The Snake Pit

Two days after being confined to her bedroom, Hermione was awakened out of a sound sleep by an insistent hand on her shoulder.

"Miss, wake up, miss, wake up!"

"Wha- What is it?" asked Hermione, rubbing the remnants of sleep out of her eyes.

Hermione noticed Snape's foreboding figure standing behind the elf.

"What's going on?" Hermione asked with a little more trepidation this time.

"We've been summoned to appear before the Dark Lord," Snape announced somberly.

She was dreaming; it was the only explanation Hermione's sleep addled brain could find. She glanced toward the window.

"But it's the middle of the night," she protested.

"Indeed. It is."

She shoved the covers aside and swung her legs over the side of the bed. "Why would Voldemort want to see me?"

"He doesn't," Severus explained. "Not you specifically, anyway. It's a hand-witch's trial."

Hermione paled, and a shiver that had nothing to do with the coldness of the room ran up her spine. She had never attended one but had heard the whispered rumors that circulated around the Center.

"Only hand-witches at the center are required to attend the trials, not the ones placed in homes." Hermione was certain of this; it was how she had managed to avoid having to attend one of them – she had never been at the Center when one took place.

"Things are changing, Miss Granger, not for the better. And this is not an invitation to tea that you can accept or decline at your whim. All hand-witches are required to attend as well as each of the Faithful."

Hermione noticed that Snape wore his official black and silver robes. She stood from the bed and reached for her robes on the trunk at the foot of her bed.

"You will wear these," Severus indicated, taking a folded piece of red cloth from the elf and handing it to her.

Hermione took the garment and shook the folds out of it. She stared wide-eyed at the long, flowing scarlet robes – the uniform of a pregnant hand-witch.

"How? How did you know?" she asked.

"Know what, Miss Granger?" Snape ground out, obviously growing impatient with her.

Hermione glanced down at the elf as if searching for reassurance, but the elf just stared back at her with wide, curious eyes.

"That I'm... That I'm pregnant," she finally said.

Snape looked stunned for a moment, an expression so uncommon that it didn't suit his face. Just as swiftly his features relaxed into their usual unreadable mask.

"I didn't know. Pregnant hand-witches are not expected to participate in the trial, only to observe. That's why I wanted you to wear the robes," Snape explained. "You must get dressed now; we'll discuss this later," he added in a clipped tone.

Hermione nodded.

"Who is she?" Hermione asked when they reached the fireplace in the main parlor.

"I don't know her name. She is Macnair's hand-witch," Snape responded coldly.

"Roselyn," whispered Hermione. "Her name is Roselyn."

Hermione was startled when Snape suddenly grabbed her forearms and turned her to look at him.

"Miss Granger, have you ever attended a hand-witch's trial?" he asked.

Hermione shook her head. "I've heard about them," she said.

Snape seemed concerned, and there was an undercurrent of urgency in his voice. "Miss Granger, this is very important. Whatever happens, whatever you see, you must not react – don't move, don't scream, don't make a sound. Whatever else you do, don't call attention to yourself. Do you understand?"

Hermione nodded, not sure what she was agreeing to, but concerned by the firmness of his tone.

Snape tossed a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace. "Ministry of Magic," he said in a clear, steady voice.

They stepped into the fireplace side-by-side, and Hermione closed her eyes as the world began to whirl around her. Seconds later, they stepped out into the Main Hall of the Ministry of Magic.

The hall was mostly deserted except for a few wizards in black, hooded robes who seemed to be on patrol. They all came to attention and bowed stiffly when they saw Snape approach.

"Good evening, sir. The others are waiting for you in the pit. If you'll follow me..." said one the men.

"I know the way," Snape spat as he brushed past him heading for the lifts, Hermione close on his heels, nearly running in an effort to keep up with his long strides.

"Of course, sir," the robed figure responded with another deep bow.

They took the lift to the lowest level of the Ministry building. When the doors opened, Hermione was greeted by the light of dozens of torches and the buzz of a hundred excited voices. They followed a long corridor that opened into a large, circular room. At the front of the room, high on a platform, was a large, empty throne, and on each side six ornate, high-backed chairs where the Faithful sat – all the chairs were occupied except for one.

Hermione's eyes traveled over the tiers of benches crammed with wizards and witches almost to the ceiling and finally settled on the circular, empty clearing in the center of the room. She felt Snape's hand on her shoulder, and she glanced up at him. He pointed to several rows of benches off to the side where about twenty women dressed in red robes sat.

"Where are you going to be?" she whispered, already knowing the answer but needing the reassurance.

"I'll be in the front. You go take a seat."

His long, thin fingers squeezed her shoulder for an instant. "Remember what I said," he whispered, and his hand was gone so swiftly that Hermione wondered if she hadn't imagined the whole thing.

Hermione made her way toward the other red-clad women and sank into the nearest seat.

"Hello," the girl sitting to her right said.

Hermione nodded and straightened herself, her eyes traveling nervously to the front of the room where Snape was just taking his seat next to Malfoy.

"I know who you are," the same girl whispered close to Hermione's ear.

Hermione turned to look at her. Her face looked familiar, but Hermione couldn't place her.

"Sorry, I don't..."

"You were his friend, at school."

Recognition dawned on Hermione. "You were a couple of years behind us at Hogwarts. Hufflepuff, right?" she asked.

The girl nodded. "How far along are you?"

"What?" Hermione looked down at her flat belly that was concealed by the voluminous robes. "Oh. About four weeks, I think. And you?" Hermione asked out of deeply ingrained politeness.

"Five months. It's a boy, my first." The girl smiled widely, and Hermione winced.

"You do know you don't get to keep him, right?" she asked.

"Oh, I know. He'll be the Malfoys' child. But Lucius says I can stay at the Manor after he's born for as long as I want." The girl shifted her arm, and Hermione noticed an elaborate silver and opal bracelet on the girl's wrist – no doubt a gift from 'Lucius.'

Hermione felt pity for the naive girl; she wasn't the first girl Hermione had met who had been swept away by the charms of a pure-blood wizard only to be tossed back to the Center when she had overstayed her usefulness in a home. But she didn't have the heart to shatter the girl's illusion – there would be enough time for disappointment and tears later on, Hermione knew.

A hush fell over the crowd, and everyone rose to their feet as a bald, pale figure dressed in dark-green robes made its way to the throne. Hermione recognized Voldemort, and she could have sworn that the temperature dropped a few degrees in the room. She caught sight of a short, squat figure wearing a pink cardigan over her robes. Umbridge marched into the open area followed by about two-dozen hand-witches, all dressed in mustard-yellow robes. A shrill scream pierced the silence as another girl Hermione recognized as Roselyn was dragged to the center of the pit by two burly Death Eaters.

The two wizards tossed the girl in the middle of the pit and turned to leave. The girl scrambled on her hands and knees trying to follow, but her path was blocked by the other hand-witches.

All eyes turned to the front of the room where Voldemort stood in front of his throne. A wide smile split his flat face, baring long, yellow teeth.

"Welcome, my fellow witches and wizards. We gather here tonight to bring justice to one of our brothers who has suffered a most grievous loss at the hands of this witch."

Voldemort extended one long, gnarled hand toward the pit, where the girl now huddled at the feet of the other hand-witches. Hisses, along with shouts of "whore" and "murderer," broke out from the crowd. Voldemort raised his hand, and silence was restored.

"Let us now hear from our aggrieved brother."

Macnair rose from his chair and went to stand next to Voldemort.

"Is this the witch that has wronged you?" Voldemort asked, pointing once more to the girl in the pit.

"Yes, My Lord," Macnair responded.

"And you are certain that she once carried your child?"

"Yes, My Lord. A Ministry appointed nurse confirmed it," Macnair said.

"And you witnessed her crime with your own eyes?"

"No, My Lord. But I did witness the aftermath and found the evidence hidden in her quarters." Macnair took something out his pocket and handed it to Voldemort.

Hermione craned her neck to see what it was but recoiled into her chair as Voldemort raised his hand for all to see, and the light of the torches reflected off a red, glass bottle identical to the one she had taken from Snape's lab.

"Behold, brothers and sisters. An empty vial of Emmenagogue Potion – a substance that is forbidden in our world, and the use, possession, or distribution of which carries the penalty of death at the Wall of Traitors."

"Death, death!" the crowd chanted.

Voldemort raised his other hand in a pacifying gesture, and the crowd was once again silent.

"I understand your sentiment, my brothers and sisters, and I can't deny that I empathize. But you all know that I strive to be a merciful and just Lord." He turned to look at Lucius, who immediately rose to his feet like a marionette pulled by a string.

"Minister Malfoy, has the culprit been interrogated?"

Lucius bowed. "Yes, My Lord, she has."

"And has she during the course of this interrogation divulged the source of this poison?"

Hermione tried to swallow but her mouth had gone dry, and she felt like a boulder had been dropped on her chest. She frantically searched Snape's face for any sign of distress or fear, but the wizard sat rigidly in his chair, his eyes looking straight ahead, his features impassive.

"No, My Lord. She claims that she found it on the nightstand in her room, and that she has no knowledge of how it got there."

"And have all measures been taken to extract the truth from this traitor?"

"Yes, My Lord. Regrettably, we were unsuccessful."

"Pity."

Voldemort turned to once again address the crowd, and Hermione released the breath she had not realized she was holding.

"I hereby declare that hand-witch..."

"2 – 9 – 4," Macnair supplied.

"I hereby declare that hand-witch 2 – 9 – 4, having been proven guilty of the crimes of treason, murder, and the possession of a forbidden potion, shall with her blood make restitution to those she has wronged and offended before being hung to die at the Wall of Traitors."

Hermione heard a gasp from behind her, and a wail escaped from the center of the pit as the crowd jumped to their feet and cheered. Hermione turned to Malfoy's hand-witch.

"That's it? That's the trial? She never even got to speak, to explain herself!" Hermione exclaimed.

"It doesn't matter; there's nothing she could have said anyway that could make what she did right."

Hermione was taken aback by the girl's venomous tone.

"How can you say that? It's not fair – she should have had a chance to speak! And what does that mean, 'with her blood make restitution' before she is hung on the Wall of Traitors?"

"Shhh," the girl admonished.

Hermione realized that in her anger and agitation she had raised her voice, and that several of the other women were now scowling at her.

"Sorry," she whispered. "But what does it mean?"

"You'll see," the girl said with a self-satisfied smile that chilled Hermione's blood.

Voldemort, Lucius and Macnair had taken their seats. The jeers and clapping from the crowd died down, and everyone fidgeted restlessly, those in the uppermost benches stretching their necks to get a better view of the pit where Umbridge stood next to the circle of hand-witches.

"Hem, hem," Umbridge said unnecessarily since all eyes were already on her.

"It is with great sadness and shame that I stand before you today," she began in her high-pitched voice. "These young women represent the future of the wizarding world, and the Minister has seen fit to entrust their care to me, by which I'm deeply humbled. It pains me to see one of my own fall so far, but errors of judgment such as these can not, and should not, be tolerated. They steal from our future and undermine the very principles upon which our society is built: family, community, loyalty..."

Hermione wondered if it was her imagination or if Umbridge had actually glanced in Snape's direction at her last words.

"Order, along with accountability," Umbridge continued, "are imperative for any culture to thrive, or even survive, and thus it is with deep regret that I must turn the punishment for this hand-witch's transgression to those which it shames the most, her fellow hand-witches."

Umbridge stepped aside, and Hermione watched with mounting horror as the circle of yellow-clad witches closed in around the young, sobbing girl, their hands extended like talons. Hermione dug her own nails into her thighs in an effort not to rush to the girl's aid as the others tore at her hair and clothes, their nails digging deep gouges into the exposed skin, until she was naked, bloody and sobbing, then proceeded to beat her down, kicking her prone body long after she had stopped fighting back. Unable to watch anymore, Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. Only the echo of Snape's words – whatever happens, whatever you see, don't move, don't scream, don't make a sound – kept her glued to her seat.

"Open your eyes," the girl next to her whispered.

Hermione shook her head.

"You have to. You're supposed to watch. You'll get in trouble if you don't."

Hermione forced her eyes open, but refused to watch the violent spectacle, fixing her eyes instead on a spot above the girls' heads. A couple of times she glanced in Snape's direction, searching his face for any reaction, but saw none.

She breathed a sigh of relief when Umbridge raised her wand and the girls retreated to the edge of the pit. She had to look then, and what she saw horrified her. A lump of bloody flesh lay immobile on the floor, and she wondered if the girl was dead, until she saw her stir a little and heard her moan.

Macnair rose from his seat then, along with Yaxley, and they descended the few steps into the pit. Hermione frowned when she saw Snape rise to follow them. Voldemort leaned forward and said something to Snape, something she was too far away to hear, but whatever Snape's response was, it made Voldemort laugh – a maniacal cackle that made Hermione's skin crawl. Voldemort nodded, and Snape joined the others at the center of the pit. The two Death Eaters that had brought the girl in earlier soon followed. Together they surrounded the girl, who made a feeble attempt to stand but was kicked down by Macnair.

The air in the room was thick with expectation, but for a moment no one moved. The faces of the witches and wizards in the crowd swam before Hermione's eyes. Something was about to happen.

"What's going on?" she asked another witch, her apprehension growing.

"It's their turn," the witch whispered back.

"They are going to beat her?" Hermione asked skeptically.

The other witch only gave her a contemptuous look that said she must be the stupidest witch in the wizarding world.

Umbridge stepped into the pit again. This time she didn't address the crowd, but looked instead at the hand-witches surrounding the pit.

"Let this witch with her blood make restitution to those she has wronged, our fellow wizards – the sires of our future."

The words that mirrored Voldemort sounded strangely comical in the woman's girlish voice.

"And let this be a lesson to you – all of you," Umbridge concluded, her gaze encompassing the hand-witches in the pit as well as the ones dressed in red sitting on the benches, and finally settling on Hermione. A sickening, little smile twisted the woman's face.

Macnair began to unbutton his robes, and the crowd erupted in a cacophony of cheers and epitaphs. Shouts of "Mudblood whore" and "murdering bitch" filled the air around Hermione, until she felt she was going to drown in them. To Hermione's disbelief, some of the hand-witches around her joined in the shouting, but most just stared ahead, their faces frozen in expressions of abject terror. And in the midst of it all, Hermione felt herself shatter inside. She kept her eyes fixed on the spot she had picked earlier, but she couldn't block out the sounds of pain, terror and lust coming from the pit, or the thought of Snape.

It seemed to go on forever, until Hermione's fingers were painfully stiff from clutching the edge of the bench, and she tasted blood from where she had sunk her teeth into her lips to keep from screaming. Only the fear that she would be dragged next into the pit kept her rooted to the spot, and for that she felt ashamed.

When she thought she couldn't take anymore, she heard Snape's voice rise above the others.

"I will not dirty my cock by putting it inside this Mudblood whore," he said.

This provoked a mixed reaction from the crowd. Many cheered, while others booed.

"Do it, brother, for me. Give it to her!" came a shout from the pit. Hermione thought it was Macnair, but she couldn't be sure of anything anymore.

She heard laughter then. It sounded like Snape, but it couldn't be, because Snape never laughed. The next words confirmed her initial suspicion.

"Oh, I shall give her something."

The cruelty in Snape's voice made Hermione shudder, and her eyes strayed to the pit – just in time to see Snape drop to one knee and ruthlessly shove his hand between the girl's splayed thighs.

Hermione felt her stomach revolt at the sight, and she brought her hand up to her mouth.

"Are you all right?" someone asked her.

Hermione shook her head and bolted from her seat. In front of her was the pit, to her left Voldemort and the Death Eaters, and all around people yelling and cheering. More Death Eaters guarded the doorway through which she had come in, so Hermione dashed toward the only opening she saw, to her right and behind the rows of benches. There she dropped to her knees and emptied the contents of her stomach onto the cold, stone floor. She heaved and wept until there was nothing left inside her and finally sagged against the wall.

She had to get out of this place, Hermione decided. Even if the hex put on her by the Ministry – the one that would shred her feet to ribbons the moment she took one step outside her narrowly defined boundaries – cost her her legs, she had to get away.

The noises coming from the pit died out, and she heard people moving about. She pushed herself up and took a few tentative steps, forcing her unsteady legs to support her weight. Most of the people were already filing out of the room, but many still remained behind, mingling and talking as if they were the afternoon crowd at a Sunday matinee. She walked close to the wall, her eyes scanning the faces of the crowd for any sign of Snape, or anyone else who would recognize her. She silently cursed the red robes that made her stand out.

She was almost to the exit when her sight settled on a vaguely familiar face across the room. Standing next to Fenrir was a man dressed in brown and green robes, the colors of the Werewolves in Fenrir's pack. His graying hair fell in uneven layers to his shoulders and around his face, obscuring his features. He bent forward to whisper something in Fenrir's ear, and when he turned his head toward her, a jolt of recognition hit Hermione's heart.

She rushed forward through the crowd, shoving elegantly dressed witches and wizards out of her way. The man saw her approach, and for an instant she thought she saw a glimmer of recognition in his eyes, before he turned away and disappeared into the crowd. She pressed forward with a renewed sense of purpose, until she felt iron-like fingers clasp around her forearm. She whirled around and found herself staring into Snape's dark eyes.

"Not here, not now," he hissed into her face.

"Don't touch me," she hissed back.

He pulled her close to him, so close that the fabric of his robes tickled the tip of her nose.

"If you still value your life, you will walk out of here with me – quietly and without any resistance," he whispered so low that for a moment Hermione was uncertain if she had heard him correctly.

Hermione raised her eyes to his face, but he wasn't looking at her. She followed his gaze across the room, past the platform that held the now empty throne and chairs of the Faithful, to a corner where Malfoy and Umbridge stood, sly smiles frozen on their faces as they listened attentively to something Voldemort was saying.

Her eyes scanned the room. Most of the civilians that had attended the trial had left, and what remained was mostly a sea of black, hooded robes. To her surprise, Hermione realized that she didn't want to die – not here, not like this, and certainly not now.

There was a sudden commotion as two Death Eaters pushed their way through to the front of the room and whispered something in Voldemort's ear. Umbridge gasped and brought her hand up to her mouth. Voldemort quickly turned around and disappeared behind the throne, and Lucius tilted his head, his steely gaze settling on Snape.

"Now would be a very good time, Miss Granger," Snape ground out softly.

She nodded to Snape, and he guided her out of the room, his hand still clutching her forearm while she held her body stiffly away from his.