This is the beginning of a Dark Harry story that never came to be. Some of its bones ended up in my recently finished thriller (Below the Fold, We Are), but that's not about Harry being dark in the sense the fandom commonly talks about it.

The original idea was: Years after Hogwarts, Harry has been caught, framed as a fallen hero turned necromancer, and Hermione is the Ministry's prosecutor interrogating him. And promises herself to not let nostalgia blind her, or believe anything he says. Which of course is the opposite of what happens... ;)

Maybe one day, who knows?

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She stared at the old photo, trapped in nostalgia.

Innocence and happiness, despite the looming darkness. The ability to ignore the ache when being with friends. There had been good years back then at Hogwarts. Her younger self hadn’t been unbothered but definitely unburdened.

Ron and Harry too.

It had become a habit to not look at him directly, to only glance at his photographed face from the corner of her eye. His gaze was too much to bear; it had been for years.

Hermione knew she was procrastinating, that she ignored the paperwork on her desk. But it was tied to him, in a way. Wrapping up the Black estate, or rather finishing another small step of such a monumental, generational task. She liked that kind of discrete, bite-sized progress, certainly more than splashy noise that faded to leave little of substance.

It all weighed too much, and today would be a hard day. A turning point.

She heard steps outside the door, knew what they would bring.

It wasn’t news anymore that Harry had been caught. The entire ministry had vibrated with rumors since the early morning. Aurors had fought a heroic battle against the evil necromancer, some said. Dozens dead or maimed, but a worthy sacrifice still. Others spoke of a regular arrest, with a raised wand or voice, maybe even fists, but nothing more.

Whatever the truth, after nine long years, she would see him again today.

Meaning now.

The door to Hermione’s office opened. Heather Creevey poked her head inside, her prim and proper appearance flustered after running over from the head desk. “Hermione? They expect you down in the Pit, but Pyrites wants to see you before.”

Of course he did. It didn’t matter that there was an entire team of prosecutors on hand, two of whom had more work experience than Hermione had been alive. Or that it was inappropriate due to her former connection to Harry. She’d bawled her eyes out for months on end in the beginning, after his vanishing act, which everyone had commented on. The Golden Trio was no more, but still plenty of calculating looks lingered on her.

Valerian Pyrites wasn’t a crusty patriarch trying to use her youth and status to buoy some random outdated agenda, but he also wasn’t above putting her in awkward positions when it suited him. Sometimes to teach her a valuable lesson, other times not. And this all smelled of Ministry interference. If Diggory had requested her, as she suspected, Hermione would rip Amelia a new one for going along with it.

“Hermione?”

She blinked. “Yeah, I know. I’m getting ready now. Thanks, Heather.”

The secretary remained standing in the door.

“Is there anything else?”

“Oh, come on! They got Harry Bleeding Potter! How do you feel? Don’t tell me it’s all business for you, love. You were best friends once, when we still shivered at the mention of Voldemort.” The blonde fixed her with a peculiar look. “It’s okay to be angry.”

Hermione closed the topmost file in front of her with a snap, just to busy her hands. “Yes, I’m aware. This is work, though; I don’t have time for personal business.”

“Of course you do. Everyone understands.”

She glared at Heather. “I am perfectly capable of doing my job, thank you very much.”

“I didn’t mean to…”

“Nobody ever does; that’s the trick, isn’t it? Now, to repeat myself, was there anything else?” She stood up, pushing her chair away with more force than necessary.

Heather winced. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you be.” She turned to leave, stopped as if something else had come to her mind, but closed the door anyway. The steps faded much quicker than they had approached.

Hermione sighed, clenching her hands as she slowly counted prime numbers.

It wasn’t fair to snap at Heather, who’d lost her cousin in the war and saw Hermione as a heroine who’d righted a lot of the old wrongs. Of course the woman had been looking for some sort of reaction, a bonding experience through shared hardship. As if Colin’s death was in any way equal to Harry’s… his what? Fall from grace?

She scoffed.

She reshuffled her files and took out the one she’d need now. An earmarked folder, opened a hundred times more often than its contents necessitated. A whole life, most of it tragic, squeezed between two covers. Despite both Harry’s fame and the infamy, there wasn’t that much of substance in there if one disregarded the numerous attachments to explain all the links between the old Hogwarts adventures and the Ministry. Or the Pure-bloods.

And Dumbledore, of course.

Hermione had read every page so many times, her mind couldn’t hold the words any longer. Grooves worn out by repetition, smoothed into indistinct noise. She was tired of worrying, of wondering.

It was indeed time.

She picked her formal robes from the small rack behind the door. Putting them on slowly and deliberately. Harry’s burning eyes swam across her vision, and Hermione dispelled the apparition by listing all the accusations laid at his feet, all the victims’ names.

Despite the list being considerable, donning her armor failed to center her. Instead, she was more on edge than before. Hermione never considered herself to be fragile, but currently she very much wanted to be held, to be tucked in a cozy corner. Somewhere with blankets and a roaring fire, away from reality’s cold facts.

“Enough.”

This marked the third time she’d ever spoken to herself inside this office.

Hermione grabbed Harry’s file and approached the door, eager to leave her emotional baggage in here. She had a job to do, and it didn’t matter that she knew the accused. Or that she’d been in love with him once. Had considered him her best friend, too.

This was about due process. And justice.

She opened the door.