all people—would represent the Malfoys is an even greater farce!” another member of the Wizengamot bellowed, their voice thick with disdain. “The Malfoy family is notorious for their disdain of her kind! There is no plausible reality where they would grant her such authority!”  

Another member, her face flushed with indignation, cut in angrily. “And even if such a ludicrous arrangement were true, representation does not equate to holding a title! To call her Lady is a baseless embellishment, an insult to the traditions of the noble houses we represent!”  

The chamber erupted in murmurs of agreement, the rising tension palpable as the weight of tradition clashed with the unexpected proclamation of Hermione’s authority. Cassiopeia Vane’s eyes narrowed at the remarks, her demeanor growing colder, while Elias Draven’s expression turned steely. 

Both Unspeakables stood poised, ready to address the outbursts, while Lady Granger remained unmoved, her gaze fixed steadily on the commotion before her. Her calm presence radiated quiet defiance, her expression unreadable as the room seethed around her. 

Draven’s gaze hardened, but his tone remained measured as he addressed the uproar. “Your skepticism is understandable, but it is also misguided. This situation is unlike anything the Wizengamot has ever encountered, and it demands an explanation.”  

Unspeakable Vane stepped forward again, her tone more deliberate as she continued. “The Department of Mysteries did not interfere lightly. The anomaly we are addressing involves not only this reality but others as well.”  

The room quieted slightly, the weight of her words drawing attention.  

“The existence of other realities has long been theorized,” Unspeakable Draven began, his tone sharp yet measured, “a concept debated in academic circles and whispered about in speculation. But within the confines of this chamber—and under the binding secrecy vow enforced upon all present—it is not theory. It is a fact.”  

The room fell into a tense, uneasy silence, the implications of his words sinking into the minds of the gathered crowd. 

For the first time, the theoretical musings of scholars and conspiracy theorists alike were being affirmed—only to be locked away by the enchantments that bound the chamber’s occupants. 

Draven’s gaze swept the room, his voice growing firmer. “The Department of Mysteries has long protected this truth, keeping it from the public for reasons that should be self-evident. The revelation of such knowledge could destabilize not just our society, but the very fabric of our world. Today, however, this truth must be addressed—because it lies at the heart of the anomaly involving this case.”

Vane took over after him.

“The Department of Mysteries was alerted by Unspeakable Liora Caelum of an alternate reality's Department of Mysteries regarding a matter of grave importance.” She continued. “Lady Granger—alongside former Lord Lucius Malfoy of that reality—reached out to them to report an unprecedented disturbance involving Lord Draco Malfoy.”  

Draven picked up where she left off. “The Lord Draco Malfoy of their reality was found to have been possessed—or perhaps replaced—by a soul identical to his but fundamentally different in nature. This anomaly prompted an investigation. By tracing his magical and soul signatures, across the threads of multiple realities, leading directly to this one.” 

Cassiopeia’s voice grew firmer. “Lady Granger has every right to speak on behalf of Lord Malfoy, as her role in uncovering this anomaly has been instrumental.”

She allowed the weight of her words to settle before continuing.  

“His defense is not merely a matter of familial loyalty—it is a matter of restoring the balance of realities themselves.”  

The room fell silent, stunned into momentary disbelief. Every eye turned to the crimson-robed Hermione, who remained composed, her gaze unwavering. The tension in the chamber was so thick it seemed to press down on everyone present, each word from the Unspeakable reshaping their understanding of the trial.  

The implications of their words—the existence of other realities, the possibility of soul displacement—left everyone grappling for understanding.  

The chamber buzzed with murmurs, skepticism rippling through the rows of Wizengamot members and spectators. Whispers carried barely restrained disbelief.  

“A likely story,” one muttered, his voice laced with derision.  

“Crossing realities? Convenient,” scoffed another.  

Kingsley’s eyes narrowed slightly at the growing noise but said nothing as he turned his attention back to the crimson-robed Hermione. Though his expression remained neutral, his skepticism was palpable.  

Finally, he spoke, his voice low but deliberate. “If what you say is true, then this trial is not only unprecedented—it is far more complex than we imagined.” He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes scrutinizing her. “Miss Granger,” he addressed the figure directly, “you may proceed with your testimony. But understand this: the burden of proof rests on you.”  

Hermione inclined her head, her calm composure never faltering. “Understood, Minister Shacklebolt.”  

The chamber remained silent as she turned to face the Wizengamot fully, preparing to speak in defense of the man bound before them—the man she had crossed realities to save.  

They all fell into an uneasy silence as she stepped forward, her movements measured. Her gaze sweeping across the seated members, her presence unwavering despite the palpable tension in the room.  

“Formalities first,” Kingsley stated, his tone curt. His gaze swept the room before returning to Hermione. “Due to your... circumstances, you shall be bound by the Oath of Veritas before giving testimony.”  

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, drawing murmurs of unease from the gathered crowd. 

Everyone present understood the gravity of such an oath. 

The use of this ancient practice had been abandoned centuries ago, deemed barbaric and a violation of magical rights. To lie under such an oath meant losing one’s magic entirely—a punishment so severe it had become a relic of history.  

The Oath of Veritas was so rarely used that it had become a symbol of ultimate judicial authority. Declared illegal for use outside court proceedings, any unauthorized invocation of the Oath was not only recorded but immediately flagged to magical enforcement. Such a spell was considered an egregious abuse of magic, capable of setting off alarms across multiple Ministry departments if casted.

At Kingsley’s declaration, Unspeakable Cassiopeia Vane immediately stepped forward, her expression sharp. “Minister Shacklebolt,” she began, her voice firm but measured, “surely such measures are unnecessary—” 

“We cannot allow this!” Elias Draven interjected, his voice colder but no less resolute. “The risks are disproportionate to the circumstances. Lady Granger’s integrity should not—”  

But the rattling of chains cut through the room, sharp and jarring. 

All eyes turned to Draco, who was straining against his restraints, his face a mixture of fury and panic.

“No!” He shouted, his voice cracking with desperation. “You can’t make her do this! This is madness!” His fists curled against the chains, his grey eyes blazing with unrestrained anger and fear. “She doesn’t have to prove anything to you lot!”

Hermione, who had remained poised amidst the escalating tension, turned her head toward him. 

It was the first time she had looked at him directly since she’d arrived. 

The change in her demeanor was palpable, a subtle yet undeniable shift in her composure. The air around her softened, her gaze steady but carrying an almost imperceptible warmth—a stark contrast to the cool professionalism she had maintained with the court.

“Draco,” she said softly, her tone a marked departure from the formal authority she had wielded earlier. 

It was calm, steady, and laced with something the court couldn’t quite place—reassurance, perhaps, or a quiet intimacy that seemed out of place in the harsh confines of the chamber.

Draco froze at her voice, his chest heaving as his anger faltered. His grey eyes locked on hers, and for a moment, the room felt as if it were holding its breath. The raw emotion on his face flickered, shifting into something quieter, though no less intense.

“Trust me,” Hermione continued, her voice firm but gentle.

Draco exhaled shakily, his shoulders slumping slightly as he sagged back against the chair, though his fists remained clenched. His frustration lingered, visible in the tight set of his jaw, but he didn’t speak again.

Hermione turned her attention back to the Unspeakables, her composure settling back into its earlier sharpness. “There is no need to intervene,” she said firmly, addressing Vane and Draven with a quiet authority that silenced their protests.

The two exchanged conflicted glances, clearly wanting to object further. Draven’s hand twitched as if he intended to snatch the wand from the clerk’s grasp, while Vane’s jaw tightened in visible frustration. Yet, they both stepped back reluctantly, their expressions grim. Their respect for Hermione’s decision won out, though it was clear they found the situation deeply troubling.  

Vane inclined her head slightly, her voice strained. “If this is your choice, Lady Granger.”  

Draven’s nod was curt but resigned, though his eyes lingered on the wand with unease.  

Hermione gave a faint smile, her composure unwavering as she faced forward again.    

Kingsley gestured to the court clerk, who rose with their wand in hand. The clerk’s expression was professional but tinged with apprehension as they approached Hermione.  

“Raise your wand hand,” the clerk instructed, their voice clipped and precise.  

Hermione complied without hesitation, lifting her right hand. Her fingers were steady, her composure unshaken, despite the intensity of the room’s focus on her.  

Pointing their wand at Hermione, the clerk cast the ancient incantation to bind her words, the tip of the wand glowing faintly gold.  

“Do you swear by magic and law that the testimony you are about to give is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”  

“I swear,” Hermione replied, her voice clear and steady, carrying through the chamber with resolute certainty.  

The air shimmered faintly around her as the oath took hold. The golden glow at the wand’s tip intensified, radiating a brilliant light that filled the chamber. It was expected to fade as confirmation of her truth, signaling that the oath had been accepted.  

Hermione’s calm demeanor remained as Kingsley continued, his tone formal. 

“State your name.”  

“Hermione Jean Granger,” she began, her voice measured and unflinching. “daughter of Richard and Helen Granger.”

The glow of the wand, however, did not waver or fade as it should have. Instead, it continued to radiate, the brilliance of its light drawing tense murmurs from the gallery. The tension in the room thickened, suspicion swirling as the members of the Wizengamot exchanged sharp glances.  

Whispers erupted.  

“She’s lying!”  

“The oath is rejecting her!”  

The clerk’s grip tightened on the wand as their brow furrowed, their gaze flicking nervously between Hermione and Kingsley. 

The room braced itself for something to happen—for the ancient magic of the oath to exact its punishment.  

But before anyone could speak or act, Hermione added, her voice unwavering, 

“Head Lady of the Noble House of Granger—the reestablished and reformed house of the Ancient and Noble House of Peverell.”  

As the words left her lips, the golden light surrounding the wand shimmered one last time before fading entirely. The oath had been sealed, the magic satisfied.  

The silence in the room was deafening, the weight of her statement hanging heavy in the air. The murmurs ceased, replaced by wide-eyed stares and slack jaws as the realization settled in.

A stunned silence swept the chamber.

It was quickly followed by an eruption of whispers and exclamations, louder and more incredulous than before. 

“Peverell?” one Wizengamot member hissed in disbelief. “It’s absurd!”

“That house hasn’t had an heir in centuries!” another exclaimed, rising slightly from his seat.

“The Peverell magic has been dead for over 700 years!”

“No one, not even the purest of bloodlines, could awaken it!” someone bellowed from across the room.

“It’s impossible!” a witch from the Noble House of Rosier interjected, her sharp gaze locked on Hermione. “The House of Peverell has been dormant for generations because its family magic rejected every named heir. Since the early 14th century, no one has been able to claim it—no pureblood, no descended wizarding family, no one!”

Hermione stood unfazed, her unwavering gaze sweeping across the chamber as the skepticism mounted. 

She had expected this reaction. 

Another voice, an older witch with deep-set eyes and the distinct insignia of an ancient house on her robes, stood next.

“The Peverell family’s magic has long been acknowledged as lost. Rejected heirs, crumbling estates, and diminishing magical strength were signs of its decline. By the early 14th century, it was gone entirely, the family scattered and their name a relic of history.” Her sharp tone turned accusatory. “And now, you claim to have restored it? Such a claim would be laughable if it were not such an affront to the Wizengamot’s intelligence.”  

“Exactly!” another ancient family member interjected, his voice dripping with disdain. “For you—a Muggleborn—to have restored it? How is that even possible? Family magic such as the Peverells does not choose a Muggleborn!”  

Hermione’s gaze remained impassive as she absorbed the accusations, but the murmurs of disbelief were unrelenting.  

“It’s absurd,” another member of the Wizengamot sneered. “The House of Peverell is dead, its magic all but extinguished.”  

“The House of Peverell’s line dwindled and ultimately faded because its family magic grew weak!” a voice bellowed from a corner. 

It belonged to an older member of an ancient house, his lined face twisted in skepticism. 

He rose to his feet, his tone dripping with scorn. 

“By the 13th century, it was already rejecting heirs left and right, refusing to bond with anyone who claimed the name. Ignotus Peverell was the last heir accepted by the family magic after the deaths of his brothers, and even his son and descendants were rejected outright. The house has been dormant for centuries! You’re a Muggleborn, for Merlin’s sake! How could the magic have possibly accepted you?”

At that, a younger Wizengamot member sharply interrupted, his voice rising above the growing disarray. “And on top of that, how did you manage to fool the Oath of Veritas, then? We all know how binding that oath is! No one can lie under its magic, not even a Muggleborn!”

The entire room fell silent for a moment, the accusation hanging in the air like a palpable weight. 

Many turned to look at the young woman in front of them, their disbelief now magnified by the question of how someone who was clearly lying—or so they believed—could have passed the Oath of Veritas. 

To most, it was unthinkable.  

“Impossible,” another member muttered under their breath, wondering how she could have possibly managed such a thing.

The murmurs grew louder, questions and accusations flooding the chamber. 

“What trickery is this? How did you manage to deceive the Oath?” 

“You can’t possibly claim that magic would accept you over centuries of rejected heirs!” 

“No Muggleborn could ever perform such a feat. Tell us how you did it!”

Hermione took a slow, steady breath, her expression resolute. Despite the noise around her, she remained calm, unshaken.  

“I did not deceive the Oath of Veritas,” Hermione said, her voice unwavering as it cut through the murmur of doubt. “The oath does not lie. The magic has accepted me because I am the rightful heir to the House of Peverell, despite my blood status. It has chosen me, and I stand before you, bound by the Oath, telling you the truth.”  

The tension in the room was palpable, the whispers and skepticism still lingering in the air, but Hermione’s words were firm.

The chamber continued to erupt into chaos, disbelief and anger crackling like a storm in the air.

“She can’t possibly be claiming that the family magic of one of the oldest wizarding lines—one that outright rejects imposters—would bond to her?”

“Ladyship of Peverell to a Muggleborn? Nonsense!”

“She’s spitting in the face of every wizard and witch descended from an ancient house!”

A harsh murmur of agreement rippled through the chamber, and whispers of “charlatan” and “farce” echoed among the gallery. But then, one voice rose above the rest, sharp and accusing.

“If the Oath of Veritas was meant to accept only the truth,” the Wizengamot member said, his voice biting, “then how do we explain the lie that has clearly passed through? This cannot be trusted anymore!” 

Draco’s jaw clenched, frustration simmering beneath the surface. He had kept quiet the whole time, his nerves on edge since Hermione took the Oath of Veritas. He wanted to call it off—not because he didn’t trust her, but because the weight of it felt too much. The Oath, the stakes, the scrutiny—it unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

As the questioning continued, his grey eyes darkened. The chain on his wrist creaked as he tightened his fist, suppressing the urge to lash out. This was Hermione’s moment, and he wouldn’t ruin it.

Fools. 

The proof was right there, yet they still doubted.

How could they not see it? 

The Oath of Veritas had confirmed her claim, and they continued to question it out of their own prejudice.

The chain on his wrist creaked again as he clenched his fist tighter. 

He could feel the weight of the room's judgment pressing down on him, on them both, and it ignited something deep within him—a drive to make them see, to make them understand that Hermione wasn't just anyone. She wasn’t a "charlatan," as they'd said.

His fingers twitched, longing to break free, but he stayed still. The last thing he wanted was to disrupt her control over the room. 

She didn’t need him to fight her battles—not here, not now.

Hermione, however, remained unshaken, her voice calm as she continued, and the weight of her words silenced his frustrations, at least for the moment.

“I do not deny my blood status,” she began, her voice cutting through the murmurs. “Nor do I seek to justify it to those who would use it to undermine me. But my claim stands. The family magic of the Peverells chose to awaken, and it chose me.”

Her words did little to quell the murmurs.

“The Peverell magic rejected heirs for centuries!” bellowed a wizard from another ancient house. “You expect us to believe it accepted someone outside the bloodline entirely?”

Hermione straightened, her tone calm but firm. “No, I do not expect you to take my word for it, I expect this court to honor the oath.” 

She paused, her unwavering gaze sweeping across the chamber as the murmurs of disbelief rippled around her before she continued.

“The House of Peverell’s magic has been documented and studied by Unspeakables, as is standard for any ancient line believed to be dormant. The Department of Mysteries has confirmed my claim, and the ancient house, long lost, was reestablished under my stewardship.”

A particularly haughty wizard from a neighboring ancient house sneered. “Even if we entertain this ludicrous claim, that title is earned through lineage and recognition by magical law—neither of which you possess!”

“My claim and title are legitimate and recognized within my reality.” Hermione replied calmly. “The House of Peverell, though dormant for centuries, never truly died. Its line was never broken, only waiting for its rightful successor. Through my efforts, the house was not only reclaimed but reformed—its values and legacy adapted to reflect the modern age.”

The murmurings grew louder, skepticism and outright anger rippling through the chamber.

“The absurdity compounds itself!” another added angrily. “Even if the house accepted you, claiming the title of Lady of Peverell does not grant you true legitimacy. You cannot simply rename it and claim authority.”

Kingsley raised a hand sharply, his voice booming, “Enough!”

But the murmurs did not subside. Another Wizengamot member stood up, his voice full of scorn.

“Do you really think we’ll take your word for it just because you somehow managed to fool the Oath of Veritas?” The old man sneered. “This is beyond belief. The House of Peverell has been dormant for a millennium, its magic rejecting heir after heir. And yet, you stand here claiming it chose you? How do you explain this absurdity? How do you explain the impossible feat of fooling the oath that binds every word spoken in this chamber?”

Hermione’s gaze remained steady, her expression calm as she took in the challenge. 

“I understand the skepticism,” she said, her voice unwavering, “but my title and position are secondary to the matter at hand. My presence here is not to debate my legitimacy but to ensure that justice is served for Lord Draco Malfoy.”

Her words silenced some of the murmurs, but the older members of the Wizengamot—particularly those from other ancient houses—continued to bristle.

“Legitimacy is everything in this matter!” shouted the Rosier representative. “You cannot simply expect us to ignore centuries of history and accept your claim without question—with or without the oath!”

Hermione let out a soft sigh, a flicker of irritation flashing across her face before she forced it away. She hadn’t wanted to address this here—it was irrelevant to the matter at hand—but the ancient houses were making it a farce.

“I understand your doubts,” she began, her voice steady and composed. “However, since you appear to believe I possess the power to deceive the ancient Oath of Veritas, permit me to clarify: The Oath is infallible; it does not deceive, nor can it be subverted. Its magic is absolute. What you are perceiving as a ‘feat’ is, in fact, the truth. The Oath does not only bind words but also acknowledges the magic that underpins them. It accepted my claim because I did not lie to it. What you deem ‘impossible’ is simply the undeniable reality of my heritage, my title, and the magic that has chosen me.”

She paused, her gaze sweeping across the room.

“Now, if you are still intent on questioning me, I suggest you first question the Oath of Veritas itself—because that is the magic that stands behind every word I speak.”

The chamber fell silent, the tension in the air thick. Hermione’s words hung heavily in the room, as the weight of her calm defiance settled over the chamber.

She surveyed the room, her gaze sweeping across the skeptical faces of the Wizengamot. The older members, particularly those from ancient houses, looked as if they were preparing to protest once again, eager to dwell on her blood status and heritage—matters that were entirely irrelevant to the case at hand.

Hermione’s expression remained steady, but her patience was clearly wearing thin. 

“But as you seem intent on dwelling on the history of the Peverells rather than the case before us,” she began, her voice cool, “allow me to provide clarity.”

She straightened, her voice taking on the measured cadence of a formal recitation.

“The House of Peverell began its decline in the late 12th century, during the time of Eryndor Peverell, a named heir. It became apparent during his youth that he possessed no magical ability—a squib. This discovery was a great scandal, and as was custom at the time, he was obliviated and cast out of the family with nothing but his name. He was sent to live among Muggles with no knowledge of his heritage or of our world.”

Gasps rippled through the chamber, but Hermione continued without pause.

“However, despite this rejection, Eryndor Peverell was not formally removed as heir. His younger brother assumed the role of heir presumptive, but the family magic weakened over time, rejecting subsequent heirs. By the late 13th century, after the death of its last accepted heir: Ignotus Peverell, no member of the Peverell family could claim the title, and the house fell into dormancy. Oblivious to these events, Eryndor lived among Muggles, his branch of the family producing no magical descendants for centuries.”

She paused, her gaze sweeping the stunned faces before her. 

“By the 20th century, the Peverell name had disappeared from his branch entirely, replaced through marriage. In this line—many generations later—I was born.”

Another round of gasps echoed through the room.

“You’re claiming to be a squib’s descendant?” an incredulous voice demanded.

“I am,” Hermione said firmly. “I may possess little to no Peverell blood, but blood was never the determining factor. The Peverell family magic recognized the traces of the ancient magic within mine, which traces back to the rightful heir of the House—an heir who, though a squib, carried the true magic of the Peverells. It was this magic, not blood, that the family magic detected, and it is what accepted me as the rightful heir.”

“What nonsense is this?” a Wizengamot member barked.

“It is not nonsense,” Hermione countered, her tone growing colder. “The family magic of the Peverells recognized the strength of my magical core, and through a family ritual performed in my second year, I was named heir. That is how I became Head Lady of the Noble House of Peverell.”

Her gaze swept the room, her voice now edged with something sharp. 

“Or are the members of this Wizengamot so blinded by their own biases that they refuse to accept anything that challenges their worldview?” She paused, her eyes narrowing as she took in the members who had been refuting her claims. “I have heard little about this reality, save for the war that was clearly rooted in deep prejudice. It seems that, despite the lessons learned from those trials, some of you have yet to grasp the true meaning of those events.”

The room fell silent, the weight of her words hanging heavily in the air as the Wizengamot absorbed the sting of her statement.

The chamber was stunned into silence.

Kingsley’s voice cut through the cold atmosphere, his tone shifting as he leaned forward slightly, breaking the tension. 

“A family ritual? Performed by a second-year student?” He asked, his voice tinged with a mix of disbelief and curiosity, his question momentarily thawing the chill that had taken over the room.

Hermione’s lips twitched slightly, almost a smile. 

“Curiosity can be dangerous, Minister.”

Draco, still bound in chains, let out a faint chuckle, drawing a few startled glances. Hermione ignored it and continued, her tone steady.

“I became aware of my heritage only during the summer after my first year.” She started. “Unlike my initial visit, where I was accompanied by Professor McGonagall and my parents as part of my introduction to the wizarding world, I went to Gringotts alone. My only intention was to exchange Muggle currency for wizarding money. Instead, a goblin approached me, inquiring about the key to the Peverell vault.”

The murmurs quieted, the weight of her revelation drawing the room into silence.

“I was understandably confused,” Hermione continued. “This unexpected inquiry led me to investigate my family lineage. During this time, Draco and I corresponded frequently. By then, he had assumed the title of Lord Malfoy.”

The same Wizengamot member frowned, his tone incredulous. “Assumed the Malfoy lordship? That’s preposterous! The title traditionally passes either through the death of the head of the house or their formal abdication. The young Malfoy wouldn’t have been of age!”

Hermione’s expression did not waver as she replied, “The circumstances surrounding Lord Malfoy’s ascension are not my story to tell. I would advise the court not to delve into his family's private matters which even I don't have the right to divulge.”

The chamber erupted with murmurs, but Kingsley’s sharp gaze and a subtle raise of his hand restored order. His expression carried a clear warning to the other members, and no one dared press further. Hermione continued, unperturbed.

“After uncovering the existence of the Peverell vault, Lord Malfoy and I began an investigation into the Peverell lineage. Through his mother’s connections to the Black family, we gained access to several records and journals. The Black family was known for documenting the histories and weaknesses of other prominent families. Within those records, that's where we found the existence of Eryndor Peverell, the outcast heir—a squib—who carried the true magic of the Peverells but was sent to live in the Muggle world, erased from magical society and the family records.”

She paused, allowing the weight of her words to settle over the court. 

“With the aid of Gringotts—renowned for their expertise in identifying traces of family magic, no matter how the Peverell blood had been diluted in mine over the years—it was confirmed that I carried the essence of the Peverell magic through his long dormant line.” Her gaze landed briefly on the whispering Winzengamot members before continuing. “The goblins also disclosed the existence of a ritual, one designed to awaken and claim dormant family magic, a ritual they deemed I was uniquely suited to perform.”

Another member of the Wizengamot leaned forward, his face etched with disbelief. 

“And you performed this ritual? At your age?”

“Yes,” Hermione replied evenly. “We returned to Hogwarts for our second year with the knowledge of the ritual. On the night of the full moon, Lord Malfoy and I performed it in an unused classroom. The ritual awakened the dormant family magic and recognized me as the rightful heir.”

She took a slow breath before continuing, her voice steady. 

“The ritual, however, was not without danger. We were unaware of its full implications at the time, but in hindsight, I acknowledge it was a significant error on our part. We were just children, driven by a curious desire to uncover the truth of our findings. It was reckless, yes, and as such, we were caught.” 

She paused briefly, her expression softening with the memory. 

“His mother, Lady Malfoy, was understandably furious when she learned of our actions. She had always expected her son to be more cautious, especially regarding matters as volatile as ancient rituals. She made it clear that had anything gone awry, the consequences could have been dire—perhaps even fatal—for one of us.”

Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly, but her tone remained composed. 

“Nonetheless, by the time we were discovered, the ritual had already been completed. For the first time in centuries, the Peverell records came to life, and as soon as I was accepted by the Peverell family magic, my name was written into the ancient scrolls.”

Her gaze swept over the room, her words deliberate. 

“The chaos that followed was... immense. The wizarding world, particularly the pureblood families descended from the Peverell line, were in an uproar.”

She chuckled, amusement flickering in her eyes before it disappeared in a flash, replaced by a cool and steady gaze as she continued.

“They all asked and demanded the same thing; how could a witch, with so little of the Peverell blood remaining, be granted the title of Head Lady and rightful heir?” She said, her tone almost mocking. "I’m sure some of them almost subjected me to swear to the oath of veritas.”

Some of the Wizengamot avoided her gaze, while others glared at her directly.

“None of them had been able to claim such a position.” She continued, head held high as she pointedly ignored them. “However, this led to several trials, in which my claim was scrutinized and questioned at length. In the end, however, it was proven beyond doubt that my claim was legitimate, and none could deny it.”

She paused, her gaze resting pointedly on some of the Wizards and Witches who had so vehemently opposed her earlier. 

"And I was offered a seat in the Wizengamot, a rare honor extended to me as a descendant of a noble and ancient line. Though the Peverell house had long since died out by the late 13th century, the gesture acknowledges my lineage and potential. The seat now awaits my decision, to be claimed when I reach the age required to take my place among the council.”

She exhaled, the weight of her words lingering in the air. 

“It became undeniable, especially after I reclaimed the Peverell estate in Berkshire.”

At the mention of the Peverell estate, several members of the Wizengamot visibly stiffened, their eyes widening in shock.

The estate was infamous for being unreachable since the death of the last known accepted heir, its powerful wards forcibly expelling all who attempted to claim it.

“The estate, closed off for centuries, accepted me as its mistress. The ancient wards, untouched for centuries, awakened and recognized me upon my arrival.”

The chamber erupted again, some members exclaiming in disbelief while others demanded proof. Kingsley raised his hand once more, his commanding presence silencing the chaos.

Kingsley’s gaze lingered on Hermione for a long moment before he spoke, his voice firm and unwavering.

“This is a remarkable claim, Miss Granger. Extraordinary, even. However, the Oath of Veritas is beyond question.” 

He then turned his gaze to the Wizengamot. 

“Let it be known that anyone in this trial who continues to bring up matters irrelevant to the case at hand, particularly the issue of Lady Granger's heritage, will be silenced for the remainder of these proceedings. We will proceed without further disruption.”

Kingsley’s voice then echoed through the chamber as he straightened in his seat, his expression resolute. 

“The trial will now commence,” he declared. “Lady Granger, you may proceed.”

Hermione inclined her head gracefully, her composure unbroken. The room, though still heavy with tension, quieted as all eyes turned toward her.

“To begin,” Kingsley continued, his tone formal, “I ask you to provide an overview of your reality. What are the significant differences compared to ours?”

Hermione inclined her head. “Of course, Minister. In my reality, history unfolded much the same until the events of October 31, 1981, at Godric’s Hollow. That night, Voldemort attempted to kill Harry Potter but was defeated by the magic protecting him. Unlike in this reality, Voldemort did not rise again. He remained vanquished, and the wizarding world rebuilt itself without the shadow of another war.”

Her calm explanation was met with faint murmurs of disbelief and amazement rippling through the courtroom. 

Kingsley raised his hand, silencing the noise, and leaned forward slightly.  

“And how did you come to know Draco Malfoy?”  

Hermione’s lips tilted slightly at the corners, an almost imperceptible smile.  

“Draco Malfoy and I met during our first year at Hogwarts, where we became friends.”  

The courtroom erupted into murmurs of disbelief.  

“That’s impossible!” a Wizengamot member exclaimed, his voice thick with incredulity. “The Malfoys have always upheld their prejudices!”  

Another member scoffed. “Perhaps he befriended her because he knew of her heritage. It wouldn’t be the first time a Malfoy used manipulation for personal gain.”  

“And you’re certain this wasn’t the Malfoys’ plan from the start?” a middle-aged witch interjected, her narrowed eyes fixed on Hermione. “That Draco Malfoy did not befriended you to use you for his own purposes?”  

Hermione almost scoffed, her exasperation evident in the faint roll of her eyes—a gesture subtle yet unmissable.  

“Trust me, it was not. Draco Malfoy was particularly difficult to shake off during our first year,” she replied evenly. “I assure you, I was hardly part of any plan he may have had.”  

Her tone remained formal, though a hint of impatience lingered beneath the surface as she continued under her breath.

“Even the professors can attest to that.”

A murmur swept through the courtroom as the questions shifted. 

A senior Wizengamot member, a wiry man with a hawkish nose, leaned forward.  

“And what, Lady Peverell”—Hermione’s lips twitched slightly, but she refrained from correcting him immediately—“is your connection to the Malfoys? It seems unusual for someone of your standing to cross into another reality solely for the sake of the young Malfoy. Furthermore, you’ve been granted representation of the family on behalf of Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy. What exactly is your role here?”  

Hermione’s gaze sharpened slightly, though her voice remained measured as she responded. 

“Lady Granger,” she corrected calmly. “As for my connection to the Malfoys, it is true that I share a unique bond with the family in my reality. However, my presence here is not arbitrary. Before I crossed into this reality, we were informed of the situation that had befallen the Malfoys in this world.”  

She paused, allowing the courtroom to settle before continuing. 

“Given the gravity of the situation, the Malfoy matriarch and patriarch decided it was best if I, rather than they, would come here to retrieve their son and investigate the cause of the soul displacement. It was a pragmatic decision, one supported by logic and necessity.”  

Her tone grew slightly firmer, though still formal. 

“The soul displacement is unprecedented, even baffling to the Department of Mysteries in my reality. They were not alerted to it at the time of its occurrence, an anomaly that raised significant concern. The situation only came to light when the former Lord Malfoy and I approached the Department, seeking their aid to understand and resolve the matter.”  

The room grew quieter as Hermione’s words sank in, the implications of a mystery that even the Department of Mysteries struggled to comprehend casting an uneasy silence over the courtroom.  

Murmurs once again rippled through the Wizengamot. 

Many turned their attention toward the two Unspeakables, Cassiopeia Vane and Elias Draven, awaiting their confirmation.  

Kingsley Shacklebolt’s gaze shifted to the pair. 

“Unspeakables, do you affirm Lady Granger’s claim?”  

Vane inclined her head, her tone steady and composed. 

“Yes, Minister. Lady Granger’s account is accurate,” Vane affirmed, her tone steady. “The Department of Mysteries in her reality only reached out to us after they had successfully traced the magic and soul signature of Lord Draco Malfoy. It was through extensive investigation and collaboration on their end that the anomaly was pinpointed to this reality.”  

“The communication between our departments began once their findings were verified,” Draven added, his voice measured. “However, this process was not immediate. Tracing the displacement required navigating both magical and temporal anomalies, which delayed their ability to alert us. By the time we were informed, the Malfoys in this reality were already under legal scrutiny, necessitating swift action on our part.”  

Vane’s expression softened slightly as she continued.

“Our priority was ensuring Lady Granger’s safe passage and verifying the legitimacy of her claims before presenting her to this court. The complexity of this matter demands a collaborative approach, and we are committed to resolving it with the utmost diligence.”  

She paused, allowing the weight of her words to settle over the room.

“The cause of the displacement remains a mystery. The nature of inter-reality anomalies is extraordinarily complex, and the unprecedented nature of this case leaves much to be understood. Both Lady Granger and the young Lord Malfoy are expected to assist with the ongoing investigation and research into this phenomenon, not only to uncover the origin of the event but also to ensure that such an anomaly does not occur again—or, at the very least, to develop measures to prevent its repetition.”  

The chamber quieted as the Unspeakables’ testimony settled over the room. Their words added weight to Hermione’s account, painting a picture of urgency and precision that underscored the gravity of the situation.

The chamber quieted as another question was raised. 

“Lady Granger, it's been mentioned several times that you were the one who discovered the anomaly. Could you please explain how this came to your attention?”

Hermione’s gaze grew distant for a moment as she recalled the events. Her voice remained steady, though the weight of the memory was evident in her calm tone. 

“It began on the second of May.”  

At the mention of the date, the room grew still, the significance of that day unmistakable. 

It marked the end of the Second Wizarding War and the fall of the Dark Lord.  

Hermione continued, her words measured. 

“At the time, Lord Malfoy and I were working together in preparation of our potions project when he suddenly turned pale and collapsed. At first, I thought he had merely fainted, but when I realized he wasn’t breathing, I attempted to get him to the hospital wing.” She paused, allowing the gravity of the situation to settle before continuing.  

“However, he regained consciousness violently, shouting incoherently about some war and demanding to know where his parents were. His behavior was unrecognizable, and his agitation quickly turned aggressive.” 

A brief pause followed, Hermione’s words measured and deliberate.

“In the heat of the moment, I had to subdue him and brought him to Madam Pomfrey for care. Even then, his actions continued to raise alarm, and I knew something was deeply wrong.”

Her gaze swept the room, her tone unwavering. 

“Observing him from a distance, I saw how his behavior were cold and disconnected, as if he didn’t recognize the world around him.” She paused briefly, as if gathering her thoughts before she spoke again.

“Suspecting something far beyond a medical issue, I sought help from Professor Severus Snape.”

The room went silent at the mention of Snape’s name.

Snape, the Potions Master, had died in the war, and his true loyalty had only been revealed posthumously.

“With Snape’s expertise, I was able to summon guidance.” She continued. “Together, we delved into Draco’s mind and uncovered evidence of a foreign presence within him, confirming my worst fears. This revelation led me to contact his parents, Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy, explaining the gravity of the situation.”

Hermione continued, her voice steady but tinged with a faint trace of weariness.

“Lucius arrived at Hogwarts to speak with me, and together we agreed to seek assistance from the Department of Mysteries. With their intervention, we began piecing together the mystery surrounding Draco’s condition, though the full truth remained elusive. This collaboration set us on a path to uncover the forces at play and the strange circumstances that had taken hold of Draco Malfoy.”

The chamber fell into a heavy silence, the tension palpable as Hermione’s words settled. For a moment, no one spoke, the weight of her account hanging heavily in the air.  

That was until an elderly member of the Wizengamot—whose sharp eyes had been lingering on both Draco, bound in chains, and Hermione, standing resolute in crimson robes—finally broke the silence.  

“Forgive me for being frank, Lady Granger,” he started, his eyes darting at the two of them. “but will you enlighten us about the exact nature of your relationship with the young Lord Malfoy?”  

Hermione’s gaze flicked toward him, her composure unwavering. 

She paused, allowing a beat to pass before replying, her tone crisp and formal. “I fail to see how that is relevant to the case at hand.”  

The elderly wizard leaned forward slightly, his voice even, his shocking gold eyes not leaving hers. 

“It is highly relevant, Lady Granger. The nature of your connection to the accused is critical to understanding potential biases or motivations. It is important to determine if your testimony—or your efforts on his behalf—are influenced by personal interests rather than objective facts.”  

Hermione’s eyes darted briefly toward Kingsley, but he made no move to interject. 

The chamber remained silent, all eyes fixed on her, awaiting her response. 

With a faint sigh, she inclined her head, her words measured. 

“The young Lord Malfoy and I have been friends since our first year at Hogwarts. But by the late third year, that friendship... has blossomed into something more.”  

Her statement was met with a ripple of sharp murmurs, some incredulous, others disapproving.  

“So he’s your beau?” a blunt voice interrupted from the back.  

Hermione did not flinch, nor did she deny it. Her silence on the matter was as much an answer as the words she had spoken.  

This admission sent a wave of uproar through the chamber. Accusations flew quickly, one voice louder than the others. 

“How can we trust your judgment when you’re clearly biased? You are romantically involved with him—how can we be certain you aren’t covering for him?”  

Another chimed in, sharper still. 

“How can we be sure the Draco Malfoy of your reality hasn’t committed similar acts to the one standing before us? How can you guarantee he’s not just as dangerous?”  

The accusations continued, each one harsher than the last.  

“What assurance do we have that if we release him into your custody, he won’t pose a threat to our reality? The Draco Malfoy of this world has committed grave acts—how do we know this one isn’t equally capable of harm?”  

The chamber descended into chaos, voices overlapping as tensions reached a boiling point. All the while, Hermione remained silent, her expression unreadable as she waited for the noise to subside. 

When the tumult lessened, her voice cut through the room, clear and steady. 

“You should not let your perception of the Draco Malfoy from this reality paint your judgment of the one from mine. They are not the same person, and to conflate them does a disservice to justice and reason.”  

She paused, her gaze sweeping over the chamber, her tone carrying the weight of her disappointment. 

“And I must admit, I am disheartened by the conduct of this court. Despite the evidence presented, despite the testimony, many of you seem unable to look past your own biases and beliefs. You doubt the existence of other realities, you doubt my heritage, and now you doubt the very possibility of difference between two versions of the same man. Such narrow thinking does not reflect the impartiality or wisdom expected of a body as esteemed as the Wizengamot.”  

Her words provoked an immediate uproar. Several members of the Wizengamot shouted angrily, their faces flushed with indignation.  

“You don’t understand the weight of our position!” one of them bellowed, his voice echoing through the chamber. “The wizarding world is still recovering from the devastation of the Second Wizarding War!”  

“You speak of disappointment?” another snapped, his eyes blazing. “You come here, from a reality untouched by the horrors we endured, and dare to lecture us on how we should act?”  

“How can someone so young, someone who has not seen the aftermath of our losses, expect to comprehend the fragility of our world?” another shouted, his tone dripping with scorn.  

Hermione stood firm, her composure unshaken as the room descended into heated accusations, but her gaze darkened ever so slightly, the faintest flicker of irritation breaking her calm exterior.  

“If you cannot provide sufficient proof or a compelling reason for us to trust your words and the Draco Malfoy standing before us,” one Wizengamot member declared sharply, his voice cutting through the noise, “then we cannot, in good conscience, allow his release.”  

The chamber erupted into murmurs of agreement, the tension palpable.  

Unspeakable Vane’s eyes narrowed, her tone clipped as she interjected, “By refusing to comply, you are directly challenging the authority of the Department of Mysteries. It would do well to remind this court that, under the binding terms of the Department of Mysteries’ Secrecy Vow, neither you nor any member present here has the jurisdiction to interfere with or question the Department’s decisions, with the exception of the Minister.”  

The same Wizengamot member who had spoken earlier stood defiantly. 

“If my objection results in the loss of these memories, then so be it!” He shouted angrily, firmly standing his ground. “I would rather that than risk this reality’s wizarding world facing another calamity akin to the war.”  

The tension in the chamber simmered, with murmurs intensifying and some voices rising in agreement while others hissed in disapproval. The weight of the oath and the lingering trauma of the war bore down on everyone present, creating an atmosphere charged with conflict.

The Unspeakables remained silent, acknowledging the situation without further words, understanding that the man who had objected would be dealt with by the Vow once the proceedings concluded.

Hermione, however, could feel her patience eroding with each passing second. Her irritation, though masked by her calm exterior, was becoming more difficult to hide. 

The endless back-and-forth, the stubbornness of the Wizengamot, and the unyielding nature of their skepticism made her blood simmer. 

She stood, waiting for the inevitable shift in the room. 

The atmosphere grew increasingly tense until, finally, Kingsley’s voice cut through the noise.

“Lady Granger,” he said, his tone softening just a fraction, “Would you manage to provide assurance about this Draco Malfoy?”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. 

She had heard the same arguments, the same accusations repeated far too many times, and she knew they would only continue to spiral in circles. 

She felt it was pointless to waste more breath on them. Instead, without acknowledging Kingsley directly, she turned her back to him and stepped towards Draco.

As she walked toward him, the chamber fell eerily silent. 

Every eye followed her movements, but Hermione’s focus remained solely on the young man bound before her. When she reached him, she stopped, her gaze meeting his—silver eyes locking with brown, a silent communication passing between them. 

It was a brief but intense moment, one that seemed to strip away the weight of the trial, leaving only the two of them in that space. 

Her voice, though quiet, cut through the silence of the room. “Do you trust me?”

Draco, still restrained by the chains that held him in place, looked up at her with a steady expression. 

His gaze softened for the briefest moment, as though he were taking in the gravity of the moment, and then he spoke, his voice firm and unwavering. 

“Always.”

The simplicity of his response was enough. 

It was a vow in itself, an unspoken promise that settled the air around them. 

Hermione nodded, her heart resolute. 

She turned back to face the Wizengamot, the room falling into a tense silence. 

The weight of their scrutiny hung in the air, but she was beyond the need for further explanations. It was time for the trial to end.

“What are the charges against Draco Malfoy in this reality?” she asked, her voice calm yet carrying an unmistakable finality.

The members of the Wizengamot paused, startled by her question, before one of them cleared his throat and began reading the charges aloud.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy is accused of numerous crimes committed during the Second Wizarding War. These include aiding Death Eaters in their infiltration of Hogwarts, attempting the murder of Albus Dumbledore, and endangering lives through the cursed necklace and poisoned mead. He is also charged with casting the Imperius Curse and performing the Cruciatus Curse on students under the Carrows’ regime."

The list of accusations seemed to hang in the air, the gravity of each charge settling in the room like a heavy cloud. 

There was a brief silence, the Wizengamot watching Hermione closely as they awaited her response.

Without breaking her gaze from the court, Hermione's hand moved to her robes pocket. The sound of soft rustling filled the air as she withdrew her wand—a wand that, to the keen eye, was clearly of a similar wand to that of the Hermione Granger of this reality has.

The Aurors, who had been standing back at their stations, tensed at the sight. The room erupted in alarm, shouts of protest ringing out as they immediately took a defensive position, preparing for what they believed was an imminent threat.

But Hermione’s actions were swift and deliberate. She did not raise her wand to cast a spell or make any threatening motion. In a single, fluid motion, she knelt down on one knee, her posture graceful yet commanding. 

With lightning speed, Hermione drove the tip of her wand into the marbled floor of the chamber, embedding it into the stone with a sharp, resounding impact. The sound reverberated through the room like the toll of a bell, commanding absolute silence. 

For a heartbeat, the chamber remained still. Then, a wave of magic surged outward from her wand. It rippled across the green marble tiles like a shockwave, a force so strong it seemed to breathe life into the ancient courtroom. 

The faintly translucent tiles, long dormant, glowed brilliantly, revealing intricate carvings etched beneath their surfaces—runes of an ancient, forgotten enchantment. 

The glow spread rapidly, climbing up the cold stone walls to illuminate every corner of the chamber. Torches flickered as the magic reached them, their flames burning brighter as if awakened by the room's sudden resurgence of power.

The air grew thick with magic, heavy and oppressive, as the runes lining the walls and ceiling ignited, glowing with blinding intensity. 

The ancient courtroom pulsed with life, its forgotten enchantments roaring back to power. 

On the chair in the center of the chamber, the chains binding Draco Malfoy responded. They began to glow, the metallic links radiating the same brilliant light as the runes, their magic crackling with undeniable authority.

Gasps echoed throughout the room. 

Narcissa Malfoy, still seated beside her shackled husband, Lucius, grew pale. Her face contorted with recognition and dread as she jumped to her feet, her voice trembling with alarm.  

“No! No!” she cried, her words breaking through the stunned silence. 

Her protests were frantic, filled with a fear that sent chills through those who heard her.  

Lucius Malfoy, his hands bound in shackles, watched in wide-eyed shock as the long-dormant magic enveloped the courtroom. 

Others, particularly members of the Wizengamot from ancient families, shared her reaction. 

Whispers of disbelief and fear broke out among them, their faces pale as they recognized the nature of the magic.

This was not ordinary magic—it was the AletheianBind, a long-unused enchantment tied to the very foundation of the Ministry’s judicial system. 

Established centuries ago, the courtroom had been imbued with this magic by one of the Ministry’s founding members, who sought to ensure that absolute justice would prevail. The enchantment was designed to compel truth and eliminate deception, as the chains themselves instilled a primal fear—few dared to lie while bound by their unyielding grasp.

The chains that bound the accused would detect any falsehoods, and the penalty for lying within them was far greater than the loss of magic—it was the loss of one's very soul. 

Such was the severity of the enchantment that it had fallen into obscurity. 

Many Chief Warlocks, wary of its implications, hesitated to invoke it, deeming it too extreme for even the gravest of trials. 

Its use had become exceedingly rare, with the last recorded instance dating back to the late 19th century, a time when the wizarding world grappled with its darker traditions. 

Since then, it had remained a relic of the past, its power dormant—until now.

The glow of the runes reflected in Lady Granger’s steady eyes as she straightened and turned to face Draco Malfoy. The chamber, bathed in brilliant light, fell silent once more as all eyes were fixed on the two of them. 

Draco, still bound in the chair, met her gaze. The faint glow of the chains wrapped around him flickered with ominous energy. Hermione’s movements were deliberate as she took a step closer, the magic of the chamber humming around them.

The courtroom held its collective breath, the tension palpable as the ancient enchantment demanded truth—and nothing less.  

Her voice was cold, formal, and unwavering as she addressed him. 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, you are accused of aiding Death Eaters in their infiltration of Hogwarts, attempting the murder of Albus Dumbledore, endangering lives through the cursed necklace and poisoned mead, and casting both the Imperius and Cruciatus Curses on students under the Carrows’ regime. Are you guilty of these charges?”  

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the faint hum of the chains glowing brighter. 

The magic in the room seemed to hold its breath alongside the gathered assembly, all eyes fixed on the young man bound in the center.  

Draco’s voice, strong and steady, broke through. 

“No.”  

For a moment, nothing happened. 

Then, without warning, the chains around him shone with a blinding brilliance. Draco flinched, his body jerking back as the chains tightened violently, wrapping around him with a relentless force. 

He gasped sharply, his head snapping back against the chair as the metal links constricted, pressing against his chest and arms, squeezing the breath out of him.  

A collective gasp rippled through the room, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the horrified faces of the Wizengamot. 

Narcissa Malfoy’s voice rang out, a desperate, anguished cry.

Hermione stood still, her expression composed, but a flicker of panic flashed in her eyes for the briefest of moments. Her hands clenched at her sides as she watched him struggle, his face reddening from the lack of air. 

Sweat dripped from his temples, a bulging vein on his forehead betraying the strain as the chains mercilessly held him in place.  

The tension in the room reached a fever pitch as the chains shimmered again, their magic seemingly undecided, the glow wavering and unsteady. 

Then, with a deafening clang, the chains fell away, collapsing onto the stone floor in a lifeless heap.  

The faint clinking of metal against marble echoed through the silent room.  

The glow that had consumed the chamber began to recede, the magical energy dissipating as swiftly as it had appeared. 

Draco leaned forward, his chest heaving as he gulped in air, his fingers digging into the arms of the chair. His breaths were ragged, loud in the unnatural quiet that had overtaken the room.  

The courtroom remained frozen, every eye locked on him, the weight of what had just transpired sinking into the stunned assembly.

The silence was broken by the sharp click of heels against the cold stone floor as 

Hermione stepped forward, wand drawn. Each step echoed through the chamber, reverberating against the ancient walls. She stopped a few feet from Draco, her gaze unwavering as she raised her wand, the tip pointed directly at him.  

In a voice that carried through the courtroom, she intoned, "IuroVeritatem." 

The ancient spell of the Oath of Veritas rolled off her tongue, its power unmistakable.

The tip of her wand flared gold, illuminating her face and casting long shadows on the chamber's dark walls.  

The room remained still, every eye fixed on her and the gasping man before her. 

Her voice was steady, formal, and sharp. 

“State your name.”  

Draco remained leaned forward, his breaths still ragged and uneven, the aftermath of the chains’ magic evident in every movement. 

It took him a moment to speak, his voice hoarse and wheezy. 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” he began, pausing to draw in another desperate breath. “Son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.”  

He exhaled shakily, taking a few more labored breaths before continuing, “Lord of the Noble House of Malfoy.”  

The golden light at the tip of Hermione’s wand dimmed slightly, signaling the magic’s acceptance of his answer. 

Yet, she did not lower her wand. The glow lingered, pulsing softly, and her gaze remained fixed on him.  

Her next question came, sharp and deliberate. 

“Will you pose a threat to the wizarding world of this reality?”  

The chamber tensed, every ear straining to catch his answer. 

Draco, still gasping for air, managed to rasp, “No, I will not.”  

But the golden light did not fade. It lingered, steady and unwavering. 

A murmur rippled through the room, but no one dared to speak aloud.  

Draco’s chest heaved as he struggled for breath. 

After a moment, he added, “No harm shall fall in this world.”  

There was another pause, the glow flickering faintly, as though it were waiting for more. 

Slowly, he raised his head, his silver eyes locking with Hermione’s. 

Despite his labored breathing, his gaze was firm, unwavering. 

“If no harm shall befall on you.” He finished, his voice rasping but resolute.  

The golden glow immediately extinguished, fading into nothingness. The spell was complete, its magic satisfied.  

Hermione lowered her wand. 

Draco slumped forward once more, his head lowering as he focused on catching his breath, the sound of his labored inhalations filling the otherwise silent chamber.  

Draco felt as though the air had been sucked out of his lungs, leaving behind a bitter cold that seeped into his very core. 

His body that was not his own—felt heavy, his chest tight, and his lungs burning with the effort to draw breath. 

Each inhale was sharp, icy, and unforgiving, as though the chains had stolen not just his freedom but every ounce of warmth in him.  

So this is what she meant about the chains being more than a restraining tool, he thought grimly, struggling to regain his bearings.  

His fingers remained locked around the arms of the chair, clutching the wood so tightly it felt as though his grip might leave dents. 

Time stretched endlessly as he stayed hunched over, his ragged gasps echoing throughout the silent chamber. Every sound, every movement, seemed distant, muffled, and he missed the telltale clicking of heels approaching him once more.  

It wasn’t until he felt the warmth against his face that his head jerked slightly, startled. His unfocused gaze flickered upward, and he realized Hermione was standing there.  

Her hands were on his face, gentle but firm, her palms radiating a warmth that cut through the chill that gripped him. Her touch was grounding, her presence steady and unwavering as she cupped his face and tilted it slightly upward.  

For a moment, he simply blinked, dazed and breathless. When she had first appeared, the weight of her presence had been overwhelming. Seeing her, hearing her, had felt like an impossibility he couldn’t comprehend.  

But now, as her hands steadied him and her warm brown eyes met his, the reality of it began to sink in. She was here—not an illusion, not a dream. Hermione—his Hermione—was standing before him, holding his face with the same care and determination she’d always had.  

And for the first time since this trial began, Draco felt like he could breathe again.

But the bitter truth crashed over him as his senses began to clear.  

This wasn’t his body.  

This was the body of the Draco Malfoy from this universe—the one who had been a slave to his father’s ideals, who had followed orders blindly, who had stood by and watched as the Hermione of this reality was tortured and done nothing.  

A sharp pang of guilt cut through him, and he recoiled, his hands weakly pulling at hers in an attempt to stop her from touching him. 

“No,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and barely audible. “Don’t… touch him.”  

His words were broken, almost incoherent, but the meaning was clear. He wasn’t talking about himself—he was talking about the version of him that this body belonged to. The version he despised.  

“Don’t touch someone so… filthy,” he muttered, his hands trembling as he tried to pry her fingers away. 

His movements were feeble, his strength sapped by the chains and the trial, but the desperation in his actions was unmistakable. 

He couldn’t bear the thought of her touching this body—that version of himself.  

Hermione didn’t move, her hands steady on his face despite his weak attempts to pull away. Her expression softened, her eyes searching his, as if anchoring him to the present.  

A moment later, Draco froze when one of Hermione’s hands left his face, and a wave of panic surged through him as he felt her fingers reach for his left sleeve.  

“No.” He whispered, his voice taut with fear. 

He jerked back slightly, weakly attempting to pull his arm away, but Hermione was unyielding. 

Her grip was firm, her expression resolute as she pushed the sleeve up, exposing the Dark Mark branded on the skin. 

The black ink of the mark seemed to pulse faintly under the chamber’s dim light, a cruel reminder of the reality he was trapped in. Draco tensed, his entire body rigid as he braced himself for her reaction. 

He couldn’t look at her, his shame too overwhelming, his breath catching in his throat as he awaited condemnation—or worse, disgust.  

But instead, a soft, almost mournful voice broke through the suffocating silence.  

“Oh, Draco,” Hermione whispered, the words gentle yet heavy with understanding.  

Her hand returned to his face, tilting it upward so his eyes—haunted and filled with anguish—met hers. Her gaze was steady, her touch grounding.  

“It’s not you.” She said softly, her voice imbued with unwavering certainty. “This isn’t you. This isn’t your body, your mark, or your choices. None of this is you, Draco.”  

The words struck something deep within him, a fragile part of himself he had kept locked away. 

The toll of the past weeks—the isolation, the accusations, the unrelenting weight of a reality that wasn’t his own—finally caught up to him. 

A weak, broken sound escaped his lips, somewhere between a sob and a gasp.  

His trembling hands reached up, covering hers as they cupped his face, clinging to her touch as if it was the only thing tethering him to sanity. Silent tears began to fall, his shoulders shaking as he let go of the walls he had so desperately tried to hold up.  

Hermione’s expression softened further, and without hesitation, she moved closer. 

Standing firm, she leaned down, wrapping her arms around him in a protective embrace.  

Draco didn’t hesitate. 

He buried his face into her shoulder, his arms wrapping around her tightly, as though afraid she might vanish if he let go. 

Silent sobs wracked his body, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to cry.  

Hermione held him, her hand gently stroking his back as she murmured softly, words of comfort meant only for him. 

It didn’t matter that the room was filled with people or that all eyes were on them. 

In this moment, it was just the two of them, and Hermione’s presence was the only thing anchoring him to the ground.  

It took a long moment, but Draco’s trembling eventually stilled, his breathing slowing as the last of his tears subsided. 

Hermione held him for a beat longer before they both gently pulled away. Her hands remained on his face, her thumbs softly brushing away the tear tracks on his cheeks. 

Their gazes met, and a small, fragile smile passed between them, unspoken words lingering in the shared look.  

Draco’s hand lifted, covering hers again, and with a weak but genuine attempt at humor, he murmured, “I draw the line at kissing, though.”  

The corners of Hermione’s lips twitched, and a soft chuckle escaped her. 

Her face scrunched slightly, warmth flickering in her eyes as she responded fondly, “Noted.”  

She brushed her thumb gently across his cheek, her touch still delicate, before they both leaned forward, foreheads meeting. 

Their eyes slid shut, the world falling away for a fleeting moment as they savored the fragile connection between them.  

But the moment was brief. Hermione’s expression shifted, the warmth fading as a steely resolve replaced it. 

She straightened, her hands falling away as Draco let her go, sitting back in the chair with quiet composure.  

Hermione turned to face the Wizengamot once more, her presence commanding as she raised her chin, her anger now unmistakably clear in her sharp, unwavering gaze.  

The room was heavy with tension, many members avoiding her eyes or fidgeting uncomfortably in their seats, unwilling to meet the fury in her expression.  

“Is that enough proof, Minister?” Hermione’s voice cut through the silence like a blade, her words carrying the weight of indignation and finality.

The chamber was silent for a moment. No one spoke, and not a single member of the Wizengamot dared to challenge Hermione’s pointed words.  

Finally, Kingsley broke the stillness, his voice steady and deliberate. “Unspeakables Vane and Draven, step forward.” 

The two Unspeakables moved without hesitation, their expressions professional, though Vane’s annoyance was still faintly visible in her tightened jaw. 

They stopped a few feet from Kingsley, their black robes barely stirring in the charged atmosphere of the courtroom.  

Kingsley addressed them directly. “Can the Department of Mysteries ensure that the necessary steps will be taken to resolve this matter?”  

Vane gave a curt nod, her voice calm but tinged with a sharpness she didn’t bother to mask. “Rest assured, Minister, the Department of Mysteries will do what is required—though it hardly requires the Ministry’s permission to proceed.”  

Her remark lingered in the air, but Kingsley merely nodded, choosing to let it pass without comment. 

Draven, standing beside her, subtly elbowed her arm in a silent reminder of decorum.  

Kingsley turned back to the court, his commanding presence silencing any potential dissent. 

“The trial of Draco Lucius Malfoy is hereby suspended under the authority of the Department of Mysteries. The Ministry will remain compliant with their directives until this matter is resolved.”  

From the stands, a nervous voice interrupted, cutting through the heavy silence. It was the same Wizengamot member who had earlier defied the Department’s Secrecy Vow. Panic edged his tone as he addressed the Unspeakables. “What will happen to me? I—I only spoke out for the good of our world!”  

Unspeakable Vane turned toward him, her expression deadpan and unimpressed. 

“Your memories of these proceedings will, of course, be removed,” she said flatly, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.  

The man erupted into a furious protest, his voice rising as others in the chamber looked on uncomfortably. 

Before his shouts could escalate further, a silencing charm was cast on him from somewhere in the courtroom. His lips moved furiously, but no sound emerged, though his indignation was evident in his flushed face.  

Kingsley ignored the disruption, turning instead to Draco, who still sat in the chair, his breathing steadying after the earlier ordeal. 

“Young Lord Malfoy,” Kingsley said, his tone more formal now, “the Ministry shall entrust you and Lady Granger with the task of resolving this anomaly. Until such time as the matter is resolved, you are free to go.”  

The weight of the statement hung in the air as all eyes turned to Draco and Hermione, the chamber buzzing with a mix of tension, relief, and unresolved questions.  

Hermione exhaled softly, her shoulders sagging as though a great burden had been lifted. 

The confident, unyielding demeanor she had maintained throughout the trial seemed to fade, replaced by the fragility of someone who had pushed herself too far. 

Her voice, faint and barely above a whisper, escaped her lips. 

“Thank goodness...”  

Then, as if all the strength had drained from her body, her knees buckled. Her face turned an ashen grey, and a wave of alarm rippled through the chamber as she began to collapse.  

Draco was on his feet in an instant, catching her before she hit the ground. His arms wrapped around her limp frame, his silver eyes wide with panic.

“Hermione!” Draco’s voice was sharp, his voice cracking with fear as he pulled her limp form into his arms. 

His silver eyes, wide and filled with fear, darted over her pale face as he held her close. 

“What’s wrong? Talk to me!”  

His mind raced, every worst-case scenario crashing into him at once. 

Had the strain of the trial been too much? Had the magic she cast taken a toll he didn’t understand? 

Or worse—was this because of him? Because she had crossed realities to save him, risking herself in the process?  

His grip on her tightened as a wave of guilt surged through him. 

Why didn’t I notice sooner? he berated himself, his thoughts spiraling. 

He should have seen it—the signs of her exhaustion, the moments she swayed ever so slightly, the faint ashen tint to her skin. She had been holding herself together for his sake, and he had been too consumed by his own anguish to notice.  

Because she was fine just moments ago, but the memory of her standing tall, her voice cutting through the court with such strength, clashed violently with the image of her now, fragile and limp in his arms. 

The weight of everything hit him all at once. 

This wasn’t just about the trial or the accusations—it was about her, and how much she had sacrificed. The idea that she might have pushed herself beyond her limit for him was almost too much to bear. 

“Hermione, please.” He whispered, his voice trembling now, barely audible as he looked down at her unmoving face. “Don’t do this. Not for me. I’m not worth it.”  

His breaths quickened as he searched her face for any sign, any flicker of reassurance, but she remained still.

Every breath he took felt heavier, the pressure in his chest threatening to crush him as his thoughts spiraled further. 

She crossed realities for you. She risked everything for you. And what did you do? Stand there like a coward while she shouldered it all. 

A cold dread pooled in his stomach, and for a split second, he was certain he’d lose her.

He shook his head, trying to push the thoughts away, but they clung to him like a vice. The courtroom, the murmurs, the stares—none of it mattered anymore. 

All that mattered was the fragile, too-still figure in his arms.

But before his panic could escalate, Unspeakable Vane stepped forward, her voice calm and assuring. 

“Lord Malfoy, please don’t panic,” she said softly, her tone soothing yet firm. “Lady Granger has been pushing herself beyond her limits since arriving in this reality. She came directly to these dungeons for the trial without giving us time to stabilize her magic. Between that and the strain of the ancient magic she invoked, it’s a wonder she held up as well as she did.”  

Unspeakable Draven added, his tone equally composed, “She simply needs rest. Her magic is exhausted, but it will recover with time. She’ll be fine.”  

Draco let out a shaky breath of relief, though his face remained pale. 

He glanced down at Hermione’s still form, her face unnervingly pale against the crimson of her robes. 

“You really know how to make me worry, don’t you?” he muttered softly, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.  

Adjusting his grip, Draco began to rise, cradling Hermione protectively in his arms. 

But his body, still weak from the ordeal with the chains, faltered slightly. He stumbled, nearly losing his hold on her.  

Several Aurors stepped forward to offer assistance, but Draco’s sharp glare stopped them in their tracks. 

The memory of their treatment of him—mocking, dismissive, and cruel—was still fresh in his mind. 

His voice was cold and curt as he spoke, the words formal but dripping with disdain. 

“No, thank you. I can manage.”  

As Draco tightened his hold on Hermione, Unspeakable Vane stepped closer, her voice calm yet carrying a note of authority. 

“Lord Malfoy, for now, both of you will remain under the care of the Aurors until we can arrange more suitable accommodations. Given the circumstances, both the Malfoy Manor and the Peverell Estate are out of the question in this reality.”  

Draco’s jaw clenched, but he nodded tersely, his silver eyes not leaving Hermione’s pale face.  

“We’ll reach out to you once Lady Granger has fully recovered,” Vane added, her tone softening slightly. “She’ll need time to regain her strength, and both of you will need rest before continuing to assist with the investigation.”  

Draco didn’t respond immediately, his focus solely on the woman in his arms. Then, with a curt nod, he straightened himself, holding Hermione closer.  

His expression was hard and unyielding as he turned, every step he took radiating determination. 

He carried her from the chamber without a word, ignoring the eyes that followed him and the whispers that began to rise once more.

As Draco turned to leave, his grip on Hermione protective and unrelenting, his gaze briefly met Narcissa Malfoy’s across the room. 

Her expression was unreadable—icy and composed, yet her sharp blue eyes lingered on him with something he couldn’t quite place.  

The moment passed as quickly as it came.  

Draco’s focus returned to the path ahead, his steps unwavering as he carried Hermione toward the exit. 

The Aurors flanked him, guiding him out of the chamber. 

The heavy oak doors groaned as they swung shut behind them, the sound echoing through the ancient courtroom. 

A faint shimmer ran across the wood’s surface, sealing the room once more.