The Hearing

CHAPTER TWO: The Hearing

The robes they had brought Hermione were less than flattering. She didn't need a mirror to see that much.

Standing in the center of her cell, she tugged at the fabric and tried to drape it all in some sort of pleasing manner; she wanted to at least look nice, even if she was being condemned to death. These robes, however, looked as if they belonged to someone twice her size and half her height. They were wide and baggy, but fell only to her ankles. She thought of her father and how he sometimes would wear trousers that were too short for him.

That thought, of course, sparked the constant reminder that her parents were dead, which then led down the inevitable train of thought that led her to a conclusion that always made her blood run cold.

She'd killed them.

Perhaps she did deserve the death sentence, or even the Dementor's Kiss. She'd certainly done things horrible enough to warrant such a fate, hadn't she?

Forgetting about her ill-fitting robe, she sighed and lowered herself onto her bed to wait for her escorts to take her away. Despite it all, she was actually looking forward to today; if nothing else, it was an excuse to get out of the prison and into the sunlight. To breathe in that fresh air that she'd been missing, to feel free, to move her legs. If it was to be her last day, she would at least feel freedom once more.

"Granger," a voice called, and she looked up to see that a group of guards were now standing outside her cell. She blinked in surprise, realizing that she'd not even heard them approach. Knowing the drill, she stood and moved to the corner, waiting for them to unlock the large iron bars and push the door of sorts open. "Remain there," the head guard instructed, making his way into her cell.

She tensed as he moved closer, realizing that no one had been this close to her in five months. "Hold out your hands," he demanded gruffly. He had a voice like a drill sergeant -- stern, clear, commanding. She did as she was told, then watched with slight horror as he bound her wrists together with a silvery rope. It itched against her skin, and her fingers felt cold as the blood supply was nearly cut off to her hands. She wriggled to test the tightness, finding that there was, in fact, no room to wriggle at all.

They were definitely not taking any chances with her.

The guard's hand then gripped her elbow firmly, leading her out of the cell and into the main corridor. They walked quickly, past the other inmates that Hermione had come to watch in her time here. Some of them she recognized as those that were allowed out, as they walked past her cell on those occasions. Others she'd never seen, and she assumed they'd all done something as awful as her.

They stood at the end of the corridor waiting for a rattling lift to ascend. The silence was awkward, and Hermione shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She hated this feeling -- going somewhere, but seeming as though she'd left something behind. Perhaps it was just because she didn't exactly go anywhere these days. It wasn't as if she was forgetting her purse or something equally as odd.

"Do something with her hair," another guard barked. She glanced around, finding half of them staring at her in disgust. No one seemed willing to touch her, save the guard with his hand still firmly on her elbow. "For fuck's sake," the man growled, shoving past two other guards and reaching up to yank her head back with a tug at her hair.

It hurt, but she was slightly grateful; she was sure that her mane of hair was wild and unruly, whatever he was doing to it was sure to make it look slightly more presentable -- even if she was sure that he only did it to make the guards look better. As if they were actually taking care of their prisoners.

Ha.

Her scalp was aching now, but she could feel a sort of knot at the nape of her neck. He'd either twisted it in a low, messy bun, or had used an elastic band to gather it in a ponytail. At least it wasn't wild and curling around her head in a wiry mess anymore.

The lift rattled to a stop, and the grip at her elbow shoved her forward to step into the elevator. She stumbled at first, but quickly regained her balance and moved inside, turning around to face the door as the other guards filed in beside her. As uncomfortable as the grasp on her arm was, she was finding it almost nice. The touch, the human... feeling. It was better than sitting alone, talking to no one.

Hermione took a deep breath, then watched as the corridor of cells slowly disappeared from her view as the doors closed.

The hearing room was large, circular, and ominous.

Hermione had entered it, expecting a very small room where she would be addressed by a small board of wizards. But no, she was faced with a very open and full chamber, wizards chatting here and there, everyone out to see the fate of Hermione Granger. The Wizengamot sat regally at their long, curved desk, waiting for the case to be presented.

As the last of her guards entered the chamber, the wizard in the center of the purple-robed line lifted a gavel and pounded it three times. The sharp, loud sound caused a silence to fall over the room, and all eyes were now turned down upon Hermione.

"Please restrain your prisoner," the wizard said coolly, waving a hand at the guards. They obeyed, and Hermione found herself being forced down into a chair. Chains snaked around her ankles and elbows, her hands still bound together in front of her. She was uncomfortable, and afraid, and worried that she was thinking far too much about her comfort in the long run.

The guards then fell back behind her, out of her peripheral vision. She didn't like that; she'd at least felt more at ease with the men she recognized from what had become her home -- now she was being looked upon by hundreds of strangers. Bearing that thought in mind, she hopefully looked up through the crowds for a familiar head of red hair, hoping against hope that perhaps Neville had delivered her message. She was finding that there was no such luck.

Disappointed, she tried to relax back into the chair, swallowing hard as she looked up at the judging panel.

"Hermione Jane Granger, brought here under charges of murder. Who will represent the deceased?" The Chief Warlock glanced about the room, and one lone witch stood regally before giving him an affirming nod. "Very well. Who will represent the prisoner?"

Hermione took a deep breath in, surprise evident on her face. Who will represent her? She wasn't aware that she needed someone to do so! Furthermore, it was a feeling of utter hopelessness. No one even came to visit her, no one sent her letters -- who in their right mind would actually stand before the Wizengamot and--

"I," came a voice that sounded very familiar.

All eyes, Hermione's included, turned to find the source of the response. A figure stood, near the upper left-hand corner of the spectators, and then slowly began to descend down the steps. Surprise made its way through the crowd as more and more people spied the mysterious man, connected the voice with its owner, realized who it was.

Still unable to make him out, Hermione peered curiously up at the man until at last he came into view. Limp, black hair that was beginning to show speckled bits of gray, a lumbering walk that was not lacking in confidence, and a decidedly Roman nose -- Severus Snape had stepped forward to represent her.

"Severus Snape, you are a newly freed prisoner, which makes you unavailable to vouch for the witch presented here to us today--" the Chief Warlock began, obviously not pleased with this turn of events. The board of Interrogators looked on the scene with disapproval as well, but nodded in agreement with their leader.

"I am a decorated war hero with a full return to citizenship," Snape replied quickly in a near-bark. "I am well in my rights to defend and represent whomever I so choose."

Decorated war hero? Hermione thought, frowning as she glared at him. He wasn't wearing any such decoration. But she supposed that wouldn't suit him, anyway. She couldn't rightly imagine him adorned in medals and looking happy about that fact. No, he'd likely be the sort to hide them away. Her mind was whirling with a million other questions, though; he'd been put on trial and released just days before she'd killed... well, before the incident. How had he been released? He'd killed Dumbledore! None of it made sense, but it gave her hope that perhaps she could be set free, too.

The room was abuzz with soft whispers and grunts of disapproval. But the Chief Warlock paused before nodding once and gesturing for each side of representation to take their place on the floor.

The tall witch stepped down first, gracefully and so sure of herself; Hermione was sure, looking between the two of them, that she was doomed. This woman looked very confident and well-liked. It didn't hurt that she was obviously attractive. Hermione's eyes turned back to Snape, who was now closer and more clear to her, and she felt a pout coming to her lips. No, she was definitely doomed.

Snape looked rough; his eyes were more sunken, skin more sallow, lips more drawn. She didn't think it possible for him to look more unhappy than he had while she was in school, but there it was, right in front of her. The epitome of misery.

"I'd like to present a witness," the witch said, her voice very concise and clear as she gestured to the left of the room. To Hermione's horror, Draco Malfoy stood and gave a nod of acknowledgement before stepping down and taking a seat near her. He faced the Wizengamot, face solemn and posture erect. Fuming, Hermione fought to not tear out of her seat after him -- witness, indeed! He was no witness! He was Voldemort's puppet and had only been present that evening as an aide to him!

Hermione looked up to Snape, as if to tell him that this was all wrong, but his expression stopped her dead in her tracks. He was watching her very carefully, and he gave a very deliberate and commanding shake of his head. He was telling her silently to be still and not say a single word regarding Malfoy's reliability as a witness. She seethed, but held her tongue and turned her attention back to the blond in question.

"State your name, boy," the Chief Warlock barked, looking as displeased by this witness as Hermione was. Draco shifted a bit, as if he wanted to inform the man that he was no boy, but kept himself calm before doing as he was told.

"Draco Malfoy, sir," he replied, that slithering voice making Hermione cringe. She'd loathed that voice and honestly never wanted to hear it again. Funny how things worked out.

"Proceed."

The witch nodded, then addressed the Wizengamot with a short speech about the accuracy of these sorts of 'delicate' situations, and then she spoke on how very important it was to have a first-hand account of the events that transpired. Hermione could hardly pay any attention to the woman's prattle, mostly because she wanted nothing more than to leap up and inform everyone there that Malfoy was not there that night as any sort of friend. He'd been there under Voldemort's command.

"Please, tell the Wizengamot what you saw, Mr. Malfoy," she said at last, turning to give Draco a pleasant, sickly-sweet smile.

Draco nodded, then took a deep breath before he began. "I'd heard about a possible ambush," he started, shaking his head and putting on a relatively good act of feeling grief. Hermione's eyes narrowed with hatred at that fact. "In Hogsmeade, a couple of months after school began this past year." He paused, as if having difficulty retrieving those painful memories.

"Potter and I had never really gotten on, but... well, to be honest? I wanted in on the action. I was tired of competing with him; I thought that maybe, if something did happen, I could help. Things could be mended, that sort of thing." His voice was short and precise, still holding on to that disgusting drawl he'd always had. He spoke as if his word was law, and half of the people present seemed to be eating it up.

"It was all so quick -- there was an attack in the Three Broomsticks. Madam Rosmerta had tried to ... it was awful. So many ... bodies."

Hermione's breath was coming quicker now, chest heaving up and down as she listened to him recount that terrible evening in his own twisted way. He'd not even begun to accuse her yet, and already she wanted to rip out his throat.

"Potter had some sort of amulet with him, something he'd found earlier that day, or something, I don't rightly know the details behind it. They were after the amulet, and he was about to destroy it. Granger ended up stopping him, said to give it to them. Then she pointed her wand at him, forced him to let them have it. It was absolute insanity; she was mad." He shook his head, then paused with a furrowed brow. "Might I have some water?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, then watched as that dreadful witch acquiesced and conjured Malfoy a tall glass of sparkling clear, iced water. She felt her own mouth tense with desire for it, but forced her craving down.

"The Death Eaters, they tried to take Potter, then. I honestly think they had business to discuss with him and were afraid Granger would kill him. We were all afraid of that. And with good reason."

He turned his gaze on Hermione, the side of his mouth that wasn't visible to the Wizengamot curving upward in a cruel smirk. "She used the Killing Curse on Potter."

The room erupted into a collective gasp, as if they'd not heard this story a million times already. The Boy Who Lived, killed by his own best friend, his most trusted ally. Oh, the tragedy of it all. Hermione swallowed, then struggled with her bonds as she fought to get at Malfoy, to rip that lovely blond hair from his fat, inflated head.

A hand on her shoulder stopped her, and she was sure that the guards were there at her side once more -- to calm her, to restrain her -- but no. It was the cool grip of her former Potions master, and he was looking down at her with that reprimanding glare once more. As if she'd sliced her daisy roots a hair too thick again.

"If Mr. Malfoy is quite finished," he drawled, letting his eyes flick from Hermione to the witch who was representing Harry's death. His murder. "I've a couple pieces of evidence I'd like to submit."

Evidence? Hermione looked around the room, obviously surprised. What evidence could he possibly have that would make this verdict sway toward her? She wasn't even aware that any existed, and she was the one on trial!

"Very well," the Chief Warlock replied, giving him a nod of his head. "Go on, then."

Snape nodded politely in reply before delving one pale hand into his robe pocket. A soft chinking noise accompanied his movements as he pulled out two amulets. Hermione froze, knowing exactly where he was going with his 'evidence'.

"This," he started, holding up the amulet that Draco referenced, "is the amulet that was found on Harry Potter's body. This," he continued, holding up the other, "is the amulet that Harry Potter believed he had, confiscated from Hermione Granger upon her arrest."

Hermione closed her eyes, inwardly groaning. She was sure this would make her look even worse than she already did. She'd hid it from Harry. This was his job, and she'd followed an inner nagging she'd had. It was right, but . . . well, look where it got her.