With some difficulty, I rose from my bed the next morning, tore through the breakfast she had made for me, muttered a hurried thanks, and walked out of the door. I had made arrangements with Mrs. Weasley to come in the Ministry car Mr. Weasley had gained in his experience with the Ministry the last few years. I had never had a problem with Apparition, but growing up Muggle-born taught me how truly frustrating it was to see someone and turn back for a second glance – and he was gone.
The visitor’s entrance had never looked so foreboding. As I walked up to the broken receiver, I took note of my surroundings. They were, more or less, the same as they had been almost ten years ago when the members of Dumbledore’s Army had descended here into the Department of Mysteries. It was chilling how similar I felt. Here I was, making that descent once more, and I would once again be facing a known Death Eater.
The calm woman’s voice did not soothe my nerves today. Rather than that, it frustrated me, almost to the point of pacing inside that small, square box. There was a careful grinding noise as the box descended into the heart of the Ministry of Magic. When the doors finally opened, I saw the Atrium, and at once my fears were relieved. It was busy, and full of life. This alone provided consolation. Out of the corner of my eye, a witch waved to me, and as I turned to acknowledge her, I recognized her as one Lavender Brown, a dear friend from school. Smiling, I walked toward her. The day was looking up.
My outlook on life could not have changed more as I walked down the hallway toward old Courtroom Ten. The pathway was dusty, and my every step echoed unpleasantly in the large stone hallway. My eyes flickered back and forth, and I jumped at small noises. I couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for Harry coming down this way with the possibility in mind that he may never come back to Hogwarts.
I reached the courtroom doors. They were large, heavy, and made of oak – ominous, foreboding. I put out one trembling hand to touch the handle, and the doors swung open before me.
It was like some sort of sporting event. Stadium seating lined the walls, where several witches and wizards were conversing in low and solemn tones. Albus Dumbledore himself sat in one of the chairs, his face expressionless, his mouth thin and cold. In the center of the room was a lowered floor, which gave room for a crudely carved stone chair. Around the arms of this chair were chains, hanging loosely at the sides, waiting to bind the victim to itself to prevent escape. It felt hollow and empty, dry and dusty, as if it had not been used in years.
I jumped as a hand grabbed my wrist. I looked down and saw an elf hovering timidly about my feet. As scared as I was, I hardly even call sympathy from deep within myself for this poor creature.
“Miss is to be coming with Blinky?” she squeaked, ducking around my feet. “The witnesses is supposed to sit here, miss.” She led me to a wooden bench in front of the Wizengamot. Numbly, I sat and stared around the harsh stone room around me. Surely -- surely I was not about to convict a friend?
“Miss is looking tired,” the elf squeaked again, her bulbous blue eyes filling with tears. “Blinky knows, Blinky knows. These is bad times, miss, bad times indeed.”
Ron, in the meantime, knew nothing of Hermione’s situation. Desperate to find her, desperate to tell her of his mistake, he was hurrying toward the only place he knew to look for her – St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. True enough, it was a long shot that she would be here, but maybe someone – someone would know where she had gone.
The mannequin beckoned him forward, and he stepped through the glass pane into the lobby of the hospital. There were people all around, some coughing with a disease, others sprouting extra heads. None of these things mattered – none of them. He had to find her. Shoving a witch whose eyebrows were growing out of control, covering most of her face, he reached the witch at the front desk, who looked up at him lazily and said, “Next.”
“I need to find Hermione Granger.”
“The patient?”
“No, Healer Hermione Granger.”
“She isn’t here.”
Ron’s head reeled, leaving room for one thought, one solitary purpose. He needed to find her.
“Ron!”
A petite blonde witch was hurrying toward him, her eyes wide with shock. “Ron,” Hannah said, reaching him, “what – what are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for Hermione.” He said it simply, loud enough for the whole room to hear. He didn’t care anymore. He loved her, and he didn’t care if the whole world knew it.
“Ron, no!” she said, dropping her voice to a whisper. Then louder, “She’s on her break.” And softly again, “Come with me.”
“What’re you – ?”
“Not here, Ron!”
She grabbed his wrist and hurried him along into an empty broom closet and shut the door behind. She conjured up a few candles, lit them, and magicked them into the air.
“Why,” she said, turning around after locking the door, “do you find it necessary to wear your heart on your sleeve?”
Flabbergasted, Ron got ready for a rant.
“No, not now, Ron,” she said, holding a finger up to his lips.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“I’m –,” she began, but stopped. “Oh, you! You don’t remember anything!” And she launched into the story of Adrienne’s betrayal and where exactly Hermione was right now.
“She’s at the Wizengamot?” he nearly shouted, ears reddening. “With a Death Eater? No!” He made to dash out the door, but Hannah held him back.
“Ron, don’t you see? This is a secret,” she said. “If the whole world found out that there had been a Death Eater inside St. Mungo’s, they’d go insane.”
“But, Hermione!” he protested.
“She’ll be fine,” Hannah assured him. “Adrienne won’t do anything – at least not in front of the Wizengamot. She’s not stupid.”
Ron seriously doubted this, but Hannah had gone to Hogwarts, and he trusted her enough because of that.
“Now,” she said. “You can go back to my house and wait for her there. I’ll be along, most likely, before she gets there. If not,” her eyes flickered dangerously, “you two can have some alone time.”
I knew, once they brought Adrienne in, that the room would fall silent, as it did. She came in quietly, her dark eyes darting hither and thither, keeping her eyes on the ground, but she did not speak until she was spoken to. As she sat the stone-hewn chair, the chains rattled dangerously and bound her, and a purple-robed man with a mustache came forward rather quickly.
“The accused,” he announced proudly to the Wizengamot, “Adrienne Elizabete Krapf, is charged with the most serious offense of service to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, this seventeenth of September, eight years past his return.” He smiled sickeningly at the jury, who stared stonily back at him.
Turning sharply on his heel, he faced Adrienne. “Miss Krapf,” he said, his eyes flashing, “is it not true that your given name was Mercote?”
Adrienne, who until this point had been staring silently at her knees, allowed her eyes to roll up to face him. “Yes,” she hissed, her voice being quickly lost in the enormity of the room. “Yes, that was my name.”
There was an accent in her voice I had never heard there before. It was icy cold, like venom, and it swept through my body like ice.
The accuser seemed to recover himself quickly. “And it is true,” he said, “that you attended Beauxbatons Academy at age eleven?”
“Yes,” she answered, assuming the same icy tone as before.
“You will be twenty-five next month?”
“I will.” She seemed reluctant to say anything.
The accuser sniffed indignantly. “Miss Mercote, you have been --”
“You will not call me by that name.” She spoke so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that half the room jumped, though her voice was the smallest of whispers. She continued on, louder this time. “That name is from the past which I have left behind.”
“Very well then,” he said, recovering him. “Adrienne Krapf,” he continued, putting the smallest emphasis on her name, “you stand accused of fraternization with and abetment of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. This is an offense of the most serious nature. Do you have anything to say in your own defense?”
During this speech, Adrienne had been trembling madly. The questioner looked rather startled by this unnatural behavior, and stumbled a few times over his words. All of sudden, however, she became quite still and her head hung down at her chest. When she lifted her head, there was a furious rage burning in her eyes, a hate so sinful that she was sure she could have burst into flame.
Her eyes were now rolling in her head, her fingers white from the strength of the grasp she had on the stone-hewn chair. She became very quiet again, and then burst out –
“YOU—HAVE—NO—PROOF!” she shouted, her voice powerful and resounding, ringing in my ears even to this day. “YOU HAVE THE WORD OF ONE NO ACCOUNT WITCH AND YOU THREATEN ME WITH DEMENTORS? BE NOT FOOLS, MEN OF THE MINISTRY! THE DEMENTORS ARE IN THE SERVICE OF MY MASTER! THE SERVANTS OF THE DARK LORD DO NOT FEAR THE MINISTRY. WE WILL SERVE TO THE END!”
Her voice echoed in the room, leaving many members of the Wizengamot speechless.
“W- well,” stammered the questioner, staring white-faced at Adrienne. “We have almost all of the needed evidence to convict this – quite evident – supporter of Lord – well – You-Know-Who.”
Adrienne’s outburst had quite deprived him of his nerve. Behind his mustache, I could see him becoming paler and paler by the second. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed and said, “If – if you please, Miss Granger?”
Shaking, I stood and came to the witness’ stand.
“Hermione Jane Granger,” said the questioner in his loud, booming voice. “Have you seen the Dark Mark emblazoned on her arm?”
I was silent. I could feel the eyes of every member of the Wizengamot glued to me. This was the moment I had to make a decision. At last. To betray a friend, or to doom the Wizarding world? At any other moment, the choice would have seemed simple. Adrienne’s black hair was unkempt and tangled. Her eyes burned in their sockets, and peeking out from the sleeve of her robes was a human skull, a snake weaving in and out of it, with eyes like the Devil himself.
“Miss Granger?” he prompted me quickly. I again became aware of the burning sensation in my stomach. To do what is right, not what is easy …
My throat was very dry … I felt about to faint. Making my decision, mustering every ounce of resolution that I possessed --
“Yes,” came the answer, clear and unwavering. “She wears the Mark of Lord Voldemort.”
There was a collective shudder about the room.
Adrienne exploded yet again. “SLIME! VERMIN!” she shrieked. “HOW DARE YOU BEFOUL THE NAME OF THE DARK LORD? MUDBLOOD! HOW DARE YOU DEFILE MY MASTER?” She strained against her bonds, but (to my relief) they held fast.
Muttering broke out among the Wizengamot. Here and there, I caught fragments of dialogue.
“They say they knew each other …”
“They even worked together. …”
“Were friends even …”
“Killed her father …”
Something registered in my head. Adrienne had – had killed her father? I looked at the woman in the chair next to me and something stirred in my heart. Was it compassion? No. It was hatred. Burning, fiery hate. How – how dare she? She called me her friend, and dared to call me something as – as foul as –
“Adrienne Elizabete Mercote,” announced the questioned. “You are here charged with association with and abetment of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. In the presence of the Wizengamot, and” – he took up a piece of paper and his eyes widened – “with full assent, you are sentenced to a life term in Azkaban.”
A wave of anger swept over me. I wanted to leap on her … to kill her, but she got to it first. When she spoke, a deadly quiet fell over the room.
“Soon,” she said barely above a whisper, the room hanging on her every word. “You will be very sorry. Soon, the Dark Lord will take over. And very soon,” she added, with a venom in her voice I had never heard there before, “I will disappear before your very eyes.”
There was a crack like a whip, and she was gone. A stunned silence followed, ringing … ringing. A few mouths fell open.
Pandemonium broke out all at once.
“Where has she gone?”
“She must have Disapparated!”
“She can’t have Disapparated; those chains are there to keep her in that chair!”
“It couldn’t be -- him?”
A witch in purple robes stood in the center of the room. Within a few seconds, every eye in the place was on her. “Well, isn’t it obvious?” she said, blushing a bit. “He’s taken her away.”
There was a roar of assent. Several people Disapparated, and several other people ran out the doors, shouting into the corridors. Terrified, I sat down on the witness’ stand. There would be no mercy from a freed and fuming Adrienne. No respite from her fury. A few seconds later, Blinky appeared at my knee.
“Miss is troubled,” she said, her great blue eyes full of tears. “Miss is finished for today. Miss can go home now.”
Gratefully and with a watery smile at the elf, I stood up, preparing to Disapparate. “Blinky,” I said, as an afterthought. “Have you ever wanted to be free?”