Cold Water

Hermione sat in the audience stand of the courtroom, flanked by Harry and Ron, her attention fixed on the trial unfolding before her. 

The heavy atmosphere of the chamber pressed down on her shoulders, a mix of tension and disbelief rippling through the air. 

She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so utterly out of her depth.  

Harry was fidgeting with his ebony-rimmed glasses, the faint gleam of light reflecting off the frames as he tilted his head, adjusting them repeatedly as though the action might somehow bring clarity to the chaos before them.

Ron, on her other side, was fidgeting with his free hand, his knee bouncing in an anxious rhythm that betrayed his struggle to keep still. His other hand was clasped tightly with Hermione’s, a gesture of shared unease that neither of them acknowledged aloud.

The trial, with its peculiar and unexpected revelations, had sent not only Hermione but everyone in the room into a whirlwind of confusion and disbelief. It was as though their entire perception of reality had been upended, replaced with questions too vast to comprehend.  

Her mind briefly drifted back to her fifth year, to the moment when Professor McGonagall had called her into her office to discuss her career aspirations and determine which subjects she should focus on for her OWLs and the upcoming NEWTs. At the time, Hermione had been torn. She couldn’t quite envision herself working for the Ministry—too much bureaucracy for her liking—but if she ever did, her interest was piqued by the Department of Mysteries. 

The allure of their research, delving into magical theory, secrets of the universe, and even the whispers of alternate realities, had captivated her. She had questioned the feasibility of such concepts, fascinated yet skeptical, dismissing the idea of alternate worlds as little more than academic curiosities.

Now, sitting in the courtroom, the possibility of those theories being true seemed utterly impossible—and yet, here she was, facing a situation that defied all logic, and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the figure standing in front of the Wizengamot. 

It was like looking into a distorted mirror. 

There was no denying that this other woman was her—at least in appearance—but everything else about her seemed... alien.  

This Hermione carried herself with an elegance and grace that Hermione could scarcely imagine possessing. Her expression was unreadable, a cold mask that betrayed none of the inner turmoil Hermione herself felt so acutely. The air surrounding her was palpable—commanding, almost regal. 

What set her apart even more was the faint yet undeniable sense of magic that clung to her like a second skin, impossible to describe yet impossible to ignore. Hermione could feel it, and by the way the rest of the room seemed to hold its collective breath, she knew they could feel it too. 

It was cold, sharp, and utterly unforgiving—a presence that seemed to chill the air and amplify the tension in the room. It was something beyond comprehension, a manifestation of power and purpose that demanded attention, respect, and perhaps even fear.

And she stood there, dressed in robes unlike any Hermione had seen before. 

They were crimson, tailored in a cut far closer to a Muggle trench coat than the flowing wizard robes Hermione has seen traditional wizards and witches wear—yet distinctly unique. The embroidery decorating the fabric was intricate but muted, catching the light in subtle ways that added to the overall air of refinement. Beneath the robes, she wore a formal sweater of the same shade of red, its high neckline covering her throat completely, paired with impeccably pressed black trousers. 

A pair of sharp black heels, impossibly high—taller than anything Hermione had ever dared to wear—completed the look. The kind of heels that seemed more suited for fashion magazines than practicality.  

Her hair, usually a source of frustration for Hermione, was tamed into a sleek French twist. Not a strand was out of place. 

Her nails—long and impeccably almond shaped—were painted with a meticulous care and precision that bordered on perfection. They gleamed in a deep burgundy that flawlessly matched her outfit—except for the pointer finger on her right hand, which was painted in a bold neon green. The unexpected pop of color seemed almost out of place, jarring against the otherwise polished presentation. And yet, somehow, it worked—an eccentric flourish that only added to the air of intrigue surrounding her that made Hermione feel painfully aware of her own bitten nails, her scuffed shoes, and her simple—but formal and practical—clothes. 

This Hermione—this version of herself—was so far removed from the person she knew she was. 

Sitting there, watching her other self address the Wizengamot, Hermione couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of disorientation. It was as if she had stepped out of another life entirely—which she kind of did—a life Hermione could hardly imagine living—a Hermione that exuded an air of someone who had faced the world and bent it to her will.

An heiress of a long-extinct and barren Peverell family line—a family associated with some of the most powerful and mysterious magic in wizarding history. Someone who has reclaimed their legacy, or at least twisted it into something entirely her own—the Noble House of Granger.

This woman—this very woman she's looking at—despite being a Muggleborn like herself—was nothing like the person Hermione came to be in this reality.

The stark contrast between her simple, practical life—until the war—and this version of herself, surrounded by such ancient power, was enough to make Hermione feel like an outsider in her own skin.

How could this woman, wearing the same face yet so different, possibly be also her?  

And yet, here they were. 

Two versions of the same person, separated by more than just their appearance. 

It was unsettling. It was mesmerizing. 

And it was terrifying.

Then there was the baffling connection between this Hermione and Draco Malfoy—apparently Lord Malfoy now—who had helped her uncover the truth of her ancestry and—based from what she gathered from her other self’s story—stood by her side in ways that Hermione could scarcely comprehend. 

Even just from what Hermione could see from the outside, there was a sense of partnership and mutual respect between them, something far deeper than the complicated and often adversarial relationship she had known with the Malfoy she knew and grew up with. 

No.

This other Hermione and Malfoy appeared to be united in a way that suggested they had weathered the most unimaginable storms together, their connection solidified by shared experiences, trust, and loyalty.

Their bond wasn’t defined by hatred or rivalry, as hers had been. 

All her life, ever since she found out she was a witch at the age of 11 and was thrust into the Wizarding World, Draco Malfoy had been nothing more than a bully—someone who had taunted her and her friends throughout their Hogwarts years, treating them as inferior, and making her life harder than it had to be. He had seemed to relish every opportunity to put her down or remind her of her place in his world. 

But this other Hermione had crossed between different realities to find him. She hadn’t come to confront him or to prove her worth to him, but to protect him—to fight for him.

And Hermione couldn’t help but feel that, based on what she had seen so far, whoever this Malfoy could be—would absolutely do the same for her.

She could still recall the haunting moment that is entirely out of the ordinary—for everyone in her reality that is—when Malfoy, bound tightly in chains, reacted rather violently when Kingsley Shacklebolt had demanded that the other Hermione swear upon the oath of Veritas, something so dangerous that any lie would result in the loss of magic. It was an act that terrified even the bravest of witches and wizards, and Malfoy had been visibly affected by it—she could still hear the distant echo of the rattling of the enchanted chains.

His face had gone pale, yet his eyes were aflame with undeniable rage.

He had shouted in protest, vehemently declaring that she—the other Hermione—did not need to prove anything to them. His words had been full of uncontrolled panic, his voice thick with defiance and protective anger, as though the very idea of her being subjected to such a dangerous and invasive ritual was intolerable.

And yet, this other Hermione had simply looked at him and softly whispered to him to trust her—something which Malfoy had visibly hesitated at, his emotions a tumultuous mix of fear and loyalty, but he had nodded. 

But despite this, Hermione could tell that if it meant protecting her other self, that Malfoy would have torn through those enchanted chains without a second thought.

On Hermione's left, Harry Potter sat motionless, his jaw tight, his free hand clenched into fist that rested on his knee. 

Though his posture was controlled, the tension radiating from him was unmistakable. 

His emerald eyes were fixed on the woman standing before the Wizengamot—a woman who looked and sounded like Hermione, yet felt utterly different.

Red. That was what he had begun calling her in his head, and it wasn’t just because of her striking crimson attire that stood out starkly against the muted tones of the courtroom—as if she wore it to deliberately draw all the attention to herself, to command the room without a single spell or shouted word but with her raw presence alone—and the effect was unnerving, even for Harry—but no. That's not the reason why he calls her that.

He needed a way to separate this Hermione from their Hermione, the one he’d shared adventures, arguments, and countless moments of quiet camaraderie with over the years. The nickname helped him maintain some semblance of clarity in the whirlwind of emotions that had overtaken him since this trial began.

Hermione—their Hermione—was confident and brave, but this version of her… Was a force unlike anything he’d ever encountered.

She was commanding, deliberate, and unflinching in a way that set her apart from everyone else in the room.

Every movement, every glance, every carefully chosen word seemed meticulously calculated to seize and hold everyone's attention. 

Hermione—their Hermione—was bold, yes. She stood up to Umbridge, caught, imprisoned, and blackmailed Rita Skeeter, formed Dumbledore’s Army, and took risks that had shaped the outcome of the war.

She had always been brilliant. 

Brave. 

Determined. 

Clever. 

Loyal. 

But this Hermione was all of that and more—honed, sharpened, like a blade forged in fire.

And as she stood there, Harry couldn’t help but feel the smallest flicker of unease.

And, most jarringly, Draco Malfoy.

Harry’s gaze flicked briefly to the chained figure sitting to one side of the chamber, his face pale but his grey eyes burning with something indefinable—anger? Fear? Maybe both. Malfoy had been nearly as much of an enigma during this trial as Red herself.

Harry’s thoughts snapped back to the present as Kingsley Shacklebolt’s voice echoed through the courtroom, his deep baritone carrying a mixture of formality and genuine curiosity.

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

Red nodded, her expression composed, her voice smooth and steady as she replied.

“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.”

Harry felt as though the breath had been knocked from his lungs. 

A world without Voldemort? Defeated? Gone for good?

No Horcrux hunt.

No deaths.

No war 

It was impossible to imagine.

Murmurs of disbelief and amazement rippled through the courtroom but Harry barely registered it. 

His mind was racing, imagining a world where he might've lived a normal life despite the death of his parents, where Sirius might have been free, where countless lives might have been spared.

But even as those images filled his mind, another part of him recoiled. 

For all the tragedy and pain, the battles and losses, his life had been shaped by the struggle against Voldemort. It was a part of him, inseparable from his identity. 

To imagine a world without it felt as alien as Red herself.

Kingsley’s voice interrupted Harry’s thoughts. 

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

Harry’s stomach tensed. That was the question he’d been turning over in his mind ever since this bizarre trial began. 

It was one thing to learn that Red came from another reality—let alone learn about the existence of other realities at all. But it was still another thing to learn that she had crossed dimensions for that blond git.

It was difficult to reconcile the idea of any Hermione risking so much for Malfoy of all people.

Red’s lips curved ever so slightly into what could almost be called a smile, though to Harry, it felt more like a calculated response than genuine warmth. 

She tilted her head slightly, her calm demeanor making the room feel even more charged.

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

The courtroom exploded into a cacophony of disbelief. Gasps, muttered exclamations, and outright protests rippled through the chamber.

Harry felt Hermione’s hand tighten around his. On her other side, Ron’s grip mirrored hers. None of the trio said anything, but the silent gesture was enough to ground Harry as the world seemed to tilt around them.

Friends. Since first year.

Harry’s mind reeled back to the Hogwarts Express, to the moment where he met Malfoy for the second time. The blond had offered his hand in friendship, smug and self-assured, and Harry had rejected it without hesitation. 

At the time, it had been an easy decision—Malfoy’s disdain for Ron and arrogance had made it clear where his loyalties lay… And Malfoy had taken the snub personally, their enmity solidifying from that moment on.

But in Red’s world? Malfoy and Hermione were friends—from the start.

Harry struggled to picture it. He thought back to all the times Malfoy had insulted Hermione, mocked her blood status, and made their lives miserable. 

How much of their reality would have been different if Malfoy had chosen differently? If Hermione had been his friend instead?

His mind turned uncomfortably toward the war. 

If their friendship had changed Malfoy’s beliefs, could it have prevented the war altogether? Was that the key difference between the two realities—that Malfoy hadn’t embraced his family’s prejudices? 

Harry couldn’t ignore the uneasy possibility that this was somehow true.

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

Harry flinched at the question. It mirrored his own doubts, despite himself. 

After all, it wasn’t hard to imagine Malfoy scheming to align himself with someone so powerful. With Red’s heritage—her connection to the Peverell family—a fact that still sounded completely mad to Harry, he couldn’t help but wonder if this trial was even real. 

For a brief, uneasy moment, he questioned if it might be a side effect of the Sleeping Draught he’d been taking almost every night.  

The thought made his cheeks burn with shame. He’d kept the potion a secret, unwilling to admit to anyone, even Ron or Hermione, how much the nights plagued him—the restless hours, the vivid nightmares, the ghostly echoes of the war he couldn’t silence.  

He hated needing it. Hated the dependency that seemed to grow with each passing week. But rebuilding the wizarding world while carrying the weight of so many losses left little room for rest. The potion was the only thing that granted him the semblance of peace he needed to keep going.  

And yet, sitting here now, watching this Hermione—Red—command the courtroom, her Peverell heritage an accepted fact in her reality, Harry couldn’t help but wonder if the draught was clouding his grip on what was real.  

Because surely, this—Hermione crossing realities for Draco Malfoy—was far too absurd to be true. 

Wasn’t it?

He glanced at Red, his green eyes searching for any hint of insincerity.

Red’s response was immediate, and for the first time, a flicker of exasperation crossed her otherwise calm features. She rolled her eyes faintly, the subtle gesture still managing to convey her frustration.

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

Her tone remained controlled, but Harry caught the faintest trace of impatience in her words.

“Even the professors can attest to that,” she muttered under her breath, though her words were loud enough to carry through the courtroom.

Despite himself, Harry almost smirked. 

Some things never change, he thought wryly. 

Even in another reality, Hermione couldn’t resist adding a cutting remark when the situation warranted it.

The courtroom’s focus sharpened as a senior Wizengamot member questioned Red’s connection to the Malfoys. 

Her calm correction of her title and her explanation of the anomaly hushed the room. She outlined how the Malfoys in her world entrusted her with Draco, citing the unprecedented nature of the soul displacement and the collaboration of their Department of Mysteries.

Harry’s gaze flicked to the Malfoys of this reality—Lucius and Narcissa, sitting apart from the group with unreadable expressions. 

The irony wasn’t lost on him. 

In Red’s world, they’d entrusted their son to Hermione. Here, their prejudice had led to their fall from grace.

When Kingsley sought the testimony of the Unspeakables, their confirmation of Red’s account only deepened the courtroom’s stillness. 

They detailed the complexities of cross-reality collaboration and the challenges of tracing such an anomaly, emphasizing the urgency of understanding and preventing future displacements.

The courtroom fell silent, the weight of their words pressing down on everyone present.

Harry’s thoughts lingered uneasily. 

The anomaly was unprecedented, the stakes enormous, but beneath it all, he couldn’t ignore the stark differences between their worlds—and the tantalizing possibility of what might have been.

The courtroom grew quiet as the next question was posed, drawing all eyes to Red.  

“Lady Granger, it’s been stated you were the one to discover the anomaly. Could you explain how this came to your attention?”  

Harry watched as her gaze turned momentarily distant, the weight of memory evident even in her composed expression. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady, though her words carried a quiet gravity.  

“It began on the second of May,” she said.  

A hush fell over the chamber at the mention of the date, its significance unmistakable. 

For Harry and everyone else in the room, it was the day Voldemort fell, marking the end of the war.  

As Red recounted the events, Harry felt his stomach twist. 

She described how Malfoy had collapsed while they were working together, his breathing stopped, and his behavior—once he regained consciousness—had been violent and confused. 

Harry couldn’t help but picture it: Malfoy, pale and disoriented, shouting about war and demanding to know where his parents were. The image didn’t align with the cold, haughty boy Harry had known, yet it was unnervingly easy to imagine.  

And yet, Harry’s mind drifted back to a different collapse, one that had probably happened at the same time only in the different setting, different reality: in the ruins of the Great Hall after the Battle of Hogwarts. 

He remembered the moment Draco Malfoy had fallen to the ground similar to the bodies of the fallen, his pale form motionless and his parents’ frantic screams cutting through the chaos. For one terrible moment, Harry had thought Malfoy was dead—his stillness as lifeless as the corpses of witches and wizards scattered around them.  

But then Malfoy had jolted awake, his breaths shallow and erratic, his expression sharp with confusion. Harry recalled how the young Slytherin had demanded answers with an air of arrogance that felt eerily out of place, snapping at everyone with questions as though he hadn’t just lived through a war that had just ended. 

There had been no recognition in his eyes, no memory of the events leading up to the battle.  

Even now, the image sent an uncomfortable shiver down Harry’s spine. It hadn’t made sense then, but hearing Red’s story now sent pieces of a puzzle clicking into place in a way that made his stomach churn. 

It explained the strange dissonance Harry had always felt about Malfoy after the war—the way his behavior seemed both familiar and alien, as though he wore the same face but was someone entirely different beneath it.

Red’s tone remained calm as she explained how she’d subdued Malfoy and brought him to Madam Pomfrey, though her words hinted at the panic she’d felt in the moment. Harry’s jaw tightened as she spoke of how his behavior had remained disconnected, his recognition of the world around him absent.  

When Red mentioned seeking help from Snape, Harry’s breath caught. 

Snape’s name still struck a nerve, even now. His mind flashed to the memories Snape had shared with him before his death—the truth of his loyalty, his sacrifices. The idea of Snape aiding Hermione in another reality felt strange, almost jarring.  

Her account continued, outlining how she and Snape uncovered the presence of something foreign within Malfoy’s mind. Harry could see the room’s collective tension rise as the implications settled over them.  

When Red spoke of contacting Malfoy’s parents and collaborating with the Department of Mysteries in her world, Harry’s gaze flicked once again to Lucius and Narcissa. 

They remained as still as statues, their expressions carefully blank 

The courtroom was utterly silent by the time Red finished speaking. And Harry found himself clenching his fists.

His gaze darted toward his friends from the corner of his eyes. 

Ron and Hermione were gripping each other’s hands tightly, their knuckles white. On her other side, Hermione’s free hand was in his grasp, her fingers trembling slightly as he clutched it just as tightly, his jaw set. She responded by squeezing back, grounding him.

He could feel the tension radiating off her, though she remained stoic in the face of Red’s testimony.   

The silence in the courtroom stretched, heavy and oppressive, until it was broken by the sharp voice of an elderly member of the Wizengamot. 

His piercing gold eyes flicked between Draco, bound in chains, and Hermione—Red—standing tall and resolute in her crimson robes.  

“Forgive me for being frank, Lady Granger,” the wizard began, his tone both polite and unyielding, “but will you enlighten us about the exact nature of your relationship with the young Lord Malfoy?”  

The question struck Harry like lightning, and he felt Hermione stiffened beside him. He could feel her breath hitch, though she said nothing, her eyes still fixed on Red.  

He looked back at the two—Red and Malfoy. The unspoken bond between them was palpable, a quiet understanding that didn’t need words. It gnawed at Harry, a thought he’d been trying to bury since the trial began, unwelcome and persistent—and he could tell Ron and Hermione had reached the same unsettling conclusion as he did. Yet, like him, they were denying it, shoving the possibility aside because it was too outlandish, too impossible to accept.

It was absurd. It was mad.

Whatever Red and Malfoy were, whatever history they shared—it couldn’t be what it seemed. It just couldn’t.

But could it?

But Red’s composure didn’t waver. Her gaze shifted toward the elderly wizard, and she let a beat of silence hang in the air before responding, her voice crisp and formal. 

“I fail to see how that is relevant to the case at hand.”  

The elderly man leaned forward slightly, his piercing eyes narrowing. 

“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.”  

Red’s eyes flicked briefly toward Kingsley, as though gauging whether he would intervene. But Kingsley remained silent, his expression inscrutable. 

Harry could feel the collective weight of the courtroom—including theirs—bearing down on her, their anticipation just as thick as it's suffocating. 

All eyes were fixed on Red as they awaited her response, yet she stood firm, allowing a faint sigh to escape her lips before inclining her head.

Her voice was steady, deliberate, and unflinching as she answered.

“The young Lord Malfoy and I have been friends since our first year at Hogwarts,” Red answered, as though she were simply reiterating something which Harry already knew, her tone unwavering. “But by the late third year, that friendship... has blossomed into something more.”  

Her words hit the room like a thunderclap, eliciting sharp murmurs from the gathered spectators.   

Harry’s stomach churned as the confirmation of what he had been dreading—what he had been silently suspecting—fell from Red’s lips. 

It was truly. 

Really. 

Absolutely. 

Horrifyingly.

Maddening.

It's rubbish.

The uproar in the chamber was instantaneous, and Harry barely registered the sharp murmurs of disbelief and outrage that followed Red’s admission. His own thoughts were spiraling too quickly

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

The question was so crass, so matter-of-fact, but she did not deny the accusation, nor did she confirm it. 

But her silence spoke volumes. Her unbroken gaze swept the room, meeting each pair of eyes with quiet defiance.

Harry felt his stomach churn as he watched the scene unfold. He hadn’t loosened his grip on Hermione’s hand, nor had Ron let go of hers on the other side. 

He glanced at his friends once again, both sitting beside him, their expressions mirroring his inner turmoil. Hermione’s face was pale, her lips pressed tightly together, while Ron’s ears had gone red, a clear sign of his discomfort. 

Neither of them spoke, but the tension between them was palpable, as if they too were grappling with the same maddening thoughts that had plagued Harry from the start.

How could this Hermione—Red—have chosen Malfoy? 

The thought stirred a mix of disbelief and a strange, unsettling sense of resignation within him. It was impossible to deny now, even though every fiber of his being wished it weren’t true.

The chamber was quickly descending into pandemonium.

“How can we trust your judgment when you’re clearly biased?” a sharp voice demanded, cutting through the noise. “You are romantically involved with him—how can we be certain you aren’t covering for him?”

Harry flinched at the accusation, his gaze snapping back to Red. She stood there, composed and silent, her crimson robes an almost defiant contrast to the growing hostility around her.

Another voice chimed in, even harsher. “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 flew fast and sharp, each one more pointed 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 noise in the chamber grew deafening, overlapping voices creating a cacophony of distrust and anger. 

But through it all, Red remained silent, her face unreadable and gaze steady. She waited patiently until the noise began to subside. She seemed to stand above it all, unshaken by the barrage of questions, her presence a calm in the storm.

When the tumult finally lessened, she spoke, her voice cutting through the chamber like a blade.

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

Harry felt a pang of shame at her words, her calm rebuke striking uncomfortably close. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from seeing Draco Malfoy as he always had—arrogant, cruel, dangerous. Even though he knew Red’s Draco was from a different reality, he had allowed his own biases to cloud his judgment, and now he wasn’t sure what to believe.

Red’s gaze swept the chamber, her disappointment evident in her measured tone. 

“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 struck like a hammer, and Harry could only stare. Beside him, Hermione gaped as she looked between Red and the angry faces of the Wizengamot.

Several members of the court erupted into angry shouts, their faces flushed with indignation. The chaos resumed, louder and more hostile than before, and Harry could only sit there, listening as the Wizengamot’s distrust spilled into every word. 

They accused Red of being naive, of not understanding the weight of the Second Wizarding War or the lingering scars it had left behind. One of them outright declared her unfit to lecture them, given she came from a reality untouched by their hardships. Another questioned how someone so young could grasp the fragility of their world.

Red stood her ground, her expression betrayed nothing, though Harry noticed a flicker in her eyes—irritation, subtle but unmistakable. He had seen that look countless times before in Hermione.

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

The chamber erupted into murmurs of agreement, the tension rippling like an unchecked tide. Harry swallowed hard, feeling the atmosphere shift, the room’s collective skepticism reaching a boiling point.

Beside him, Hermione shifted uneasily, her hand still on his. Ron’s expression was stony, his jaw clenched, but Harry could see something flicker in his eyes.

Then one of the Unspeakables, the witch—Harry can't remember her name—voice cut through, clipped and precise. 

“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.”

They saw the defiance in the eyes of the man, his posture rigid as he shouted, “If my objection results in the loss of these memories, then so be it! I would rather that than risk this reality’s wizarding world facing another calamity akin to the war.”

Harry looked back at Red. He could see her patience wearing thin, her composed demeanor straining under the relentless hostility. 

She didn’t respond, didn’t flinch, simply stood there as the storm raged around her, waiting for the room to exhaust itself.  

Finally, Kingsley spoke, his steady voice slicing through the noise.

“Lady Granger,” he said, his tone soft but firm. “Would you manage to provide assurance about this Draco Malfoy?”

His question—calm and measured—drew the chamber’s focus back to Red. Harry watched as her gaze shifted, her composure unbroken, but her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

For a brief moment, Harry thought she might refuse to answer altogether as her silence was deafening in its own way, more potent than any rebuttal she could have offered. He kept his eyes on her and noticed how her gaze darkened slightly, as if she had heard enough—it was written in the firmness of her stance, the subtle tightening of her jaw.  

Without a word, she turned her back to the Wizengamot, no longer acknowledging Kingsley. Her crimson robes trailing behind her as she stepped purposefully toward Malfoy. 

The sound of her shoes against the stone floor echoed sharply in the otherwise hushed chamber.  

Every eye in the room tracked her movement. The defiance in her act was unmistakable; she was no longer playing by their rules.  

When she reached Malfoy, she stopped, standing just inches from him. 

For a moment, she simply looked at him, her gaze locking onto his. Her face was unreadable, but there was something unmistakably deliberate in the way she studied him.  

Malfoy, still bound by the enchanted chains that glinted under the courtroom’s dim light, lifted his head to meet her gaze. 

Harry had seen that look before—the Malfoy composure, the stoicism that masked any hint of vulnerability. But now, there was something different. His silver eyes softened, his rigid posture easing ever so slightly, as if the weight of the chains was momentarily forgotten.  

The connection between them was tangible, a silent exchange that Harry couldn’t begin to decipher. It felt as though the air itself had shifted, the hostility of the room fading into the background.  

Her voice broke the silence, quiet but piercing. 

“Do you trust me?”  

The question hung in the air, simple yet loaded with meaning. Harry’s gaze flicked between them, his stomach twisting as he waited for Malfoy’s response.  

Malfoy's lips parted, his expression unchanging. 

He didn’t hesitate, didn’t falter, as he replied, his voice steady and clear. 

“Always.”  

The word carried more weight than Harry expected. It wasn’t just an answer—it was a declaration, an anchor amidst the chaos.  

Red inclined her head slightly, as if satisfied. 

Her composure didn’t waver, but Harry saw a flicker of something in her eyes—determination, maybe, or resolve.  

She turned back to face the Wizengamot, her movements precise and deliberate, her robes swaying slightly with each step. The chamber was silent, the tension coiled tightly, as though the room itself was holding its breath.  

Harry’s pulse quickened. He didn’t know what she would do next, but as he watched her stand there, unyielding in the face of everyone's judgment, he felt something unexpected—a faint, reluctant glimmer of admiration.

“What are the charges against Draco Malfoy in this reality?” She asked, her voice steady but carrying an edge of finality that cut through the tension like a knife.  

The Wizengamot members exchanged uneasy glances, their surprise evident. 

One of the elder members, his voice trembling slightly, cleared his throat and began reciting the list of charges once more.  

"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."  

Each charge hung in the air, heavy and damning, and Harry felt the familiar churn of anger and unease in his stomach.

Red didn’t react, her face a mask of impenetrable calm. But Harry noticed how her hand moved subtly, slipping into her robes and pulling out her wand. The motion, though fluid, sent a jolt through Harry. 

He tensed immediately, his fingers twitching toward his own wand. 

He wasn’t the only one; beside him, Hermione inhaled sharply, and Ron leaned forward, his eyes wide with alarm as his other arm came up on instinct as if to shield Hermione. 

The Aurors stationed around the chamber moved as one, their hands flying to their wands and aimed at Red in an instant. 

The suddenness of her action set the chamber on edge. Harry’s heart pounded as he watched her, his instincts screaming at him to prepare for the worst. 

Her stillness was unnerving in a way no outburst could ever be. It felt deliberate, like the silence before lightning strikes. She wasn’t defensive or startled by the sudden tension in the room—she owned it, as though she had anticipated every reaction, every panicked glance and drawn wand.

In fact, she didn’t look like a protector or an advocate anymore—she looked like a force of nature, something ancient and unyielding. The kind of presence that made people instinctively step back, not because they feared what she might do, but because they feared what she was capable of.

But she didn’t attack.   

Instead, with a fluid grace, she knelt down on one knee, her robes pooling around her. In a single sharp and deliberate motion, she drove the tip of her wand into the cold marble floor. A resonating crack echoed through the chamber, silencing the cacophony of voices.

Harry’s breath hitched as the courtroom seemed to shudder under the impact. 

A pulse of magic erupted from the point where her wand met the stone with an audible hum, rippling outward in waves and coursing through the translucent green marble tiles, lighting them with an eerie, brilliant glow.

Intricate runes blazed to life beneath the surface, their shapes twisting and writhing as though alive—as if it was left dormant for centuries and has been reawakened once more.

Harry watched in odd fascination as the light spread like wildfire, climbing the walls and illuminating the high ceiling, igniting ancient carvings that pulsed with an oppressive, almost malevolent energy. 

The torches along the perimeter blazed brighter, their flames twisting unnaturally but despite the growing flames, the air grew colder.

Harry shivered, the chill biting at his skin like the presence of a Dementor. It wasn’t just cold—it was heavy, sinister, as if the magic itself was a living thing pressing down on them.

On the chair in the center of the room, the chains binding Draco began to glow, their metallic links radiating the same blinding light. Sparks of magic crackled along their length, and Harry could feel the raw power thrumming from it, making his chest tighten.

Gasps rippled through the courtroom.

Narcissa Malfoy shot to her feet, her pale face contorted with fear. 

“No! No!” She cried, her voice breaking in a way that sent chills down Harry’s spine.

Her desperation was raw and heart-wrenching, a mother’s terror laid bare. Harry felt a lump rise in his throat as he watched her, her usual composure shattered. Her cries were frantic, her desperation filling the air with a haunting intensity.

Lucius Malfoy, usually stoic and composed, looked utterly stricken. His eyes, wide with disbelief, reflected the glow of the runes as he stared at the scene unfolding before him.

Harry glanced at the Wizengamot. 

Many of the older members looked just as pale, their faces twisted with fear and recognition. 

In the corner of his eye, he saw Arthur Weasley, deathly white, his lips pressed into a thin line.

He then glanced at Hermione, who was pale as well as the glowing runes.

“What’s happening?” Harry whispered hoarsely to her, his voice barely audible over the oppressive magic.

“I—I don’t know.” Hermione stammered, her usual composure slipping. “I don’t know, Harry. I’ve—I’ve never heard or read about this before…”

There was something unsettling in her tone—a rare admission of ignorance that only added to Harry’s unease.  

Ron, however, was transfixed. 

His face was slacked with horror, his blue eyes locked on the chains.

It was him who answered his best friend's question.

“It’s the Aletheian Bind.” He whispered, his voice shaky as he spoke, his freckles standing out starkly against his pale skin.

Harry blinked. 

“The what?”

Ron licked his lips nervously, his gaze still fixed on the chains.

“The Aletheian Bind.” He repeated. “I heard Percy talk about it once in third year. It's ancient courtroom magic, one the Wizengamot hasn’t used in decades—centuries, maybe. Said it was too barbaric.”

“Why?” Hermione asked, her voice sharp despite her fear.

Ron’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. 

“You can’t lie while under its influence. The magic forces the truth out of you... and if you do lie...” He trailed off, his face paling further.

“What happens, Ron?” Harry urged, the cold feeling in his chest growing stronger.

Ron’s eyes didn’t leave the chains. 

“It takes your soul.”

Harry’s stomach plummeted, the words hitting him like a punch. He turned back to the center of the room, the glow of the runes reflecting off Malfoy's pale face.

It wasn’t just a trial anymore—it was a reckoning.

His eyes flicked back to Red as she stood up and faced Malfoy once again with a cold and scary blank look on her face.

Her robes, deep and rich, seemed to absorb the light of the glowing runes, casting her in stark contrast against the tensed energy filling the courtroom. The edges of the fabric swayed faintly, the movement almost hypnotic, like flames dancing at the edge of a fire.

Malfoy, still bound in the chair, met her gaze. His expression was calm, devoid of the usual guardedness. There was no trace of doubt in his features—only an unshakable trust, as though whatever Red was about to do, he believed in her completely. The chains wrapped around him pulsed faintly, their ominous glow a constant reminder of the ancient magic at play.

Red moved deliberately as she took a single step closer to the center of the room. The hum of the chamber’s magic seemed to rise in intensity, as though acknowledging her presence.  

The courtroom collectively held its breath, every eye fixed on the two figures in the middle of the courtroom. 

Harry’s heart raced, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.  

When Red spoke, her voice was cold, formal, and unwavering. Each word fell like a hammer in the silent room.  

“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 suffocating. Even the faint hum of the enchanted chains seemed to pause, the magic holding its breath alongside the gathered assembly.  

Malfoy’s voice, when it came, was strong and steady, cutting through the tension.  

“No.”  

For a moment, nothing happened.  

Then, without warning, the chains binding him erupted in blinding light. 

Harry flinched, his grip tightening instinctively on Hermione’s hand as the magic lashed out. 

The sound of metal grinding against itself filled the room as the chains constricted violently, tightening around Malfoy like a serpent. He gasped, his body jerking against the restraints. The chair rattled under the force of the enchantment, the glow intensifying as the chains pressed tighter and tighter.

Harry’s stomach twisted as he saw Malfoy’s face redden, his breaths coming in sharp, shallow and agonized bursts. The veins in his neck and temple bulged as he struggled against the unyielding bonds. 

Narcissa Malfoy’s anguished scream cut through the chaos, raw and heart-wrenching. 

“No! Stop this! Please!”

Fear rippled through the assembly like a living thing.    

Hermione’s hand clenched around his, her bitten nails digging into his skin, her face was pale, eyes were wide and horrified. 

On her other side, Ron is in the same predicament. His mouth was slightly open as he stared at the glowing chains.  

Red, however, stood unmoving, her expression cold, but Harry caught it—a flicker of something, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. 

Panic? Doubt? It was impossible to tell

The tension in the room reached a breaking point as the chains shimmered again, their glow faltering like a dying flame. The magic felt... confused, uncertain.  

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

The sound echoed through the silent chamber, the metallic clinking unnervingly loud. The oppressive glow in the room began to recede, the runes fading back into the marble as the ancient magic dissipated.  

Malfoy slumped forward in the chair, gasping for air. His hands, still trembling, gripped the arms of the chair as though to ground himself. Sweat glistened on his pale skin, and his ragged breathing was the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

Harry couldn’t look away. His mind raced, trying to reconcile what he’d just witnessed. 

He wasn’t lying. 

Harry felt the realization settle over him like a weight. Malfoy was indeed telling the truth.  

Beside him, Hermione exhaled slowly, her grip on Harry’s hand loosening. On her other side, Ron leaned back in his seat, his shoulders dropping slightly. They were all thinking the same thing.   

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

The silence was broken once again by the familiar sharp click of heels against the cold stone floor. 

Harry's gaze snapped back to Red as she stepped forward, wand drawn once more, her every movement purposeful. 

Each step echoed through the chamber, reverberating against the ancient walls, amplifying the tension in the air. 

She stopped a few feet from Malfoy, her stance unyielding, her gaze never leaving him as she raised her wand, its tip pointed directly at him.

The room held its breath as Red spoke, her voice cold and unflinching. 

"Iuro Veritatem." 

The words, spoken with such calm certainty, reverberated through the chamber, filling the space with a haunting resonance. It wasn’t loud, but in the silence that had taken hold, it felt like a command, an undeniable force. 

Harry felt the weight of the spell hanging in the air for the second time that day, its power unmistakable. He knew of the Oath of Veritas—the binding oath that stripped away any falsehood according to Hermione after he inquired about it when it was first casted earlier. If Malfoy lied, it would take his magic. If he spoke the truth, the golden light would dim and eventually fade entirely. 

As the tip of Red’s wand flared gold, the light cast long, eerie shadows on the dark walls of the courtroom. The glow illuminated her face, giving her an almost ethereal quality, but it did nothing to soften the coldness in her gaze.

The room was deathly still. Even the faintest movement seemed amplified. 

All eyes were on Red and the man in the chair before her, and the trio could feel the collective tension building, each second dragging on like an eternity.

Red's voice sliced through the silence again, her command unwavering. 

"State your name."

Malfoy remained slumped, his body still recovering from the chains’ magical assault. His breaths were shallow, each one coming with a slight wheeze as he tried to steady himself. It took him a moment to speak, but when he did, his voice was hoarse, raw from the exertion.

"Draco Lucius Malfoy," he rasped, pausing to inhale. "Son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy."

The words fell from his lips like a statement of fact, no hesitation in his delivery. 

He was clearly exhausted 

He took another labored breath before continuing, his voice weaker now, but still firm. 

"Lord of the Noble House of Malfoy."

The golden light at the tip of Red’s wand dimmed slightly in response, a soft acknowledgment of his truth. 

Still, she did not lower her wand. The glow remained steady, pulsing faintly, as if waiting for the next question.

Red’s eyes remained fixed on him, calculating, unyielding. 

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

Harry felt his chest tighten, his breath catching as the weight of the question settled over the room. 

It wasn’t just a question—it was the question, the one that carried the most significance. 

Every nerve in Harry’s body seemed to buzz with anticipation, a mix of dread and urgency clawing at his insides as they all waited for Malfoy’s answer.

This Malfoy had already proven himself innocent of the charges laid against him, but Harry couldn’t help the nagging feeling that the man before him might still harbor a darker side. 

What if this Malfoy, despite his innocence, was still a threat to the world they all knew?

The silence that followed was unbearable. Every ear in the room strained to catch Malfoy’s response. 

Malfoy’s chest rose and fell in quick succession, his breathing still shallow. 

He swallowed, forcing the words out with visible effort. 

"No," he rasped, his voice trembling slightly. "I will not."

The golden light didn’t dim, didn’t fade. It remained, steady and unwavering, like a silent accusation. Harry felt his pulse quicken. 

A ripple of unease passed through the room, whispers exchanging between the gathered assembly. The trio's grip on each other's hands tightened instinctively, the three friends seemed equally on edge, unsure of what to make of the moment.

The spell had accepted his words, but there was something... off. 

Harry's mind raced. 

Did this mean that Malfoy wasn’t completely telling the truth? Or was there more to the story?

Despite the confusion, Malfoy didn’t seem to falter. His chest heaved again, and after a moment, his voice came, quieter, almost a whisper. 

"No harm shall fall in this world."

The words hung in the air, resonating in the silence that followed. Harry leaned forward, his eyes narrowing, straining to hear every word—every nuance in Malfoy’s voice. 

And then, as though summoning all the strength he had left, Malfoy raised his head. His silver eyes locked with Red’s, a shift in his gaze that Harry couldn’t quite place. 

There was something... resolute there, a silent vow that spoke louder than any words could.

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

The words seemed to carry an intense weight, a promise made directly to Red, more than anyone else in the room. The sincerity in Malfoy’s eyes was undeniable. 

The golden light immediately extinguished, fading into nothingness. 

The Oath of Veritas had been fulfilled.

Red lowered her wand, her expression unreadable. 

Malfoy returned to his slumped position, his body exhausted, the tension draining from him as he focused all his energy on catching his breath. The only sound in the room was the ragged inhale and exhale of a man who had just borne the weight of his truth.

Harry, still gripping Hermione’s hand, exchanged a glance with Ron. 

Neither of them spoke.

The silence in the courtroom was almost unbearable, broken only by Malfoy’s labored gasps for air. The sound filled the space, echoing off the ancient stone walls like a haunting melody, a spell of stillness washing over the crowd. 

No one moved, nor spoke. Even the murmurs that had rippled through the room earlier were absent now, as though the very air had been sucked from the chamber.

Harry’s gaze shifted back to the center of the courtroom, his green eyes narrowing slightly. 

Malfoy was still hunched over, his shoulders rising and falling with each ragged breath. 

This Malfoy, the one who came from a different reality, was an enigma Harry couldn’t quite wrap his head around. The idea of someone—or something—possessing the Draco Malfoy of their world was madness.  

And yet, here he was, witnessing the brutal proof firsthand.

His gaze flicked back to Red, the Hermione from another reality. 

By confirmed accounts, she was this Malfoy’s girlfriend. 

Bloody hell.

They're dating.

The notion was absurd, almost laughable. 

How could any Hermione from any reality fall for that git? 

And yet, as he looked at her, he could see the truth. 

This Hermione did.  

And as he continued to watch her, Harry saw something familiar for the first time that somehow shares the warm semblance of his best friend. 

Her face softened, her cold, detached mask slipping away. 

In that moment, she didn’t look like the stoic, commanding figure who had stood before the Wizengamot or the stranger who had barged into the chamber under impossible circumstances. She looked... Hermione.  

Harry felt Hermione shift slightly beside him, and he knew she saw it too. That subtle change in Red’s face.

Vulnerability.  

Harry couldn’t look away as Red took a few measured steps forward and stopped in front of Malfoy once more, her tall figure casting a shadow over his hunched form.

Slowly, she raised her hands, her long, painted nails stark against the pallor of his skin. 

The contrast was striking—her nails were painted in some shade of deep red that Harry can't put a name on. It looks like the first spill of blood on fresh snow against Malfoy’s pale, sweat-drenched skin. It created a striking contrast—sharp, vivid, like a brushstroke.

There was no hesitation in her movements as she cradled his face gently, her fingers brushing against his jawline as though she were handling something fragile and irreplaceable. 

It was so... delicate, so reverent. 

The tenderness in her actions, the quiet care in the way she touched him, was a sight that left everyone stunned.  

Malfoy, for his part, didn’t resist. His eyes were half-closed, his breathing still unsteady, but he leaned into her touch as if on instinct.

Harry couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

He glanced to his side to his friends, wondering if they were seeing the same thing.

Ron is shifting in his seat beside Hermione, his brow furrowed in an expression of disbelief that Harry shared. 

Neither of them said a word, but Harry knew they were both thinking the same thing.  

This is madness.

Harry’s gaze returned to the scene unfolding before him, his thoughts chaotic.

Malfoy, still slumped forward, seemed to have found a strange peace in Red’s touch. The tension in his shoulders had melted away, and for a brief moment, his pale, sharp features softened. There was an almost serene look on his face, a quiet calm that seemed entirely out of place in the chaos of the courtroom.  

It was so jarring to see.

But as quickly as it came, it vanished.  

The relaxed expression on his face disappeared, replaced by something sharp and strained—darker, more fractured. 

From where he's sitting, Harry could clearly see how Malfoy’s body tensed, how his shoulders and jaw tightened as though bracing against an invisible weight. His silver eyes, half-lidded and calm only moments ago, flew open, panic flashing within them. His hands, frail and trembling, clawed at Red’s as they cradled his face.  

“No.” Malfoy rasped, the word barely audible, hoarse and broken. His voice wavered, the sound raw and almost incoherent, but Harry caught it nonetheless.  

“Don’t… touch him.”  

It took quite a while but the realization hit Harry like a shockwave. 

The bitterness in his voice, the sheer venom in those cracked words, was directed at someone else entirely.

Malfoy was speaking about him.

The owner of the body he's inhabiting.

Draco Malfoy.

The youngest death eater.

The one they grew up with.

And the one who is guilty of all the charges that are falsely accused to him.

“Don’t touch someone so… filthy.” Malfoy muttered, the words coming out in a broken whisper, his trembling hands still trying—and failing, to pry Red’s fingers away from his face. 

Harry felt a strange chill creep down his spine. It wasn’t the words themselves that was unsettling, but the rawness behind them, the depth of emotion of self-loathing that Malfoy poured into them. So sharp and unyielding.

Red didn’t flinch. Her hands remained steady, her touch unwavering despite his feeble attempts to push her away. 

He cast a glance towards his friends again, feeling awkward himself. 

Hermione’s lips were slightly parted, her eyes wide with something that looked like a mix of shock and sorrow. Ron’s jaw was clenched, his expression unreadable but tense. 

None of them spoke, the weight of Malfoy’s broken plea holding them in silence.  

The courtroom was still.

Harry’s attention returned to them, his eyes back to the strange couple. 

Malfoy’s pale hands continued their feeble attempts to dislodge Red’s touch, his unintelligible whispers cutting through the suffocating silence of the courtroom.  

It wasn’t strength driving Malfoy—it was fear.  

But Red didn’t falter.

Her hands stayed steady, unmoving, and her expression softened further—a quiet, heartbreaking sadness etched into her sharp features. 

She gazed at Malfoy with something that felt far too intimate, far too raw for Harry to witness.

And then, he noticed Red’s eyes drop, her gaze lingering on Malfoy’s left sleeve.  

Her hand left his face.  

For a fleeting moment, Harry saw the faintest trace of relief flicker across Malfoy’s pale features, a momentary reprieve that vanished as quickly as it came.  

Panic returned, sharper and more consuming as Red’s fingers moved with purpose, reaching for his left arm.  

“No.” They all heard Malfoy whisper, his voice taut with strong protest. The single word sent an unexpected empathy to Harry.

Malfoy jerked back, his movements weak and uncoordinated, but there was no mistaking the sheer desperation behind them. He tried to pull his arm away, but it was futile.  

Red was unyielding.  

Her grip was firm yet careful as she held his wrist, her expression resolute. With a deliberate motion, she pushed the sleeve up, exposing the Dark Mark etched into the pale skin beneath.  

The room seemed to darken with the sight of it.  

Harry felt a chill settle over him as he saw the mark—the ugly, blackened brand of servitude and cruelty. 

It was no longer the sharp, distinct design he remembered. This version looked faintly distorted, as though the lines had blurred and dimmed, but it was unmistakably the same symbol.  

He shifted his gaze back to Malfoy, and what he saw made him uncomfortable.    

The man couldn’t meet Red’s eyes. 

His head dipped lower as defeat seemed to settle over him like a heavy cloak, his shoulders curling inward as though he could somehow shield himself from the judgment he was so sure was coming. 

It was a canvas of defeat, resignation, and, most painfully, shame—as if he was bracing for Red to recoil, to push him away in disgust. 

Harry could see it in the way Malfoy’s breathing grew shallow, the way his trembling hands clenched into fists.  

But Red didn’t.  

Harry watched, his breath caught in his throat, as her expression broke—not in revulsion, but in sadness.  

“Oh, Draco.” she whispered.

The words were so gentle, so filled with understanding, that Harry felt their weight in his own chest.

Red’s hand returned to Malfoy’s face, her movements deliberate and careful as though she were handling something fragile. 

She tilted his head upward, forcing his haunted gaze to meet hers.

Harry’s breath hitched as he saw Malfoy’s expression. His silver eyes were filled with anguish and something almost childlike in its rawness—a deep, desperate fear of rejection.  

But Red’s gaze was steady. Grounding.

“It’s not you,” she said softly, her voice imbued with an unwavering certainty that filled the silent courtroom.  

Her words carried a power that Harry couldn’t quite describe.

“This isn’t you. This isn’t your body, your mark, or your choices. None of this is you, Draco.”  

Her words hung in the air, cutting through the suffocating tension like a balm, heavier than any spell.

Harry swallowed hard, his green eyes darting between them. Malfoy looked frozen, his expression torn between disbelief and a fragile, aching hope that Harry didn’t think he had ever seen on the man before.  

He couldn’t look away, couldn’t even glance at Hermione or Ron.

All he could do was watch.

Then Malfoy finally breaks. 

The courtroom fell deathly silent as a weak, broken sound escaped Malfoy’s lips—a mix between a sob and a gasp.

It wasn’t a sudden outburst nor a dramatic display.

It was a sound so raw, so utterly vulnerable that it made Harry feel like he was intruding and almost had to look away, yet he couldn’t bring himself to tear his gaze from them.

He could only watch as the man’s trembling hands rose once more—not to push her way but to cling to her touch as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded, his fingers frail and unsteady as they pressed over hers. Silent tears began to fall, carving paths down his pale, sharp features. 

Everyone watched as his shoulders shook, as if the weight of everything he had tried to hold back was crashing down on him at that moment.  

Harry’s gaze flickered to Red who had softened entirely.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she moved closer, standing firm as she leaned down and wrapped her arms around him.  

It was solid and protective, as if she was determined to shield him from the world, no matter who was watching.  

And Malfoy didn’t hesitate either.  

It was truly a strange sight.

He buried his face into her shoulder, his arms wrapping around her with such desperation as though afraid she might disappear if he loosened his grip for even a moment.  

The room was still silent, the weight of the moment pressing down on everyone present.  

Harry’s stomach churned uncomfortably as he watched. 

He wasn’t used to this—to seeing Malfoy like this, broken and vulnerable, leaning so completely on someone else. It was disconcerting in ways he couldn’t put into words, especially knowing that someone was Hermione—well, a Hermione.  

Red held him without flinching, her hand gently stroking his back in soothing, repetitive motions. She murmured something, her voice too soft for anyone else to hear, but it didn’t seem to matter. Whatever she said, it was meant only for Malfoy, her words carrying a tenderness that made the scene feel almost sacred.  

Harry glanced to his side, catching the faintest flicker of emotion on Hermione’s face—the real Hermione. She was quiet, her expression unreadable, but there was something in her eyes that hinted at understanding—or maybe confusion.  

Ron, on the other hand, looks completely uncomfortable, his lips pressing into a tight line as he looks away. 

But Harry couldn’t bring himself to do the same.  

He was captivated, disturbed, and completely at a loss for words as he watched the quiet, devastating intimacy between Malfoy and Red.

It took quite a while for Malfoy’s sobs to subside. The silence in the courtroom stretched unbearably as every person bore witness to his unraveling. 

But no one dared to interrupt. 

Harry could see the discomfort in some faces—members of the Wizengamot shifting in their seats, eyes darting nervously—but no one spoke.  

Eventually, Malfoy’s trembling began to still, his breathing slowing as the last of his tears fell. Red held him for a beat longer before they gently pulled away, but her hands remained on his face.  

This time, heat creeped up to Harry's neck as he continued to watch them, catching the tender way her thumbs gently brushed away the tear tracks on Malfoy’s cheeks. 

The look in Red’s eyes—a mixture of fierce affection and quiet reassurance—was almost too much to bear.  

Malfoy’s silver eyes met hers, and a small, fragile smile passed between them. It was faint, barely there, but it held an unspoken understanding, a connection that Harry couldn’t comprehend.

He saw Malfoy’s hand lift, still trembling as it covered Red’s hands once more. His smile grew just a fraction as he whispered something so low it didn't carry across the room but the emotion in his expression was unmistakable.

Harry’s curiosity burned as he saw the corners of Red’s lips twitch.  

A soft chuckle escaped her. Her face scrunching ever so slightly, warmth flooding her face as she responded just as quietly, her touch impossibly gentle as she continued to hold him. 

Harry’s cheeks flushed with heat at the tenderness of the gestures they're displaying. 

It felt too intimate, too private for anyone to witness.

And then, to Harry’s growing horror, they leaned closer. Their faces merely centimeters apart. 

Panic shot through him as for one fleeting and mortifying moment, he thought they were going to kiss—and that is definitely something he's not ready to see yet. 

But instead—still to his utter discomfort—they lean their foreheads together in a gesture so achingly intimate that it still made his whole face burn, leaving him both relieved and unsettled.  

And as if everything they’d seen so far is just wasn’t enough, Malfoy and Red’s eyes slid shut as though the rest of the world had faded away, savoring the seemingly fragile connection between them. With Red’s hair pulled back into a bun, there was nothing to obscure the view from anyone watching.

It's just as bad as watching someone kiss.

Harry felt his stomach twist as he watched the scene unfold. Hermione let out a soft, almost inaudible gasp beside him, her hand gripping the edge of the bench while Ron muttered something under his breath, his jaw tight as he sat through it all, rigid.

But the moment was brief.  

Harry saw it—how Red’s expression shifted. The warmth in her features fading, replaced by something cold and sharp. 

It was like watching a door slam shut. 

The atmosphere in the room changed with her, the oppressive tension returning tenfold.  

Red straightened, her hands falling away as Malfoy let her go, now with quiet composure as he sat back, his face still pale but finally calm.  

Red turned to face the Wizengamot, her presence commanding once more as she raised her head. But it's her now visible and uncontrolled anger that cuts through the room like a knife as her piercing gaze swept over the assembled witches and wizards.  

Harry watched the reactions around the room—many members of the Winzengamot shifted uncomfortably under her stare, their discomfort evident. The oppressive silence was broken only by the faint sound of someone clearing their throat, but no one dared speak. Some avoided her eyes entirely, while others fidgeted nervously in their seats, unwilling to meet the fury radiating from her.

Red’s voice cut through the stillness like a blade.  

“Is that enough proof, Minister?”  

Her voice was cold, each word laced with clear anger and finality. 

No one spoke. 

The air itself seemed to hum with the weight of Red’s words.  

The oppressive silence stretched until Kingsley Shacklebolt finally broke it, his voice calm but resolute. 

“Unspeakables Vane and Draven, step forward.”

Harry blinked, his focus snapping to the two figures in black robes who had remained at the back of the chamber. 

As they moved forward, their movements precise and deliberate, Harry’s mind scrambled to recall the witch’s name. 

He had been trying to remember it throughout the trial, but the chaos unfolding around him had pushed the detail to the edges of his thoughts.

Vane.

He remembered now. It clicked as he watched her approach. The name seemed to fit her sharp features and the air of authority she carried, though her tightened jaw betrayed the annoyance she was barely masking.

The pair stopped before Kingsley, and he addressed them directly. 

“Can the Department of Mysteries ensure that the necessary steps will be taken to resolve this matter?”  

Vane nodded curtly, her voice calm but edged with a sharpness that wasn’t lost on everyone. 

“Rest assured, Minister, the Department of Mysteries will do what is required—though it hardly requires the Ministry’s permission to proceed.”

Harry almost laughed despite the tension. 

The way she said it felt borderline cheeky, and if the situation weren’t so dire, he might have found it funny. Apparently, someone else thought better of her attitude, as Draven subtly elbowed her, a quiet reprimand that made Harry bite back a snort.

Kingsley let the remark pass without comment, turning back to the court. His commanding presence left little room for argument. 

“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.”

The verdict had left Harry feeling a strange mix of understanding and frustration. 

He knew it was the best course of action—there was no point in continuing when the one accused is not even the one sitting on the chair—but it was hard not to feel that all their meticulous preparations for the trial had been rendered pointless. 

To think once again that this Draco Malfoy wasn’t even the one they thought they were dealing with... It was exhausting, confusing, and almost too much to process. His head hurt by just trying to wrap his mind around it.  

Before he could dwell further, a nervous voice interrupted the heavy silence.  

“What will happen to me?”  

Harry recognized the speaker as the Wizengamot member who had spoken up against Malfoy's release. 

His panic was evident, and his tone grew more frantic as he added, “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 though it were the most obvious thing in the world.  

The man erupted into furious protest, his voice rising above the uneasy murmurs of the chamber.  

But, even before the shouts could escalate further, a silencing charm struck the man. 

Harry’s eyes flicked across the room, noting how everyone looked equally perplexed by who cast it—everyone except Mr. Weasley, whose wand was now casually back in his pocket.

Kingsley ignored the disruption entirely, his focus shifting to Malfoy, who remained seated in the enchanted chair. The earlier vulnerability was gone now, replaced by a calm resolve that carried a quiet dignity—though his pallor and the slight tremble in his movements betrayed the lingering weakness in his body.

“Young Lord Malfoy,” Kingsley said, his tone more formal, “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 chamber buzzed faintly with tension, the trial’s conclusion leaving too many unanswered questions.

Red exhaled softly, her shoulders sagging as though an enormous weight had been lifted from her.

Harry’s eyes narrowed, a sense of unease creeping over him as he studied her closely. Something about the sudden change in her demeanor wasn’t right.

Her face was so pale it seemed as though every trace of color had been leached away, leaving her skin an eerie, ashen gray. The sight sent a shiver through Harry, unsettlingly reminding him of the lifeless Inferi he had faced in the cave during his sixth year.

Her hands, which had been steady, now trembled faintly at her sides. The transformation was so sudden, so unnatural, that it sent a jolt of alarm as she stood there, swaying slightly, her posture faltering. 

“Thank goodness...”

The words weren’t triumphant, nor were they entirely relieved. They sounded almost hollow, like they were escaping her without conscious thought.

Then, as if all the strength and fight had left her body, Red's knees buckled and she crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut. 

Gasps and shouts of alarm echoed throughout the courtroom. Wizards and witches shot up from their seats, craning their necks to see what was happening. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione leapt to their feet as well, Hermione’s hand flying to her mouth in horror.  

Harry barely had time to process what he was seeing before there was a blur of movement.

It was almost too fast for Harry to track. One moment, Malfoy was still sitting, visibly weak from his own ordeal, and the next, he was there, catching Red before she could hit the ground. 

But even he couldn’t remain steady. 

Malfoy dropped to his knees with her in his arms, his body clearly straining under the effort, though he managed to lower her gently to the floor, his movements almost desperate.

Harry stared, transfixed. Malfoy’s arms were wrapped tightly around Red’s limp frame, cradling her as if she might shatter. His silver eyes were wide with panic, darting over her pale face, his expression raw and unguarded.  

“Hermione!” Malfoy’s voice rang out, sharp and frantic, cutting through the chaos of the room. 

Ron muttered something under his breath, but Harry barely heard it. His attention was locked on Malfoy, who was visibly trembling as he held Red close. 

“What’s wrong? Talk to me!” Malfoy’s voice cracked with desperation. His gaze searched her face, pleading, but she remained still, unresponsive to his calls.  

Harry’s heart raced as he watched.  

Hermione clutched Harry’s arm tightly, her own face pale—but not as alarming and dead-looking as Red's—as she whispered, “What’s happening to her?” 

Her expression was torn between confusion and concern.

Harry did not answer. 

He, like his friends, doesn't know what's happening either.

On her other side, Ron stood stiffly beside them, the tension radiating off him in waves as he watched the scene unfold.

Harry’s gaze flicked back to Malfoy. 

The Slytherin’s left sleeve was still rolled up, exposing the stark black of the Dark Mark on his forearm as he clutched Red closer. It was strange, almost surreal, seeing the mark there, bold and unhidden, while Malfoy’s expression was filled with nothing but fear and anguish.  

“Hermione, please,” Malfoy whispered, his voice breaking. 

His lips moved again, forming words too quiet for Harry to hear over the rising commotion in the room. But he could see the trembling in his mouth, the way his hands shook as he held her—the way his expression twisted in anguish as he stared at Red’s unresponsive face.

Whatever it was, it looked like a plea.    

Harry was so absorbed in the scene before him that he barely registered the rising voices around him until a sharp, commanding tone cut through the noise—causing him to blink and snap out of his thoughts as he finally noticed the two Unspeakables standing at the forefront of the chaos. 

“Please, everyone, calm down!”

“She is alright.” Vane announced firmly after her partner, her voice cutting through the noise. “Lady Granger is not in immediate danger. It appears she has overexerted herself. Nothing more.”  

The reassurance hung in the air, a lifeline of clarity amidst the chaos.

“She’s alright?” Hermione asked, her voice trembling with uncertainty.

“She’ll have to be,” Ron muttered, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “But what the bloody hell did she do to herself?”

His question was answered soon enough.

“Lady Granger arrived directly at the dungeons and acted immediately to halt the trial before a sentence could be declared,” Draven continued, his gaze sweeping the courtroom, “In doing so, she exerted an extraordinary amount of magical energy—not only in crossing between realities but also in invoking the ancient magic she performed here in court. The combined strain has pushed her to her absolute limit, leaving her temporarily incapacitated.”

Hermione gasped softly beside Harry, her hand gripping his arm tightly. 

“She… she pushed herself that hard?”  

“She looks awful,” Ron muttered, his voice low and tense. His brows were furrowed in what Harry could only describe as reluctant concern.  

Harry’s gaze shifted back to Red, her form still limp in Malfoy’s arms. His mind churned uneasily as he considered the weight of what the Unspeakables had said. 

She’d thrown herself into this, quite literally, to stop the trial—to save him.  

Harry’s stomach twisted at the thought, and his eyes narrowed as he studied her pale face. 

Her devotion to Malfoy—of all people—was almost incomprehensible to him. What could drive someone to this extent for that git?  

Malfoy, for his part, seemed oblivious to everything around him. The chaos in the room, the reassurances of the Unspeakables—it all seemed to fade away. His attention was entirely consumed by Red, his silver eyes scanning her face as though willing her to wake.

“Does he even hear them?” Ron asked, his tone somewhere between frustration and bewilderment.

None of his friends answered as they watched the Unspeakables approach Malfoy. They crouched down beside him and leaned in, whispering something too low for any of them to hear.  

Whatever they said, it seemed to have an immediate effect.  

Harry watched as Malfoy’s tense posture slackened ever so slightly, his shoulders losing a fraction of their rigidity. Relief washed over his face, softening the stark lines of fear, though the worry in his silver eyes didn’t fully fade. His expression remained painfully tender, his focus on her unwavering as his grip on her tightened slightly as if to reassure himself she was still there.

He saw Malfoy’s lips move, forming words too quiet to hear over the noise of the room, his fingers gently brushing a stray strand of hair from her face with a tenderness that felt almost out of place amidst the chaos. 

Everyone then watched in hushed silence as Malfoy adjusted his grip on Red’s limp form, cradling her closer to his chest and slowly began to rise, his knees trembling under the strain. 

The faintest tremor in his arms betrayed his current physique, and everyone could see the aftershocks of the enchanted chains still taking their toll.

Halfway up, Malfoy faltered. His knees buckled briefly, and for a heartbeat, it seemed as though he might collapse entirely. Red’s weight shifted in his grasp, her head tilting precariously as though he might drop her.

A collective sound of alarm rippled through the chamber, and several Aurors stationed nearby instinctively stepped forward, their hands half-raised as if ready to catch Red or assist him. But before they could act, Malfoy straightened abruptly, his spine rigid, as though summoning strength from an unknown reserve. His pale features smoothed into an icy calm, and his posture became unnervingly steady, as if the weakness he had shown earlier was merely an illusion.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

His eyes swept over the Aurors, and they hesitated, their movements stilled by the sheer weight of his presence. It was commanding, cold, and unshakable.

For the first time, everyone saw the ghost of the young lord of the Noble and Ancient House of Malfoy inhabiting the body of their Draco Malfoy—the man from Red’s reality, finally making his presence known.

Harry stared, transfixed. The commanding air that Malfoy exuded now was almost reminiscent of Red’s presence during the trial, as if her influence had seeped into him in some unexplainable way.

Malfoy’s hold on Red was protective—almost possessive. Her crimson robes cascading like liquid fire over his arms—contrasting starkly against the black of his own. Her head rested against the slope of his neck and shoulder, her face hidden from view as if shielded from the world. 

She seemed both impossibly fragile and utterly safe, as if nothing could touch her in his embrace.

“No, thank you. I can manage,” Malfoy’s voice was low and clipped, devoid of the desperation and helplessness he had shown earlier.

The tone was so frigid, so resolute that it barely seemed to belong to the same man who had been pleading and shouting desperately of his innocence and his pleas to be granted audience with the Department of Mysteries before Red’s surprising arrival. 

Disturbed, Harry’s gaze fell on the two Unspeakables as they approached one of the Aurors—a tall, broad-shouldered man standing at the forefront of the group. 

Harry recognized him immediately: Marcus Dawlish, now Head Auror, a strict but just man who had taken over the department after Kingsley became Interim Minister.  

The position had been offered to Marcus after his older brother, John Dawlish, had been sacked for his questionable involvement during the war. John’s blind loyalty to the Ministry’s corrupt regime under Voldemort’s control had led to his dismissal, and Kingsley, needing someone with integrity to rebuild the Auror Office, had turned to Marcus to take the reins.

It was also Dawlish who approached Harry and Ron after the war, offering them positions as Junior Aurors instead of returning to complete their seventh year at Hogwarts. The invitation would have extended to Hermione as well as she is as—if not, more than capable than the two of them—but Dawlish had decided against it as she seemed intended to return to Hogwarts to finish her studies. 

Harry watches as Unspeakable Draven leaned in, whispering something to Dawlish, his composed demeanor making it clear he was unaffected by the chaos around him while others shifted uneasily or whispered amongst themselves.

Harry couldn’t help but admire the calm efficiency with which Marcus handled himself, especially in a situation that had most of the courtroom visibly shaken—including Harry himself.

The head auror listened intently, his expression not changing in the slightest, before nodding sharply and turning to issue a curt order to the rest of the Aurors, his tone firm and commanding. 

The wizards and witches stationed around the courtroom immediately sprang into action, their previously uncertain stances now replaced with the discipline expected of them as they formed a tight and protective formation around Malfoy and Red.

Harry’s attention shifted back to the Unspeakables as Vane approached Malfoy and leaned in to whisper something once again.

Malfoy’s gaze flicked up to her, and though his face remained impassive, he gave a single, terse nod, adjusting Red slightly in his arms as he held her more securely against his chest. His movements were deliberate, careful, as though he were carrying something far more precious than just another person

Without a word, he turned toward the grand oak doors of the courtroom.

The Aurors closed ranks around him, their formation precise and methodical. Malfoy was at the center, his every step mirrored by the Aurors—barely sparing anyone a glance.

But as he neared the exit, his eyes flicked upward, locking eyes briefly with someone in the crowd. It was fleeting—so quick that Harry wasn’t entirely sure it had happened at all.

The heavy oak doors creaked open, and the Aurors escorted Malfoy and Red out of the room with practiced precision. 

And just like that, they were gone, leaving the courtroom steeped in silence as the enchantments surged back into place, sealing the doors close with a faint, resonant hum.

Everyone’s gaze shifted back to the two Unspeakables who remained behind, their presence a stark reminder that the ordeal was far from over.

Kingsley’s deep voice broke the heavy silence lingering in the courtroom. His steady tone carried an undercurrent of weariness, though he maintained his characteristic poise.  

“Unspeakable Draven,” Kingsley began, his gaze fixed on the man in question, “is there any further assistance the Ministry can provide to the Department of Mysteries at this time? Anything that can be addressed now?”

Draven, standing tall and composed, inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment before speaking, his voice as measured and unyielding as his presence. 

“Minister, now that Lady Granger has irrefutably demonstrated the truth of the young lord Malfoy’s unique circumstances, the Department of Mysteries finds itself in a more favorable position to advocate for temporary adjustments to the Malfoys’ sentences. Specifically, we will need to reevaluate their current arrangements to facilitate further investigation.”    

A faint murmur rippled through the room at his words, though most of those present had already suspected such a development, including Harry. 

His mind flashed back to the earlier trial, how fiercely the Wizengamot had opposed Red’s claims—nearly dismissing her outright. Remembered their reluctance to relinquish control—either to her or the Department of Mysteries, and the stubborn refusal to acknowledge anything that might upend their authority—one which Harry also understands when he thinks about it, and the consequence it poses to the wizarding world if they're not careful.

However, Red’s invocation of ancient spells not only proved her truth and Malfoy's innocence but also left Harry with little reason to doubt their claims, so he wasn’t at all surprised when it forced the Wizengamot’s hand, shattering their resistance with irrefutable proof.

If the Department of Mysteries had tried to take decisive action before that proof was laid bare, Harry thought grimly, the response would have been just as resistant—if not outright hostile. 

Not that the Ministry has power over it in the first place.

Red's desperate actions had, in many ways, paved the way for this moment as no one from the Winzengamot is now opening their mouths to argue their case nor oppose the decision of the Unspeakables. 

And frankly, Harry is growing a little tired with the back-and-forth.

“Given the unique nature of the young lord’s circumstances,” Draven continued, his words deliberately precise, “it would be prudent to ensure that Lucius Malfoy remains within accessible custody. The lordship of the Malfoy family, as it stands in our reality, still resides with him. This divergence may present complications, and his cooperation could prove necessary during our investigations.”  

Kingsley’s expression remained unreadable, but Harry, watching closely, noticed the subtle tightening of the Minister’s jaw.  

Draven glanced briefly at his companion, Unspeakable Vane, before concluding, 

“Lucius Malfoy will therefore remain detained here in the Ministry’s detention cells rather than being transferred to Azkaban, at least for the duration of our inquiry.”  

The statement settled over the room like a tangible weight. No one challenged it, though the implications were clear.  

Kingsley gave a slow nod, his voice steady as he replied, “Very well. Ensure that any necessary precautions are in place.”  

“Of course,” Draven said smoothly.

Harry’s gaze drifted back to the Malfoys from where they sat apart from everyone. 

Lucius sat stiffly, the cuffs on his shackled hands gleamed faintly as he kept his head slightly bowed. Narcissa sat beside him, her posture impeccably straight, her expression a cold, unreadable mask that betrayed none of her thoughts or emotions.

Neither of them reacted outwardly to Draven’s announcement—even Lucius, who had just narrowly avoided immediate transfer to Azkaban. 

It was as if the couple had steeled themselves against the weight of everything that had transpired, their veneer of composure impenetrable.

Harry wondered what they truly felt beneath that facade. What could they possibly think about everything that had unfolded? 

The revelation that their son—no, the version of their son who now inhabited Draco's body—was from another reality. That the legitimate soul of their son was, in turn, trapped in that alternate reality, far beyond their reach. 

Did they feel helpless? Despairing? 

And then there was the matter of her. 

Red—the alternate Hermione Granger—who had no doubt shattered every expectation and belief the Malfoys held. A Muggle-born witch—or so Harry assumed she still was in her own world—who was, without question, the single most important person in the life of Draco Malfoy from her reality.

Harry couldn’t deny it no matter how hard he wished it to be. 

Malfoy—arrogant, sneering, insufferable Malfoy—was besotted with her. Not just infatuated, but deeply, unshakably in love in a way that Harry hadn’t thought the git was even capable of.

And to make it worse, Harry had to admit it to himself that they made sense in some strange, baffling way. He couldn’t deny what he’d seen so far in their interactions—the way Red’s sharp wit and unwavering resolve matched Malfoy’s intensity, how they seemed to speak a language only they understood. No matter how much he wanted to scoff or gag at the thought, there was no denying that whatever was between them, it was real.

That somewhere out there, in some wild, upside-down version of their world in another universe, his best friend had fallen head over heels for Draco Malfoy. 

The ferret.

He glanced sideways at Hermione—their Hermione—seated right next to him, her attention fixed on the Unspeakables as if she could unravel all their secrets by sheer force of will. 

Hermione, who had found her own happiness with Ron, who no doubt loves her and was loved by her in return in her steady, reliable way—Harry felt a pang of relief at that fact. 

At least in his reality, some things remained comfortably familiar.  

Yet his thoughts snagged on the stark contrast between their Hermione and the woman the Malfoys had just witnessed—the woman their son from another world adored.  

The contradiction was jarring. 

It was well-known that their family had always prided themselves on their pureblood legacy, Lucius most of all. Now they were confronted with a truth that must feel like betrayal—or perhaps something even more bewildering.  

What must it be like for them? Harry wondered. To process the knowledge that another version of their son, shaped by an entirely different life, had fallen for the very kind of person they had spent their lives scorning?

His eyes fell on Narcissa. 

Did she see this alternate Draco as a stranger? Or as a reminder of what her own son might have been, had his life taken a different path? 

And what of Lucius? Did the revelation shake his convictions, or had he simply compartmentalized it all, as he seemed to do with everything else? 

Harry’s gaze lingered on the couple a moment longer. 

Neither spoke, neither moved. They simply sat there, still and silent, like statues carved from ice. Whatever they felt, whatever thoughts churned beneath their carefully controlled exteriors, they were locked away, hidden from everyone in the room.

The weight of the silence was almost unbearable, stretching taut as the assembled wizards and witches waited for the next move. All eyes turned instinctively toward Kingsley. 

His gaze, steady and deliberate, swept over the Malfoys before settling on the Aurors stationed nearby.

The remaining Aurors are clearly hesitating with the Unspeakable’s order, their uncertainty evident in the way they exchanged cautious glances. But Kingsley’s firm nod spurred them into action. 

With uniformed precision, they made their way toward the Malfoys.  

Unspeakable Draven inclined his head toward Kingsley, his expression as composed as ever. 

“Minister, the Department of Mysteries will oversee all further inquiries into this matter. You are, of course, welcome to remain informed and observe progress as is your right, but interference will not be permitted.” His tone was calm yet unyielding, leaving no room for misinterpretation.  

Kingsley returned the nod, his posture straight, his face unreadable. 

“Understood,” he replied evenly, his voice carrying the weight of finality.  

Draven seemed satisfied, taking a measured step back as Kingsley turned his attention to the courtroom. 

““This concludes today’s proceedings,” the Minister announced, his voice steady but edged with exhaustion. With a final glance toward the Aurors, he gave another firm nod, signaling them to carry out their duty.  

The courtroom remained unnervingly quiet as the Aurors closed ranks around the Malfoys. Lucius stood first, his movements stiff and mechanical, while Narcissa rose with a dignity that betrayed none of the turmoil she might be feeling.  

Harry’s gaze followed them intently. 

He watched as Lucius and Narcissa were guided toward the doors, the Aurors flanked them on all sides, maintaining their protective formation as they made their way toward the exit.  

As the heavy oak doors creaked open once more, Harry’s eyes lingered on the Malfoys, tracking their every step. They didn’t glance back, their focus fixed ahead as though the weight of the room no longer mattered to them.  

And then they were gone.  

The doors closed behind them with a resonant thud, sealing the courtroom in an oppressive silence. Harry exhaled slowly, his thoughts swirling with everything that had just transpired.  

The trial might have ended, but Harry knew better than to think the story was anywhere near its conclusion.