Chapter 1
Notes:
Author's Note:
Hi everyone!
This is a story about the truth, the cost of power, and the people caught in between.
Please note that this is a long-form narrative. We are weaving together three main threads here: the detective work (Mystery), the Ministry power struggles (Politics), and the Romance.
I’m already 80 chapters deep into the draft, and the finish line is still a dot on the horizon (we probably aren't even halfway there).
But don't worry—I have a detailed roadmap for the entire journey, so we won't get lost.
It is a slow burn in every sense of the word.
Thank you for joining me.
Chapter Text
PROLOGUE
The silence within the study hung heavy as a shroud of velvet. It was a suffocating stillness, broken only by the sickly, faint crackle of dying embers in the hearth.
Cold, spectral moonlight filtered through the high latticed windows, casting bars of silver across the deep crimson carpet. The pale light caressed the spines of the leather-bound volumes lining the walls, softening the severe edges of the ebony furniture.
The air was thick with the cloying, lingering sweetness of sandalwood. Yet tonight, the fragrance seemed to have congealed, settling over the room with a heavy, ominous stagnation.
Old Nott sat motionless in his high-backed armchair, as though he and the silent room had been sealed together in amber.
In the crystal goblet he clutched, the last dregs of malt whiskey glinted with a cold luminescence under the moon.
He fixed his gaze upon the figure leaning against the tall window—a perfect silhouette against the glass, back turned to the night.
"You," he rasped, his voice a tremor of pure disbelief. "Why... why would you do this?"
The dark shape remained motionless, offering no reply.
Old Nott’s breathing grew ragged in the oppressive quiet.
"Do you think... do you imagine you can simply sweep us all away?" His anger, a flickering ember, momentarily flared against the rising tide of terror. "We do not operate this way. This... is too extreme."
A low chuckle finally broke the stillness—dry and utterly devoid of warmth. It was a sound that did not fill the room so much as drain it of its last remaining heat.
"Foundations always crumble, Theodore. Especially when they grow weak. You have become... an inconvenience. And, frankly, quite tedious."
A strangled gurgle clawed at Nott’s throat. He attempted to push himself up from the chair, but his limbs refused to obey. Eyes widening in horror, he dropped his gaze to the glass in his hand.
The amber liquid, swirling gently only seconds before, was thickening.
A grotesque frost was blossoming silently, creeping like a spiderweb across the crystal, freezing the fine spirit into a solid block of ice.
His stiffening fingers clamped around the stem. He tried to speak again, to scream, to curse, but the words froze in his throat. A leaden weight settled over him, a horrific, penetrating cold seizing him from the inside out.
The silhouette in the moonlight watched dispassionately as old Theodore Nott slid, slowly and agonizingly, from the armchair.
His grip slackened. The crystal goblet, now cradling a perfectly frozen block of whiskey, fell with a muffled thud onto the crimson carpet. It rolled once, then twice, coming to rest at the feet of the dark figure.
The scent of sandalwood grew sharp and acrid, seemingly mocking the frozen man.
The fire in the hearth had long since died. There was nothing left but the sandalwood, fading slowly into the dark.
Chapter 2
Notes:
I redesigned the Auror Office and added details. In my head, it’s less about orderly cubicles and more about overflowing desks, stale coffee, and chaotic energy.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE
Honey-colored morning light stole into the tiny, book-crammed room. It filtered through dust motes that danced weightlessly in the air, carrying with it the peculiar serenity of dawn.
The warmth first spilled gently onto the snowy-white shag rug, gilding every fiber with a near-transparent halo; then, playfully, it crept up the bed, caressing the soft, well-washed floral quilt and illuminating the intricate, faded patterns of blossoms.
The room smelled faintly of ink, old pages, and parchment. Heavy tomes were stacked on the nightstand, the desk, and even in the corners of the floor, their spines casting long shadows in the morning sun. Everything was still steeped in the hush that follows the dawn.
Eight o'clock sharp.
On the nightstand, an alarm clock shaped like a Pygmy Puff—a round ball of fluffy pink and purple fur—began to vibrate violently, emitting a high-pitched poof-poof-poof shriek.
A hand shot out from beneath the warm duvet with lightning speed, palm slapping unerringly onto the soft object. The vibration and shrieking cut off instantly.
Hermione Granger retracted her hand and pulled the quilt over her head, cocooning herself completely in darkness.
Silence returned to the world. There was only the sound of her steady breathing and the slowly rising, soporific level of carbon dioxide beneath the covers.
She was sinking again, drifting into that weightless comfort on the border between waking and dreaming...
Nine-thirty.
The thought pierced her haze like a cold needle.
She sat up with a jolt. The duvet slid down, and the cool morning air raised gooseflesh on her bare shoulders.
Nine-thirty—the hearing for the amendment to the "Werewolf Rights Protection Act."
Her first Wizengamot session.
The realization banished all sleep instantly. She could not, would not, allow herself to be late.
Hermione scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping in her haste. She grabbed the clothes draped over the chair back, threw them on in three seconds flat, and rushed to her desk. A thick stack of dossiers lay open, the edges curled from handling. She had been up until three in the morning, scrutinizing every word, ensuring every argument was unassailable, every cited statute accurate.
She shoved the files into her brown handbag, which had been subjected to an Undetectable Extension Charm. Inside, there was the distinct, dry clatter of parchment hitting old books.
In the bathroom, everything accelerated. The electric toothbrush whirred mechanically in her mouth; cold water splashed against her face. She glanced in the mirror—a face pale from lack of sleep, and a head of brown hair that had gone completely rogue, threatening to explode in all directions.
She was already at the door, hand on the knob.
"No."
She muttered to herself. She could be hurried, but she could not be disheveled. It was something her father, a meticulous dentist, had taught her. In a place like the Wizengamot, filled with ancient fossils, appearance was armor.
She turned back to the bathroom and drew her wand.
No complex incantations were needed. With three precise flicks of her wrist, the wand tip traced short, sharp arcs. A gentle current of magic swept through her hair. In the mirror, the wild, living bush miraculously subsided, tamed into obedient, glossy waves that shone with health in the morning light.
She didn't pause. Her wand tip turned to her face. With a deft twirl of her wrist, a stream of silver magic, finer than a hair and almost invisible, swept over her features.
The fatigue in the mirror was instantly masked by a thin, flawless layer of foundation. Her eyebrows were defined, clean and natural; her lashes curled upwards; a natural flush touched her cheeks, and a subtle, perfect shade of color stained her lips. In less than ten seconds, a complete, polished look was achieved.
Hermione nodded in satisfaction, grabbed her bag, and dashed out the door.
The London streets were as congested as ever. She walked briskly, the click of her heels on the pavement drowned out by the roar of buses and the cacophony of the morning rush.
She ducked into the Muggle café on the corner, hit by the rich aroma of coffee and baking butter.
"Large black coffee, one croissant, to go." Her voice was crisp and urgent.
Three minutes later, clutching a scalding paper cup in her left hand and a paper bag in her right, she rejoined the stream of people. She didn't head home, but turned in the opposite direction, ducking into an alley three blocks away.
At the end of the alley stood a derelict pub. The wooden sign was faded, the words "The Nag's Head" barely legible on the peeling paint. It was the nearest Ministry Floo connection to her flat, and her personal preference.
She refused to be flushed into the Ministry through a public toilet today; the association between a toilet and the food in her hand made her stomach turn.
Three people were already queuing before the dusty wooden door. A balding wizard clutching a briefcase, looking nervous, and two witches dressed in finery, whispering to each other. Hermione took her place at the back, taking small sips of the burning coffee.
One by one, the wizards ahead of her pushed open the creaking door and stepped inside, vanishing into the darkness beyond.
Finally, it was her turn.
Hermione pushed inside. A blast of cold air hit her, smelling of stale beer, mold, and old soot. The interior was pitch black, save for the weak light filtering through the grimy windows, illuminating the thick, stagnant haze of dust.
She walked straight to the large fireplace at the end of the bar. On the mantelpiece sat a battered pewter tankard filled with Floo powder. She grabbed a handful; the powder was dry and cool, rustling against her fingertips.
She took a deep breath and threw the powder into the grate.
"The Ministry of Magic!"
Green flames roared up, carrying the distinct scent of smoke and sulfur. The fire swallowed her, and her vision was instantly filled with spinning green.
A second later, the spinning stopped.
She was standing in the Atrium of the Ministry. The magnificent hall was bustling, the enchanted ceiling displaying a bright, clear sky.
She stepped quickly out of the fireplace, her heels clicking sharply on the polished dark marble floor.
Ignoring the hurried crowds around her, she made straight for the lifts.
"Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement," she murmured to the operator.
The brass grilles slid shut with a harsh rattle, and the lift ascended.
The doors opened on Level Two. The colors here were more somber than the Atrium, the air heavy with the scent of old parchment and ink. She strode down the corridor and into the open-plan office of the D.M.L.E.
"Morning, Granger."
"Morning."
She nodded to a few seniors, her eyes sweeping the corner. Blaise Zabini was already there, legs crossed, languidly directing a quill with his wand to sign a document.
He seemed to sense her gaze. He looked up, that handsome face wearing its habitual, almost mocking smile. He drawled, "Morning, Granger."
Hermione marched straight to her cubicle, dropping her bag heavily onto the desk. She hurriedly pulled out the parchment containing the amendment, replying without looking up, "Morning, Zabini."
Zabini swiveled his chair, seemingly about to say more, but Hermione cut him off sharply.
"I don't have time for chat, Zabini." Her voice was clipped, her eyes never leaving the scroll.
Time: 8:50 AM. She had forty minutes.
She took out the slightly cooled croissant and took a large bite, chasing it with coffee. One hand held the food, the other flipped rapidly through the dossier.
The hot, bitter coffee mixed with the buttery pastry in her mouth, a strange balance she barely tasted.
Her entire focus was on the spread-out parchment. Her gaze landed precisely on the third page, on the addendum to the "Twelfth Amendment."
There, in red ink, she had drawn a tiny but distinct asterisk.
The key to everything lay right there.
At nine o'clock sharp, the magical clock in the ceiling chimed clearly. Hermione's colleagues—those at her level—began to stand in twos and threes, gathering their papers, murmuring in low voices as they prepared to head to the Wizengamot for the session.
Hermione took a deep breath and stood up. carefully rolling the addendum with the asterisk and clutching it, along with several other heavy files, to her chest. She had prepared a week for this meeting.
Just as she was about to join the flow of people, her supervisor, Fabian Prewett, blocked her path.
"Granger," Prewett said in his usual condescending tone. "You're not going to the Wizengamot. The Auror Office needs support. You've been assigned to assist them with the investigation into Old Nott's murder."
The files in Hermione's arms nearly slipped. "What? But Mr. Prewett, today's agenda includes the session on the Twelfth Amendment to the Werewolf Rights Act. I've prepared..."
"The session will proceed as normal," Prewett interrupted impatiently. "But the Nott case is more urgent. The Aurors need a full investigative dossier and analysis from Law Enforcement. They need you there immediately."
He didn't give Hermione a chance to respond before walking towards the door.
Hermione’s blood rushed to her head. Old Nott’s case! The mess everyone wanted to avoid.
Theodore Nott, leveraging his blood status and his family's immense influence, had already rejected two reports from the Auror Office. The Ministry didn't want the truth; they wanted an excuse—evidence that looked "sufficient" enough to shut Nott up temporarily.
From the corner of her eye, she saw her pure-blood and half-blood peers filing past her towards the exit. As Zabini passed, he paused, looking back. For once, his mocking eyes held a flicker of genuine sympathy. He gave her a helpless shrug and followed the others out.
The doors to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement clanged shut. Hermione stood alone, feeling like a fool.
She cursed Prewett a hundred times in her head. The pompous, balding man was abusing his authority, wielding his ridiculous pure-blood status to sideline her—the "Muggle-born"—from the center of power in the Wizengamot, sending her to do the thankless dirty work.
"Don't look so down, Miss Granger."
Her department head, Madam Elara Rowle, walked over. Madam Rowle was an immaculately dressed witch with a perpetually gentle expression.
She patted Hermione’s arm lightly, her violet eyes full of comfort. "I know it's unfair. But the Nott case must be closed quickly. We just need to give the Aurors a plausible explanation." She stressed the word explanation.
"As to whether that explanation is the truth," Rowle lowered her voice further, "that is immaterial. You are clever, Miss Granger. Make the dossier look good for them. This task will be over soon."
Hermione bit her lower lip hard. At least Madam Rowle wasn't as imperious as Prewett. She was probably one of the "better" pure-bloods—though Hermione felt a deep revulsion for the suggestion that an "explanation" took precedence over the truth.
"I understand, Madam Rowle," she replied stiffly.
Hermione turned on her heel and marched back to her desk. She slammed the stack of dossiers prepared for the Wizengamot—still warm from her touch—onto the surface.
She grabbed her handbag and strode out of the cubicle, heading for the Auror Office on the same floor to find Harry and Ron.
Notes:
Author’s Note
For the sake of the plot—and to give the political dynamics a bit more complexity—I’ve made a few small adjustments to the Ministry’s power structure in this AU.
Most notably, the Auror Office functions as an independent department with its own Head, rather than operating under the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. These changes let the internal power struggles, alliances, and institutional conflicts play out in a clearer (and admittedly more dramatic) way.
Everything else in the Ministry follows canon unless otherwise noted.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWO
The Auror Office was a stark departure from the D.M.L.E.
There was none of the polished mahogany quietude here. This was, quite simply, an organized catastrophe. The air was thick with the smells of strong coffee, moldy parchment, and the occasional sharp tang of burnt ozone from spellwork.
Dozens of desks were jammed together, piled high with teetering stacks of reports, potion vials, and various bizarre Dark Detectors. The walls were plastered with moving portraits of wanted criminals, who scowled or pulled faces at anyone passing by.
Hermione strode towards the front desk, where a witch was flailing, trying to handle three Howlers simultaneously.
"I'm looking for Harry Potter and Ron Weasley," Hermione said, her voice cutting through the shriek of one particularly loud envelope. "I'm Hermione Granger, from Law Enforcement."
The witch gave her an impatient look, waved her wand haphazardly, and sent a silver orb floating into the depths of the office.
Seconds later, the door to the main bullpen burst open.
"Hermione!" Ron's booming voice instantly filled the reception area. He wore a wide grin as he hurried over.
Harry was close behind, heavy dark circles under his green eyes, though they lit up behind his glasses the moment he saw her. "Long time no see," he said, giving her a quick hug. "We thought you'd been buried alive under those dossiers."
"Close enough," Hermione managed a tired smile. "But not today, I'm afraid. I've been sent to 'assist' you."
Ron’s smile faltered, his brow furrowing. "Assist? What does that mean? Has Prewett—"
"Let's go inside," Harry interrupted, casting a wary glance around the room.
They led her into a small meeting room. It was furnished only with a table and a few hard chairs. Taped to the wall was a massive map of magical London, chaotically marked with red string and pins.
"Right, spit it out," Ron said, closing the door and casting a quick Muffliato and Imperturbable Charm. "What's going on? You look like you want to transfigure Prewett into a slug."
"I do!" Hermione threw her bag onto the table, the frustration of the morning finally boiling over. "He pulled me from the Wizengamot session! Thirty minutes before it started! Do you know how long I prepared for that brief? Just to put me on the Nott case! He says the Auror Office needs a new report from our department."
"The Old Nott case?"
The moment the words left her lips, the ease vanished from Harry and Ron’s faces.
Harry let out a weary groan, running a hand through his perpetually messy black hair.
Ron’s face flushed red. "That bloody case again!" he growled, his voice vibrating the empty inkwells on the table. "Theodore Nott, that bastard! He's just picking holes for the sake of it!"
"Ron, calm down," Harry said, rubbing his temples.
"How can I calm down, Harry!" Ron spun on him. "We've put all the evidence right in his face! It's clear as day! Old Nott died of natural causes! He was dabbling in Dark Arts and drowning in alcohol in his old age. Magical backlash plus heart failure. Even the Healers at St. Mungo's signed off on it! What else is there to investigate?"
Hermione frowned. "Wait. Natural causes? Then why won't Theodore Nott accept it?"
"Because he doesn't want to!" Ron slammed his fist on the table. "He insists his father was murdered! He just wants to pressure the Ministry so his damn family can squeeze out more compensation, or maybe he just enjoys running us in circles!"
"He's already rejected two of our reports, Hermione," Harry said, his voice raspy and heavy. "Two. We turned every stone, checked every person Old Nott saw and every object he touched in his last three days. Our team pulled all-nighters to write those reports—each over fifty inches long. He didn't even read them. Just dismissed us with 'insufficient evidence'."
"So," Hermione said softly, a trace of irony in her voice, "Prewett and Madam Rowle didn't send me here to find the truth."
Harry and Ron looked at her in silence.
"They sent me," she said with a cold laugh, "to help you fabricate a 'truth' that Theodore Nott will like."
Harry and Ron exchanged a look, that specific expression of exhaustion and defeat unique to Aurors returning to their faces.
"Fine." Hermione leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, switching into work mode. "If I have to spin a 'story' that satisfies Theodore Nott, I at least need to know what your 'truth' actually is. Tell me everything you've found. From the beginning."
Harry nodded, rubbing his eyes, and began to recite the facts. "The deceased, Old Nott. Estimated time of death: around 10 PM on September 10th. Specific time unknown. The body was discovered the next morning, at 6 AM on the 11th, in the study of Nott Manor by a house-elf."
"Cause of death?" Hermione asked.
"That's the problem," Ron cut in. "There's nothing on the body. No wounds, no trace of hexes, no signs of poisoning. He just... collapsed there, on the carpet. St. Mungo's Healers checked him eight times. The final conclusion is exactly what we put in the report—cardiac arrest induced by magical backlash and alcoholism. Natural causes!"
Harry added, "The body was on the study carpet. But not far away, near the French windows, we found an empty crystal goblet."
"Poison?" Hermione asked immediately.
"We tested it," Harry shook his head. "No suspicious compounds. And besides, even if there was poison, who would administer it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Nott Manor," Harry said seriously, "is protected by blood wards. Top-tier ancient magic. Without Nott blood or explicit permission, a fly couldn't get in. So, intruders are ruled out."
"And the study?"
"Even better," Ron chimed in, sounding thoroughly fed up. "The study was locked from the inside. Powerful sealing magic. Spells only Old Nott himself could lift."
Hermione’s brow furrowed. "Then how did you get in?"
"We didn't," Harry said. "It was the house-elf. It said it sensed something wrong with its master and popped into the study with elf magic. After finding the body, it had to unlock the door from the inside to let us Aurors in."
"So..." Her mind was racing. "A victim with no external injuries, dead in a room sealed from the inside. The Manor protected by blood wards, impenetrable to outsiders."
"Exactly," Ron said. "That's why we closed it as natural causes!"
"What about the house-elf?" Hermione pressed. "Did it notice anyone suspicious before Old Nott died?"
Harry sighed, opening a file on the table. "No outsiders at the Manor. But in the three days leading up to his death, three people visited, all permitted by the blood wards."
"Who?"
"First, his mistress. A half-blood witch named Marianne."
"Merlin's beard," Ron muttered. "Restless old git."
"Second, his old friend, Dolohov."
"And third," Harry continued, "another close confidant, Old Parkinson."
"Did you investigate them?"
"Of course we did!" Ron's volume rose again. "That was our main focus after Theodore rejected the first report! All three of them have alibis for the estimated time of death on September 10th. Perfect, rock-solid alibis!"
Hermione leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the chaotic map on the wall, though her eyes were unfocused. She began to mutter to herself:
"A room sealed from within. No signs of forced entry. A victim with no clear cause of death. And three prime suspects with airtight alibis…"
She suddenly looked up, a spark of intellectual excitement—the thrill of a puzzle—flashing in her eyes. "It's a locked-room mystery."
Harry looked up, confused. "A... what?"
Ron scrunched up his freckled face. "Oh, come on, Hermione. This isn't one of your Muggle detective novels. This is real life."
Hermione's face darkened instantly, her voice turning icy and sharp. "'Muggle detective novels'? Ron, at least those novels attempt to use logic, rather than giving up the moment they see a locked door and labeling it 'natural causes'!"
"Giving up?" Ron's ears turned bright red. "We checked all the evidence! We worked on this for weeks! Just because we didn't find a culprit in a black cloak twirling a mustache, we're giving up?"
"When the evidence blatantly contradicts the scene, yes!" Hermione didn't back down. "A room sealed from the inside is the most suspicious circumstance of all!"
"Enough!" Harry stood up abruptly, cutting off the brewing argument. "Merlin, you two. Ron, Hermione is right; the case is riddled with holes. Hermione, Ron is right too; we're being driven mad by Theodore Nott."
He looked at Hermione wearily. "Arguing won't satisfy Prewett. You need details, right? You need a 'truth' precise enough to hand over. Reading the files won't be enough."
Hermione took a deep breath, forcing down her anger. "Right. I need to see the scene."
"Let's go then," Harry grabbed his coat. "We'll take you now. It's nearly eleven anyway."
11:00 AM. Nott Manor.
The moment the nausea of Apparition faded, Hermione felt a biting chill. This place was a world away from the bright morning in London. A thin mist hung over the estate, the ancient mansion radiating a dark, oppressive atmosphere.
"The study is this way," Harry led them down a corridor lined with gloomy portraits.
Ministry seal tape still crisscrossed the study door. Harry waved his wand, tearing it away, and pushed open the heavy oak door.
The air inside seemed solidified. A heavy smell of dust, old parchment, and faint sandalwood hit them. Thick black velvet curtains were drawn tight, admitting only a sliver of light.
"We kept it as it was, mostly," Harry said, waving his wand to light a few lamps.
The room was revealed. One wall was floor-to-ceiling bookshelves; another bore a massive tapestry of the Nott family tree.
Harry pointed to the expensive oriental rug before the fireplace. "We found him there." As he spoke, a crude, magically fluorescent outline of a human form lit up on the carpet.
"And," Harry pointed a few steps away, near one of the French windows, "the fallen goblet was here."
Another marker lit up there, next to a small, round mahogany table holding a half-drunk bottle of malt whiskey.
Hermione walked over immediately. She crouched down, scrutinizing the position of the goblet marker.
"Here..." she pointed to a small dark patch on the carpet. "Is this a stain?"
"It's the whiskey," Ron said quickly, his voice sounding impatient in the empty room. "We checked. It's from that goblet. He had a heart attack, and the cup fell there."
Hermione stood up and paced the room. She walked from the body's outline to where the goblet had fallen.
"Three steps," she muttered. "Harry, from where he fell to the goblet, it's at least three steps."
She spun around, her gaze sharp. "If he was drinking, and the cup rolled from his hand as he fell, why is the stain only over there? In the three steps between the body and the goblet, why isn't there a single splash on the carpet? Ideally, liquid wouldn't wait until the cup rolled three steps away to spill."
Harry and Ron exchanged glances.
"We thought of that," Harry replied. It was clear they had already addressed this theory in their report.
"Look," he pointed at the table with the bottle and the spot where the body lay. "Before he died, Old Nott was likely sitting in this armchair. The chair is some distance from the table."
Ron continued, "He was an old pure-blood aristocrat, lazy as sin. He certainly wouldn't want to get up to pour his own drink."
"So our theory," Harry summarized, "is that the cup wasn't in his hand. He was sitting in the chair, attempting to use a Levitation Charm or Summoning Charm to pour himself a drink remotely. The spell was cast, the whiskey poured, and then his heart gave out."
"Magic lost control," Hermione followed his logic. "So the cup dropped right by the table, spilling the drink there. And he fell from the armchair, landing three steps away on the carpet."
"Exactly," Harry confirmed. "And," he added, as if to bolster the theory, "Old Nott's wand Prior Incantato confirmed it. The last spell he cast was a Levitation Charm."
Hermione's expression did not relax at this seemingly reasonable explanation.
"A Levitation Charm..." she repeated thoughtfully. "And the whiskey? The liquid in the bottle and the stain on the carpet—did you test them thoroughly?"
"Of course we did!" Ron's tone suggested she was asking a stupid question. "We sent the bottle and carpet samples to the Potions Department. Just alcohol and traces of moonstone, which he took regularly."
"The moonstone was prescribed by his Healer. Old Nott had a severe alcohol addiction; the powder was mixed in drinks to help with withdrawal," Harry explained quickly.
"A man using potions to quit drinking, dying next to an open bottle of whiskey," Hermione shook her head ironically. She stopped looking at the stain and began to pace the study slowly, her eyes sweeping every corner.
She walked to the cold, massive fireplace carved with serpentine motifs. Inside lay a pile of ash.
"Was the fire lit that night?" she asked.
"Yes," Harry said. "The house-elf confirmed it. Just burnt wood inside."
Hermione's gaze moved to the mantelpiece. Beside several silver trophies sat a small, intricately carved incense box, about the size of a palm.
She reached out and opened the lid. A faint scent, a mix of wood and dust, wafted out.
"What is this?"
"Incense box," Harry answered. "Old Nott loved using it. We checked it," he added before Hermione could ask. "Top-quality sandalwood ash inside. Nothing suspicious detected."
Hermione placed the box back.
She stood in the center of the room, thinking in silence.
Moonstone. Sandalwood. Levitation Charm. A room locked from the inside.
Everything pointed to an "accident" or "natural causes." Every single piece of evidence had been checked and cleared. But when put together, the sense of wrongness was only amplified.
Prewett and Madam Rowle wanted an "explanation." Theodore Nott wanted a "killer."
Harry and Ron's theory fit the scene, but it wouldn't satisfy Theodore.
"The goblet," Hermione said suddenly.
"What?" Ron hadn't followed her train of thought.
"The crystal goblet," Hermione turned to Harry. "Where is the physical evidence now?"
"In the Evidence Room at Auror Headquarters," Harry replied. "Why? We've already checked—"
"I know you've checked it," Hermione interrupted, her eyes steeling with resolve. "I need to see it with my own eyes."
Chapter Text
CHAPTER THREE
The trio had barely stepped back into the chaotic din of the Auror Office when a piercing magical alarm shrieked across the entire floor.
"Emergency! Sector Seven!" a Senior Auror shouted, leaning out from the Command Center door. "Borgin and Burkes has triggered a maximum-level Dark Artifact alarm! Potter! Weasley! Immediate backup required!"
"Oh for Merlin’s sake—!" Ron cursed, tightening his grip on his wand.
"Weasley," another supervising Auror intercepted him mid-stride. "Not Borgin and Burkes. You take a squad to the adjacent alley for the smugglers—they're using the chaos to bolt! Move!"
Hit with the sudden assignment, Ron only had time to throw a grimace that said Wish me luck at Hermione and Harry before he was swept away by the tide of Aurors.
"Hermione, I have to go!" Harry looked equally frantic, raking a hand through his hair. "Evidence Room is this way. Hurry!"
He grabbed her arm, practically dragging her into a run. Aurors were sprinting and shouting all around them. Harry pulled her against the current, turning into a quieter, heavily guarded corridor.
"I don't have time to authorize the full paperwork," he panted, stopping before a heavy iron door etched with complex runes. He tapped the lock three times in rapid succession with his wand. The door hummed and swung open.
"Evidence Storage. The Nott case is in Section B, Box 0910." Harry shoved the door wider. A wave of cold air rushed out, smelling of old parchment and neutralizing potions.
He led her quickly past rows of towering shelves, where countless glowing evidence orbs floated in suspension.
"This is it." He pointed to a small, locked box on a middle shelf. "Number 0910. My clearance lets you open it. Hermione, I really have to go!"
"Harry, wait! The door locks from the outside!"
Harry cursed, spinning back for a split second. He slashed his wand at the heavy iron frame. "Tempus Reserato!"
The runes on the door flared orange, then began to pulse slowly.
"I’ve jammed the locking mechanism. It’ll hold for ten minutes," Harry said, backing away fast. "If you’re not out by then, the safety seals engage. You’ll be stuck waiting in here until I get back."
"Harry—"
"Good luck!" Harry shouted over his shoulder, already sprinting out of the room. "Spin us a good story!"
He vanished into the corridor. The heavy iron door swung shut with a thud, instantly cutting off the chaotic din. On the frame, the runes continued to pulse a steady, warning orange.
Hermione stood alone in the cold, stagnant silence of the Evidence Room. She tapped the lock of Box 0910 with the tip of her wand.
"Alohomora."
The compartment clicked open.
Inside, resting quietly, were several items, each encased in its own individual orb of faint, white magical light: a pinch of ash from the incense box, a small crystal vial containing the whiskey sample, and the crystal goblet itself.
Hermione’s gaze locked instantly onto the goblet. It was intact, pristine, and perfectly flawless.
She leaned in, attempting to touch the barrier of the magical orb with her wand. It remained unyielding. Instead of forcing it, she pointed her wand at the sphere itself.
She guided it with her magic, rotating it slowly with the angle of her wrist.
Squinting in the dim, functional lighting of the storage room, she examined the body of the glass, searching for any hairline fracture or residue.
Just as the goblet rotated to a specific angle, Hermione’s breath hitched.
A microscopic glint flashed from within the thick crystal base.
That wasn't a refraction of light. That looked like... magic.
Hermione stopped the rotation immediately, then, controlling the orb with her wand, turned it back with agonizing slowness.
There!
She practically pressed her face against the barrier of the sphere.
Deep inside the solid crystal base, a magical mark shimmered faintly. It was minuscule, visible only when the light hit it at this precise, punishing angle. For a brief second, the mark lit up like a living thing.
It was impossibly fine, as if carved into the heart of the glass with an enchanted needle point.
It was a snake, biting its own tail, its scales shimmering in and out of existence. Its body formed not a simple circle, but was twisted cleverly into a horizontal "8"—the symbol of infinity.
And in the dead center of that infinity, a small, sharply defined wand pierced it, straight and dominant.
Hermione’s heart began to hammer against her ribs.
Ouroboros... Infinity... and a wand...
Eternal magic?
Or... Dominion through magic?
Was this symbol related to the Nott family? Was it their crest?
Hermione’s mind raced. She was certain she had never seen this sigil in any edition of Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy.
Casting a wary glance around, Hermione acknowledged the irony of the room's design. Built to contain volatile magical outbursts, the Evidence Room acted as a rare magical vacuum within the Ministry.
She fished her Muggle mobile phone from the lining of her bag. Anywhere else in the building, the battery would have fried instantly. But here, inside the vacuum of the dampening wards, the screen flickered to life.
Pressing the camera lens tight against the magical orb, she waited for the focus. With a soft click, a clear close-up of the symbol was secured.
Task complete, she returned the goblet to its place and relocked Box 0910. As she walked briskly toward the exit, she tried to force her heart rate back to normal. She slipped through the iron door just as the pulsing orange runes began to flash faster.
Harry and Ron were long gone. The tornado of chaos in the Auror Office had passed, replaced once again by the humdrum calm of paperwork.
Hermione walked to the front desk, cleared her throat, and requested from the witch, "I need the full investigation files on the Nott case. Including all rejected witness statements and forensic analysis reports."
The witch glanced at her Law Enforcement badge and, with a reluctant wave of her wand, duplicated a chaotic mountain of parchment scrolls.
Using a Levitation Charm to float the stack—which was nearly half her height—Hermione returned to her cubicle in the D.M.L.E.
Her colleagues had returned from their meeting. They were gathered in small groups, eating lunch and discussing the verbal sparring at the Wizengamot with excitement.
Hermione slammed the files onto her desk. The dull thud silenced the nearby chatter for a moment. The familiar sting of injustice and humiliation—of being excluded from the core of the action—welled up again.
"Looks like the Auror Office isn't exactly a joyride?"
Blaise Zabini had glided up to her cubicle unnoticed.
Hermione began organizing the messy reports with bad grace, not looking up. "It was fine."
"Was it?" Zabini's tone held a hint of lazy amusement.
Hermione stopped her hands and looked up at him sharply. "How was the meeting? Did the amendment to the Werewolf Rights Act pass?"
Zabini shrugged. "Not for now. Prewett and the others argued that the evidence supporting werewolf rights was insufficient, and the risk assessment for magical society was lacking."
Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. Insufficient evidence? She had pulled three all-nighters for that file! The data and statutes cited within were enough to rebut their arguments three times over!
A wave of irritation washed over her. That strange symbol was still buzzing in her head, and her empty stomach was beginning to protest.
She just wanted to get rid of this annoying man droning on in her ear.
She yanked the dossier she had originally prepared for the meeting—the one marked with red asterisks and handwritten notes—out of her bag and slapped it against Zabini’s chest.
"Here is the evidence I prepared," she said coldly. "Use this for the next meeting. It should pass. ...Consider it repayment for the favor last time."
Zabini raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. He looked down at the thickness of the file, then back at Hermione's face, which clearly read Leave me alone.
He took it without further questions. "Thanks." He turned and left.
Hermione let out a long breath. She grabbed her bag, ready to rush to the Ministry cafeteria to shove some food down her throat, when Zabini’s figure circled back.
He stopped in front of her desk, his gaze sweeping over the tower of Auror files, then resting on her frustrated expression.
"If the Auror Office’s charmingly mediocre forensics aren’t enough for you," he drawled, "I know someone. He has a private alchemy lab. If you need a real expert to analyze the composition of some evidence, you could go to him."
He handed her a small, exceptionally thick card.
Hermione took it hesitantly. On the card, in a single line of exquisite script, was an address:
Number Seven, Serpentine Alley, London
She fingered the card, looking up at him suspiciously. "Why are you helping me?"
The corner of Blaise Zabini’s mouth hooked into a smile.
"Just returning the favor, Granger."
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FOUR
Hermione spent the entire afternoon buried under a mountainous stack of Auror files.
The reports were disorganized, riddled with the impatient shorthand and scrawled handwriting typical of Aurors. She had to cross-reference witness statements, potion analyses, and crime scene diagrams over and over, trying to tease a coherent narrative from the ocean of information.
One document—Old Nott's treatment records from St. Mungo's—gave her pause. It was unusually detailed.
She discovered that not only did he visit his Healer regularly, but he also adhered strictly to his prescription, taking powdered moonstone on schedule to treat his alcoholism.
Hermione tapped her quill against her chin unconsciously, reading on.
His annual check-ups were consistently "satisfactory," and his alcoholism was marked as "controlled."
The records did mention symptoms of magical backlash from Dark Arts, but the Healer had classified them as "minor" and "improving."
Hermione leaned back in her chair, tapping the feather end of her quill against the desk. This did not paint the picture of a wizard who had given up on life, hollowed out by Dark Magic, and ultimately succumbing to health issues. On the contrary, this looked like a man who was attentive to his health and extremely cautious.
She immediately grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment, taking notes rapidly, marking her insights in red ink and listing the timeline in black.
She set aside Harry and Ron's conclusion of death and instead lined up all the details side-by-side: moonstone, sandalwood, malt whiskey, the stain, the burnt-out fireplace, the room locked from the inside, three alibis, and the St. Mungo's reports.
Soon, the separate sheaf of parchment containing her summary had grown several inches high.
Hermione rubbed her stinging eyes wearily. She was only halfway through organizing. It seemed it would take another full day tomorrow to digest this report thoroughly.
She looked around; there were few people left in the office. Only an elderly wizard in the corner was slowly inking his quill with a charm. Zabini’s seat had long been empty.
Hermione glanced at the magical clock on the wall, and the position of the hands made her heart skip a beat—it was already half-past five.
She had a dinner date with Ginny at six!
Hermione scrambled into a frenzy of activity. She hastily shoved the thick sheaf of parchment with her analysis into a file folder, jammed it messily into her bag along with the card bearing the address, grabbed her coat, and practically ran out of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
She rushed into the Ministry fireplaces and, in the blink of an eye, was back at the derelict pub. She walked quickly onto the main street, blending into the evening crowds of London.
Ten minutes later, breathless, she pushed open the door of a warm, brightly lit Muggle Italian restaurant. Through the flickering candlelight on the tables, she spotted that unmistakable shade of red hair instantly.
Ginny was already waiting at a window seat, perusing the Muggle menu with interest.
Hermione hurried across the restaurant and sat down beside the dazzling redhead.
"Ginny! Heavens, I'm late. You haven't been waiting long, have you?"
Ginny looked up from the menu, flashing a brilliant smile. "Late? I just got here myself. Look at the time, Hermione; it's three minutes to six. You always wind yourself up so tight."
Hermione let out a long breath, tossing her bag onto the empty seat next to her and collapsing into her chair in exhaustion. "You have no idea. I feel like I've been working for a week."
"That bad?" Ginny waved for a waiter. A young man approached.
"Good evening, ladies. Can I start you off with something to drink?"
"A glass of Chardonnay, please," Ginny said.
"Just water for me, thanks," Hermione said.
After the waiter left, Ginny turned back to her. "Right, spill it. What happened today? From the look on your face, did Prewett give you trouble again?"
"Trouble is an understatement!" Hermione lowered her voice, but couldn't hide the anger in her tone. "He pulled me out of the Wizengamot session this morning! On the day of the Twelfth Amendment review! He sent me to assist the Auror Office... to investigate Old Nott's case."
"What?!" Ginny's voice spiked, then she quickly hushed herself. "Old Nott's murder case? Merlin's beard! That's so unfair! He did it on purpose! He just doesn't like you, using his pure-blood status to suppress you! That bald git!"
Her sharp voice drew glances from nearby tables.
Hermione smiled apologetically at them, turned back to Ginny, and shook her head wearily, poking at her empty plate with a fork.
"He didn't even want me to investigate, Ginny. My department head, Madam Rowle, told me explicitly that they just need a 'plausible explanation,' not the 'truth.' They sent me to clean up after the Aurors, to spin a 'story' that will shut Theodore Nott up."
"Spin a story?!" Ginny’s eyebrows knotted together. "That is an insult! How long did you prepare for that amendment? And they make you do this! So you were transferred for nothing?"
"Pretty much," Hermione said, her tone dripping with self-mockery.
"By the way, I saw Harry today," Hermione sighed. "He's nearly being driven mad by this case too. Honestly, Ginny, he looks terrible. Exhausted."
At the mention of Harry, the indignation on Ginny's face faded slightly, replaced by a trace of resignation.
"Don't get me started. Ever since he got promoted to Squad Leader," she toyed with her empty wine glass, "he hasn't been back to the flat before midnight. He always says 'this is the last case,' but there is always a 'last case'."
"Are you two... okay?" Hermione asked with concern.
"We're fine." Ginny shrugged. "Just... busy. I've been busy with training anyway. Let's not talk about me."
The waiter brought Hermione's water and Ginny's wine. Hermione thanked him and immediately took a sip.
"So, what about you?" Ginny took a sip of wine, looking at her with a sly glint in her eyes. "Don't just complain about work. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement must have plenty of handsome young talents, right? Anyone catch your eye?"
"Ginny, I don't have time for that."
"Come on. I heard Blaise Zabini is in your unit?" Ginny smirked. "He's not bad to look at. He charmed quite a few people back at Hogwarts."
"Zabini?" Hermione rolled her eyes dramatically; the mere mention of the name irritated her. "Spare me!"
"What? Did he annoy you?"
"I get angry just thinking about that chatterbox!" Hermione complained. "Just because he's a pure-blood, he sits there comfortably with his legs crossed, directing a quill all day, doing absolutely no heavy lifting! Meanwhile, I'm doing all the grunt work!"
Ginny couldn't help laughing. "Sounds very much his style."
"He is utterly annoying," Hermione took another sip of water. "I'm busy spinning like a top, and he still comes over to chat! I'd rather spend my life with the mountains of files in our department than say another word to him!"
"Alright, alright," Ginny laughed. "Let's order. I'm starving."
The waiter returned.
"Are you ready to order?"
"I'll have the Carbonara, and a Caesar salad," Ginny said.
"I'll have the Pesto Seafood Pasta, thanks," Hermione closed the menu.
After the waiter left, a brief silence fell over the table. Ginny tapped her finger on the tabletop, looking at Hermione thoughtfully.
"Hermione..." she started suddenly.
"Hmm?" Hermione was checking the time on her phone while drinking water.
"You aren't..." Ginny rested her chin on her hand, seeming to weigh her words, "...still thinking about him, are you?"
The sip of water Hermione had just taken went down the wrong pipe.
She choked violently, coughing so hard she had to grab a napkin to cover her mouth, her face turning beet red.
"Quite a reaction," Ginny raised an eyebrow.
Hermione finally managed to catch her breath, her eyes watering. She glared at Ginny. "What are you talking about? Thinking about who? I haven't... I haven't dated anyone!"
"Haven't you?" Ginny winked slyly. "You haven't forgotten, have you? No..." she leaned in closer, her voice dropping lower. "How could you forget?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." Hermione's cheeks began to burn, half from coughing, half from anger.
"Draco Malfoy."
Hermione's hand froze around her glass.
Ginny said softly, "I remember, in Sixth Year, you told me about Slughorn's..."
"Ginny!" Hermione cut her off sharply, her voice trembling with anger. "Stop it! Don't mention that name!"
Her voice was jarringly loud in the small Muggle restaurant, causing diners at nearby tables to look over curiously.
Hermione immediately realized her loss of composure. She took a deep breath, lowering her voice until only the two of them could hear, but the fire still burned in her eyes.
"What are you trying to do?" she hissed through gritted teeth. "That was years ago!"
Ginny leaned back, raising her glass of Chardonnay, watching her with composure. The "I knew it" expression on her face was more infuriating to Hermione than any words.
"I'm just saying," Ginny swirled her wine slowly, "after Slughorn's Christmas party, you came to me crying and said..."
"It was a vile, pure-blood trap!" Hermione interrupted her again, her cheeks flushed crimson with rage and embarrassment. "It was a stupid mistake! I don't want to talk about it ever again!"
"A 'mistake' that still makes you this angry, whose name you can't even bear to hear?" Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Hermione, I'm just curious. Why do you still react so strongly to the name Malfoy..."
"This is ridiculous!" Hermione couldn't believe her ears. "Ginevra Weasley! I thought we were out for dinner, not for an interrogation about my love life! I don't have a love life! Not a speck of it!"
"Whoa, calm down." Ginny finally put down her glass, raising her hands in surrender. "I was just asking."
Just then, the waiter approached with two plates, interrupting the impending argument.
"Carbonara, Caesar salad, and the Pesto Seafood Pasta."
"Thank you," Hermione said icily.
The waiter set down the plates and left. An awkward silence settled between them, broken only by the clinking of cutlery. Hermione kept her head down, aggressively twirling her pasta as if the dish were the source of her fury.
It was Ginny who sighed first, breaking the deadlock.
"Alright, I'm sorry," she whispered. "I shouldn't have brought him up."
Hermione didn't look up, just gave a noncommittal "Mmh."
"I just..." Ginny poked at a piece of bacon. "I just care about you, Hermione. You always carry everything on your own shoulders—work, feelings. I don't want you to be so tired."
Hermione paused. She speared a shrimp and said quietly, "I have nothing to 'carry.' I'm fine."
Ginny knew the topic was dead. "Fine," she compromised. "Fine. So... shall we talk about something else? The Holyhead Harpies training? We're playing the Chudley Cannons next week..."
Hermione's stiff shoulders finally began to relax as Ginny talked about the Harpies' new tactics. Ginny was always like this; she possessed a fiery, vibrant vitality that easily dispelled the gloom.
Listening to her friend complain about how arrogant the Cannons' captain was, Hermione couldn't help but smile. The tension caused by Malfoy's name finally faded amidst the warm food and familiar grievances.
"Seriously," Ginny ate the last leaf of salad, "when will you stop being so busy? Can you come to the Burrow next weekend? Mum's mentioned you several times. She said if you don't come soon, she's going to mail your share of meat pie to the Ministry."
At the mention of Mrs. Weasley, Hermione's heart warmed. "I miss her, and your dad." She put down her cutlery, looking at Ginny apologetically. "I... I really am too busy. This Nott case will probably take a few more days. The moment I have free time, I swear, I'll come over."
"It's a deal." Ginny pointed her fork at her.
Dinner ended, and the two hugged goodbye at the street corner.
Hermione walked alone through the chilly London streets. The night breeze carried the coolness of early autumn, sobering her up a bit, but also bringing that inexplicable irritation back to the surface.
Ginny's words were like a pebble thrown into the lake of her heart, which she had deliberately kept calm.
Draco Malfoy.
Sixth Year... Slughorn's Christmas party...
She kicked a stone on the road in frustration.
The moments she least wanted to remember in her entire life.
Hermione stopped and let out a long breath. Anyway, she didn't want to, and wouldn't, see him again in this life. That name, that pale shadow, shouldn't waste another second of her life or another ounce of her energy.
She needed to clear her head. Work. Work was her focus.
She pulled the high-quality card from her handbag.
Number Seven, Serpentine Alley, London
Zabini's half-smiling face flashed through her mind. Whether this was another pure-blood joke or not, she had to check it out. The Auror Office's forensic reports were too sloppy; she needed a real expert.
Following the address, she left the main road and turned into a secluded, gloomy street that didn't exist on Muggle maps. Serpentine Alley lived up to its name; the entire street wound and twisted like a snake.
The frontage of Number Seven was hidden between two towering buildings, unremarkable. A dark black wooden door bore no sign, only a small, silver snake knocker coiled in the center.
Hermione checked the address on the card again.
This was it.
She hesitated, then reached out and knocked on the cold magical knocker.
Knock, knock, knock.
The silver snake on the knocker suddenly came to life. It slowly lifted its head, ruby eyes glinting, and slithered in a circle.
Silence reigned inside.
After what felt like a century, she heard steady, unhurried footsteps approaching from the other side.
The lock clicked open.
The door was pulled open a crack, and warm light, heavy with the scent of herbs and metal, spilled out. Hermione looked up politely, ready to speak—
And then, all her words, along with her breath, froze in her throat.
The person standing inside had sleek, platinum-blond hair that shone even in the shadows. Those icy grey eyes, which she thought she would never see again, widened in shock, staring at her in disbelief.
Draco Malfoy.
Hermione froze. Her mind went blank for a full five seconds before a tide of humiliated, overwhelming fury crashed over her.
Blaise Zabini!
That bloody git!!
She cursed the Slytherin's name viciously in her heart.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIVE
The shock in Malfoy's eyes faded even faster than hers. That familiar, indifferent frost rapidly coated his expression. He looked her up and down, his gaze suggesting he was inspecting a muddy animal that had accidentally crawled onto his expensive carpet.
He spoke first, his voice colder and sharper than the night wind outside.
"I don't recall you being on my schedule, Granger."
After a brief blankness, Hermione's mind rebooted instantly.
A surge of scalding anger—the fury of being played for a fool, mixed with humiliation—rushed from her chest to her throat. This wasn't a lead for the case; this was a thorough, malicious pure-blood prank!
And Malfoy's condescending question—that lazy, disdainful drawl she had known all too well since her first year at Hogwarts—pricked her spine like a needle.
Hermione's back straightened instantly. Her eyes, previously dull with fatigue, suddenly hardened, flashing with a sharp, icy light. She met his gaze, as if trying to burn two holes through him with sheer force of will.
"Your schedule?" she began, her voice unnaturally calm, though every word felt squeezed through her teeth, cold and hard. "A 'surprise' naturally wouldn't appear on your schedule, Malfoy."
Her voice dripped with biting sarcasm.
Hermione held up the high-quality card she had been clutching like damning evidence, suspending it in the air between them, its edge only inches from his chest.
"Is this the 'entertainment' arranged by your equally nauseating friend—Blaise Zabini?" Her chin tilted up slightly, carrying a defiant, almost contemptuous air. "I must admit, Malfoy. Your tastes remain as low as ever."
Malfoy's gaze finally shifted from her face to the card she held aloft. As his eyes focused on the card, and especially upon hearing the name "Blaise Zabini," the perfect, imperious frost on his face cracked for the first time.
His pupils contracted sharply. A flash of pure, undisguised surprise—mixed with a hint of annoyance—flitted across his eyes.
"So," Hermione asked, enunciating every word, "is this actually a real alchemy lab, or just another pathetic new amusement for you two to kill time with?"
Her sharp, merciless interrogation seemed to finally pierce through Malfoy's shock.
His grey eyes narrowed dangerously. He looked past her into the darkness of Serpentine Alley, as if searching for the person who had shoved them both into this ridiculous situation.
"Blaise?" he repeated in a low voice, heavy with suppressed irritation. "What the hell is he playing at?"
His gaze refocused on Hermione's face. The cold mockery returned, but this time it was directed at her use of the word "amusement."
"Do you think I have time to spare, Granger?" he sneered, his hand already on the door, preparing to close it. "I don't care what idiocy Blaise told you. I don't entertain uninvited guests."
He began to shut the door.
"I am not here as a guest!" Without thinking, Hermione shot her hand out, slamming her palm against the closing wood. The door hit her hand with a dull thud.
The immense recoil sent a sting through her wrist, making her frown, but she kept her hand firmly planted.
Malfoy's movement stopped instantly. His gaze traveled slowly down to her hand, knuckles white as she pushed against the wood. He stared at it in surprise for a second before locking his eyes onto her face with a warning glare.
"I am here," Hermione met his gaze, speaking slowly and deliberately, "because the Potions Forensics Department at the Auror Office only knows how to follow the book!"
Her voice trembled slightly with anger and urgency.
"They tested the moonstone and wrote 'harmless' on the report. They tested the sandalwood remnants and wrote 'harmless' on another report. Then they stapled the two together, declared the case closed, and stopped thinking!"
She took a step closer, her hand still pressing hard against the door.
"But they don't have the brains to wonder why two seemingly harmless substances would appear simultaneously at a locked-room death scene! The incongruity is practically screaming!"
"I need a real alchemist," she almost growled. "Someone whose brain isn't gummed up by Ministry regulations, to re-examine them. Not separately, but together! I need to know if there's a connection we're all missing when they are placed in the same room!"
She threw the card onto the doormat at his feet.
"If you are the 'expert' Zabini mentioned, capable of conducting tests outside standard protocol, then stop this pathetic Hogwarts-style bullying and start working. If you can't, say so, and I'll find someone better."
Malfoy's gaze shifted from the card on the ground back to her face. His expression was terribly dark.
He didn't answer immediately. He simply repeated her key word, his tone holding less mockery and more cold scrutiny.
"...Connection?"
They stood in a stalemate at the door for a full ten seconds. Finally, Malfoy let out an annoyed, barely audible tsk.
"Move your hand, Granger," he said roughly, "or I'll crush it in the door."
Hermione withdrew her hand, her palm stinging from the pressure.
Malfoy yanked the door open, stepping aside to clear a path, and turned to walk inside.
"Get in." He spoke without looking back. "Don't block the door; you're letting the cold in."
Hermione pressed her lips together tight. With the wariness of someone stepping into a trap, she carefully crossed the threshold.
Malfoy didn't wait for her. He walked straight ahead.
The door closed silently behind them, shutting out the cold air of Serpentine Alley completely. Hermione was immediately hit by a strong, peculiar smell—not the acrid fumes of mixed potions from class, but an intensely cold, almost sterile "clean" scent, mixed with juniper, metal, and faint ozone.
She followed him down a narrow corridor. The walls were undecorated, painted a pale grey so light it was almost white. The light came from rune stones floating near the ceiling, emitting a steady white glow.
They passed a doorless opening, and Hermione’s gaze was involuntarily drawn inside.
It was a small, genuine laboratory. Unlike the chaos she had imagined, everything here was organized to an obsessive degree.
Rows of crystal-clear alembics and retorts gleamed on shelves; silver condensing coils wound like snakes around complex instruments; liquids in several glass vessels glowed with a self-sustained, eerie blue light.
It looked less like an alchemy room and more like a precise, expensive Muggle operating theatre.
Hermione had to admit, it looked... professional.
Malfoy seemed to sense her appraisal but said nothing. He simply stopped at another door at the end of the corridor and pushed it open.
"In."
It wasn't a large room, just a small, private parlor. It contained only two high-backed armchairs separated by a low table. Ice-blue magical flames, which looked devoid of warmth, burned in the fireplace, casting their shadows on the wall.
"Sit," he commanded, though he himself leaned against the mantelpiece, looking down at her with arms crossed.
Hermione suppressed the urge to retort and sat in one of the chairs, perching on only the front half of the seat, her back straight as a ramrod, ready to spring up and fight at any moment. Her bag was clutched tight on her lap.
"Speak," Malfoy's voice was exceptionally clear in the quiet room. "What madness possessed Blaise to send someone like you to me?"
"I told you, I'm not here to catch up," Hermione said frostily. "I've been assigned to handle the death of Old Nott."
At the mention of the name "Nott," Hermione noticed Malfoy's expression shift. The bored arrogance vanished instantly, replaced by sharpness.
"The Auror Office report concluded natural causes, cardiac arrest," Hermione stated quickly and professionally. "But Theodore Nott refuses to accept that conclusion."
Malfoy's posture changed completely. He was no longer leaning lazily; he stood straight. Those grey eyes fixed on her tightly, the blue light of the fireplace dancing in them.
"Go on," he ordered. The mockery in his tone was gone, replaced by a cold focus.
"It was a locked room. There was moonstone powder in the drink, sandalwood incense in the room. The Aurors tested them separately and found nothing."
She paused, meeting his gaze. "But I suspect their testing methods were wrong. I need someone—a real alchemist not affiliated with the Ministry—to re-examine those samples. Together."
She unclasped her bag, then snapped it shut again.
"The samples and the full dossier... I can only retrieve them from Evidence Storage and the Archives tomorrow," she added. "I will bring all the files I've compiled, along with samples of those two items."
Malfoy listened to her in silence for a long time. The only sound in the room was the cold crackle of the magical fire.
He was clearly weighing it.
Finally, that cold, mocking smile returned to his face, but this time the derision was aimed at her personally.
"So, Granger," he drawled, "Theodore hits a wall at the Ministry, and you act as the one to solve the problem?"
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes full of spite.
"Besides," he elongated his vowels, "why should I help you? And why should I believe that your 'sense of incongruity' is worth more than the entire Potions Forensics Department combined?"
Hermione sat even straighter in her chair. Her brown eyes met Malfoy's challenge without a flicker of retreat. She had had enough of pure-blood arrogance for one day—first Prewett, then Zabini, and now Malfoy.
"Why should you?" she repeated his words, her voice as cold as the blue flames in his grate. "You don't have to do anything."
She offered him a cold, mirthless smile of her own, the kind she reserved only for extreme stupidity or extreme arrogance.
"You can throw me out right now," she said crisply. "Then you can stay here, in your expensive, sterile lab, waiting for your friend Theodore Nott to be dismissed by the Ministry with yet another 'natural death' report."
Malfoy's jawline tightened.
"You don't need to believe me," Hermione continued, her logic dissecting the situation like a sharp scalpel. "You only need to trust your own judgment. You know Theodore Nott, and you knew Old Nott. do you honestly believe a man capable of turning Nott Manor into a locked-room fortress, a man who meticulously followed his Healer's prescription, would just... suddenly die of a heart attack caused by magical backlash and drinking?"
She leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice, but every word was crystal clear.
"As for why my 'feeling' is worth more than the Potions Department..."
"...Because they only passively test samples by the book. Whereas I," her gaze swept over the laboratory behind him, "am questioning their premises."
"They tested the moonstone, then the sandalwood. Separately, both were fine." Her speech quickened, carried by an undeniable logical force. "But they never tested what happens when these two things, plus that bottle of malt whiskey—when all these substances coexist in a sealed room—what kind of unexpected synergistic effect might occur."
"I suspect," she emphasized, "that mixed within those sandalwood remnants, or that bottle of whiskey, are more complex, subtle ingredients—something that standard, Ministry-issue detection spells simply cannot isolate."
She paused, watching the flash of genuine consideration in his eyes.
"This is an alchemy problem, Malfoy, not a simple potion analysis. And you," she jerked her chin towards the lab, "are clearly an alchemist. You know better than I do that the people at the Potions Department aren't fit to test this kind of thing."
The room fell into a dead silence.
Malfoy stared at her, his grey eyes no longer holding mockery, but a dispassionate assessment Hermione had never seen before.
"One analysis," he said finally, his voice flat and detached.
Hermione's heart skipped a beat.
"Tomorrow," he concluded. "Bring the samples and the original Auror files. Everything."
"...Fine," Hermione said.
"And be clear, Granger," he straightened up from the mantelpiece, that imperious aura returning in full force. "This isn't 'helping you.' This is a transaction."
Hermione was instantly alert. "What transaction? What do you want?"
The corner of Malfoy's mouth hooked into an excruciatingly slow smile, filled with malice and calculation. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.
"I haven't decided yet," he drawled. "But I assure you, Granger. I will come to collect."
He walked to the door, pulled it open, and made a gesture for her to leave.
"Now, get out of my lab."
Hermione's cheeks were tight with anger. She grabbed the bag on her lap and stood up abruptly.
Without a word, using every ounce of her willpower not to draw her wand, she walked past him with her head held high. Her posture suggested that she wasn't being expelled, but that she disdained to stay a second longer. She could feel his gaze pinning her back like an ice pick.
She walked back down the corridor and returned to the black door.
The moment her feet touched the cold flagstones of Serpentine Alley, before she could even turn around—
BANG!
The heavy door behind her slammed shut. The powerful gust of air whipped her hair forward, the edge of the heavy wood nearly grazing her back and shoulders.
Hermione stumbled forward a step, her heart pounding from the sudden noise and shock.
She spun around, glaring furiously at the tightly closed black door.
That bastard!
He didn't even bother to close it by hand; he used magic! He had timed it for the exact moment she stepped out, deliberately humiliating her this way, like shooing away a stray cat that had wandered in!
She stood in the cold wind for a few seconds, trying to calm the rage in her chest. But the anger didn't subside; instead, it found a clearer, more precise target.
Malfoy was indeed still Malfoy. Arrogant, mean, and loathsome. That was hardly a surprise.
But Blaise Zabini...
"Just returning the favor."
Hermione let out a cold, angry huff of laughter in her mind. Some "favor"! He had done it on purpose! He knew from the start that the owner of this lab was Draco Malfoy!
He had handed her that card just to enjoy the amusement of seeing "Know-It-All Granger" running to Malfoy for help! That Slytherin... they were birds of a feather!
She gritted her teeth, mentally marking a vicious tally against Zabini. Tomorrow. The first thing she would do when she got to the Ministry tomorrow was to settle this score with him.
Hermione pulled her coat tighter and turned into the dark, winding alley.
A deep exhaustion finally overtook the adrenaline. From Prewett's obstruction, to the frustration at the Wizengamot, to Ginny's untimely question, and finally this ridiculous "transaction" with Malfoy...
She just wanted to go home, take a hot bath, collapse into bed, and think about absolutely nothing.
She walked wearily on her way home, her mind a chaotic mess, leaving only two clear thoughts:
Tomorrow, she must get the samples of malt whiskey and sandalwood ash from Evidence Storage.
And, she had to figure out exactly how to make Blaise Zabini pay for tonight's humiliation.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIX
The next morning, Hermione arrived at the Ministry of Magic just as the sky was beginning to lighten.
She had barely slept. Her mind had been split between the bastard face of Draco Malfoy and that sinister Ouroboros symbol.
At seven o'clock, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was deserted. Hermione sat at her desk, mechanically chewing on a strawberry bagel from a Muggle bakery and sipping a latte as she began to reorganize the teetering pile of Auror files.
She had to compile all the written materials into an unassailable summary—one that even Malfoy couldn't pick apart—before she got the samples.
By the time she finished her bagel and drained the last drop of coffee, the office ceiling brightened, and her colleagues began trickling in.
Hermione was engrossed in marking up parchment until a shadow fell over her desk.
"Morning, Granger."
That lazy voice—the one she least wanted to hear right now—rang out.
Hermione paused her quill but didn't look up, squeezing a single word through her teeth:
"Zabini."
"You look... dreadful." Instead of leaving, Blaise Zabini leaned against her cubicle partition, his expensive, tailored robes without a single crease.
"Didn't sleep well?" he asked with feigned concern, but his eyes were dancing with barely concealed, malicious amusement.
Hermione snapped her head up, her gaze piercing him like an ice pick.
Zabini's grin widened. He leaned in closer, asking in a low, gloating tone of someone expecting a good show:
"So, how did Draco react?"
Snap.
Hermione’s quill broke in two. Ink splattered onto her hand.
"Was he shocked to see our famous 'Gryffindor Know-It-All' deigning to stand at the door of his little lab?"
"You," Hermione pulled out a tissue, wiping the ink from her fingers one by one, her voice terrifyingly calm, "will pay for that remark."
"Oh?"
"This month," Hermione looked up, staring at him coldly, "all cross-departmental filing and indexing is yours."
Zabini's smile froze.
"And," she continued, "for next week's preliminary hearing on the 'House-Elf Clothing Standard Act,' Prewett originally assigned me to sit in and take minutes..." She forced a cold smile. "Congratulations, Zabini. That delightful task is now yours."
That meant sitting on a hard bench in the back row of the Wizengamot, listening to ancient fossils argue for six solid hours.
"Granger!" Zabini finally straightened up, a look of genuine grievance on his handsome face. "That's brutal! I was helping you! I was returning the favor!"
"Returning the favor?" Hermione finally let out the scoff she had been holding back all night. "Playing me like a fool, sending me to be humiliated in front of your old friend—that's your way of returning a favor?"
Zabini frowned. He dropped the joking demeanor, his tone turning serious for the first time.
"Granger, I wasn't joking with you."
Hermione was about to retort, but was silenced by his rare, earnest expression.
"Theodore," Zabini said quietly, "is my friend. One of my best friends. If he thinks there's something wrong with his father's death, if he insists it's murder against the pressure of the entire Ministry..."
He turned back to look Hermione in the eye.
"Then I trust Theodore's instinct. Those incompetents in the Auror Office can't find the truth, but Draco can. You need an alchemist, and Theodore needs the truth. I simply put the two of you together."
Hermione stared at him.
Zabini's unexpected, serious monologue caused the retort she had prepared to die in her throat.
Her brain whirred. Zabini's logic... she had to admit, actually made sense. If Theodore Nott—his friend—and Draco Malfoy—his other friend—were both deeply involved, then pushing her, the Ministry "investigator," towards Malfoy, the "alchemist," was, from a Slytherin perspective, the most efficient and logical move.
It didn't lessen the humiliation she had felt last night, but it did shift Zabini's motive from "malicious prank" to "killing two birds with one stone."
Hermione stared at him for a full five seconds.
Finally, she said nothing. She simply gave a short huff through her nose to acknowledge she had heard him, then spun back to face the parchment on her desk.
She tapped the broken quill with her wand, repairing the nib instantly. She dipped it in ink and dove back into the documents, as if he didn't exist.
The office fell into a brief peace.
Minutes later, Hermione heard the faint, annoying sound of wheels rolling.
Zabini was swiveling his chair, rolling slowly back towards her cubicle.
Hermione pretended not to hear.
"But..." Zabini's voice came again, closer this time, laced with suppressed excitement. "Serious parts aside..."
Hermione's quill tip dug hard into the parchment, leaving a blot.
"So," Zabini almost whispered, his voice dripping with schadenfreude, "what was Draco's reaction, really? Did he think he was seeing a ghost? Did he hex you? Did he slam the door in your face? Or did he—"
The string of patience in Hermione's mind finally snapped under Zabini's relentless teasing.
She stopped all movement.
Slowly, she raised her head, wearing an extremely fake, professional smile.
"You really want to know?" she asked softly.
Zabini grinned and nodded.
Hermione bent down and, from the "To Be Processed" pile at her feet, lifted the thickest stack—a dust-covered mountain of files several inches thick.
Then, with all her strength, she slammed it into Zabini's chest.
THUD!
Zabini grunted under the sudden weight, his chair squeaking as it rolled back several inches.
"Zabini." Hermione stood up, looking down at him, the smile vanished. "This is the first batch of your 'cross-departmental filing.' I hope your filing speed matches your curiosity."
Caught off guard, Zabini wobbled under the teetering pile of dusty files.
"Merlin's pants, Granger!" he wailed dramatically, jumping up from his chair and nearly tripping. "This is abuse of power! These files are practically moldy! You can't do this to me! I thought we were friends!"
Hermione didn't deign to give him another glance.
Calmly, she placed the thick sheaf of summary she had just organized into a folder, shoved it into her bag, and ignored Zabini's background complaints of "You're a tyrant, Granger! A bureaucratic tyrant!"
She grabbed her handbag and marched out of the D.M.L.E., heading straight for the Auror Office.
The witch at the Auror front desk gave her a "you again" look the moment she saw her.
"I'm looking for Harry Potter," Hermione said.
She didn't wait long this time. Harry walked out of the main bullpen quickly. He looked even more exhausted than yesterday, the dark circles under his eyes frighteningly heavy.
"Morning, Hermione."
"Morning, Harry."
"Let's go to the usual place." Harry led her through the noisy office back to the small meeting room with the map.
"Listen, Hermione," Harry said as soon as he closed the door, rubbing his forehead wearily. "I'm sorry about yesterday. The Borgin and Burkes thing... leaving you alone in Evidence Storage was terrible."
"It's fine," Hermione said immediately, having no time for pleasantries. "You had an emergency; I completely understand. And, I did find something."
"You did?" Harry's expression turned serious instantly.
"Yes, on the goblet," Hermione said. "After you left yesterday, I examined it carefully. There is a magical mark on it."
Harry frowned. "A mark? What mark? We turned that thing inside out three times, had the appraisers look at it—there was nothing."
"It's hidden well," Hermione explained. "You can only see it under light at a specific angle. It's in the base—a snake biting its own tail, twisted into a horizontal figure-eight, the infinity symbol. And right in the center, there's a wand piercing it."
Harry shook his head in confusion. "A snake? A wand? We really never saw that."
"I'm certain I saw it," Hermione insisted. "But, I came to you for another reason."
She took a deep breath, trying to sound as professional as possible. "I suspect the Auror Office's testing has blind spots. I want to find a... third party, an external alchemist, to re-analyze the samples for me. Mainly the whiskey and the incense ash."
"A third party?" Harry was immediately alert. "Hermione, you know that's against regulation. Evidence can't leave the Ministry, especially for a Class A case."
"I know," Hermione met his gaze calmly. "But Harry, you know better than I do how difficult Theodore Nott is. He won't believe the report we give him now."
She paused, starting her pitch. "But if we tell him that to ensure absolute certainty, the Ministry even hired a neutral, top-tier alchemy expert from outside to assist with the review... do you think he might be more inclined to accept our final report?"
Harry's furrowed brow relaxed. He scratched his hair in frustration, but clearly, he was swayed by Hermione's logic—it was a strategy that could get them out of this mess.
"Alright," he finally decided. "You're right. To shut Nott up, it's worth a try. But we can only take a tiny bit."
"I promise."
Harry took her back to the Evidence Room. He opened Box 0910, tapped the orb with his wand, and dissolved the barrier.
He took out two sterile crystal vials the size of matchboxes.
"Just a little bit is enough," Hermione reminded him.
Harry carefully extracted a few drops from the whiskey sample and pinched a small amount of ash from the incense sample, bottled them, sealed them with magic, and handed them to her.
"Done." Hermione took the vials and carefully placed them in her bag.
"Wait," Harry said. "Since the barrier is down, let's look at that mark now."
He picked up the goblet, and Hermione leaned in. Together, they held the cup up to the dim ceiling light, rotating and inspecting it from every angle.
Ten minutes passed.
"...There's nothing," Harry said, his voice tinged with confusion and worry.
The goblet was crystal clear, the base perfectly smooth. There was no snake, no wand.
Hermione's heart sank. How could that be? Had she been hallucinating from exhaustion last night?
"Impossible... I clearly..." she muttered. "Maybe the light is wrong today?"
Harry was looking at her with a "Hermione, are you too stressed?" expression.
"I didn't imagine it!" Hermione suddenly remembered. Ignoring Harry's surprised look, she quickly extracted her mobile phone from her bag lining.
"Look!" She lit up the screen, brought up the photo she took last night, and held it in front of Harry.
In the photo, the complex symbol was clearly shimmering through the crystal base.
Harry stared at the phone screen, his eyes nearly glued to it. On the small screen, the strange symbol was disturbingly clear.
"Merlin..." he whispered. "I swear on my badge, I have never seen this mark."
He looked up, fatigue replaced by a hound-like alertness. "It doesn't belong to any known pure-blood family crest, nor is it any registered Dark Mark. This... this is new."
"Or something very, very old," Hermione corrected.
"I'll tell Luca immediately," Harry said gravely. "He's the symbology analyst for the Office. He can cross-reference it with everything in the Restricted Archives, see if it's the signature of some secret society or ancient guild."
Just then, the meeting room door burst open. A burly, brown-haired wizard poked his head in, looking frantic.
"Harry! Thank god I found you! We need to sync the casualty numbers from the Borgin and Burkes report before the big meeting in ten minutes!"
"I know, Dawkins!" Harry shouted irritably. He turned to Hermione, shoving the two sealed vials into her hand, his eyes apologetic.
"I have to go," he said. "Hermione, you take the samples. Whatever your 'third party' finds, notify me immediately. Anything."
"I will." Hermione carefully placed the vials into the innermost pocket of her bag.
Hermione practically ran back to the D.M.L.E. with the samples.
She dove into her work immediately, organizing the files with manic speed. She cross-referenced Auror testimonies, St. Mungo's autopsy reports, crime scene diagrams, and her own summary notes, trying to construct the most complete logical chain possible for Malfoy before he started his tests.
Thankfully, Zabini didn't bother her all afternoon. He seemed truly buried under the mountain of filing work; occasionally, Hermione could hear a suppressed, despairing groan from the other side of the office.
Hermione felt immensely gratified by this.
By evening, the office had emptied out again, and she was finally done.
The mountain of parchment on her desk was gone, replaced by a neat stack of summaries, clearly marked in different colored inks.
Eating a cold, hard sandwich from the Ministry cafeteria, she copied the organized files and her own notes, sorted them one by one, and placed them into her handbag with the Undetectable Extension Charm.
She put the samples on top, ready to zip up and leave—
"Granger."
That voice again.
Hermione looked up irritably. Zabini was leaning in the doorway of her cubicle, wearing a strange expression—like he wanted to say something but was holding back.
"What do you want now?" Hermione said impatiently. "I'm warning you, Zabini. My quota for talking to you today is used up."
"I'm not here to chat." Zabini didn't wear his usual mocking smile. He looked... somewhat serious, even a little worried.
"I'm just... as a friend," he chose his words carefully, "a bit worried about Draco."
Hermione paused in zipping her bag. She looked up coldly. "And how does that concern me?"
Zabini opened his mouth, seeming to hesitate. "You... you've always been prejudiced against him. I mean, ever since that... Sixth Year..."
BANG!
Hermione slammed her handbag onto the desk so hard the sound reverberated through the empty office.
It startled Zabini into taking a step back.
Hermione stood up, eyes burning with the anger she had suppressed all day.
"Zabini," her voice was low and dangerous. "I warn you. I know exactly what kind of person he is. If you dare mention that damn, humiliating night again, I swear, every single remaining file in the Law Enforcement Archives will be yours to organize starting today."
Zabini's expression froze completely. His "worried friend" look was replaced by pure, unadulterated shock and confusion. He straightened up immediately, frowning, and blurted out, sounding genuinely offended:
"Humiliating?! What on earth are you talking about?!"
Hermione didn't want to say another word to him. She grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder.
"Monday morning, eight o'clock. House-Elf Clothing Standard Hearing," she said coldly as she walked past him. "Don't be late."
She walked out of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement without looking back.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hermione walked angrily through the evening streets of London. The chill of the night wind did nothing to cool her down; instead, it only fueled her agitation.
Zabini had been exceptionally annoying today. He insisted on bringing up that damned Sixth Year, a time she absolutely refused to look back on. And now, she was on her way to see the person she loathed the most.
Hermione came to an abrupt halt at a crosswalk. She closed her eyes, taking a deep, heavy breath of the icy air, then exhaling slowly.
"This is work," she ordered herself in a low voice.
"This is for a fair and clear case. Just business."
When she opened her eyes again, all personal emotion had faded from their brown depths, leaving only the cool professionalism of a D.M.L.E. employee.
She started walking again, turning without hesitation into the dim, winding Serpentine Alley.
A sudden gust of autumn wind swept through the narrow lane, sending dry leaves skittering across the cobblestones with a soft rustle.
Hermione quickened her pace involuntarily.
Finally, she stopped in front of the black door. Without hesitation, she reached out and knocked on the snake-shaped magical knocker.
The silver snake came to life, its ruby eyes flashing as it coiled in a circle. Everything was exactly as it had been the night before. Immediately after, she heard those familiar, methodical footsteps approaching.
The door opened.
Malfoy stood there. He had changed into a dark grey cashmere sweater today, but his icy demeanor remained undiminished. He swept his gaze over her from head to toe—a look that felt like an assessment—before lingering for a moment on her seemingly overstuffed bag.
"In," he commanded, his voice devoid of emotion.
Hermione pressed her lips together tightly, suppressing her visceral distaste for this place and this person. Head held high, she stepped over the threshold without a word.
She followed Malfoy down the sterile corridor. Faint bubbling sounds and the clink of glass drifted from the laboratory, but she kept her eyes straight ahead.
Until they reached the small parlor lit by the blue flames again.
Hermione took it upon herself to sit in the same armchair as yesterday, placing her heavy bag on the carpet at her feet.
This time, Malfoy didn't lean against the mantelpiece. He sat in the other armchair, directly facing her.
He crossed one leg elegantly over the other, elbows resting comfortably on the armrests, fingers steepled perfectly in front of him. His entire posture exuded judgment and control.
Hermione looked at him, and a wave of annoyance rose within her.
He didn't look like someone about to do business with her. He looked more like a Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot about to preside over a trial, or a harsh Hogwarts professor grading her essay. That innate, undisguised sense of superiority reignited the anger she felt from being played by Zabini the night before.
"I assume," Malfoy broke the silence first, his steepled fingers motionless, "you haven't wasted my time. You have everything?"
"Of course," Hermione replied coldly.
She bent down to open her bag, ignoring his inquisitorial gaze. From the very top, she carefully lifted out the two small, magically sealed crystal vials. One contained an amber liquid, the other a pinch of grey-brown powder.
Leaning forward from the edge of her armchair, she held the vials out to him across the narrow space between them.
Malfoy mirrored her, reaching out to take them.
Just as she was about to place the vials into his open palm, his fingertips—cold and dry—accidentally brushed against hers.
The contact felt like a faint electric shock.
Hermione snatched her hand back as if burned.
In that instant, all her rationality and preparation were replaced by panic.
She forgot the two crystal vials were still in mid-air.
"No!"
She gasped, watching helplessly as the two small bottles containing the crucial evidence plummeted straight towards the hard stone floor—
Time seemed to slow down.
A split second before the vials hit the floor, a dark grey blur shot forward.
Malfoy didn’t even stand. He simply leaned out, flashed a hand beneath them, and caught both crystal vials inches from the ground.
Hermione's heart nearly leaped out of her chest; she froze in place.
Fast.
Seeker reflexes.
She could clearly recall the image of him diving on the Quidditch pitch, clad in green Slytherin robes.
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the ridiculous, untimely thought out of her mind.
"Merlin's beard, Granger."
Malfoy's scathing, mocking voice pulled her back to reality.
He was already sitting straight again, methodically inspecting the two intact vials in his hand.
"I forgot," he toyed with the bottles as if admiring a trophy, his grey eyes full of malicious amusement. "You can't even hold two small vials steady. Should I be grateful you didn't smash them back at the Auror Office?"
Hermione's cheeks burned red with anger and the lingering fright. She took a sharp breath and opened her eyes again.
"I suppose I should be grateful," her voice was laced with ice. "It seems your Seeker training finally has a practical application. You make a remarkably efficient retriever."
The mocking smile on Malfoy's face froze in an instant.
She gave him no chance to draw his wand.
Immediately bending down, she used a Levitation Charm to pull a stack of parchment half the height of a person from her bag.
She dropped the pile onto the low table with a heavy thud.
"These are the complete original files from the Auror Office," she said evenly. "And this," she slammed down another sheaf, inches thick, of her own summary, "is my cross-analysis and summary of all testimonies and reports, along with every discrepancy I've flagged."
She sat back in her armchair, her posture as cold and scrutinizing as Malfoy's.
"Now," she commanded, "shut your mouth and get to work."
The mocking smile on his face didn't fade; it shattered.
The air in the parlor seemed to be sucked out, leaving only the harsh crackle of the ice-blue flames.
His lazy elegance vanished instantly. His spine snapped straight, fingers crushing the crystal vials until his knuckles turned white. His jaw locked.
But his eyes were the most terrifying.
The pettiness was gone, replaced by a cold, venomous rage. He stared at her with pure, murderous intent.
A chill shot up Hermione’s spine.
This wasn’t the irritating boy from school—this was a dangerous, provoked adult wizard.
Her heart thudded hard, every instinct telling her to step back.
She forced herself to stay rooted. Her palms were slick, so she curled her hands into fists, nails biting skin, using the sting to keep steady.
She would not show weakness to this bastard.
Hermione lifted her chin. Summoning every scrap of composure, she met his icy, murderous stare head-on, refusing to yield an inch.
Malfoy inhaled sharply, about to speak—
but his gaze involuntarily dropped from her defiance to the pile of “evidence” on the table between them.
The scalding anger didn’t fade—it sharpened, pressing down like a vice.
He didn’t shout. He glared at her with flat, venomous eyes for three long seconds.
Then, with agonizing slowness, Malfoy released the vials onto the table and lifted the top document from the pile—her “summary”.
The parlor fell into a near-absolute silence.
The only sounds were the rapid rustle of parchment being turned.
And the faint crackle of the blue flames in the hearth.
Hermione didn't move; she even subconsciously held her breath. She watched Malfoy closely, waiting for his outburst.
But the outburst didn't come.
He didn't look up. His grey eyes were scanning her notes—meticulously marked in red, black, and green ink—at an astonishing speed.
He read incredibly fast. His long, pale fingers turned the pages steadily, one after another. He didn't miss a single discrepancy she had marked in red. Hermione could even see his brow tighten almost imperceptibly when he read her thoughts and suspicions regarding the "locked room."
Hermione had expected him to scoff. She had expected him to mock her "Muggle logic," to throw her hard work back in her face and ask who she was to question the Aurors.
But he didn't.
The man before her was absorbing the entirety of the work she had spent two full days compiling with an efficiency she had only seen in top Curse-Breakers or Potions Masters. He clearly understood the "discrepancies" she had flagged—the analysis of the moonstone and sandalwood, the logical holes the Aurors had completely ignored.
This intense focus... involuntarily reminded her of Sixth Year.
In Slughorn’s Potions class.
He had looked just like this, with the same focused gaze, looking past the bubbling cauldron at the analysis and deductions of potion ratios she had scribbled on the margins of her parchment.
This sudden, unsealed memory made Hermione feel a strong, inexplicable discomfort.
She would rather he raged. She would rather he kicked her out. That, at least, would be within her expectations; she could leave with the conclusion that "I tried, but he's just a git."
But now, he was her "collaborator." A collaborator she despised, yet whose professional ability she had to rely on.
This feeling was far worse than simple anger.
She could only sit there, forcing herself to remain calm, watching him turn page after page of her effort, waiting for the person she least wanted to face to pass judgment on her work—and on Old Nott's death.
Malfoy finished the last sheet of parchment.
He didn't mix Hermione's notes with the Auror files. Instead, he stacked them neatly and placed them next to the two small crystal vials.
Then, he stood up.
"Follow me."
He didn't look at her, walking straight out of the parlor towards the laboratory Hermione had only glimpsed once. Hermione's heart gave a jolt, and she immediately grabbed the vials and followed him.
"Stop."
He halted at the lab door without turning around.
"I didn't invite you in, Granger."
"I assumed you needed the samples," Hermione said stiffly. She gripped the vials tighter, fighting the irritation of being summoned like a servant.
Malfoy seemed to scoff. He finally turned around, his gaze landing on the bottles in her hand.
"Of course I need them," he drawled, simultaneously drawing his wand with a subtle, sharp flick of his wrist.
Before Hermione could react, the two vials flew out of her hands as if seized by an invisible grip, landing steadily in his open palm.
"I don't want to give you another chance to smash them," he sneered. "I prefer my company house-trained."
He pointed his wand tip Imperiously at the floor by the doorway, a gesture full of warning.
"Stand outside. Don't touch anything. Don't breathe on my equipment. And don't try to 'help'."
Hermione fought the urge to throw something at him and planted herself on a spotless patch of floor nearest the door. She was a spectator now, a client begging for his help. The realization brought a wave of searing indignity.
Malfoy ignored her. He walked to the center of the lab.
Hermione could finally see clearly. The room housed a dazzlingly complex alchemy setup made of silver, copper, and crystal. Intricate glass tubes connected silver alembics and brass condensing towers like spiderwebs, with faint but palpably powerful blue flames burning beneath them.
He didn't use any standard potion analysis spells.
He dropped the whiskey sample into a crystal dish, then the pinch of ash. Instead of incanting, he turned a silver dial etched with runes.
The entire apparatus emitted a soft hum.
Hermione stood motionless by the door. She felt like an intruder, a jarring, superfluous foreign object.
This sense of incongruity was so strong it even made her feel a twinge of inadequacy.
All her knowledge—the potion recipes and detection spells she prided herself on memorizing from books, the theories that kept her top of the class at Hogwarts—suddenly seemed so... basic in the face of this genuine, ancient alchemy.
So pale and powerless.
She had learned how to follow rules; the man before her was clearly making them.
She forced herself to observe.
And he, the Malfoy she had always thought only knew how to cause trouble and hide behind his family name and sharp tongue, was manipulating this complex machinery with an absolute proficiency and elegance she had never seen.
He barely used his wand.
Her gaze was drawn involuntarily to his hands. Long, pale, working now with a near-clinical precision.
There was no wasted movement.
He would turn a silver dial with his fingertips—just a microscopic three millimeters—and the blue flame over there would instantly rise by a precise fraction. He would use a crystal dropper to draw a single drop of sample, hovering it over a humming copper condenser, waiting exactly three seconds, no more, no less, before letting it fall.
Steam hissed upwards. He didn't even look, already turning to adjust the angle of another glass retort.
It was as if... he was one with the laboratory. He could hear the instruments conversing in a language ordinary people couldn't understand.
He wasn't operating them; he was conducting a precise symphony.
He was completely unaware of her existence.
She could smell the sharp woody scent in the air, now mixed with the tang of hot metal and ozone.
She didn't know how long she stood there.
Time seemed to lose meaning in this space, leaving only the rhythmic hum of complex machinery, the hiss of steam, and the crisp drip-drop of liquid.
Until—
The high-pitched hum dropped in pitch, then faded first.
Next, the hiss of steam ceased.
Finally, the silver condensing tube gave a soft click.
The humming of the instruments stopped.
That overwhelming silence rushed back in, filling the laboratory instantly. The sudden quiet was more heart-stopping than the noise, yanking Hermione violently from her trance-like observation.
Malfoy picked up a clean, visibly expensive velvet cloth and began to methodically wipe a silver forceps he had just used, which reeked of chemicals.
The action was deliberate.
The machine's hum had stopped, the lab was suffocatingly quiet, yet he chose this moment to focus on a trivial, mechanical cleaning task.
The velvet cloth rasped against the silver with a nearly silent shh-shh. He didn't look at Hermione. All his attention seemed focused on the tool, as if it were tainted with some invisible filth he couldn't abide.
Hermione stood there stiffly, feeling like a prisoner awaiting a verdict. Her chest tightened, and she forced herself not to speak up and rush him.
Finally, he finished.
He placed the forceps back into its dedicated slot on the tool rack with a soft click.
"Analysis complete."
He finally spoke, his voice exceptionally clear and emotionless in the quiet lab. He glanced first at the now-empty crystal dish that had held the ash sample.
"The sandalwood is a dead end," he stated in a factual tone. "It's burnt to ash, Granger. There's nothing in it. Any alchemical components that might have existed have long since decomposed. Clean as a whistle."
This opening statement chilled Hermione's heart halfway.
He seemed to enjoy the flash of disappointment on her face. He turned, his gaze shifting to the row of test tubes separated from the whiskey.
"The whiskey, however," he drawled, "is where the Aurors were truly stupid."
He jerked his chin at one of the tubes.
"First, moonstone."
Hermione looked. At the bottom of the clear liquid lay a layer of faint, shimmering milky-white powder.
"Present in significant quantities," he stated. "Consistent with reports that Old Nott was taking therapeutic potions."
He finally looked up, his grey eyes filled with undisguised sarcasm.
"But the dosage in the whiskey," he emphasized the word whiskey, "is at least fifty times his therapeutic dose."
Hermione’s heart sank. Fifty times.
He seemed about to say something mocking, but Hermione didn't give him the chance. Her gaze locked onto another test tube.
"Second," he seemed satisfied with her reaction, pointing languidly to a tiny, needle-point sized, semi-transparent white crystal separated in another tube, "Magical Niter."
The term was unfamiliar.
"What is that?" Hermione asked immediately.
The corner of Malfoy's mouth hooked into a vicious curve.
"A rare alchemical material," his tone was exactly as she had predicted, like lecturing an annoying first-year who knew nothing. "Usually used to create a specific alchemical coolant, or..."
He dragged out the vowel, his gaze sweeping over the Muggle suit beneath her robes.
"...certain defensive potions long banned by the Ministry."
He turned, looking down at her with disdainful superiority.
"So, Granger, is this the extent of your discovery? Excessive moonstone and trace amounts of Magical Niter?"
He laughed mockingly, a sound devoid of warmth.
"Moonstone is non-toxic even at fifty times the dose. Magical Niter has negligible toxicity, let alone in trace amounts. If this is the standard of the Auror Office," he paused, every word dripping with intent, "if this is the conclusion of your 'suspicion-riddled' summary... then it's no wonder my father always said the Ministry is a joke."
Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line as she glared up at him.
He took a step forward, closing the physical distance between them. The subtle intrusion made the crisp scent of juniper radiating from his dark grey cashmere sweater distinct. The familiar Malfoy nastiness was back.
"Let me be clearer." He looked down at her as if she were some dim-witted creature needing correction. "You can't kill a wizard with just these two things. You couldn't even kill a Pygmy Puff."
There was a suppressed laugh in his voice when he said "Pygmy Puff."
Hermione felt the blood rush to her cheeks with a whoosh, a hot, humiliating burn.
"The Auror Office has already ruled out all known poisons." She forced herself to meet his gaze, using every ounce of strength to keep her voice steady and professional, rather than screaming. "I didn't come to you to tell me if they are toxic; I came to you to tell me what they are."
"I've already told you." His tone oozed a bored arrogance.
"That 'Magical Niter'," she pressed, "What are its properties? You said it's used in coolants?"
Malfoy was clearly out of patience. He couldn't be bothered to say another word.
He walked straight down the corridor to the black exit door and yanked it open.
Biting air rushed in instantly, blowing Hermione’s hair back. The action was an undeniable, physical expulsion.
He leaned against the doorframe, looking at her with annoyance, signaling for her to leave.
"The property is cooling, Granger," he said, sounding bored by her very existence. "Do try to grasp the elementary."
"Now, take your notes and show yourself out. I've fetched the data; do not expect me to sit and stay while you process it."
Chapter Text
CHAPTER EIGHT
Hermione froze for three full seconds.
She glared back at him, every hair on her body standing on end with fury.
He did it on purpose.
She could almost see herself through his eyes—an outraged, overeager Gryffindor practically bouncing on her toes.
And he, Draco Malfoy, was enjoying every second of it.
He lounged against the doorframe, posture loose and lazy. That condescending, mean-spirited benevolence stung more than an insult. His grey eyes were cold, almost bored. He wasn’t even mocking her—just stating a fact: she was an idiot, and he was superior.
“You couldn’t even kill a Pygmy Puff.”
The words hit the silent lab like a poisoned barb.
Hermione’s jaw clenched.
She hated him—his face, his attitude, how effortlessly he cut her efforts to pieces. And she hated that… damn it… he wasn’t wrong.
Every argument she had dissolved under that single “non-toxic.”
She said nothing.
If she spoke, her voice would shake—and that was exactly what he wanted: the Sixth Year humiliation all over again. She would not give him that satisfaction.
She forced her fury down, compressing it into a cold, dense stone in her chest.
Her movements turned rigid. She walked to the parlor, grabbed her bag, and slung it over her shoulder with a vicious jerk.
She didn’t even glance at the scattered files—the summaries she had poured herself into. She could feel his gaze on her, cold and patient, waiting for her to scramble and gather those “useless” papers.
“Those are copies.”
She stopped at the door, her voice as icy as the metal counters.
“Do whatever you want with them. Burn them, use them as scrap paper—I don’t care.”
His posture shifted—just barely. The lazy aura froze.
Without waiting for a reply, she strode out the black door into the night.
Hermione walked home, her steps heavy as lead.
The moment she left that damned alley, the anger she had forcibly suppressed transformed into intense frustration and resentment, welling up in her throat.
She thought she was returning with a breakthrough. Instead, she came back with one word—“cooling”—and confirmation that he was even more of a bastard.
But what enraged her most was how much he enjoyed it.
That look that said I knew you were an idiot, that cliché about my father always said the Ministry is a joke.
He was exactly the same as in Sixth Year. A thorough, conceited, nauseating git!
—No.
Hermione corrected herself ruthlessly in her mind.
He was even more of a git than in Sixth Year.
That Christmas... Slughorn's damned party... was like a watershed moment. Before that, he was just a childish, spoiled bully always picking fights.
After that night, something in him—that pure, cold, undisguised malice—had intensified, becoming unbearable.
The more she thought about it, the angrier she got. She kicked a pebble on the roadside.
But...
Magical Niter.
She forced herself to calm down, letting professional, rational thought reclaim the high ground.
Why hadn't the Auror Office detected this?
Hermione frowned, gripping the strap of her bag tight.
Her brain provided the answer quickly—because they were only looking for "poisons."
And Magical Niter, just as that bastard Malfoy said, had negligible toxicity.
It was neither toxic nor on the list for standard poison detection spells. Only Malfoy's outrageously expensive alchemy equipment could separate it from the mixture of moonstone and whiskey.
"Its main property is 'cooling,' Granger."
Hermione stopped abruptly in the middle of the pavement, letting the cold night wind mess up her hair.
Cooling... Niter...
A forgotten memory from the Muggle world, something she had read as a child, suddenly crashed into her mind.
A Muggle mystery novel with a twisty plot.
She remembered clearly that the murderer in the book had used saltpeter—utilizing its endothermic property when dissolved in water—to create a trick involving key evidence freezing inexplicably. The book had dedicated a whole page to explaining this "chemical phenomenon."
Niter dissolved in whiskey... absorbs heat.
Her brain began to race.
The stain... the goblet...
If... if the murderer mixed Magical Niter into the whiskey, the whiskey would rapidly, unnaturally... cool down.
Her blood froze instantly.
But could such a small amount of Magical Niter achieve that?
And why? Why would the murderer go to such lengths... what was the purpose of cooling the whiskey?
The thought weighed on her heart like a boulder. She knew she had grabbed a loose thread, but she couldn't figure out where it led. She had no answers.
She returned home exhausted and preoccupied. That night, she barely slept, her mind filled with "cooling" and Malfoy's arrogant face.
The next day at the Ministry, Hermione couldn't concentrate at all.
Prewett's nitpicking and sarcasm, Zabini's bleating from the other end of the office... she heard none of it.
Her quill hovered over the parchment, her mind circling around only one word: "Cooling."
Why would a murderer want to cool a glass of whiskey?
She unconsciously flipped through the original Auror reports, her eyes scanning the list of standard procedural spells.
Finite Incantatem.
Prior Incantato.
Homenum Revelio.
Tempus Mortis.
Hermione's breath hitched.
She stared dead at the words "Tempus Mortis."
"Tempus Mortis"... body temperature... whiskey... cooling!
She gasped, sucking in a breath of cold air.
She remembered—the spell Aurors used to estimate the time of death!
But could such a trace amount of niter achieve this?
She needed data.
She looked at the clock. 5:00 PM, quitting time.
She grabbed her bag, not even glancing at the unfinished work on her desk, and stormed out of the D.M.L.E. like a gale, heading straight for the Ministry fireplaces.
She didn't go home. She went to Diagon Alley.
Flourish and Blotts was still busy, the clerks preparing to tally the day's sales. Hermione held up her badge and marched straight in.
"Advanced Forensic Magic and The Encyclopedia of Alchemical Materials!" she shouted at a sleepy-eyed clerk. "I want every rare edition you can find. Including the oldest ones!"
Reluctantly, the clerk unlocked the Restricted Section for her.
Hermione tore into the back of the bookstore like a whirlwind, rummaging frantically through the dusty, ancient tomes.
She finally found what she needed in a heavy copy of Advanced Forensic Magic with a cracked spine. Trembling, she flipped to the chapter on "Tempus Mortis."
There it was.
The spell calculated the time of death backwards, based on the current core body temperature, ambient temperature, and the average magical cooling rate of a wizard.
The spell didn't "read" an absolute time. It was a complex magical formula. And one of the core variables of this formula was the "body temperature" at the time of casting.
Hermione's heart hammered. She immediately set the book down and dragged over the other massive tome—The Encyclopedia of Alchemical Materials. Her fingers trembled with urgency as she hunted for "Magical Niter."
When she found the page, the description made her breath hitch.
Basic composition consistent with common niter. However, its magical potency is amplified thousands of times... even a minuscule dose can catalyze immense cooling capabilities...
Her eyes scanned further down.
Due to its extreme rarity and the highly dangerous refinement process, Magical Niter is classified as one of the most expensive alchemical materials today...
Hermione flipped through the pages, comparing it with a few entries before and after—like "Dragon Blood" or "Silver Salts"—and found an even more critical, chilling detail:
In this book, almost all other materials listed legal purchase channels or supplier addresses.
But under the entry for "Magical Niter," the purchase channel column was blank.
Hermione's hands went cold.
She arrived at two different possibilities.
Expensive. Rare. No legal purchase channel. And... the "immense cooling capability" mentioned in The Encyclopedia.
But the key to everything lay in exactly how "immense" that capability was.
She didn't know. She didn't know how many milligrams or micrograms constituted the "trace amount" Malfoy had isolated from that drop of whiskey.
Nor did she know the specific conversion formula for the "immense cooling capability"—how much could one milligram of Magical Niter lower the temperature of a given volume of liquid?
If the dose was large enough... If the murderer added a sufficient amount of Magical Niter to the whiskey and then had Old Nott drink it immediately...
That "immense cooling capability" would erupt instantly from within his body.
This force would voraciously absorb his body heat starting from his internal organs. This alone would be enough to cause fatal internal frostbite and organ failure within seconds—perfectly simulating the "cardiac arrest" detected by St. Mungo's.
Hermione lowered the book, her heart racing.
“You can't kill a wizard with just these two things.”
Malfoy had been so sure. But he was looking at it like an alchemist—looking for venom, for chemical corruption, for toxicity.
He wasn't looking at physics.
Water isn't toxic, but you can drown in it. Fire isn't toxic, but it burns.
And this body, cooling unnaturally from the inside out, would perfectly interfere with the "Tempus Mortis" spell cast by Harry and Ron, causing them to severely misjudge the time of death.
In this theory, Magical Niter was both the murder weapon and the tool for time manipulation.
But what if the dose wasn't enough?
Hermione frowned tightly.
If that "trace amount"... or the properties of Magical Niter itself... weren't enough to kill an adult wizard instantly. If its endothermic reaction wasn't that fast, or was only localized...
Then it wasn't the murder weapon. It was a tool.
It would be an obscenely expensive tool used to confuse the investigation.
Its sole purpose would be to utilize this powerful cooling ability to cause the body to cool down unnaturally and catastrophically fast before the Aurors arrived, specifically to fake the time of death.
Hermione stood in the Restricted Section of Flourish and Blotts, feeling dizzy.
She finally understood the murderer's core trick. But she also realized a fact that frustrated her even more.
She couldn't tell which theory was true.
The answer to this question wasn't in Advanced Forensic Magic, nor was it in The Encyclopedia of Alchemical Materials.
It was in one man's laboratory.
She needed him to calculate the "trace amount" extracted from the whiskey sample, to deduce how much power that half-bottle of drunk whiskey could generate in a human body, and exactly how long that power could mislead the Aurors regarding the time of death.
She needed that bastard to help her one more time.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER NINE
Hermione snapped the massive Advanced Forensic Magic shut, scrawled a quick Charge to Ministry on the counter, and burst out of Flourish and Blotts. She ran full-speed across Diagon Alley, her footsteps hammering the stones, before plunging into the dim choke of Serpentine Alley.
Chest heaving, she reached the black door and seized the snake-shaped knocker.
The silver serpent uncoiled, ruby eyes flashing like warning lights.
Inside—silence.
"Merlin..."
Hermione stomped her foot, anxiety crackling through her. Three full minutes crawled by—an eternity—and the door stayed stubbornly, insultingly shut.
Enough.
She abandoned the damned knocker and hammered her palm against the wooden door.
“Malfoy! Open the door!” Her breath came sharp and furious. “Tempus Mortis! I know what the Magical Niter does! Open up!”
She wound up for a fourth blow—
—and the door was ripped open from the inside.
Malfoy filled the doorway, wand raised, fury carved into every line of his face. Interrupted. Lethal.
“Granger?! What the bloody hell is—”
She hadn’t expected that. Her swing cut through empty air, and she lurched forward, balance gone, pitched straight toward him.
Instinct fired.
Hermione slapped her hand against the icy doorframe, stopping herself inches before crashing into the cashmere on his chest. The near-contact jolted her like a hex.
She recoiled immediately, snapping back to a safer distance as if the air between them had burned.
Ignoring the anger and bewilderment tightening Malfoy’s expression, Hermione forced words past her ragged breathing.
“Niter,” she gasped. “There are two possibilities.”
She lifted a trembling finger.
“One: it’s the murder weapon. A high enough dose would cause catastrophic internal cooling—fast, silent, lethal—and scramble Tempus Mortis.”
She raised a second finger.
“Two: it’s only a tool. If the dose wasn’t fatal, then Nott died some other way, and the niter was used to crash his body temperature. Its sole purpose? To sabotage Tempus Mortis and manufacture an alibi.”
Her gaze locked on his, fierce and unblinking. “I can’t tell which one.”
“The answer,” she panted, “isn’t in Advanced Forensic Magic. It’s not in the Alchemical Materials Encyclopedia.”
Her voice sharpened. “It’s in your lab.”
She stepped in closer—too close for comfort.
“I need your calculation. The ‘trace amount’ you extracted from the whiskey—converted into what Nott actually drank. How much power would that generate inside a human body?”
Her words came out in a single, desperate exhale.
“I need to know exactly how long that power could fool the Aurors into delaying the time of death.”
Malfoy didn’t move. The glow at the tip of his wand still burned, poised between threat and restraint. His grey eyes stayed fixed on her—not mocking, not dismissive, but something far sharper. Analytical. Consuming.
The intensity of it hit her like a physical force.
Hermione swallowed, heat prickling beneath her skin. She suddenly felt far too visible under that silent, unwavering scrutiny.
“Are you going to let me in or—”
“Shut up.”
His voice came out low, rough—scraped raw by irritation.
His posture eased by a fraction. Slowly—deliberately—he lowered his wand. Then he stepped aside just enough to clear the narrow doorway.
“In.”
One word, clipped, sharp, utterly impatient.
Hermione’s pulse jumped. She didn’t hesitate; hugging the heavy book to her chest, she slipped past him.
The door slammed behind her with a violent crack. Malfoy didn’t spare her a glance as he strode straight toward the laboratory.
Hermione hurried after him but stopped at the threshold, instinctively refusing to invade his sanctum any further.
She watched.
Malfoy crossed the lab with quick, precise steps and retrieved the sealed test tube of Magical Niter crystals he’d isolated the night before. He tipped the microscopic flakes onto an impossibly delicate silver scale. Runes shimmered up from the surface—sharp, floating glyphs Hermione couldn’t read.
He was already weighing.
He noted the number with a flick of his eyes, turned on his heel, and walked out without a word.
Hermione followed him into the parlor.
To her surprise, the files and notes she’d left last night hadn’t been burned, hexed, or even shoved aside. They were stacked neatly on the low table, squared to perfection.
Malfoy plucked her summary from the top.
He flipped to the moonstone–whiskey dosage page with brisk, practiced movements. He read it, really read it—jaw set, focus razor-like. Then he pressed his fist to his lips, elbow braced on his other arm, eyes narrowing in thought.
The last trace of personal emotion drained from his face. What remained was pure calculation—cold, clinical, merciless.
He started pacing. Back and forth. Firelight from the ice-blue flames flickered over the tight knot in his brow.
Hermione held the forensic tome against her chest so tightly her fingers ached. Her breath locked in her throat. Every theory she had hinged on whatever he was computing in that frightening mind of his.
He paced again. And again. His fist still pressed to his lips, steps soundless on the floor, analysis carving harsh lines into his features.
Her heart hammered painfully.
Finally—he stopped.
He lowered his arms, shoulders settling with finality. The decision had been made. Some preliminary equation had clicked into place.
Malfoy looked up.
His grey eyes met hers—no anger, no annoyance, no mockery.
Just cold, precise judgment.
And every answer she needed written somewhere behind that stare.
“Your first theory can be ruled out.”
His voice was flat, decisive—almost bored.
“Based on the purity and dosage I weighed last night,” he went on, tone crisp and clinical, “the total endothermic capacity—converted to that half-bottle of malt whiskey—is far below the lethal threshold needed to kill an adult wizard via core hypothermia.”
Hermione felt her stomach drop.
“However…”
His grey eyes narrowed, sharpening as if the puzzle had grown more interesting.
“The reaction time of this alchemical niter is delayed. It needs a catalyst… or a window.”
He flicked his gaze at her summary.
“It likely activated only once Old Nott had already drunk half the bottle. Which means…” He paused, threading the logic together.
“…it could have begun moments before death—or immediately after. Both are viable.”
His attention slid to the book clutched against her chest.
“Give it to me.”
His hand extended—command, not request.
Hermione froze for half a heartbeat.
“I need the full Tempus Mortis breakdown from Advanced Forensic Magic,” he snapped, irritation biting the edges of his voice. “I have to overlay its decay variables with the cooling curve of Magical Niter to calculate the actual time of death.”
She stepped forward quickly and handed him the book.
Malfoy took it and crossed to a shadowed cabinet, retrieving clean parchment and a quill. He dropped into the armchair facing her, parchment spread across the low table, ancient book thrown open.
And then—he began to calculate.
No wand.
Just quill, parchment, and terrifying speed.
The quill scratched in rapid, relentless strokes. He wasn’t writing numbers so much as summoning a storm—ancient alchemical runes intertwined with high-level Arithmancy Hermione didn’t even recognize.
His eyes darted between the forensic text and the parchment, brow drawn tight, low murmurs of arithmetic spilling from his mouth like an incantation.
Hermione drifted closer without realizing it.
She stood diagonally behind him, close enough to see the parchment under his hand—and his profile lit by the ghostly blue fire. Razor-focused. Expression carved in concentration.
Her eyes fell to the calculations.
The parchment was a battlefield of dense formulas—alchemical runes fused with thermodynamic equations she had never encountered. His quill moved without hesitation, each stroke purposeful, thought laser-sharp.
She watched as he broke down the Tempus Mortis spell into variables, substituted them into a completely foreign formula describing the energy conversion of Magical Niter, derived a “Total Cooling Value,” and used it to reverse-engineer that anomalously low body temperature.
It was… breathtaking.
His speed was blistering. His logic, immaculate.
Every line interlocked cleanly; not a wasted stroke.
This cold, merciless clarity—
It pulled her back.
Sixth Year.
A library corner so quiet she could hear dust drifting through sunbeams.
Her sketches spread out before him—an impossibly complex potion concept for Slughorn.
And him, head bent, eyelashes casting long shadows across a face gilded by afternoon light.
The golden warmth had been false, of course.
But the focus—that piercing, disciplined intellect—had been exactly the same.
He didn’t speak.
He simply lowered his head and—using that elegant, razor-sharp handwriting—began calculating the exacting potion ratios her dangerous, radical theory demanded.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
The quill carved through the silence, the only living sound in the room.
Hermione stood frozen, breath suspended, her mind splitting down the middle.
Half of her was a scholar—devouring the cold beauty of his logic, the way forensic magic locked seamlessly into alchemy under his quill.
The other half was dragged helplessly backward.
Back to Sixth Year.
Back to that sunlit library corner she’d sworn she would never think about again.
Back to that Draco Malfoy—head bowed in the same focused posture, calculating ratios for her impossible potion idea with that same frightening precision.
Why remember this now?
Why him, now—
Click.
The quill stabbed down—hard. A sound of finality.
The scratching stopped.
Hermione jolted as if the memory had been slapped out of her. The warm, golden library shattered, replaced instantly by the cold, blue-lit parlor.
Malfoy had gone utterly still.
He didn’t look up. He stared at the parchment before him—runes, numbers, lines—his hand clenched around the quill so tightly his knuckles had turned white.
The silence thickened until it felt like drowning.
Hermione waited ten full seconds.
“…So?” Her voice cracked. “What’s the result?”
Malfoy didn’t answer.
He only lifted his free hand, and with one slow, reluctant motion, tapped a single point on the parchment.
“He wasn’t wrong.”
His voice was low. Hoarse. Almost scraped raw.
“Who wasn’t wrong?” Hermione stepped closer without thinking.
“Theodore.”
He finally raised his head. His grey eyes were no longer focused—they were burning with a dark, controlled fury she had never seen in him.
“Theodore’s instinct was right. The time—” His jaw tightened. “—was a lie from the beginning.”
He shot to his feet, snatching the parchment and thrusting it toward her.
“Look.” His finger stabbed the final formula. “Tempus Mortis uses an average cooling rate. But this—” he tapped the rune for Magical Niter, nail striking sharply, “—isn’t a curve. It’s a cliff.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” he said rapidly, anger threading every word, “the first few minutes cause a catastrophic, unnatural temperature drop. And when Tempus Mortis reads it?”
He laughed once—short, furious.
“It doesn’t detect tampering. It just obediently does the math. If a body is that cold, it assumes it’s been dead for hours.”
Hermione’s mind raced, pulling the Auror report from memory at breakneck speed.
“The Aurors cast the spell at 6:30 AM,” she whispered, blood draining from her face. “They saw the abnormally low temperature… factored in the lit fireplace… so their calculation was…”
She looked at him, horror blooming.
“They estimated the time of death as September 10th, 10 PM.”
Malfoy held her gaze.
And together, in the same breath—they understood.
“That means,” Hermione said coldly, “Old Nott’s actual time of death wasn’t 10 PM on the 10th at all—”
“It was September 11th. Two. A.M.” Malfoy finished, sharp as a blade.
“2 AM…” Hermione gasped. “Of course. 10 PM on the 10th—the ‘time of death’ confirmed by the Aurors—”
“What about it?” he pressed, slicing straight through her thought.
“That was…” Hermione’s voice edged into disbelief, “the exact hour all three prime suspects—Marianne Bulstrode, Antonin Dolohov, and Old Parkinson—had airtight alibis.”
A perfect circle. Every suspect clean.
Because the true killer had used an impossibly rare alchemical trick to build ironclad alibis for everyone.
“They need to re-investigate.” Hermione met his dark eyes, steady. “They need to examine the alibis around 2 AM on September 11th.”
Her words rang through the frozen parlor.
Malfoy’s expression caved into a terrifying shadow. He looked down at the parchment instead of her.
“A four-hour discrepancy…” Hermione muttered. “Absurd.”
But her blood was on fire now—finally, a direction.
“I have to tell Harry,” she said immediately, snatching the book from the table. “This flips the entire investigation. They’re wasting time—”
“Granger.”
She stopped, turning back.
He still wasn’t looking at her. His fingertip tapped the parchment like a ticking clock.
“When you bring this to Potter,” he said quietly, “he’ll believe you. But then you’ll bring it to a departmental meeting.”
“So what?” she demanded.
He finally lifted his head. No sneer. No smirk. Just exhaustion.
"'Tempus Mortis' has been the cornerstone of forensic magic for centuries. You aren't just accusing a murderer; you are accusing the foundation of the Ministry."
He stood, gathering parchment and quill as if closing a case file.
"They won't thank you for pointing out their idiocy, Granger. They will only try to prove that the idiot is you."
"I don't care," Hermione said, though her voice was smaller than she hoped.
"Of course you don't." Malfoy walked past her expressionlessly. "And that is the most stupid thing about you."
The insult hit with the precision of a curse.
“Stupid?” Hermione repeated, pitch rising. “I’m stupid?”
She whirled, nearly crushing the book in her grip.
“You call this stupid? We just uncovered a four-hour discrepancy! A murderer is walking free! And you think my wanting to fix it is—”
“No, Granger.”
His voice was glacial. Emotionless.
Infuriating.
“I think you’re stupid because you still believe anyone cares about your ‘truth.’”
He raised his eyes. There was no mockery—worse.
Only a cold pity, as if looking at a child witnessing death for the first time.
“What do you think happens when you take that—” he pointed at the book “—to the Ministry? They hand you an Order of Merlin? Thank you for destabilizing their entire judicial system?”
“It’s not a foundation, it’s a mistake!” Hermione shot back, cheeks flaming. “If a spell is flawed, we fix it! That’s my job! That’s Harry’s duty!”
“Duty?” Malfoy let out a single, icy laugh.
“You think the Ministry runs on duty? Prewett climbed his way up on ‘duty’? Rowle is going to offend every pure-blood family whose convictions rely on that spell—for your truth?”
He took one step toward her.
Steel in his voice.
“The Ministry runs on inertia. And fear.”
He leaned in just slightly, each word precise:
“When you walk into that meeting, you’re not a hero uncovering truth. You’re a threat manufacturing trouble. You threaten their authority. Their comfort. Their beloved procedures.”
“You threaten their jobs.”
“You—” Hermione tried to argue, but the words froze. Something deep inside whispered he was right.
She thought of Prewett’s sneer. Harry’s and Ron’s impatience with her “Muggle logic.”
"So what?" she lifted her chin stubbornly, though her voice trembled. "So I should shut up? Hide in this damned, dark lab like you and pretend nothing happened? Pretend justice doesn't matter?"
“I’m not saying it doesn’t matter,” Malfoy cut in coldly. “I’m saying it’s not cost-effective.”
“They will destroy you, Granger.” His tone was flat. “They’ll silence you. Transfer you to Salamander surveillance or fire you outright. They’ll bury your theory under paperwork until you rot with it.”
“And the murderer?” His voice softened, dead cold. “Still goes free. Because you chose the stupidest, most direct, most Gryffindor way.”
“Shut up!” Hermione snapped.
She couldn’t stand those grey eyes stripping her illusions bare.
Couldn’t stand how confidently he dismantled everything she believed.
Couldn’t stand—worst of all—that she wasn’t entirely sure he was wrong.
A rush of fury, helplessness, and fear crashed over her.
“You don’t… understand anything.” Her voice rasped.
She didn’t look at him again.
She yanked open the heavy black door with the silver snake knocker and didn’t bother closing it.
She fled—almost tripping—into the cold, empty alley. She needed air. She needed distance. She needed a world—
A world without Draco Malfoy telling her everything she fought for was meaningless.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TEN
The morning air in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was a strange cocktail: fresh parchment ink, burnt toast wafting from the break room, and the faint soot of wizards tumbling out of the Floo Network.
The magical fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, blending with the washed-out London dawn projected onto the enchanted ceiling. Everything looked a little unreal.
Hermione sat rigidly in her cubicle, practically drowning in Old Nott files.
She hadn’t slept.
Malfoy’s voice had echoed in her skull all night—
“That is the most stupid thing about you.”
“They’ll only try to prove the idiot is you.”
Each repetition felt like a slap.
Exhaustion hadn’t caught up yet; fury was holding her upright. She hadn’t even managed to buy real coffee—just gnawed mechanically on an energy bar while attacking a fresh sheet of parchment.
Her quill carved out a rapid, almost violent scratch-scratch as she translated Malfoy’s cold, elegant equations into something Prewett could read before their nine-o’clock meeting.
Conclusion: Time of death overturned.
Cause: “Tempus Mortis” compromised by Magical Niter → false temperature reading.
Original TOD: Sept 10th, 10:00 PM.
True TOD: Sept 11th, 2:00 AM.
Next: Re-investigate all three suspects’ alibis for 2:00 AM, Sept 11.
She wrote so intensely the rest of the office blurred into white noise—colleagues chatting, charms firing, documents multiplying—everything muted behind a wall of adrenaline.
“So. There were discrepancies in Old Nott’s case after all.”
A smooth, velvet male voice slid right past her ear.
Hermione jolted so hard her hand spasmed. The half-eaten energy bar slipped from her fingers, bounced off her skirt, and smeared sticky crumbs across the fabric before teetering toward the floor.
“Merlin!” she hissed, snatching it up, pulse hammering.
She whipped around.
Blaise Zabini was lounging against her cubicle wall, arms crossed, looking irritatingly polished. His dark robes were pristine; not a trace of ash or fatigue on him.
He didn’t apologize. He didn’t even flinch. He just studied her parchment with thoughtful, predatory curiosity.
Hermione shot him a murderous glare. Another Slytherin.
She turned back around and shoved the rest of the energy bar into her mouth—chewing like she meant to pulverize it.
Zabini didn’t leave.
He just stood there. Silent. In an office buzzing with chatter and spellwork, his silence pressed on her like a hand at the back of her neck.
Hermione refused to look at him. She dipped her quill, added a final footnote, then stabbed the quill back into the inkwell hard enough to make it clatter.
She swallowed the last of the energy bar, washed it down with a gulp of bitter instant coffee, then finally—slowly—turned her chair to face him.
Zabini wasn’t smirking.
The usual lazy amusement was gone. His expression was carved from stone—dark, weighty, unreadable.
“Malfoy calculated the correct time of death,” Hermione said first. Her voice was raw from exhaustion but precise, clinical. She hated crediting Malfoy, but facts didn’t care about her feelings.
“2 AM on September 11th. Not the ridiculous 10 PM listed in the report.”
She met Zabini’s gaze head-on.
“A trace dose of Magical Niter in the whiskey. Slow-release cooling effect inside the body. Completely scrambled Tempus Mortis.”
Zabini didn’t blink. It was the look of someone hearing confirmation, not revelation.
“And what are you planning to do?” he asked.
“Report it to Prewett.” She began straightening her parchments with brusque efficiency. “My meeting’s at nine.”
Zabini’s expression tightened—something wary, something calculating. Hermione could almost see the gears turning behind his eyes.
“Granger,” he said at last, low and sharp, “do you understand the consequences?”
He leaned in, voice pitched just for her.
“This isn’t revising a report. This is detonating the foundation of magical forensics. Tempus Mortis is the gold standard. Has been for centuries. Do you comprehend what you’re implying?”
The words hit her like a blow—not because they were shocking, but because they were déjà vu.
Hermione’s hands froze. Her eyes snapped up, anger flaring hot and instant.
“Malfoy said the same thing yesterday,” she replied icily. “He warned me they’ll try to discredit me instead of admitting the spell is flawed.”
Her voice hardened, sharpened into something unshakeable.
“But I’m not staying silent. If a spell is wrong, we fix it. If a murderer is loose, we catch them. I won’t pretend otherwise just to protect someone’s ego.”
“You still don’t get it.” Zabini looked at her the way someone looks at a Gryffindor about to run headlong into dragon fire.
He exhaled—quiet, troubled.
“Draco was right,” he murmured. “But that’s only half.”
He leaned even closer, voice dropping to a whisper no one else could overhear.
“He fears they’ll attack you to save face. What I’m asking is something else.”
A brief pause—a razor’s edge of hesitation.
“Granger… if Tempus Mortis can be wrong, then tell me—”
His dark eyes locked onto hers.
“—how many wrongful convictions do you think there might have been?”
Hermione froze.
Zabini’s words hit her like a punch she never saw coming.
The thought drenched her like ice water—clean, brutal, inescapable. Her mind, blazing with the thrill of cracking the truth, suddenly felt cold for the first time.
She hadn’t thought that far.
She’d only seen right and wrong. Only Old Nott’s case. Only the killer who cheated the system. She hadn’t looked beyond that—hadn’t dared consider the Ministry, the courts, the entire bedrock of magical justice… or the wrongfully condemned rotting in Azkaban.
Her fingers tightened around her coffee mug until her knuckles whitened.
“Do you really think the Ministry will let this stand?” Zabini’s voice slithered through the air. “Do you think they’ll admit their prized forensic system has been a farce? That they’ll revisit centuries of convictions for your sense of justice?”
Hermione tried to speak. Nothing came out.
After a long beat, she lifted her head and met his gaze—dark, bottomless, pitying.
“I will still report my findings,” she said at last. Her voice was hoarse, but the clarity in it cut like glass. “Truthfully. To Prewett.”
“I can’t ignore a murder,” she said again, firmer. “No matter the fallout.”
She inhaled—a deep, steadying breath, duty filling every word.
“And I can’t ignore that Tempus Mortis is flawed. You’re afraid of past wrongful convictions. But I’m more afraid of future ones—of all the ghosts we’ll create if we stay silent now.”
Zabini straightened slowly. The heavy look on his face didn’t turn mocking—just weary. Bone-deep weary.
“Bloody Gryffindor martyrdom,” he muttered, shaking his head.
But there was no contempt. Only resignation. As if he already knew how this ended.
Hermione didn’t respond.
She glanced at the clock. Five minutes to nine.
She gathered the report, stood, and strode past Zabini. His expensive cologne brushed against the acrid smell of her instant coffee—and then he was behind her.
She crossed the office to the half-open meeting room and sat at the farthest seat inside, waiting for Prewett. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She rehearsed her explanation again and again.
The minutes crawled.
9:00.
9:05.
9:10.
At last, Prewett drifted in, tea steaming in his hand.
“Ah, Granger.” His smile was thin and false. “Apologies—urgent matter.”
He sat, leaned back, and laced his fingers. His shrewd blue eyes flicked to the parchment she held.
“So? Any progress? Found a way to talk Theodore Nott into accepting our ‘natural causes’ ruling?”
Hermione didn’t bother answering. She slid the report toward him.
“Mr. Prewett, I’ve uncovered something significant. Old Nott’s recorded time of death is wrong.”
His eyebrow ticked upward.
“Working with the Auror Office,” she said carefully—deliberately avoiding Malfoy’s name—“I consulted a third-party alchemical expert. We detected trace Magical Niter in the whiskey.”
“Magical Niter,” she stressed, “drops internal temperature continuously. Tempus Mortis becomes useless. The previous time of death collapses.”
Prewett’s polite expression evaporated.
“And the true time of death,” Hermione continued, “was 2 AM on September 11th. Four hours later.”
Color drained from Prewett’s face, then returned as a furious grey.
Hermione pressed on. “It’s a known trick—even among Muggles. Manipulate the cooling curve, create a flawless alibi. The Auror Office needs to re-check the suspects’ alibis for 2 AM.”
Silence suffocated the room. Prewett didn’t touch the report. He just stared at her, slow and incredulous, as if she were deranged.
“Granger,” he said finally, voice dangerously low, “do you have proof Tempus Mortis is wrong?”
“I—”
“Has this been experimentally verified,” he cut in sharply, “or is this simply your—” his lip curled—“calculation? Or your ‘third party’s’ calculation? Have you tested it on another corpse with Magical Niter?”
“I haven’t, but—”
“And who,” Prewett demanded, voice rising with scorn, “is this ‘third party’? Someone certified by the Forensics Division?”
Hermione’s throat closed. She had no experiment. And Draco Malfoy was the last name she could safely utter.
Prewett saw her silence and struck.
He leaned back, triumphant.
“Granger, I told you before—this is the wizarding world. Do not use your inferior Muggle logic to undermine a spell that has guided our courts for centuries.”
Hermione’s face burned scarlet.
All her logic, all Malfoy’s precise calculations—dismissed with two words.
Muggle logic.
Her fingers curled into a fist under the table, nails biting her palm. She opened her mouth—ready to argue, to defend the science, the magic, the principle—
But she had no experimental proof. And Prewett knew it.
She was drowning in humiliation and fury when a calm voice cut through the air beside her.
“Magical Niter?”
Hermione snapped her head up.
Madam Rowle—Head of Magical Law Enforcement, her ultimate boss—was standing beside the table.
Hermione hadn’t heard a sound, hadn’t sensed a shift in the air. She had no idea how long Rowle had been there.
Rowle didn’t spare Prewett a glance. Her violet eyes were fixed on Hermione, warm and amused.
“That’s a fascinating hypothesis, isn’t it, Prewett?” she said lightly.
Prewett lurched to his feet as if the chair had shocked him. The smug triumph on his face evaporated.
“Madam Rowle! I— I was just guiding Granger’s work—”
Rowle lifted a hand. Prewett stopped mid-breath.
She crossed to Hermione’s side, picked up the report Prewett had sneered at, and flicked through it. She barely glanced at the numbers—her attention was on Hermione, her smile steadying, almost protective.
“Don’t worry, Miss Granger. I recall you once mentioning your fondness for Muggle detective novels. I’ve always thought that sort of logic can outperform a few of our… antiquated spells.”
Prewett’s jaw dropped. His face was turning an alarming shade of plum, but he didn’t dare make a sound.
“Let her continue,” Rowle said coolly—though she still hadn’t looked at him.
Then her tone shifted—sharp, precise.
“But Prewett did raise one valid point.”
She set the report back in front of Hermione. “Theory isn’t enough.”
Hermione straightened.
“Without experimental confirmation,” Rowle continued, “we cannot overturn the Ministry’s reliance on Tempus Mortis. We need evidence. Not conjecture.”
A faint smile touched her lips.
“So prove it. You have full authority. Replicate your theory. And finish this case.”
She straightened, finally turning her gaze to Prewett, who stood stiff as a statue.
“As of today,” she said, each word crisp, “all updates on the Old Nott case will bypass you. Granger reports directly to me.”
Rowle gave Hermione one last look—firm, meaningful, a silent demand for results—and walked out. Her dragon-hide heels struck the stone floor in decisive, echoing clicks, fading down the corridor.
Prewett didn’t move at first. Then the blood drained from his face—only to flood back in a blotchy red mask of fury. His eyes cut toward Hermione, no longer mocking but openly venomous.
He snatched his cold tea, spun on his heel, and stormed back into his office, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame.
Hermione was alone.
Still sitting. Still frozen.
She rose slowly, almost mechanically, clutching the parchment that had just rewritten her future. The walk from the half-open meeting room back to her cubicle was barely twenty steps—yet it felt like a century-long procession.
The office noise crashed back all at once—the scratch of quills, bursts of laughter from the tea room, the flutter of flying memos—but it all sounded muffled, distant, as if she were underwater.
And the stares.
She felt them before she saw them—curious, gleeful, whispered-behind-hands stares. They pricked her like a thousand tiny needles.
They’d heard everything.
They’d seen everything.
Hermione Granger challenging Prewett.
Rowle stepping in and publicly flattening him.
Rowle handing Hermione authority no one in this office had ever been granted.
Rowle’s person.
Prewett’s enemy.
Hermione sank into her chair. The report slipped from her fingers and landed on top of her half-cold coffee.
She stared at the fabric of her cubicle wall as Rowle’s words replayed, over and over:
Replicate your theory.
Report directly to me.
It wasn’t victory. It was a blade—gleaming, double-edged, handed to her in front of an audience. Rowle, guardian of the cornerstone of forensic magic, had smiled as she passed it over.
Go on, Granger. Stab the foundation with everyone watching. If it shatters, the fallout is yours alone.
Hermione’s stomach twisted. She hadn’t even begun to face the real question:
Where was she supposed to find a corpse and Magical Niter for an experiment?
Her thoughts spiraled—
SCREE—CRASH!
A brutal screech of office-chair wheels and a heavy thud rattled her entire cubicle. Hermione jerked upright.
Zabini had slammed his chair full-speed into her partition. The whole structure shook.
His eyes were wide and electric, the earlier resignation completely gone—replaced by shock, disbelief, and something disturbingly close to awe.
“Merlin’s beard, Granger,” he hissed. “What the hell did you just do?”
He darted a quick glance around, then rolled even closer, practically halfway into her cubicle.
“I thought you were going to present a theory. A theory. And instead you got Rowle—the Rowle—to roast Prewett alive in front of half the department?!”
Hermione stared at him, dazed. His intensity actually startled her more than Prewett’s fury had.
“I… I don’t know,” she whispered. Her voice didn’t even sound like her own. “I didn’t do anything. I just reported what I found.”
She looked down. Her hands were trembling.
“To be honest,” she said, barely audible, “after what you and Malfoy said… I thought I was going to be laughed at. Or fired.”
A cold, creeping dread tightened in her chest. This—this—was far more terrifying than Prewett’s petty cruelty.
“I genuinely,” she breathed, shaking her head, “didn’t expect Madam Rowle to… to do that.”
The shock on Zabini’s face ebbed away by degrees.
He leaned back, eyes narrowing, something sharp and fast glinting behind his irises—calculations she couldn’t follow, pieces snapping into place in a puzzle she didn’t even know existed.
“Rowle…” he murmured. “‘Muggle detective novels’… ‘report directly to me’…”
Hermione watched him think, the silence stretching. Then Zabini let out a low, almost admiring scoff.
“Salazar’s ghost, Granger.” He looked up at her like she’d accidentally detonated a Gringotts vault with a tap of her wand. “You really… You have no idea what you’ve just set on fire.”
Hermione’s frustration flared. “What are you talking about?”
Zabini’s smile curled—cold, humorless.
“You think that little show was about you?” he whispered. “About Old Nott’s corpse? No. Absolutely not.”
He rolled his chair closer, until his voice could vanish under the hum of the office.
“Madam Rowle is ambitious. The dangerous kind. The kind with no bottom.”
He flicked his chin toward her report. “And you, Granger, just handed her a drawn sword. A pristine political weapon.”
His eyes gleamed—bright, fevered, almost thrilled.
“If you fail, you crash and burn. The foolish upstart with ‘Muggle logic.’ Rowle shrugs and walks away clean.”
He paused.
“But if you succeed…”
He seemed to savor the word.
“If you prove Tempus Mortis can be wrong,” he breathed, “Rowle gets to rewrite history. She gets to style herself as the visionary who corrected a centuries-old injustice.”
His gaze slid past her, as if he could already see the upper floors of the Ministry tower.
“She can use your discovery to strike down the old guard. Anyone blocking her path. Even—”
He leaned in.
“—Cornelius Fudge.”
Hermione’s blood went cold.
Zabini’s voice dropped to a razor-thin whisper.
“‘Allowing the judicial system to rot, enabling centuries of wrongful convictions’—that alone is enough to topple a Minister. And Rowle would walk neatly into the vacancy. Minister for Magic Rowle.”
He tapped her desk once with a knuckle.
“And the spark of it all? You.”
Hermione’s throat closed. She couldn’t force out a single word.
She had simply wanted to solve one murder.
Instead, Zabini had peeled back the veil to reveal she’d stumbled blindly into the center of a political war—its newest, most crucial, and most oblivious pawn.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Zabini had rolled his chair away, but his words—sharp, breathless, and edged with warning—hung over her cubicle like a ghost that refused to leave.
Hermione drifted through the rest of the day in a fog.
The brass hands of the clock dragged themselves from nine-thirty to noon, from noon to five. Quills scratched. Someone laughed in the tea room. Paper airplanes swooped overhead with pointless memos. It all sounded muffled, distant—like she was trapped behind thick glass.
Her original plan had been so simple that morning: run straight to Harry and Ron with her overturned time of death.
But now? She didn’t even stand up.
What would she say?
That she had a lead, but apparently it wasn’t a lead anymore—it was a Ministry-sized political grenade? That Blaise Zabini thought Rowle might use it to topple Fudge?
Ron would think she’d cracked. Harry… Harry would listen. And then he would worry. And she couldn’t put that weight on him.
Not when she herself could barely breathe under it.
Rowle’s smiling approval. Prewett’s venomous glare. Zabini’s eyes—too bright, too knowing.
The fear of being a pawn hollowed her out. Zabini’s words had unlocked a door she never meant to approach, revealing a world of rot and power where she was nothing more than a hunting hound sent to flush out prey.
She was stuck—too far forward to retreat, too terrified to advance.
And then came the real panic—
the experiment.
“Prove it.”
“You have full authority.”
Such light words. Such crushing consequences.
She had no Magical Niter.
No body.
And she certainly couldn’t break into St. Mungo’s morgue, steal a corpse, pour whiskey and niter into it, and cast Tempus Mortis like some deranged necromancer.
Without a body, there was no way to replicate the alchemical reaction she’d proposed. No way to “prove it.” No way to avoid becoming the department joke—a gullible Gryffindor toyed with by Rowle and torn apart by Prewett afterward.
Her eyes dropped to her own report.
The cold conclusion stared back at her, mocking.
And a thought she’d been shoving down all day finally muscled its way to the surface.
Draco Malfoy.
His precision alchemy lab.
His Magical Niter.
His mind—sharp, methodical, infuriatingly effective.
The thought made her stomach twist.
Ask him?
Him?
The man who’d looked her in the eye and warned her that the only “idiot” they’d prove was her? The arrogant, cutting bastard who could slice her apart with a single sentence?
He would laugh.
He would sneer.
He would slam the door in her face.
…But logic—cold, merciless logic—whispered that he might also be the only person who could help her pull this off.
He understood alchemy.
He understood Magical Niter.
He wasn’t tied to the Ministry.
He saw things she didn’t.
He might, just might, see a way through.
The sky outside had deepened to indigo. Colleagues packed up, one by one, until the office sank into stillness.
Hermione shivered in the sudden quiet.
She had to go back to Serpentine Alley.
She had to face the one person she least wanted to need—
and beg him for help.
Hermione sat in the empty office for ten whole minutes as the darkness slowly swallowed her cubicle.
Only when her breath started to fog in the cold air did she finally move.
She stood—jerky, wooden, like a marionette whose strings were being yanked by trembling hands.
She grabbed her bag.
It felt unbearably heavy, as if the parchment inside were made of lead.
When she stepped out of the D.M.L.E., the only movement in the corridor came from automated cleaning charms—mops dragging across stone with a hollow swish, swish that echoed louder than human voices ever had.
The Ministry atrium, usually roaring with fireplaces and footsteps, was a cathedral of silence.
The emptiness rang in her ears.
It was almost worse than the crowds.
She made her way to the Floo, scooped a handful of powder, and spoke the name of a rundown Muggle pub.
Green fire swallowed her.
She emerged in soot, walked past sticky tables and flickering lights, pushed through the back door, and stepped into a damp alley behind the pub.
Between trash bins and the smell of mold, she felt the Ministry drop off her like a cloak.
CRACK.
Apparition squeezed the air out of her lungs.
She landed hard on the cold stones of Serpentine Alley.
The place she had run from last night.
The wind sliced through her thin robes, shoving icy fingers down her spine. Gas lamps flickered weakly, throwing sickly halos onto the brick. The familiar black door waited only a few steps away in the shadows.
Hermione didn’t move.
She stared at the door.
If she turned around now—Disapparated home, crawled under her blanket, and pretended this morning had been a bad dream—
But she couldn’t. Rowle had already tossed her into the fire.
Slowly, one dragging step at a time, she walked to the door.
Her limbs felt carved from stone.
She inhaled—cold air sharp enough to sting—and lifted a hand that still trembled faintly.
Her fingers brushed the brass snake knocker. Cold. Unforgiving.
She hesitated one last heartbeat, then—
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
The sound cracked through the alley like a spell.
The wait that followed felt longer than her entire meeting with Prewett today.
Her thoughts twisted in panic.
Shame scorched her throat.
She had actually come back.
Hermione Granger—Miss Know-It-All—was now a desperate beggar knocking on Draco Malfoy’s door.
Her mind scrambled for an opening line:
“Malfoy, I need your help.” — He’d laugh.
“Rowle sent me.” — A lie, and a transparent one.
“You were right yesterday.” — True, but she’d rather choke on glass.
Her brain blanked.
She nearly turned to flee.
Then—
A clean, sharp click of a lock turned from inside.
The door swung open.
Malfoy stood there.
He looked like he’d just walked out of the lab. No cashmere sweater from last night—just a white shirt with the collar undone, a dark blue cashmere vest, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, forearms lean and strong.
He clearly wasn’t expecting anyone at the door. Least of all her.
There was still a trace of irritation on his face from being dragged away from his research—but the second he saw her, that irritation froze solid.
His gaze cut into her.
Grey eyes flicked over her pale lips, the shadows under her eyes, the exhaustion that made her look almost breakable—then landed squarely on the stubborn, humiliated fury burning in her brown eyes.
Hermione lifted her chin and met his stare. She refused to look away.
He didn’t bother with a greeting. He didn’t even ask why she was here.
He simply leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, crossed his arms, and delivered the verdict:
“You told them.”
No question. Just a fact.
He tipped his head slightly, something cold and poisonous sliding into his expression.
“Just as I thought.”
Hermione jolted as if struck.
Every speech she had rehearsed—about the experiment, about Rowle, about Magical Niter—died instantly in her throat.
He didn’t even care what had happened at the Ministry today. In that infuriating Slytherin way—certain, superior, unbearably perceptive—he skipped past everything and went straight to the end.
He wasn’t asking.
He was condemning.
Condemning her stupidity, her naïveté, her failure—the one thing she could not bear to admit.
Without another word, he stepped aside. Not to invite her in—just to get her out of his way.
Humiliation stinging, Hermione bit her lip hard and walked past him into the narrow, suffocating space beyond.
The moment she crossed the threshold, the black door behind her slammed shut with a deafening BANG.
The lock snapped into place.
Hermione flinched at the sound. Too sharp. Too final.
As if the door had just severed the last thread tying her to the world outside.
Malfoy didn’t even look at her.
He strode down the dim corridor alone, cold shoulders cutting through the darkness, heading straight for the parlor.
He didn’t slow down. He didn’t wait.
He dropped into the same armchair from last night with an elegant, infuriating impatience—crossing his arms and legs with the smug, suffocating air of someone who had told her so and was now basking in it.
Hermione stopped at the threshold.
She felt like a foolish treasure hunter who’d stumbled into a dragon’s den—while the dragon watched her with polished, aristocratic displeasure.
Finally, she forced her legs to move.
She crossed the room and sat stiffly in the opposite chair. Her bag stayed on her knees like a shield; she gripped the strap until her knuckles blanched.
Silence settled—thick, oppressive.
Only the grandfather clock dared to speak: tick, tock, tick, tock.
Malfoy’s eyes rested on her.
No mockery. No smirk.
Just a cold, steady assessment—stripping her down to bone, waiting for her to break the silence.
It was worse than ridicule.
He had slid all control to her side of the table, a trap disguised as courtesy.
He was waiting for the confession.
Waiting for her to say it.
Waiting for her to beg.
Hermione’s throat rasped. Her heartbeat hammered against her ears, shaking her skull.
Say it, Hermione. You came back. You have no escape now.
She swallowed the tight, sour burn of humiliation and forced her chin up. Forced herself to meet those merciless grey eyes.
“You…” The word scraped out. She cleared her throat.
“You were right.”
The admission drained her like a spell.
Malfoy didn’t react—not a twitch, not a blink.
He simply waited, expectant, patient, ruthless.
Waiting for the rest.
Hermione drew a steadying breath and launched into her report, her voice flat and mechanical.
“I saw Prewett this morning. I told him our—” she caught herself, biting down, “—the conclusion from last night.”
Her eyes drifted to the cold logs in the fireplace.
“He… did exactly what you said he would. Called it ‘Muggle logic.’”
Heat rushed to her cheeks. She forced herself onward, words tumbling faster and faster, as if speed could outrun the humiliation.
“He questioned my evidence. Questioned my ‘third party.’ Asked whether I’d run a real experiment. And I— I couldn’t answer.”
“But,” she snapped her gaze up, anger and confusion sparking in her voice, “Madam Rowle—my department head—she overheard us. She cut him off.”
Malfoy’s eyes flickered at the name.
“She supported me.” Bewilderment cracked through Hermione’s tone. “She dressed Prewett down in front of everyone. Then she praised me. Said Muggle detective logic can outdo spells.”
Hermione’s fingers throbbed from gripping her bag strap too hard.
“She told me to keep investigating, bypass Prewett, report straight to her. But… she also gave the same condition.”
Hermione met his gaze at last and spoke the most pathetic reason she’d come tonight:
“She wants me to prove my theory. Through an experiment.”
She looked at the man she least wanted to ask. The one sitting in the dark across from her.
“I don’t know how.” The admission scraped out of her, raw and hated. “I can’t exactly steal a fresh corpse.”
She faltered. Zabini’s glowing, pitying face flashed through her mind.
“And… Zabini said Rowle is using me. She doesn’t care about Old Nott at all. She wants the credit for ‘overturning a cornerstone’—to hit Fudge. To run for Minister.”
She exhaled the whole confession in one breath.
Silence drowned the room. She felt like someone firing a flare in open water—now helpless, waiting to be saved, or left to sink under those cold grey eyes.
Malfoy said nothing.
Her desperate admission echoed off the velvet curtains and died on the thick carpet.
The clock’s ticking roared in her ears.
He hadn’t moved, arms still crossed, but his gaze had snapped away from her strained face to the painting over the hearth—a storm-beaten, featureless coastline. His jaw was set so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek. He wasn't just looking at the art; he was restraining himself.
Hermione was screaming inside. She would have preferred mockery. Being thrown out. Anything but this cold, dissecting quiet.
Just as the air began to thin around her, Malfoy finally reacted.
A faint, contemptuous scoff.
“So,” he said, voice cool and precise, yet vibrating with a suppressed tension, “the Ministry’s beloved ‘model employee,’ the shining example of ‘Muggle-born progress,’ finally discovers she’s just a window ornament—waiting for the right moment to be tagged and sold.”
Hermione flinched, but anger forced her spine straight. “I am not—”
“You’re not what?” He turned sharply, his grey eyes slashing into her. “Not an ornament? Not a pawn on Rowle and Fudge’s chessboard?”
He stood.
The shift in posture was a blow in itself. He was no longer just an irritated host; he seemed insulted by her willful blindness.
He began to pace—each step a quiet, deliberate reprimand. She had been warned; she had seen the precipice; and she had walked straight off the edge anyway.
“Blaise, ever the dramatist,” Malfoy drawled, every syllable dipped in Slytherin contempt, “didn’t exaggerate for once. Of course Rowle is using you. A ‘Muggle-born,’ the Ministry’s highly polished little ‘Know-It-All,’ overturning a cornerstone built by generations of Pure-bloods… you couldn’t script a cleaner political narrative.”
He stopped directly in front of her chair, casting a long shadow over her.
“And you thought her comment about ‘Muggle novels’ was encouragement?” His lip curled. “That was branding you, Granger. That was her pinning a label on her new showpiece. If you succeed, you’re the Ministry’s shining symbol of inclusivity—its tame little prodigy who proved the old guard wrong.”
His smile twisted, sharp as cut glass.
“And if you fail? Then you’re just the presumptuous Muggle-born who polluted ‘real’ magical work with Muggle logic.”
Hermione’s blood drained from her face.
“She doesn’t even care which outcome she gets,” Malfoy said, each word hitting with surgical precision. “Success gives her your achievement to swing at Fudge. Failure gives her the excuse to purge fossils like Prewett. The moment you stepped into her sight, Granger, you stopped being a researcher and became a political token.”
Hermione stared at him, gutted by his cold, merciless analysis.
She had come to him for an alchemical method—and instead received a political execution.
“Then what…” her voice splintered. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t… I can’t just give up…”
Malfoy’s expression changed—barely, but unmistakably. The mockery dropped from his face with the abruptness of a blade pulled back from a wound.
He turned away from her, shoulders taut, gaze locking onto the storm-torn coastline painting as if using it to steady himself.
“Give up?” he echoed. The tone was cool, but something trembled beneath it. “If you quit now, you hand them everything. You confirm every slur they’ve ever whispered about Muggle-born competence. And Rowle and Prewett will unite long enough to grind you into the floor.”
A tense beat passed.
“The only way out,” he said finally, voice low, “is through. You finish this.”
Her heart jolted. That sounded—dangerously—like guidance.
“But… the experiment…” she grasped at the only hope within reach. “Malfoy, I have no way—I can’t go to St. Mungo’s—”
“Steal a fresh corpse?” he cut in, disgust flickering back over his face like a protective mask. “For Merlin’s sake, Granger. Is there truly nothing in that Gryffindor skull besides recklessness and brute force?”
He spun back toward her, eyes flashing.
“Who told you you’d need a human corpse?”
Hermione went still.
“What does Tempus Mortis measure?” Malfoy fired the question at her like a spell, giving her no space to panic.
“Core temperature and magical decay…” she stammered.
“It measures tissue, Granger,” he snapped. The impatience in his voice was unmistakable—yet his eyes had shed their usual disdain, replaced by something sharper, almost urgent. “It doesn’t measure the soul. You don’t need a human corpse. You need tissue with similar density, fluid balance, and magical saturation—”
That familiar gleam ignited in his grey eyes, the one she had learned to recognize: the razor-bright focus of someone seeing a solution form in real time.
“You need a freshly slaughtered pig. Two hundred pounds.”
His voice dropped, low and decisive, as he began to move toward her.
“You need its entire internal system intact. You need a temperature-controlled ward. And an alchemical chamber large enough to block every strand of external magic.”
He stopped right in front of her, closer than was comfortable—close enough that she could see how tightly his jaw was set, how hard he was working to stay controlled.
“The things you need,” he said, quieter now, the anger cooling into something far more deliberate, “the Ministry’s Forensics idiots can’t give you. St. Mungo’s can’t give you.”
He held her gaze—steady and unflinching—anchoring her in place.
And then he gave her the real answer to why she had come:
“Only I have them.”
Chapter Text
CHAPTER TWELVE
Hermione froze in her armchair at his last sentence—
“Only I have them.”
Her mind went white. It felt like he’d siphoned all the oxygen from the room. Instinct kicked in—recoil, withdraw, escape—but the rigid back of the chair trapped her in place. There was nowhere to run.
Her lips parted uselessly.
Political fear had numbed her all day; now his calm, technical declaration burned straight through the numbness.
He wasn’t mocking her.
He was… solving it.
He had spent the last five minutes dismantling her, coldly pinning her to the board like a specimen—and now, with a razor-bright alchemist’s focus, he was handing her a solution she couldn’t even imagine approaching on her own.
The two versions of him—the ruthless strategist and the obsessive scholar—overlapped dizzyingly.
“You…” Her voice scraped out rough and small. “You… are willing to help me?”
The instant she said it, she wanted to swallow it back.
“Help you?”
His expression chilled so fast it was almost physical. Whatever brief glint of focus he’d shown vanished; frost slammed over his face, deeper and sharper than before. He looked offended she’d even suggested it.
A low scoff cut between them.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
He turned, walked back to his armchair—not to sit, but to brace a hand on the back of it, posture taut and controlled, as if fighting the urge to pace. For a heartbeat, Hermione had the strange impression he was steadying himself.
“I’m not helping you, Granger.”
He paused. His grey eyes, catching the low lamplight, looked like steel pulled from snow.
“I’m helping Theodore.”
Hermione’s stomach dropped.
Of course.
Theodore.
Old images resurfaced—Hogwarts corridors, Slytherin shadows, the silent presence who drifted alongside Malfoy and Zabini, steady as a shadow, sharp as a blade.
Her surprise gave way to a bitter, clean-edged irony.
“Because he’s your friend,” she said flatly.
Malfoy didn’t even bother to nod. His jaw flexed once, as if her stating the obvious irritated him more than denying it would have.
“What else did you expect?” he said sharply. “That I care about your department’s political circus? About your Gryffindor righteousness?”
Then—unexpectedly—he straightened, tone shifting into something cold, analytic… and deeply serious.
“Old Nott was the staunchest conservative of his generation. And in his final years, he suddenly started pushing for reforms.”
His gaze drifted past her toward the dark window.
Watchful. Calculating. Almost… protective.
Not of her, of course.
Of whatever threat he thought might touch his precious pure-blood circle—himself, Theodore, that entire insulated world he defended so ruthlessly.
Malfoy guarded interests, not people.
Hermione felt the conversation reorient around something heavier, something that wiped the last traces of irritation from his voice.
“And now he dies in a room locked from the inside. The Ministry’s first instinct? Cover it with an ‘accident’ ruling.” His mouth twisted. “Until you appeared with an impossible detail no one else could have noticed.”
He looked at her again—direct, incisive. There was no mockery now. Just a hard clarity.
“If someone targeted Old Nott,” he said, voice low, “then I owe it to Theodore to find out who.”
He lifted his chin, closing the distance between them with nothing but his eyes.
“As for you, Granger—you’re just the courier who tripped into the snare. You brought me the riddle. I’m the only one who can untangle it.”
He didn’t soften the phrasing, but he also didn’t look away.
He didn’t dismiss her.
He didn’t tell her to leave.
“So.” He exhaled once, slow and controlled—too controlled. “I’ll run the experiment. I’ll get the specimen. I’ll handle the alchemy.”
A beat.
“And you,” he added, gaze flicking pointedly over her face—lingering just a fraction too long on her exhaustion—
“will tell me everything your rule-choked conscience hasn’t told me yet. Starting now.”
Hermione sat rigid, the upholstery digging into her spine.
The line he’d drawn was unmistakable.
He wasn’t her ally.
He was Theodore’s.
But… strangely… the clarity steadied her.
This wasn’t betrayal. It wasn’t mind games. It wasn’t the Ministry’s manipulation or Rowle’s veiled tests. It was a blunt transaction: she brought information; he provided what she desperately lacked.
And beneath all the disdain and arrogance and deflection…
he had already moved to protect her work.
Protect the case.
Protect the truth she had stumbled into.
She breathed in, slow and thin, and forced her spine to ease.
Her voice was still tight when she finally spoke.
“Fine,” she said.
She forced her mind to cooperate. It felt like a library hit by a hurricane—papers flying, shelves toppled—but she dragged the pieces back into place one by one.
“The Auror Office report was sloppy,” she began, her voice sharpening into the professional cool she used in meetings. “They focused on the whiskey, sandalwood, and moonstone. They ignored the container.”
Malfoy’s eyes flicked toward her. “The container?”
“The crystal goblet,” Hermione said. “The one holding the malt whiskey and Magical Niter. It wasn’t an ordinary cup. I checked the base.”
She drew in a breath.
“There was a symbol on it.”
Malfoy’s brows pulled together. The arrogance drained from his face, replaced by something far more dangerous—real focus.
“A symbol,” he echoed. “Family crest?”
“No.” Hermione shook her head slowly. “Not Nott’s. This one was…”
She struggled for the right words.
“It was a snake. Biting its own tail. Its body twisted into a horizontal figure-eight.”
Malfoy’s frown deepened. A crack in the ice.
“There’s more,” she said. “In the center of the loop, a wand was piercing it.”
“A snake in an infinity coil, pierced by a wand.” His voice dropped.
He was searching—riffling through whatever arcane archive he carried inside his skull.
“Sounds like some crude Dark sigil…”
“No. It wasn’t crude.” Hermione leaned forward. “It was beautiful. It wasn’t stamped on—it was fired into the glass.”
A sudden memory jolted through her.
“Wait—hold on.”
She bent over her bag, digging frantically.
“What now? Did you sketch it?”
“No. Better.” Her fingers found cold metal.
She pulled out her mobile phone.
Something in Malfoy’s face stalled.
The disgust on his face was immediate and theatrical.
“For Merlin’s sake, Granger.” He recoiled like she’d produced a dead rat. “You cart that Muggle contraption around?”
But beneath the disdain—Hermione saw it.
A flicker.
Technical hunger.
The alchemist waking up.
“It takes pictures,” she said briskly, ignoring him. She unlocked it; the cold glow lit her face.
She opened the gallery. Found the photo. Held it out.
“Look.”
Malfoy’s offense evaporated in an instant.
His eyes widened a fraction.
“I…” His voice faltered. “I’ve seen this before.”
He stared at the phone like it was a Dark artifact he wasn’t sure he should touch.
“Is this thing…” he swallowed, “…clear?”
“It can zoom,” Hermione said. She dragged two fingers across the screen.
The symbol expanded in perfect, merciless detail.
“Bloody hell,” Malfoy breathed. “I have seen this.”
Now the annoyance returned—but directed at himself, as if furious that he couldn’t immediately place it.
“I’ve definitely seen this somewhere,” he repeated, lower, sharper.
“Bring that contraption—” He grimaced, as though each word cost him. “—closer.”
Hermione blinked. She’d expected him to slap the phone away, not ask for it.
She stepped nearer, raising the phone toward him. Close enough to share breath.
He didn’t touch the device. He kept a deliberate sliver of space between them—like it was dangerous. Like she was.
“Zoom in more,” he said.
She obeyed. The snake’s tail-tip, the wand’s carved handle—every detail sharpened.
Malfoy leaned in, expression taut, concentration razor-edged.
He was hunting an enemy of his world—an intruder in the pure-blood shadow network he was sworn, by birth, to protect.
And she had just handed him the first real clue.
“Impossible,” Malfoy breathed, barely audible. “The craftsmanship—this is Gordian Etching. But this symbol… it shouldn’t coexist with that technique.”
He straightened up abruptly, taking two clipped, agitated steps, then spun back.
“I need to compare it with something in the Manor library.” His voice had dropped into a frenetic mutter. “I need to copy it down.”
Then his gaze snapped to the phone in her hand—pure offence mixed with a flash of wary fascination.
“Can this… contraption”—he uttered the word like it tasted foul—“vomit the image onto parchment?”
Hermione almost snorted. “No. It needs a Muggle printer.”
He made a sharp, disgusted tsk, as if the mere concept insulted him.
“Fine. Primitive method.”
He strode to the massive ebony desk, tapped it once. A quill and roll of parchment snapped out of a drawer like soldiers answering a command.
“Come here.”
Hermione walked over stiffly.
“Put your contraption there.”
He pointed to a distant corner of the desk—quarantine-zone distance—like he feared the phone might corrupt the furniture.
“Keep it glowing.”
She set the phone down.
Then Malfoy did something she never expected.
He sat. Picked up the quill.
And began to draw.
Hermione went still.
She had expected a spell, or an order for her to do it. But no—Malfoy lowered his head over the desk like a master surgeon, not a spoiled aristocrat.
His strokes were rapid, controlled, chillingly methodical. He wasn’t sketching; he was performing an autopsy on the symbol. The infinity coil first. Then the wand. Then the head and tail, in precise alchemical sequence. The quill glided as if the ink obeyed him.
A perfect replica—sharper and more alive than the photograph—materialized in under a minute.
He lifted the parchment, eyes narrowing.
“Gordian Etching… paired with an Ouroboros variant… plus a piercing action…”
He murmured the words like a curse, his fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the wood.
He watched the ink dry fully before he rolled the parchment with the care of someone handling a relic, not a fresh sketch. He set it aside with almost reverent precision.
Hermione seized the moment, grabbed her phone, and tucked it into her bag. Even the tiny zip sounded too loud.
“Any other leads, Granger?” Malfoy asked abruptly, voice flat, unreadable.
She sifted through her mind, then shook her head. “None. No new developments.”
“Hmph.” A soft, unimpressed scoff. “Predictable.”
He moved to the window, back to her, shoulders rigid in the faint lamplight.
“This symbol… I need the Manor library.” His tone was colder from the distance. “There might be records on Gordian Etching—and on this.”
He paused.
“I’ll ask Theodore as well. If this touches his father, he ought to know.”
He turned, eyes flicking over her—too quick, too carefully blank—before shifting toward the lab.
“As for the experiment,” he said, “I’ll complete it myself and record all parameters.”
Hermione opened her mouth to protest she could assist, but he cut her off with a decisive motion.
“Your task,” he said, voice smooth and sharp, “is to go to Potter. Have his people re-verify every suspect’s alibi. I don’t care how. I want certainty—soon.”
He looked up, grey eyes cutting through the shadow like blades.
“And don’t forget, Granger,” he said, his voice dropping low and tight, “we haven’t solved a single core problem. We still don’t know how Old Nott died or how that locked room was made.”
He snatched up his coat and slung it over his arm. “Go. Keep collecting your clues. Don’t waste my time.”
Hermione’s jaw snapped shut before she even realised she’d clenched it.
Merlin, she wanted to throw something at him. Or at least hurl back a retort sharp enough to draw blood. Who was he to talk to her like some underling?
But cold reason crashed over the spark of fury.
Damn it—he was right.
Every point he made hit center mass. They were blind on every major issue. And he—bloody, infuriating Malfoy—was the best person to parse a Dark-Magic symbol tied to an old pure-blood family.
He’d taken on the thankless side of the work—the tedious symbol research, the messy, time-eating experiment—all without comment.
She told herself it was just sensible division of labour. She’d handle the Ministry legwork.
Their miserable little partnership. Dysfunctional, and somehow effective.
Hermione swallowed down the heat in her chest, grabbed her bag, and brushed past him without a word.
She cut around the desk, slipped down the corridor toward the office door. He didn’t speak, but she could hear him behind her—the steady, unhurried, faintly oppressive footfalls of someone who never needed to rush.
Her hand reached for the doorknob—
A sudden wash of heat swept from crown to toe, sharp and inexplicable, like something had scanned straight through her. Every hair on her arms rose.
What was that? A spell?
She froze, whipping around.
Malfoy stood a breath behind her.
At some point he’d shrugged into his black wool coat; the tailored cut sharpened his already tall frame. He filled the narrow corridor completely, a dark wall of fabric and shadow.
He frowned, eyes narrowing with obvious impatience—why had she stopped?
The strange heat evaporated, leaving only a flush of mortification.
Of course. It was just warmth. Physical proximity. Too close in a confined hall with a man wrapped in heavy wool.
Hermione spun back around, cheeks burning.
“Sorry,” she muttered, fumbling the doorknob and escaping into the night air.
The cold slapped her awake.
Malfoy stepped out behind her. Without looking at her, he flicked his wand backward at the lock; a crisp metallic click answered.
He pocketed his wand, didn’t offer a word, not even a perfunctory goodbye. He simply walked to the middle of the empty cobblestone street, adjusted his collar—
—and with a soft crack, vanished into the dark.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The D.M.L.E. break room reeked of stale coffee and parchment dust.
Hermione stood by the humming boiler, bone-tired. She tore open a packet of instant oats and dumped the powder into her mug. Last night with Malfoy had drained whatever energy she had left.
Boiling water surged into the cup, turning powder into a thick, steaming porridge.
It was smooth and comforting—unlike her thoughts, which remained a tangled mess.
Gordian Etching. Ouroboros. Temporal interference.
Malfoy’s deductions—sharp, elegant, infuriatingly correct—had rearranged the entire investigation in one night.
And then he’d simply… taken the heavy work for himself.
The symbol research.
The experiment.
The hours of sifting through ancient, obscure tomes.
The messy, bloody, time-devouring pig-carcass trials.
All dropped into his lap—like he’d decided the intellectually “real” work belonged to him.
Leaving her with the Ministry legwork. The errands. The running around.
“Don’t waste my time.”
She clenched her jaw and stirred harder.
Fine. She’d find Harry and Ron. She’d explain that the Magical Niter in the whiskey made Tempus Mortis worthless—and that every alibi they’d established now had to be redone from scratch.
She could already hear Ron’s sputtering—
“Impossible, Hermione! That spell’s been standard for centuries!”
Hermione sighed. She was mentally drafting counterarguments when two colleagues’ whispers bled into her awareness.
Dawlish from Records—and a witch whose name she couldn’t remember.
“Have you heard?” Dawlish hissed, not quietly at all. “Transportation has a new Head!”
“Yes, Dawlish,” the witch replied dryly. “The old one resigned. Abruptly.”
“But the new guy—Green—is famous! Fastest-promoted Half-blood in ten years.”
“He deserves it,” she said, sounding starry-eyed. “Terrifyingly efficient. Very fair. And… apparently very handsome.”
“Oh? Fancy him?” Dawlish crooned.
“I—NO! Dawlish!”
Hermione rolled her eyes.
Her head was full of sigils and forensic theory and a dozen crumbling alibis. She had zero space for office gossip—especially about the "handsome" new Head of Transportation.
She tuned them out, nearly sloshing her oats over the rim in her irritation, and stalked out of the break room.
Her cubicle greeted her with a mountain of parchment.
At least Zabini was blessedly absent. She didn’t have the energy for his smirking “hellos” today.
She shoveled down the oatmeal mechanically, gulped a scalding mug of black coffee, and felt her nerves sharpen—just barely.
Pulling the parchment on Niter, Tempus Mortis, and “True Time of Death” from the chaos on her desk, she rose and headed for the Auror Office.
“I need Harry Potter and Ron Weasley,” she told the front-desk witch. “Urgent. Old Nott case.”
The witch gave her a long-suffering look—You again—but waved her wand.
Harry emerged moments later.
Hermione’s chest tightened. He looked awful—worse than she’d seen him in years. Purple shadows under his eyes, robes rumpled like he’d slept in them.
“Hermione,” he rasped. “Come on.”
He led her past the clatter of the office and into the same drab meeting room. Closed the door. Dropped into a chair.
Hermione stayed standing.
“Where’s Ron?”
She had spent her entire morning preparing to duel Ron verbally over voiding the alibis. She had rehearsed lectures, citations, magical theory—everything.
But Ron wasn’t here.
Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair.
“Ron’s been reassigned. He’s with Cornelius Fudge.”
“The Minister?” Hermione blinked. “Protecting him?”
“That’s the excuse.” A shadow crossed Harry’s face. “But it’s not protection, Hermione. It’s surveillance.”
“Surveillance?” Her eyebrows shot up. “Why?”
“No idea. Order from the Head. Ron has to report every movement Fudge makes. Every private meeting. Everything.” Harry sighed. “He’s livid. Thinks it’s babysitting. But orders are orders…”
Hermione felt a cold ripple of unease.
Even she—normally indifferent to political currents—could feel the tide shifting.
The Minister being watched by his own Aurors.
The sudden resignation in Transportation.
The meteoric appointment of a clean, efficient Half-blood.
Madam Rowle weaving her influence through every department.
None of it made sense yet.
But the pattern was there—like a symbol she hadn’t decoded.
And the thought of navigating it made her head throb.
Hermione forced her thoughts to heel and focused on Harry.
He looked like he was about to keel over. She hated adding to his load—but the integrity of the case depended on it.
She drew a breath, guilt prickling.
“Harry… about the samples you gave me.”
Harry’s eyes shifted from a stain on the table to her face. Waiting.
“The sandalwood was burned to ash. Nothing left.”
She pushed her parchment to the center of the table.
“But the liquor sample—our lab missed something. There was a trace amount of Magical Niter.”
Harry’s expression dropped like a stone. His brow creased.
“Niter? That’s not a poison.”
“Correct,” Hermione said. “It wasn’t meant to kill him, but one of its main magical properties is cooling, Harry.”
Harry’s pupils tightened.
“It accelerates post-mortem cooling,” she continued softly. “And ‘Tempus Mortis’—”
“—relies on body temperature,” Harry finished, his voice scraping out of him.
The color drained from his face.
This wasn’t a clue, she realised. It was a catastrophe. A poison would have given them direction; this shattered the foundation of their entire timeline.
Harry didn’t speak. He stared at the notes like they were a verdict. His hand dragged through his hair, gripping hard.
“Based on the calculations from… the third party,” she said carefully, not naming Malfoy, “and the interference rate of the niter, Old Nott’s true time of death was likely around 2 AM on September 11th.”
She met Harry’s dull, stunned green eyes.
“We have to redo the alibis. All three suspects. For the 2 AM window.”
Silence swallowed the room.
Harry slumped back, chair legs screeching. His sigh was long and ragged, like something collapsing inside his chest. He pressed his fingers to his temples.
Hermione braced for anger—for an argument, a demand for proof, a jab about trusting this mysterious “third party.”
But none came.
He opened his eyes. Shock had burned off, leaving only exhaustion—thick, crushing, absolute.
“Third party,” he echoed, not questioning. Just accepting.
“Two A.M…”
He nodded, slow and painful, as if it hurt.
“Fine,” he rasped. “Fine. Scrap it all. Start over.”
He swallowed.
“I’ll ask Kingsley for more personnel. Three suspects… 2 AM… Merlin.”
“I’ll let you know if anything—”
“Go, Hermione,” he cut in—not curt, just drowning. “I need to… reorganize everything.”
Hermione nodded silently. She gathered her notes, stepped out of the meeting room, crossed the noisy Auror Office, and slipped back into the relative quiet of her cubicle.
She dropped into her chair, bones aching.
The blank parchment stared back at her. She forced her mind to reboot, grabbed her quill, and dragged her thoughts into order.
The investigation had split into three fronts.
Her quill scratched sharply:
• Harry — People. Re-check the alibis of all three suspects at 2:00 AM on September 11th. Brutal, but essential.
• Malfoy — Motive & Clues. Buried in the Manor library with the “Gordian Etching,” the Ouroboros, and Rowle’s nightmare experiment.
• Hermione — Method.
She pressed hard enough to nearly tear the parchment:
HOW?
Two core problems:
- What was the murder weapon?
- How did the killer enter and leave a magically locked room?
Her mind caught on the sandalwood again—expensive, ordinary, useless. Malfoy’s report had said as much. But something about it itched at her instincts. It wasn’t the doorway… but it mattered. Somehow.
Fine. Later.
She forced the thought aside and mentally rebuilt the study:
• Door: locked from the inside, spellwork clean.
• Windows: intact, sealed.
• Bookshelves: flush to the walls.
• Armchair: center.
• Round table: three paces from it, by the window.
And—
• Fireplace.
A carved marble fireplace.
Hermione’s eyes snapped open.
The fireplace?
Her first reaction was immediate dismissal. No one could have just stepped through the Floo—too obvious, too traceable. Any activated fireplace triggered a record in the Department of Magical Transportation.
A record…
Her heart lurched.
She remembered Rowle’s words—full authority. Clearance even Aurors could only dream of. Enough to open nearly every departmental vault, including Floo Network records.
Hermione snatched up her quill and carved into her notes:
Nott Manor — Study Fireplace.
Sept 10, 10:00 PM → Sept 11, 06:00 AM.
Request: Floo Travel Logs.
She was already on her feet before the ink dried.
Notes. Lifts. Department of Magical Transportation.
Unlike the hushed D.M.L.E., the Transportation Division hummed with controlled, purposeful activity. Soot hung faintly in the air; a test fireplace flared green as technicians fed it Floo powder in measured intervals, logging each spike of magic with crisp incantations.
Above her, green paper-aeroplane memos flew in neat, disciplined lanes—nothing like the chaotic swarm she remembered from her last visit.
Hermione blinked.
New management, she thought. So the rumors were true. Someone had finally whipped this place into shape.
She didn’t linger on the thought. Her steps were already carrying her toward the Floo Network Records & Registry desk.
“I need access to travel logs.” She set her D.M.L.E. badge on the counter.
The clerk lifted his wand without looking, ready to deliver the usual bureaucratic brush-off. But then he noticed it: the tiny, nearly invisible rune etched onto her badge.
Rowle’s authorization.
He froze, blinked up at her, and straightened at once.
“O-of course, Ms. Granger. Location and timeframe?”
“Nott Manor. Study fireplace. 10 PM September 10th through 6 AM September 11th.”
“Understood.”
He hurried to the towering cabinets, levitating out fat parchment rolls and heavy registry books. One by one, he unfurled them across the desk and began scanning.
Hermione’s hands curled in front of her.
One minute. Two. Three.
His frown deepened. He reread the logs, then flipped open the registry. His finger traced lines, muttering, confusion sliding into outright disbelief.
Hermione’s pulse climbed into her throat. Did he find something? Someone?
Finally he looked up—uneasy.
“Ms. Granger… the records are strange.”
“What kind of strange? Was there an entry?”
“No.” He tapped the blank log. “There were no entries or exits at all. During the entire time window, the Nott Manor Floo remained completely static.”
“Static?” Her stomach dropped. “What about the study fireplace specifically?”
He seemed ready for that. He rotated the registry toward her and pointed at a neat line of script.
“That’s the issue. According to the Central Registry, the study fireplace… isn’t connected to the Floo Network at all.”
Hermione’s pupils constricted.
“It’s registered as Private Internal Use. A closed circuit.”
He spoke quietly now, as if the words might sting.
“No outside access. No outbound destination. It can’t be used for transport.”
A blow to the skull.
The fireplace wasn’t suspicious at all—
it had never been connected to the Floo Network in the first place.
“And,” the clerk added, delivering the final nail, “I checked all other fireplaces in the manor. Main Hall, Drawing Room, everything. Going a week back from September eleventh—no travel logs. Zero.”
Hermione thanked him automatically.
The fireplace lead was dead. Utterly, infuriatingly dead.
She walked out of the department feeling wrapped in a heavy, soaked cloak. Doors, windows, fireplace… all sealed. All impossible. How had the killer entered that room? As a ghost?
Head down, she trudged back toward the D.M.L.E. floor, her mind drowning in the words Closed Circuit, barely noticing the corridor around her.
“Granger!”
She stopped short.
The young witch at her department front desk waved at her, looking relieved to finally catch her.
“A letter for you,” she said. “Came about half an hour ago. You weren’t at your desk, so I left it there.”
Hermione’s breath caught.
A letter?
She thanked the witch numbly, mind already racing. Who would send her a letter here? Not Harry or Ron—they’d just walk over. Not Ginny or Luna—they wrote to her flat. And her parents certainly weren’t owling the Ministry.
Still thinking, she rounded the corner to her cubicle.
She stopped.
There it was—lying on her avalanche of parchment and files, impossibly neat, impossibly conspicuous.
A pure black envelope.
Not paper. Something finer. Its surface caught the dim office lights, shimmering with a faint, liquid silver sheen.
No address. No name. No sender.
A tight prickle ran down her spine.
Hermione sat slowly, picked it up. Thin, rigid, cold. She touched her wand to the seal.
Inside was no parchment—only a single black card of the same strange make.
One line in silver ink.
A script she recognised instantly—elegant, cut with precision, dripping with entitlement:
The usual place.
Hermione stared, heat gathering behind her eyes.
Malfoy.
He wasn’t asking.
He was summoning her.
He must have found something—either in that damned “Gordian Etching” or during that grotesque experiment he’d taken on. Something big enough to pull her in immediately.
Frustration stabbed through her.
And she? What had she done? Marched into the Auror Office and blown up Harry’s timeline. Chased the Floo Network lead only to slam face-first into a dead end.
She had made zero progress.
Hermione’s hand tightened around the card until its edges bit into her skin. She shut her eyes, exhaled once, sharply, and rose to her feet.
Coat. Bag. No cleaning the desk.
She strode out.
Whether she liked it or not, Malfoy had answers and she had none—that infuriating imbalance was the only fact that mattered.
She cut through the Ministry atrium, stepped into the green flames, and vanished.
Merlin help her—if Malfoy didn’t have something that cracked the locked-room mystery open, she wasn’t sure how much more of this case she could take.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After the familiar, dizzying pull of Apparition, Hermione staggered and landed in front of the black door.
She knocked three times.
A beat later, it creaked open.
Malfoy stood there in a dark brown turtleneck, looking worn himself—faint shadows bruised the skin beneath his grey eyes, and his usually immaculate hair was slightly askew. But those grey eyes were still cutting.
He said nothing. Just stepped aside.
Hermione pressed her mouth into a line and slipped past him.
They walked through the lab into the cramped parlor. With a flick of his wand, the fireplace flared to life. They took their usual seats.
“What did you find?” Hermione didn’t bother taking off her coat. No small talk.
Malfoy picked up a tied stack of parchment from the side table and handed it over.
“I finished the experiment,” he said. “Niter and Tempus Mortis.”
Hermione untied the string at once.
“The results match my calculations,” Malfoy went on, voice steady, detached—like this was merely expected. “All temperature data is recorded.”
Hermione scanned the graphs and dense rows of numbers. Malfoy continued:
“I used two freshly slaughtered pigs of comparable weight to Old Nott. One as a control, and the other had the whiskey–Magical Niter mixture injected straight into its stomach.”
His voice filled the small room, precise and clinical.
“I placed both inside a constant-temperature ward set at twenty degrees—replicating Nott’s study. Then I recorded their core temperatures continuously until they cooled to the ward.”
Hermione flipped to the conclusion.
“The experiment proves,” Malfoy said, “that Tempus Mortis has a fatal flaw.”
“The spell judged the control subject correctly—margin of error five minutes.”
“But the subject with niter…” A cold curl tugged at his mouth. “Its cooling rate tripled. Tempus Mortis misjudged the time of death by—”
He met her eyes.
“—four hours. Four hours earlier than the real time.”
“Give this to the Ministry,” he said. “Even they can’t argue with this.”
Hermione didn’t reply. She gathered the parchment—almost reverently—and slid it into her bag.
Malfoy didn’t wait for gratitude.
“Now, the symbol.” His tone sharpened. “I checked the entire family library.”
He paused. “Only one icon came close.”
Hermione looked up sharply.
“A snake twisted into a horizontal figure-eight,” he clarified. “Not an ouroboros. A silver knife through its body. An ancient alchemical ritual—immortality, blood purification. Obscure. Very dark.”
Hermione’s heartbeat spiked.
Both the experiment and the icon—he had answers for everything. And she—
shame burned her throat.
“I also contacted Theodore,” Malfoy added briskly. “He’s searched every inch of Nott Manor. Nothing.”
He leaned back, fingers laced—an unspoken cue. Her turn.
Hermione’s cheeks warmed. She straightened.
“I told Harry the real time of death. The Auror Office has restarted the alibi checks.”
She exhaled. “As for the locked-room method and the weapon… I haven’t found anything yet.”
Malfoy’s brow twitched—the ghost of predictability.
“I went to the Department of Transportation,” she forced out. “Checked the Floo Network records for Nott Manor. There were zero entries in the week before the incident.”
She looked down. “And the fireplace in the study isn’t even connected to the Floo Network.”
She braced for ridicule.
But the moment she mentioned the study fireplace, something sharp flashed in Malfoy’s eyes.
“Through the fireplace?” he murmured. “You thought that was a possibility?”
The way he said it—calm, detached—scraped at her nerves. As if he already knew she’d wasted her time on something impossible.
Hermione felt heat spark in her chest.
“I told you I checked,” she said tightly. “It’s impossible. It’s not connected.”
Malfoy looked at her the way a professor might eye a first-year bragging about a basic spell.
“Granger, you’re painfully literal.” His tone dripped with the condescension she hated.
“Not being connected to the Floo Network,” he said slowly, “doesn’t mean it can’t be used.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes.
“…What do you mean? Illegal use? That would still trigger the Ministry’s—”
“Illegal?” Malfoy cut in, almost pitying. “Your imagination stops at Ministry rules?”
He leaned forward, voice low, edged with the arrogance of ancient houses.
“I’m talking about a private transport network. Independent. Unregistered. Old pure-blood manors always have their own passages.”
“And,” he added lightly, “there’s an even simpler option. No passages at all—just bribe someone in Transportation to wipe the records. Do you really think ‘no entries’ means ‘nothing happened’?”
Hermione’s mind split open under the force of those two possibilities.
A private network—completely outside her knowledge. No way to investigate it.
And bribery—
A chill slid down her spine.
This morning she’d heard the Head of Transportation had “mysteriously” resigned, replaced instantly by a competent newcomer.
If records could be wiped… then everything she’d seen today—the parchments, the clerk’s calm confidence—could all be staged.
The “locked room” might not have been a locked room at all.
Malfoy took in her shattered expression—her certainty splintering right there across her face—and rolled his eyes so faintly it was almost a flinch.
He rose from his chair, ending their standoff like he was bored of winning.
“Don’t look like that, Granger. Did you really think the Ministry was sacred ground?”
He crossed to the fireplace, snatched up his coat. “Private network or wiped records—it all spells the same incompetence.”
He turned. The firelight carved his features into something sharp and remote.
“Madam Rowle,” he said abruptly. “She gave you some kind of… authority, didn’t she?”
Hermione’s head jerked up. “What does that have to do with—?”
“That authority wasn’t meant for you to sift through useless scraps in the archives.” His voice dipped into an elegant, derisive curl. “Try using it for something that matters.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I need you,” he said, each word crisp as a spell, “to take me to the study at Nott Manor. Now.”
“That’s impossible! It’s sealed by the Auror Office—Harry and the others—”
“Potter’s seal?” Malfoy let out a laugh—quiet, incredulous. “Please. Rowle’s authority could override that with a whisper.”
He shrugged on his coat, straightening the collar, and pinned her with a look that left no room for argument.
“I need to see that fireplace myself. We need proper inspection. Not whatever the Transportation imbeciles scribbled in their registry.”
He opened the door. The night wind barreled in.
“Move, Granger.”
She moved—half pushed by his momentum, half by her own scrambling thoughts—clutching her bag as she followed him out into the bitter air.
Malfoy walked like the cold parted for him, long strides eating up the alley. She nearly had to jog to match his pace, heart still tangled around the possibilities he’d thrown at her—
a secret network.
Or falsified records.
Either one meant the Auror Office had been looking in the wrong place entirely.
“Malfoy!” she called as they reached the mouth of the alley.
He stopped without turning fully, impatience sharpening the pale gleam of his eyes under the streetlamp.
“It’s late,” she said, breath fogging white. “If we just barge in—we’ll disturb Theodore Nott. It’s still his home. And using privilege to break an Auror seal—Malfoy, it feels wrong.”
The look he gave her could have curdled milk.
“Granger,” he said flatly. “Theodore doesn’t live at the manor. He hates that place more than anything.”
He closed the distance between them in three strides, as if even explaining this was beneath him.
“We’re going.”
Before she could object, he seized her wrist. She barely inhaled before Apparition crushed the air from her lungs.
The alley wrenched away—darkness, spin, a fist around her ribs—and then—
It stopped.
Her heels hit gravel hard, stones crunching underfoot in the cold silence of night. Wrought-iron gates loomed before them, black filigree etched against moonlight like a web of shadows.
Hermione yanked her wrist back instantly.
Malfoy’s palm had been dry—and shockingly hot.
The heat didn’t fade once he let go; it clung to her skin like a brand.
But it wasn’t just the heat.
It was the pressure—the hard, intent grip of his fingers—that tore open a memory she had no business remembering:
Sixth year.
That dim, deserted corridor on the way back to Gryffindor Tower.
He had grabbed her then, too—
not like this, not burning—
but with ice-cold hands clamped onto her shoulders.
The contrast hit her like a misfired Stunning Spell.
Heat surged up her arm, raced up her neck, and detonated across her cheeks and ears in a humiliating burst.
Merlin’s sake, what was she thinking?
She kept her gaze glued to the gravel, refusing to look at him—refusing to let him see the ridiculous flush flooding her face.
From the corner of her eye she caught it:
Malfoy didn’t even spare her a glance.
The moment she yanked her hand back, he was already moving—striding toward the manor gates as if the brief contact had meant nothing, as if she were just… unwanted cargo he’d transported.
He didn’t look at her.
He didn’t slow for her.
He didn’t notice the burned skin on her wrist or the stupid, swirling chaos in her chest.
As if all of it—her, the heat he left behind, the storm she couldn’t control—
were nothing more than air to him.
The night wind cut across her flushed cheeks, snapping her back to herself. She squeezed her eyes shut—hard—banishing that damned, intrusive image.
Business, Hermione.
She drew in a lungful of cold, metallic air, forced her heartbeat down, and followed him.
Malfoy navigated Nott Manor like he’d lived there.
He didn’t slow at the massive openwork doors. They simply groaned open for him—recognizing him, or remembering him.
Hermione hurried after him. They crossed a cavernous foyer that swallowed their shadows, climbed the main staircase, and entered a long corridor lined with portraits—every one of them veiled in black. Whether out of mourning or Theodore’s spite, she couldn’t tell.
Malfoy’s leather heels tapped a steady, controlled rhythm on the marble.
Hermione’s sounded breathless, irregular—an unwilling counterpoint in this dead house.
At last, he stopped before a heavy oak door.
A Ministry seal glared back at them, bright and pulsing, warded against everything.
Malfoy didn’t spare it a glance. He stepped aside, his gaze a silent command.
Hermione stepped forward, ignoring the impatience in his gaze. She dug out her D.M.L.E. badge, fingers still a little numb, centered it on the parchment seal, and pressed.
Nothing.
Then the seal shuddered. The runes flared violently, resisting—before an unseen blade split it clean down the middle. Magic snapped and drained away; the parchment fluttered, dead, to the floor.
Click.
The lock released.
Malfoy pushed the door open without hesitation.
Hermione pocketed her badge and slipped in after him.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Dust, old paper, and that cloying sandalwood scent hit her at once. Heavy velvet curtains strangled the room, letting only a thin slice of moonlight cut through—sharp as a silver blade.
Malfoy flicked his wand. The study lights snapped on—too bright, too sudden.
The room looked exactly as it had: the armchair, the stain on the carpet, the half-finished bottle on the table.
Hermione barely glanced at any of it.
She crossed the room in quick, purposeful strides and stopped at the massive marble fireplace. Up close, it was even more oppressive—pure black marble, carved with coiling snakes and the Nott crest, wide enough for a grown wizard to walk into.
She crouched and swept her wand’s light along the hearth. Ash. Too old. Too normal.
Not enough.
Malfoy’s earlier words pressed at her temples: Just because it’s not connected doesn’t mean it can’t be used.
“Lumos.”
Her wand flared. She leaned in—half her torso inside the fireplace now—ignoring dignity, ignoring Malfoy behind her, ignoring the cold soot biting into her knees.
The beam traced the inner bricks.
Left—clean.
Back—clean.
Right—
She stilled.
At the deepest corner, near a narrow crack, something caught the light. Not metal. Softer. A greenish shimmer muffled under soot.
Her pulse jumped.
Keeping her wand raised, she reached in with her free hand. Cold brick, rough soot—then a grainy pinch of something wedged into that crack.
She scraped it free.
Backing out of the fireplace, she stood in the center of the room where the light hit her hand. Black soot coated her fingertips—
and under it, unmistakably:
Green.
Magically luminous.
Floo powder.
She rubbed it between her fingers, and the shimmer brightened like a quiet confession.
Hermione didn’t turn around, but she felt Malfoy’s gaze lock onto her—the faint shift in the air, the sudden stillness behind her.
“Floo powder,” she said, voice low, edged with the tremor of a theory finally snapping into place.
Malfoy stepped beside her. No surprise. No exclamation.
Just that infuriating calm he wore like armor.
"Seems someone wasn't very clean with their work." His voice carried undisguised mockery.
He pinched a bit of the powder from her fingers with the brisk ease of someone handling evidence—close enough that his knuckles brushed her skin in a quick, unthinking pass.
“High quality,” he murmured, the tone almost detached. “Definitely new. Unburnt.”
Hermione shot him a look. Her excitement soured under the weight of his I told you so composure.
“So…” She forced her mind forward. “Your theory stands. They used a private network and tracked in residue, or—”
“Or they used the Ministry network,” he finished, flicking the green dust from his fingers with elegant disdain. “And the idiot they bribed forgot to send someone to clean.”
He turned back to the fireplace, grey eyes sharpening—bright, predatory—like a hunter catching scent.
“A locked room,” he said, voice curling into a sneer. “Granger, this was never a locked room.”
Hermione scrubbed the soot from her hands with a handkerchief, breath unsteady.
He was right.
This changed everything.
The killer didn’t walk through walls.
The killer walked in.
Hermione had barely finished wiping her hands when Malfoy strode to the fireplace, wand lifted, posture sharp with purpose. He didn’t spare the ash in the hearth a glance; instead he began tracing the stone frame, wandlight a cold white sheen sliding over the marble snakes and the Nott crest.
“What are you looking for?” Hermione stepped closer.
“If this is a private Floo,” Malfoy said without looking at her, “it needs its own activation switch. Something the Floo Network Authority doesn’t control.”
His wand hovered over an innocuous serpent carving.
“And old families,” he added, with the dry certainty of someone who grew up among them, “love hiding their secrets in their crests.”
Hermione joined the search immediately, narrowing her wand beam and examining the opposite side of the mantel.
Malfoy moved with meticulous exactness. His wand skimmed every ridge of marble, every scroll, every snake fang. His breathing was steady, almost cold.
“Repelling Charms on all of these,” he muttered, half to himself. “Standard pure-blood precaution… don’t want house-elves tripping the mechanism.”
Hermione crouched near the hearth, tapping bricks and listening to the shifts in resonance. “Three feet of solid stone. Nothing hollow.”
“The switch won’t be inside,” Malfoy said. “No one stupid enough to put it where you’d have to crawl to reach it.”
His wand stopped—dead center—on the crest’s main serpent, coiled around a scepter.
More precisely, on the serpent’s eye: a tiny, inward-cut obsidian.
“This,” he said.
Hermione straightened and came to his side. “What about it?”
“The magic circuits on the other carvings are smooth.” He tapped the dark recess. “Here, it’s broken. That’s not decoration. That’s a keyhole.”
He looked at her then—eyes sharp, analytical, utterly focused on the puzzle. “A keyhole that needs a very specific trigger. Could be a spell. Could be something less pleasant.”
Hermione’s mind clicked. “Blood?”
“Possible.” His expression tightened. “And if it needs Nott blood, that complicates things.”
“Not if the killer isn’t Theodore,” Hermione countered. “Unless—”
“—the mechanism was altered,” Malfoy finished. “Or the trigger isn’t blood at all, but a coded spell only an insider would know.”
He lowered his wand and pressed his fingertip directly against the polished obsidian.
“How familiar are you with ancient transport magic, Granger?” he asked, tone purely technically inquisitive. “If you had to bypass a blood-lock, what would you do?”
Hermione frowned at the recess. Ancient blood-gated magic was a world she’d only read about—secretive, dangerous, and almost always restricted.
“I’d try a Confundus variant,” she said slowly. “Or a deception charm strong enough to convince the lock I’m authorized. But the counter-curses could be lethal.”
“Correct.” Malfoy’s mouth curved—not quite approval, not quite smugness. “But consider this: what if Old Nott wanted a backdoor? Something even his son didn’t know about. For… private business.”
He tapped the obsidian three times, each knock deliberate.
“Revelio Secreta.”
Nothing happened.
Malfoy only exhaled once—dry, unsurprised. Then he raised his wand again, this time pressing it against the obsidian.
“Stand back,” he said.
Hermione backed up automatically, wand raised, pulse quickening despite herself.
Malfoy closed his eyes, wand pressed firmly against the obsidian snake eye. He didn’t chant—didn’t need to.
The air itself began to hum, vibrating with raw, unyielding magic. Hermione’s fingers tightened around her wand; she could feel it in her bones, the force of his will pressing against the ancient lock.
This wasn’t the precise, meticulous spellwork she knew—no charts, no logic, no careful gestures. This was raw dominance: one will forcibly bending another.
The study lights flickered. Dust lifted from the floor, caught in invisible currents that swirled at their feet. Malfoy’s shoulders trembled, a bead of sweat sliding down his temple to his jaw, but his grip never faltered.
Cr… crack.
The fireplace groaned as the marble seemed to twist. The obsidian snake eye shivered, a miniature black vortex sucking in his magic. Hermione held her breath, wand ready.
One misstep from the lock, one backlash—and she knew it could kill.
His face paled, but the hand on his wand remained steady.
Then—a crisp, metallic snap rang through the room.
Malfoy yanked back, stumbled, bracing on the cold mantel, breathing hard. The oppressive force vanished.
“You—” Hermione began, but he raised a hand, silencing her.
The black marble of the fireplace wasn’t black anymore. Slowly, the magical camouflage failed, dark purple bleeding outward from the snake eye like ink in water. Within seconds, the entire hearth pulsed with an unsettling, deep purple glow, alive with hidden magic.
“Merlin’s beard…” Hermione whispered, heart thudding.
The Ministry had never seen this fireplace. The black facade had been a perfect disguise.
Malfoy pointed, voice hoarse. “Look.”
Hermione stepped forward. The tiny fleck of green powder she’d found earlier now seemed laughable.
Against the eerie purple hearth, a thick layer of glittering powder coated the corner. No longer faint sparks—these shone like spilled emerald glitter in the light.
She crouched, pulling a crystal vial from her bag. A precise spell gathered the powder into it. She stood, holding the vial up.
This wasn’t ordinary Floo powder. Clearer, heavier, more abundant than the speck she’d found—but wrong. The grains were coarse, not fine. And under the light, the green shimmer rippled with golden iridescence.
Malfoy came over, arms crossed, expression recovering its usual indifference. His grey eyes flicked to the vial, a flash of something unreadable—amusement?—crossing his face.
Hermione noticed. “What is it?”
“More than recognize.” A curve touched Malfoy’s mouth. He took the vial, turning it in his fingers as if it were a curious artifact.
“This is Ignis Fatuus,” he said lightly. “Black market name: Will-o’-the-Wisp. Listed as Class A Contraband years ago.”
“Contraband?”
“Yes, Granger.” He tossed the vial back. “Because it does something very… useful.”
Her brow furrowed.
“It lets the user move through a fireplace without triggering the Ministry’s Floo Network tracking. Undetectable. Invisible. Perfect for a private, unregistered network.”
Hermione sucked in a sharp breath.
Malfoy leaned against the glowing purple fireplace, arms crossed. “Double insurance,” he said, a sneer threading his words. “A private fireplace, disguised by magic, plus powder that won’t trip a single alarm.”
Hermione clutched the vial, cold glass biting into her palm. Her mind raced.
The killer didn’t walk through walls. The killer used this. An unrecorded fireplace. Undetectable powder. In and out, calm, silent. The study had never been a locked room.
She tucked the vial into her inner bag pocket next to the experimental report, steadying her breathing. “I’ll give this to Harry,” she said, voice firm, alive with the thrill of discovery. “This is physical evidence. It can—”
“Can what?” Malfoy cut in, his tone teasing, sharp.
“Can help the Aurors trace it!” Hermione snapped.
“Granger.” He pushed off the purple fireplace, expression cool. “They could run to Knockturn Alley, ask door to door, ‘Do you sell this?’ and still come up empty. It proves our guess, that’s all. The black market isn’t black market if the Ministry can trace it.”
Hermione flushed. He was right. She had no argument.
“Then what do we do?” Hermione asked, trying to mask the tremor in her voice. “We know how he got in, but not who he is.”
“So,” Malfoy said, striding toward the door, “we investigate.”
“What?”
He stopped, eyes flicking back at her, calm, controlled. “I said we investigate. Theodore and I will track the recent flow of Will-o’-the-Wisp on the black market. See who’s selling, who’s buying.”
The impact hit her like the revelation of the private fireplace.
“You? How… how do you investigate the black market?” she blurted. Immediately, she wanted to take it back—naive barely scratches it.
In her mind, he was still the reclusive alchemist in a London lab: white shirt, obsessed with symbols and formulas, hunched over cauldrons and diagrams. That world of dragons, snakes, and ancient dark magic? How could he possibly navigate it? With test tubes and charts?
Malfoy glanced at her expression—part shock, part incredulity. A scoff slipped out, equal parts amusement and irritation.
“Granger,” he said, voice dripping mocking disbelief, “you don’t really think… that alchemy lab…” He paused, searching. “…is my profession, do you?”
Hermione blinked, her train of thought derailing.
“That,” he continued, expression settling into familiar, lofty indifference, “is merely a hobby. Nothing more. Like you reading in the library on your day off.”
No pause. No space for her to react. He pulled the study door open.
“Of course I can trace these things,” he said over his shoulder, walking into the corridor. “Not everything in this world is in your Ministry rulebooks.”
Hermione’s mind spun. Hobby?
Three seconds later, comprehension hit. She had assumed his obsession with this dangerous, expensive, and obscure field of alchemy was ambition—a way to prove himself outside the family empire. But no. It was just a hobby. Like a rich man learning polo or collecting rare antiques for amusement.
A wave of dizziness struck her, a cocktail of frustration, absurdity, and… injustice.
And before she could wrestle with the bigger question—if alchemy was just a hobby, what then was his real job?—Malfoy’s figure vanished into the shadows of the corridor.
Hermione snapped back to herself. She glanced at the fireplace.
At some point, the marble had quietly restored itself. The sickly purple sheen was gone—no trace of the forced magical intrusion, the ripped disguise, or that eerie gold-green powder. Just plain black stone carved with the Nott crest, as if the last ten minutes had been nothing but a hallucination.
A shiver ran up her spine.
No more delays. She raised her wand and snuffed out the light Malfoy had cast. Darkness swallowed the study, moonlight slipping through the curtain like a blade.
Hermione stepped out, pulling the heavy door shut. The lock clicked softly behind her.
She crouched and gathered the two torn halves of the Ministry seal.
“Reparo,” she whispered.
The parchment knit itself back together like something breathing, edges fusing seamlessly. She reinforced the Auror spell—thank Merlin Rowle’s clearance was for “tear” not “destroy”—and pressed the seal back onto the center of the door.
The soft Ministry glow resumed its steady pulse. Everything looked untouched.
Hermione let out a slow breath and turned toward the corridor—
and froze.
Malfoy was still there.
He hadn’t Disapparated the moment his part was done. He hadn’t even moved. He stood across the corridor, half-drowned in shadow, arms crossed, eyes fixed on her. Waiting.
Her heart jumped—ridiculous, involuntary. A warm, panicked flutter she immediately scolded herself for.
Why was he still here?
The only reasonable answer: caution. He wanted confirmation she’d restored the scene properly. Malfoy never left loose ends.
Practical. Self-preservation.
Not… anything else.
Hermione forced her face neutral, swallowed the heat threatening her cheeks, and walked toward him. She stopped just short of his shadow.
“Done,” she said evenly.
Malfoy studied her in the dark—an unreadable, quiet sweep of grey. Then he pushed off the wall, slow and deliberate.
“Clean work,” he said. It could’ve been praise. It could’ve been mockery.
He didn’t mention waiting. Didn’t acknowledge it at all.
“Listen, Granger.” He started back down the corridor. “Division of labor stays the same.”
Hermione followed. This time her steps didn’t stumble; they matched his, crisp and steady.
“Theodore and I will trace the source of the Will-o’-the-Wisp,” he said, voice echoing lightly off stone. “This is our field. You and the Aurors don’t interfere.”
Hermione pressed her lips together, but didn’t argue.
“Tomorrow morning,” he continued as they descended the grand staircase, “you take the experiment report and the Wisp sample to Potter and Rowle.”
“Make them formally overturn Old Nott’s time of death.” His tone sharpened, command slipping through the calm. “And get them to accept the private-fireplace theory. I don’t care how. I need the Ministry to acknowledge that entrance.”
“I understand,” Hermione murmured. With the evidence they had, she knew she could.
The manor doors swung open to the cold night.
They crossed the gravel and stopped at the tall iron gates.
Malfoy turned. Moonlight carved out the angles of his face, leaving his expression unreadable.
“I’ll contact you when there’s progress.”
He didn’t wait for her reply.
He simply stepped back—distorted—cracked out of existence.
Hermione stood alone in the dead quiet outside Nott Manor. She pulled her coat tighter, gripping the bag that held everything they’d uncovered.
One steady breath.
Then she turned and vanished into the night as well.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The first thing Hermione did the next morning was cast the Ministry’s official duplicating charm. Two perfect copies of Malfoy’s experiment report materialized, packed with precise data.
Her first stop: Madam Rowle’s office. She knocked. Rowle gestured her in. Hermione placed one copy on the desk, along with a concise summary of her investigation into the private fireplace and the “Will-o’-the-Wisp.”
Rowle scanned the papers fast. Hermione caught the glint of excitement sparking in her eyes. When she reached Malfoy’s conclusion—that Tempus Mortis had misjudged the time of death by four hours—Rowle’s lips curved into a satisfied smile.
“Granger,” she said, setting the parchment down. “Well done. Very well done.”
Then, to Hermione’s surprise, Rowle didn’t stop in her office. She strode into the main D.M.L.E. workspace.
“Everyone, may I have your attention!”
Her voice was calm but commanding. The room fell silent. Quills hovered mid-air.
“I want everyone to know,” Rowle said, eyes sweeping the office before landing proudly on Hermione. “Ms. Granger, while coordinating the Nott case, discovered a fatal flaw in the Auror Office’s standard procedures—and indeed, the entire Ministry.”
She held up the report.
“She’s proven, through rigorous experimentation, that Tempus Mortis is unreliable under certain conditions. Her discovery has put this case back on track. This is insight beyond the call of duty.”
A stunned silence filled the office. Then applause broke out, swelling and enthusiastic.
Hermione felt dozens of eyes on her—surprised, admiring, jealous. Across the room, she didn’t need to look to feel Prewett’s glare, practically burning a hole in her back.
Once she extricated herself from Rowle’s public praise, Hermione slipped away to the Auror Office with the other copy and the vial of “Will-o’-the-Wisp.”
Harry looked worse than yesterday—hair messier, robes wrinkled.
“Merlin’s beard, Hermione…” He took the report, eyes wide. “…This is insane.”
Then he held the vial, staring at the golden shimmer.
“Ignis Fatuus,” he said gravely. “High-level contraband. You’re right. It bypasses all tracking.”
“So the Auror Office accepts the non-locked-room theory?” Hermione asked.
Harry shook the vial. “With this, we have no choice. We’re still verifying the new 2:00 AM alibis from the three suspects.”
He lowered his voice. “Bulstrode, Old Nott’s half-blood mistress, says she was in her Diagon Alley apartment all night—no proof. Dolohov claims he was in Germany on family business. We’re checking Apparition records. Old Parkinson hosted a private card game. We’re verifying all the guests’ testimonies.”
“Keep me updated,” Hermione said.
“I will,” Harry promised.
By lunchtime, Hermione was exhausted. Rowle had thrust her into the limelight, and the Auror Office had drained every ounce of mental energy. She just wanted a quiet corner in the cafeteria and a sandwich.
The cafeteria was chaos.
She sank into a chair and bit into her sandwich—but her peripheral vision froze her. Two figures in a distant corner.
It was Theodore Nott.
Nothing like his father. Tall, lean, dressed in dark, perfectly tailored robes. Handsome, but fragile, melancholy handsomeness. He stood calm, almost indifferent to the noise around him.
And the man he was talking to nearly made Hermione choke on her bite.
Mr. Elias Green. Newly appointed Head of the Department of Magical Transportation.
Twenty-some years older than Nott. Sharp blue eyes, hair combed to perfection. Calm, steady, trustworthy. Handsome. Hermione had to admit—the witches weren’t lying.
But that wasn’t the point.
The point was how familiar they looked.
This was no formal discussion. Nott shed the melancholy shell. He leaned in slightly. Smiled. Green returned the gesture, even patting Nott’s shoulder when their conversation ended. Affectionate. Casual.
Hermione froze, sandwich halfway to her mouth. Her gaze stuck.
This wasn’t grief. This wasn’t formality. Theodore Nott—recently fatherless, his world in chaos—was relaxed. Open. Defenseless.
Click. Something in Hermione’s mind shifted.
Malfoy’s words last night came back sharply:
“Of course I can trace these things.”
“Theodore and I will investigate the flow of ‘Will-o’-the-Wisp’ on the black market.”
Minutes ago, Harry had been frantic over alibis. She felt certain she’d finally cracked something open when she handed over the tiny vial.
But now…
Old Nott had just died.
The killer had exploited a Transportation loophole.
The corrupt, slow former Head resigned at the worst moment.
A competent, spotless Half-blood took over immediately.
And Theodore Nott already had a personal, friendly rapport with him.
Hermione put down her sandwich slowly.
This wasn’t just her and Malfoy chasing clues anymore.
It was Malfoy and his network handling the case.
While she had struggled, hunting for evidence and cracking the “locked room,” Malfoy and his connections had already dismantled it. Every wall, every obstacle—gone.
She finished her sandwich mechanically. The frustration made it taste like cardboard.
She felt like an outsider, peering through fog, while Malfoy and his allies held the map above it all.
Tray cleared, she stood. Mixed feelings churned in her chest. Time to return to her cubicle and her mountains of parchment.
“Ms. Granger?”
A quiet voice—soft, hesitant—floated up behind her.
Hermione stopped, turned.
Theodore Nott stood a few paces away, alone now, hands loosely at his sides. He didn’t approach, keeping a careful, polite distance.
“Mr. Nott.” She nodded, alert.
“I… I wanted to…” He struggled for a moment, those melancholy eyes flicking up with startling sincerity. “I wanted to thank you.”
Hermione blinked. “Thank me? For what?”
“For this case,” he said gently. “Draco told me. About the time-of-death irregularity, the fireplace… You take this seriously. Far more seriously than the people here who only want the case closed as fast as possible.”
The sincerity hit her like a stumble—unexpected, disarming.
“My father…” his gaze drifted to the floor. “He wasn’t a good man. But I don’t want him to die without reason. Thank you for… staying with it.”
“I was just doing my job,” Hermione said stiffly.
“No. You’ve done much more.” Nott looked up again, nothing false in his expression. “So… if there’s anything you need from me, tell me. I don’t go home often, but the manor is still mine to search.”
Hermione’s mind snapped immediately to the unresolved detail that had been nagging her for days.
“The incense,” she said.
Theodore blinked, confusion softening his voice.
“Incense…?”
“The sandalwood ash,” Hermione said quickly. “In the study’s burner. Draco couldn’t analyze it because it was completely burned down. But if we find an intact piece, we could determine its composition.”
Nott’s brows drew together as he thought.
A beat—then his eyes sharpened.
“Yes. A month or two ago, someone sent my father a box of incense. Unmarked sender. Very ornate—Eastern workmanship.” He exhaled, remembering. “I didn’t pay it much mind. He collected oddities constantly.”
Hermione’s pulse kicked. “Do you think that could be it?”
“Very likely.” He nodded. “It’s the incense he’d been burning recently.”
He straightened slightly, like a decision settling into place.
“I can go back to the manor tonight. The storage room… I’ll go through it properly. And if the box is still there—any piece of it—I’ll find it.”
Then he added, with quiet finality—the same conclusion Hermione had drawn in the cafeteria:
“If I do, I’ll bring it straight to Draco. His analysis is more reliable than the Ministry’s.”
Lines clicked into place with ruthless clarity. They were an independent investigation—tight-knit, coordinated, efficient—moving entirely outside Ministry channels.
Hermione drew a slow breath. She needed information, and right now Nott’s fragile, earnest openness was her only door in.
“Thank you, Mr. Nott,” she said, and meant it. “This is… incredibly important. That ash has been bothering me for days.”
She hesitated, adjusting her tone to something casual, almost offhand.
“You and Malfoy seem to be handling the hardest parts of this investigation,” she said lightly, probing. “And… well. I couldn’t help noticing—”
Nott watched her in silence, that blank, melancholic gaze giving nothing away. He waited—patient, unreadable—for her to speak.
“You were talking to Mr. Green,” Hermione said at last. “Given that we just discovered the key to the case runs straight through Magical Transportation… I wondered if you and he are… close.”
She tacked on quickly, “Did he offer any formal assistance regarding the fireplace network loophole?”
Nothing in Nott’s expression shifted.
Not surprise, not discomfort—nothing. If anything, he looked faintly resigned, as though he had known this question would come.
A thin, almost weary smile ghosted across his mouth. Malfoy wore the same kind.
“Ah. Mr. Green,” he murmured. “Ms. Granger—you’re perceptive.”
He didn’t touch her actual question. Instead, he sidestepped with quiet precision.
“Mr. Green’s maternal family and my mother’s family share… very old ties,” Nott said evenly. “Not intimate, but—familiar.”
Hermione’s stomach dropped.
Pure-blood code.
“Ties” and “familiar” meant: deeply connected, and none of your business.
“He is an upright wizard,” Nott went on, gaze drifting past her to some distant point in the room. “Regarding the… irregularity at my father’s manor, he is already informed.”
His eyes returned to her—gentle, polite, but edged with finality.
“Let’s just say I have every confidence the new Department of Magical Transportation will ensure the former Head’s… missteps are addressed.”
This wasn’t an answer. It was a polite warning.
“Ensure”… Nott’s phrasing confirmed her worst suspicion.
They weren’t asking Mr. Green for help.
They were telling her he was already helping them.
Another invisible wall—made of power, lineage, and connections—rose in front of her.
“I see.” Hermione nodded, shuttering all remaining questions. “Then I’ll wait for your news. About the incense.”
“I’ll be as quick as I can.” Nott inclined his head. “And once Draco has results, he’ll inform you.”
“Goodbye, Ms. Granger.”
He turned and slipped away, his lean silhouette vanishing around the corridor’s bend as quietly as a shadow.
Hermione walked back toward her cubicle, the cafeteria noise fading behind her, the buzzing in her head only growing louder.
She hadn’t been speaking to Theodore Nott.
She had been handed a boundary. A jurisdiction line.
“Ties on my mother’s side.”
“Ensure the former Head’s missteps are addressed.”
Those smooth, watertight pure-blood phrases translated cleanly to:
We’ve got this, Granger. Stay in your lane.
Hermione’s fingers curled hard into her palm.
Malfoy’s quiet “That is merely my hobby” from last night echoed back to her—and finally, she understood the weight of it.
She’d mistaken the point entirely.
The alchemy lab wasn’t his identity.
It wasn’t even his main weapon.
His weapon was Nott.
It was Mr. Green.
It was the old Head he’d swept aside without breaking stride.
His weapon was that invisible, intricate web.
Hermione felt a prickle of cold run down her spine.
This wasn’t an investigation. Not for Malfoy.
This was a cleanup.
Old Nott was dead. Malfoy and Theodore Nott—driven by some motive she still couldn’t see—wanted the real killer.
But they didn’t trust the Ministry.
More precisely: they already knew exactly which parts of the Ministry were rotten—like the old Transportation Office.
So they worked on two fronts.
Malfoy, in the shadows—using his “hobby,” his connections, and the black market—to chase the “Will-o’-the-Wisp” and whatever motive lay behind it.
And she, Hermione Granger…
She thought of Madam Rowle’s public commendation that morning.
She thought of Harry’s relief when she’d handed over the experiment report and the glittering powder.
She was the one in the light.
Hermione stopped dead in the corridor.
It all clicked.
Malfoy needed her.
He needed her—the official D.M.L.E. employee.
He needed her—the meticulous partner Rowle trusted.
He needed her—the Auror Office’s safe, legal point of entry through Harry Potter.
He needed her to launder the evidence—
the clues he obtained through break-ins, illicit analysis, and black-market channels.
He gave her the experiment data so she could overturn the time of death.
He led her to the “Will-o’-the-Wisp” so she could submit it as clean, Ministry-approved evidence.
She, Hermione Granger, was the lever.
The legal, polished lever Draco Malfoy used to pry open the Ministry’s rusted machinery.
She was being used.
But to her own surprise—
she wasn’t angry.
Only cold.
Only clear.
She returned to her cubicle and dropped into her chair, parchment stacked like an accusation in front of her.
Theodore’s voice still echoed—polite, airtight, immovable.
Fine, she thought. If that’s how they wanted to play—if Malfoy and his… network were quietly shifting the table legs under the board—
Then she’d play the board itself with absolute precision. No cracks. No openings. A chain of evidence so clean even their pure-blood machinery couldn’t twist it.
Hermione pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment and began reconstructing the case in sharp, efficient strokes:
- Murder Weapon — still missing. Theodore’s “incense” was the only viable lead. → Await Malfoy’s analysis.
- Entry Method — private fireplace + contraband Floo powder Will-o’-the-Wisp. → Await Malfoy’s black-market findings.
- Suspects — Bulstrode (mistress), Dolohov (old friend), Old Parkinson (confidant). → Await Harry’s alibi verification.
- Motive — unclear. Possibly tied to Old Nott’s alchemical ritual. → Await Malfoy’s decryption of the Ouroboros symbol.
She stared at the list.
Her job had been reduced to a single verb: waiting.
Hermione’s jaw tightened.
She loathed passivity.
Especially when someone else—someone Slytherin—was pulling the strings.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Saturday morning brought a rare, almost extravagant burst of sunlight. It sliced through London’s habitual autumn gloom, burning away the mist and granting the city a brief, golden reprieve.
Hermione met Ginny at a newly opened café in Diagon Alley, all bright colours and the smell of fresh coffee and warm croissants. For the first time all week, Hermione’s nerves eased a little.
“Alright, you finally look human,” Ginny said, grinning over her latte. “Last time we ate, you looked like you’d been chased eight blocks by a Manticore.”
Hermione stirred her black coffee, managing a thin smile. “Close enough. This case is ten thousand times more complicated than I expected.”
“The Old Nott murder?” Ginny perked up immediately, lowering her voice. “Harry said you overturned the whole time-of-death analysis. Brilliant. Though Ron complained it made them redo every alibi.”
“It had to be done.” Hermione rubbed her temples. “But the real problem is… I’m not investigating alone.”
“Oh?” Ginny’s radar fired instantly.
Hermione hesitated. She needed to vent—badly. And Ginny was safe.
“I—well, due to a series of unfortunate events, I’ve… established a partnership with someone. Someone I never thought I’d work with. Don’t tell Harry.”
Ginny leaned in, eyes blazing. “I won’t! Who?”
Hermione shut her eyes, bracing herself.
“Draco Malfoy.”
The café seemed to fall silent for one stunned beat.
Ginny’s eyes lit up like exploding fireworks—shock, disbelief, and pure gleeful fascination.
“Malfoy?” Her voice jumped an octave, almost earning them stares. She leaned in so fast she nearly climbed onto the table.
“Merlin’s beard! I knew you needed some excitement! How did he look when he saw you? Did he—”
“Stop. Right there.”
Hermione cut her off sharply, jaw tight. She knew that expression too well—the same one from Hogwarts when gossip about broom-closet snogging started circulating.
“Don’t even think about it, Ginny.” Hermione’s tone darkened. “He is still that bastard.”
She pronounced each word like a verdict.
“Arrogant. Conceited. Condescending. Insufferable.”
Ginny’s grin faltered for half a second—but excitement still sparked in her eyes. She lifted her hands in surrender.
“Alright, alright! He’s a bastard. Biggest one alive. Agreed.”
She lowered her hands, chin propped back up.
“But… seriously. You two? In the same room? Without hexing each other? Him cooperating with you voluntarily? That’s less likely than the Ministry abolishing taxes.”
Hermione exhaled a week’s worth of frustration. Ginny wouldn’t let her go without details—and honestly, Hermione needed the release.
“It’s not voluntary. And it’s not what you think.” Hermione tapped her cup. “We’re tied together because of this case. We each have something the other needs.”
She took a breath, anger simmering again.
“But you cannot imagine what it’s like. The way he talks to me—like he’s doing me a favour. That tone…”
She remembered Malfoy in the lab: a curt order to find Potter.
At the manor: a wordless command to open the sealed door.
All those clipped, effortless commands.
“He just—orders me. ‘Granger, do this,’ ‘Granger, do that.’ Like I was born to follow instructions.”
“Then hit him with a Bat-Bogey Hex!” Ginny said immediately.
“I can’t!” Hermione nearly groaned. “That’s the most infuriating part!”
Ginny leaned closer. “What is?”
Hermione shut her eyes, mortified by the admission.
“He…” She swallowed. “He’s… useful.”
Ginny’s eyebrows shot up.
“No—no, I mean,” Hermione said quickly, “his knowledge. That shadowy pure-blood nonsense—contraband, black markets, ancient locks—he knows all of it!”
She dropped her spoon onto the saucer with a sharp clatter.
“He’s a genius, Ginny. And worse—he knows it.”
Hermione dragged a hand through her hair. “Which makes him twice as insufferable as before.”
Ginny listened through the entire rant, her expression slowly morphing—from excitement, to restraint, to a look so pained-with-held-laughter she might rupture an organ.
She cleared her throat carefully.
“Hermione, this is… this is better than the Quidditch World Cup final.”
“It is not better, Ginny.” Hermione glared. “It’s torture. Every week feels like handling a temperamental dragon about to breathe fire. I have to concentrate just to avoid getting scorched—while prying information out of its mouth.”
“Oh, I believe you,” Ginny said, though her grin was barely contained behind a sip of latte.
“I’m just saying…” She set her cup down and leaned in. “You’re very worked up. I haven’t seen you like this in ages.”
“Like what?” Hermione asked, suspicious.
“Like… alive.” Ginny winked. “Your eyes are sparkling. Your cheeks are flushed. You’re not complaining—you’re excited.”
“That is anger,” Hermione hissed, like a cat with its fur up. “Ginny Weasley, do not confuse the two. This is pure, undiluted rage.”
She threw her hands up. “I’m angry I have to rely on him! Angry that the Ministry’s corruption and loopholes—he was right about all of it! Angry about…”
Her voice dropped to a mortified whisper.
“…angry about the way he looks at me.”
“Oh?” Ginny’s voice sharpened instantly. “And how, exactly, does he look at you?”
“He—” Hermione’s breath hitched. She remembered the look he gave her in the lab, the quiet, cutting scrutiny. The silhouette waiting for her in the dark corridor of Nott Manor.
“He’s the same,” she said quickly. “Like I’m still that annoying swot. Like everything I do is predictable. Like I’m just his… tool.”
“Wow,” Ginny murmured—not gossip anymore, but genuine intrigue.
“So this ‘insufferable,’ ‘arrogant,’ ‘useful’… bastard…”
She paused. Then launched a casual, lethal question:
“What does he look like now? Still the same pointy chin, pale face?”
Hermione opened her mouth to say yes. She fully intended to say yes.
But the word stuck.
She saw forearms, rolled sleeves, sweat on a knife-sharp jawline, grey eyes bright in the dark—
And she simply couldn’t.
Ginny’s eyes sparkled. She waited.
“Hermione?”
“He’s just… just taller,” Hermione muttered finally, furious at herself.
Ginny’s smile bloomed in slow, devastating satisfaction.
“Taller,” she repeated, leaning back. “I see.”
She took a triumphant gulp of latte.
“Alright. This is absolutely better than the Quidditch World Cup. Tell me everything.”
“‘I see’ what?” Hermione hissed, then dropped her volume in panic. “You see nothing! Ginny, I’m not joking!”
She glanced around wildly.
“There are no details! This isn’t Witch Weekly gossip! This is a murder case! I’m dealing with contraband and black markets and Ministry corruption—”
“Oh, I know it’s a murder case,” Ginny said cheerfully. “But you’re not really talking about the case. Look at you. You’re glowing. You haven’t been this vivid in months.”
Hermione almost choked.
“I don’t care about Will-o’-the-Wisp Floo powder—Harry already spent half of dinner complaining about it,” Ginny said, tapping the table. “I want the real details.
Detail one: how often do you meet?
Detail two: where—clearly not at the Ministry, or Ron would’ve stormed in.
Detail three—” Her eyes gleamed. “Does he still call you that? That word?”
“No!” Hermione snapped reflexively.
“Oh?”
“He doesn’t!” Hermione insisted. “He doesn’t need to! He’s found an even more hateful way to torment me!”
“Like?”
“Like? You want details? Fine!” Hermione leaned in, abandoning all dignity.
“Detail: We meet in his blasted lab—Merlin knows where it came from. It smells of burnt wood and ozone! Detail: He summons me, Ginny—summons me, with one black, unsigned card, like I’m his house-elf!”
She stabbed the table with a finger.
“He mocks Ministry protocol to my face. Calls my investigation ‘child’s play.’ He forced me—me!—to tear off an Auror seal and break into a crime scene!”
Hermione glowed with fury.
“And!” she burst out. “He grabs me without asking! For Apparition! He just—” she thrust her hand out, trembling with indignation, “—grabs my wrist and takes me along like I’m luggage!”
Ginny wheezed, laughing so hard she nearly toppled the sugar pot.
“Oh, Merlin, Hermione—he grabs you? Like a piece of luggage?”
She dissolved into helpless giggles.
Hermione buried her face in her hands, ears blazing.
“I hate you,” she mumbled into her palms. “You only wanted to see me lose my dignity.”
“No, no, I promise I don’t!” Ginny said, trying—and failing—to stop smiling. “I just think Draco Malfoy is still spectacularly good at making you furious. Exceptionally good.”
“He is not making me furious!” Hermione snapped, cheeks scarlet. “He is genuinely detestable! You don’t understand!”
“Of course I understand.”
Ginny finally reeled in her grin, her expression settling into something almost solemn. She reached across the table and tapped Hermione’s white-knuckled fist.
“Alright, alright. I surrender.” Her tone gentled.
“He’s a complete, unrepentant, one-hundred-percent insufferable bastard. And you, tragically, are stuck with him.”
“Thank you.” Hermione exhaled, relief loosening her shoulders.
Ginny drew her hand back, eyes gleaming.
“But you have to admit—this is far more exciting than arguing with Prewett about filing procedures.”
Hermione groaned, stood up like someone abandoning a lost cause.
“I’m getting coffee. No sugar. Black. Like my soul.”
“Get me a latte!” Ginny called after her. “Double caramel! Consider it the ticket price for this spectacular drama!”
When Hermione returned with two scalding cups, the heat on her face had cooled a few degrees. She dropped the latte in front of Ginny with a thud.
Ginny took it happily, blowing at the foam. She sipped—quiet, for once.
Then her voice shifted.
“But seriously.”
The teasing drained out of her eyes, replaced by something steady and sharp.
“Are you okay, Hermione?”
Hermione froze, cup halfway up.
“What are you trying to say now?”
“I’m serious,” Ginny repeated, her expression slipping into that familiar Weasley worry.
“This isn’t a joke. You’re working a murder case. And you’re working with Malfoy.”
“So what?”
Ginny set her cup down, hard.
“So what? Hermione. You’re talking about black markets, contraband, breaking into crime scenes—ancient dark magic even you don’t recognize. And your partner,” she stressed,
“walks through all of it like it’s his childhood garden. Doesn’t that bother you?”
She leaned in, voice lowered.
“This is dangerous. I’m not saying he’ll hurt you—I mean the world he comes from. Are you sure you’re using him… and not being pulled into something deeper? Something darker?”
The words hit like cold water, dousing the angry, embarrassed heat still clinging to Hermione.
Silence.
She looked down at her reflection in the coffee—pale, tight, tired.
“I don’t know,” she finally said, voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t know if I’m using him… or being used.”
The image flashed behind her eyes—Theodore and Mr. Green in the corridor. Malfoy’s careless “That is merely my hobby.”
“He’s… much more complicated than I thought, Ginny. I thought I was working with an alchemist. Now it feels like—” she shook her head, frustrated,
”—like he’s a web. And I’m just a node caught in it. He moves in the dark, and then shoves me into the light to pry open the Ministry for him.”
“Then why keep going?” Ginny asked. Direct. Dead center.
Hermione’s jaw tightened. She took a long sip of coffee. The burn felt deserved.
She set the cup down sharply.
Her eyes, when she met Ginny’s, held no embarrassment—only flint.
“Because he’s right.”
Each word was a hammer blow.
“The Ministry does have loopholes. The Floo Network is flawed. ‘Tempus Mortis’ is wrong.”
A breath, then—
“He’s a bastard,” she admitted, voice edged with reluctant admiration,
“but he’s the only one who can actually find the killer.”
Ginny stared for a long moment.
Then she exhaled.
“Alright. Then be careful, Hermione.”
A slow, wicked smile curled back onto her face.
“Be careful of his dark-magic quagmire…”
A beat.
“And also those eyes that are ‘just taller.’”
“GINNY!”
Hermione’s mortified roar drowned under Ginny’s cackling laughter.
The rest of the weekend was torture—tight, restless, humiliating torture.
Ginny’s words clung to her like a Permanent Sticking Charm. The more she tried to shake them off, the louder they echoed—
“grabs you”… “taller”… “dark magic quagmire.”
Every repetition made her blush, then immediately want to hex herself for blushing.
She forced her attention onto anything else.
By Sunday afternoon she was curled in her armchair, London sunlight pooling over her book. She tried—truly tried—to read an academic monograph on ancient runes, but her mind drifted relentlessly:
the Ouroboros
the shimmering Will-o’-the-Wisp
those infuriating grey eyes—
TAP. TAP. TAP.
A sharp, impatient knocking on the window.
Her heart leapt.
Not a Ministry owl. Not any owl she recognized.
A massive Eagle Owl glared at her from the sill, feathers dark as char, ice-chip eyes full of disdain.
A pure black scroll case hung from its leg.
Her stomach dropped.
Of course.
She opened the window; the owl extended its leg like royalty. She untied the case. It launched itself into the sky without waiting for a single treat, as if her flat offended it.
Hermione shut the window and opened the scroll case.
A thin, rigid black card slid into her palm, catching a faint silver shimmer.
No title.
No greeting.
No signature.
Just three elegant, razor-edged words:
The usual place.
She closed her eyes, card pinched between her fingers.
Summons.
Her own outraged voice in the café echoed back:
“Like I’m his house-elf!”
Heat flooded her cheeks.
Damn Malfoy. Could he not, for once, use a normal envelope? Addressed to Granger? Did he have to send this—this dramatic nonsense?
But beneath the irritation, her pulse kicked.
He’d found something.
The incense?
The Will-o’-the-Wisp?
A breakthrough?
She couldn’t sit still another second.
She tossed the card onto the table and strode into her bedroom, shedding her soft sweater and jeans. She pulled on a dark, practical robe—sharp, ready, unambiguous.
In front of the mirror, she paused.
“…and also be careful of those eyes that are ‘just taller.’”
“Oh, shut up, Ginny,” she muttered at her reflection.
She inhaled, forcing all the static in her chest down, down, down—
—and Apparated with a crisp crack.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After the familiar wrench of Apparition, Hermione staggered into a narrow London alley.
She didn’t bother brushing the dust from her cloak. She marched straight to the nondescript black door and slammed her fist into the cold, exquisitely carved silver snake knocker.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The silver snake rattled against the wood, startled by the force.
The door opened at once.
Draco Malfoy stood there, grey cardigan immaculate, sleeves rolled to his elbows—as if he’d been waiting all along. Her fury didn’t surprise him in the slightest.
“You finally decided to come, Granger?” he drawled, stepping aside. “I thought you’d at least finish your afternoon tea.”
Heat flared in her cheeks. She had a violent urge to slash that damned black card across his face.
She ignored him and pushed past, storming into the familiar laboratory.
“What did you find?” Hermione spun back, slamming her bag onto the table. “If this was just another attempt to assert your presence, I don’t have time for it.”
“Assert my presence?” Malfoy closed the door behind them, unhurried. The corner of his mouth curved. “It was effective. You arrived in under ten minutes.”
“You—”
“Save it.” His tone snapped cold. He jerked his chin toward the center of the lab.
On the spotless alchemy bench sat a box.
“Theodore sent it.”
Hermione’s breath caught.
Under the soft wash of enchanted light lay an exquisitely crafted black wooden box, half an arm’s length long, carved with foreign, unfamiliar patterns.
“Incense,” she whispered.
She stepped closer and lifted the heavy lid.
Inside lay a palm-sized, irregular black solid—and beside it, a fragile silver filigree censer.
“The one at the scene was burned,” Malfoy said quietly beside her. “Theodore found this one in Nott Manor’s storage. Untouched.” He tapped the black mass with his wand. “And this is the incense itself—sandalwood base.”
“You analyzed it?” Hermione asked at once.
Malfoy shot her a sardonic look. “I didn’t sleep for nothing. The composition is… elegant.”
He lowered his wand. “Primarily ground opal, suspended in resin. But that’s not the point.” He gestured to a glass dish nearby, holding a dark red, nearly coagulated substance. “This is.”
Hermione frowned. “Dragon’s blood? It has a dozen known uses—but it isn’t poison.”
“Correct.” A flicker of excitement sharpened his voice. “It’s a catalyst.”
Hermione inhaled sharply.
The word slid into place like a key. She didn’t need him to finish.
“Catalyst,” she echoed, her gaze darting from the opal to the dish—and then to Malfoy. “For what was in the whiskey. Niter. And moonstone.”
Malfoy’s mouth curved into a thin, approving smile.
“Precisely.”
Cold crept up Hermione’s spine. She began to pace, thoughts snapping together at speed.
“Individually, they’re harmless,” she said. “Opal. Dragon’s blood. Moonstone. Trace niter—”
She stopped dead.
“But Old Nott lit the incense,” she said sharply. “He inhaled opal particles carrying the catalyst once it burned.”
“And then,” Malfoy said softly, “he drank the whiskey.”
“The moonstone and niter in the liquor,” Hermione finished, voice tight, “met the opal and catalyst inside his body—and reacted.”
“Violently,” Malfoy said, his expression turning grave. “The dragon’s blood forced an alchemical reaction in the bloodstream. One we don’t fully understand. Inside the body… it produced a true toxin.”
Nausea rolled through her.
“That’s why the Healers found nothing,” Hermione said, her voice unsteady. “By the time the autopsy was done, the moonstone, niter, opal, and dragon’s blood had already reacted. They’d… ceased to exist. Transformed into something else—an unknown toxin no one would even think to test for.”
“Exactly.” Malfoy’s expression shifted, that cool recognition of her intellect settling back into place.
“This isn’t just murder, Granger,” he said. “It’s too precise. Too controlled.”
He paused. “It was a perfect alchemical experiment—completed inside the victim’s body.”
“A perfect experiment…” The words echoed in her mind, then snapped into focus.
Hermione looked up sharply. “Malfoy—the symbol.”
“What symbol?”
“The Ouroboros,” she said quickly. “The mark on the crystal goblet. The variant you identified—the snake coiled into a figure eight, pierced by a silver blade. You said it was tied to an ancient alchemical ritual.”
She stepped closer, eyes locked on his. “What if this murder is part of that ritual? What if this ‘perfect experiment’ is the ritual?”
Malfoy leaned back against the workbench, arms folding. He didn’t deny it.
“It’s possible,” he said after a beat. “A sophisticated alchemical kill paired with an ancient ritual symbol points to the same… intellectual territory.”
“But—” His gaze sharpened, analytic. “We can’t ignore a simpler explanation.”
He tilted his head. “The goblet was left in plain sight. If the symbol mattered to the killer—if it pointed to him—why leave it behind?”
A faint note of derision crept into his voice. “Someone careful enough to use ‘Will-o’-the-Wisp’ and a private fireplace doesn’t leave signatures. It reads less like a message—and more like an obsession. Old Nott’s, not the killer’s.”
Hermione frowned. The logic was uncomfortably sound.
“But we still don’t have a motive,” she said. “Ritual, silencing, money—none of it’s confirmed.”
She shook it off, forcing herself back to ground. “Speculation can wait. What matters is evidence. If we identify the killer—through physical proof and Harry’s alibis—the motive will surface on its own.”
She met his eyes again. “So. The other lead. The ‘Will-o’-the-Wisp.’ Any progress with you and Theodore?”
For a fleeting second, Malfoy looked… bored. As though she’d asked whether water was wet.
“‘Will-o’-the-Wisp’?” He straightened, already turning away. “That’s done.”
Her heart jolted. “Done?”
“It means,” he said mildly, adjusting a rack of glassware, “Theodore’s bait worked. The broker—‘Nightingale’—met him in a Knockturn safe house late last night.”
Hermione stared. “You—what?”
Malfoy didn’t bother looking at her.
“Theodore earned his trust with a few items from his father’s less-than-legal collection.”
He paused, a thin, cold smile cutting across his face.
“And our enterprising idiot—eager to prove his reach and secure a wealthy new client—handed over a full list of buyers. Every purchaser of ‘Will-o’-the-Wisp.’ Three months’ worth.”
Hermione stood frozen.
That was it?
One night.
She thought of Harry and the Aurors buried under alibis. Of her own sleepless hours dissecting residue and theory.
And Malfoy and Nott—one evening, a handful of dark artefacts, and they’d gone straight to the source.
And come back with names.
“On the list,” Malfoy said, turning from the rack as though he’d merely finished washing a beaker.
He looked at her. Grey eyes flat, impersonal—like reading off tomorrow’s weather.
“There’s only one name that overlaps with our three suspects.”
He didn’t pause.
“Antonin Dolohov.”
Hermione’s mind went white with static.
A name.
They had a name.
And yet the name itself mattered less than how easily it had been obtained.
The efficiency chilled her.
This wasn’t intelligence. This wasn’t influence.
This was survival—an instinct honed in places she’d never set foot in.
Knockturn Alley. Safe houses. Brokers. Dark artefacts traded like currency.
When Malfoy spoke of them, his tone was effortless, casual—no different from discussing a visit to Flourish and Blotts.
For the first time, Hermione felt the gulf between them with brutal clarity.
She wasn’t just outmatched.
She was out of her depth.
This wasn’t a world governed by rules or diligence or merit.
It lived in shadow. It thrived on leverage and silence.
Malfoy—and Nott—moved through it like natives.
Like fish in black water.
She watched Malfoy from behind as he wiped a glass rod clean. The soft grey cardigan, neat and scholarly, clashed grotesquely with the underground world he had just mapped out.
She understood then.
Alchemy was his hobby.
That shadowed, boundless grey beneath his feet—that was his world.
One she could neither reach nor survive.
“Dolohov,” Hermione repeated softly, anchoring the name in her mind like a pin in corkboard.
With a deliberate motion, Malfoy set the glass rod aside and turned to face her.
His grey eyes swept over her face, searching.
For a split second, he paused, reading the instinctive recoil she couldn’t hide—the fear of the world he carried with him.
“You have everything you need,” he said, voice devoid of warmth. “The weapon. The killer.”
He gestured, politely, toward the black door.
“Now. Get out. Tell your Auror friends.”
“Build your impeccable, legal chain of evidence.”
The words Get out struck differently this time.
Clean. Surgical.
A line drawn.
Transaction complete. Information delivered.
Her usefulness—exhausted.
She looked at him: composed, civil, wrapped in soft wool—after calmly dismantling a black-market network in a single night.
Fear settled, heavy and solid, in her gut.
She didn’t want to stay.
Didn’t want to breathe air thick with ozone, reagents—and him—for another second.
A sharp retort surged up her throat—
Don’t speak like that.
But she swallowed it.
Why waste it?
He wanted her gone—with the intel.
She wanted this case finished.
On that, they were perfectly aligned.
Professionalism took over. The armour of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement slid back into place.
Hermione straightened.
Without a word, she crossed to the bench and lifted the black wooden box—the incense Nott had sent.
“I’ll need a full analysis report on this alchemical poison,” she said. Her voice was flat, professional—the tone she used at the Ministry when emotion had no place.
Malfoy looked faintly surprised she didn’t bristle. There was a fractional pause—no more than a heartbeat—before he tipped his chin toward a stack of parchment：
“Already done. Component analysis included. Will-o’-the-Wisp and all.”
Hermione grabbed the parchments, barely glancing at the script before shoving them—along with the box and the rest of the evidence—into her bag.
She zipped the bag shut.
She turned toward the black door with its silver snake knocker.
“You’re right,” she said.
Her hand closed around the cold metal. She paused.
Malfoy waited.
“You’ve finished your part,” she said without looking back. “Now I’ll finish mine.”
She yanked the door open. Afternoon sunlight knifed through the gloom, bleaching her face white.
“What I’m going to do,” her voice carried from outside—clear, hard, final—“is the part that sends Dolohov to Azkaban. Legally.”
She didn’t wait for a response.
She walked straight into the light, as if fleeing something that might drag her back into shadow.
Crack.
Hermione stumbled out of the void at the mouth of an abandoned pub alley.
Pushing through the creaking door, she crossed the empty lobby and stepped into the fireplace without slowing.
A pinch of Floo powder. One sharp throw.
“Ministry of Magic.”
Green fire roared.
The Ministry Atrium was silent—Sunday quiet, tomb-quiet. Water murmured from the Fountain of Magical Brethren, too loud in the emptiness.
Hermione gathered her robes and ran. Heels cracked against marble. She dove into the lift.
The Auror Office was deserted. An empty desk. A lonely floating quill.
She didn’t slow.
Hermione hit the double doors with her shoulder.
Bang.
They slammed open, echoing through rows of empty desks and dim green lamps.
Harry was there.
She spotted him instantly—slumped in his cubicle, buried in parchment, hair a disaster. He jolted upright, wand half-drawn.
“Harry!”
Her voice cracked through the office.
He froze when he saw her. Lowered his wand. Stood.
“Hermione—Merlin’s beard—what happened?”
She didn’t answer.
She strode into his cubicle and cast without hesitation.
“Muffliato.”
The world sealed shut.
Harry’s expression changed. “Hermione—”
“Listen.”
She dumped her bag onto his desk.
The black incense box hit parchment. Papers scattered.
“I found the murder weapon,” she said, breath sharp with adrenaline. “It was perfect. The smartest I’ve ever seen.”
“What?”
“That.” She pointed. “The ‘incense.’ Opal and dragon’s blood. Not poison—a catalyst.”
Harry stared.
“Remember the liquor?” she rushed on. “Niter. Moonstone. Reactants. He inhaled the catalyst, then drank the trigger. The experiment happened inside his body. That’s why the Healers found nothing.”
Harry grabbed the report, reading fast.
“Merlin,” he breathed. “Hermione… this is—this is alchemy. How did you—”
Her cheeks burned.
She turned away, pretending to straighten the box.
“I looked things up,” she said too quickly. “Ancient texts. Catalysts. I kept thinking—they don’t make sense alone. They had to connect.”
She spun back.
“But that doesn’t matter. What matters is the method.” She jabbed the report. “We have the MO.”
Harry rubbed his brow. “We still don’t have motive. Or which one of them could do this.”
“We don’t need motive,” Hermione snapped. “We know what to look for.”
“The Will-o’-the-Wisp,” she said. “Rare materials and top-level contraband. That narrows it.”
She leaned over his desk.
“They had to buy it. Store it. Move it. They couldn’t erase every trace.”
“Is this enough?” Her voice shook despite herself. “Enough for a warrant?”
Harry’s admiration faded, replaced by exhaustion.
“Hermione… this is brilliant.” He set the report down. “But a search warrant? Against all three? Based on theory?”
He gave a bitter, frustrated shake of his head. “Bulstrode, maybe—she’s just a half-blood mistress with no real standing. But Dolohov and Parkinson? You want me storming two ancient pure-blood manors on a theory?”
Her stomach dropped.
“I have nothing tangible,” he said. “Nothing the Head will approve.”
Hermione went still.
Dolohov’s name burned in her bag.
She inhaled.
“You’re right,” she said calmly.
Harry looked up.
“You don’t need a search warrant.” Her voice was cool now. “You need surveillance.”
She slid the Will-o’-the-Wisp analysis toward him.
“Illegal possession. Smuggling. That’s your entry point.”
Harry’s eyes lit.
“You watch,” she said. “Who they contact. Where their owls fly. Who starts destroying evidence.”
“Twenty-four hours. No gaps.”
Harry stood abruptly. “The Head can’t refuse this.”
He grabbed the reports and rushed for the door—then stopped.
“Hermione,” he said quietly. “Thank you.”
She managed a tired smile. “Go catch him.”
Alone, the adrenaline drained from her body all at once.
She gripped the desk until the room stopped spinning.
She’d done it.
Malfoy’s shadow intelligence—unspeakable, unusable—had become Harry’s legal machinery.
Dolohov’s name didn’t need saying.
All that remained was to wait.
Ink-stained fingers burned against her palms. Dirty.
The lab came back to her: the grey cardigan, the effortless way Malfoy and Nott moved through the shadows.
She had used them.
She had used Harry.
Exhaustion settled over her like ash.
Still—she didn’t regret it.
“Dolohov,” she whispered.
Now all that remained was waiting.
Waiting for the net to tighten.
Waiting for the man who lived in shadow to be dragged, at last, into the light.
Chapter Text
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Monday morning. Department of Magical Law Enforcement.
Hermione was the first to arrive.
She hadn’t slept. Adrenaline and deceit still burned hot in her veins. A cup of scalding black coffee sat untouched on her desk.
She was waiting.
For Harry’s signal.
For the moment the legal surveillance net snapped shut around Dolohov.
The office filled gradually—quills scratching, someone complaining about Monday. The normalcy was suffocating.
Then came the sound she dreaded most.
Not a voice.
The slow, irritating rumble of swivel-chair wheels.
She didn’t look up.
“Good morning, Granger.”
Blaise Zabini’s chair slid to a stop beside her cubicle, unhurried and deliberate.
He looked as wrecked as she felt: rumpled hair, dark circles, expensive robes marred by what looked suspiciously like archive dust. A yellowed scroll dangled from his fingers—the one she’d “assigned” him last week.
“I told you to finish filing M–P before lunch,” Hermione said coolly. “It’s nine-thirty, Zabini. You’re behind.”
“Amidst the dust of M–P,” Zabini rasped, voice hoarse with exhaustion, “I found a mummified owl. I felt that warranted a congratulatory visit.”
Her quill paused. “Congratulate me for what?”
Zabini turned fully toward her. The usual mockery was gone, replaced by something stranger—thoughtful, unsettled.
“Drop the act,” he murmured. “You look like you wrestled a three-headed dog for three days straight.”
Her pulse skipped. She locked her expression into bureaucratic ice. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh?” A tired smile tugged at his mouth. “When you stormed out Friday, you looked like an exploding Hungarian Horntail. Today?” His gaze sharpened. “You look like the aftermath.”
“What exactly are you implying, Zabini?”
“I’m implying,” he leaned closer, voice barely audible, “that I spent my entire weekend thinking about one word.”
Her stomach dropped.
“Humiliating,” he said carefully, as if testing it. “You flinched when I mentioned sixth year. So tell me—what does that year look like in your head?”
“Zabini.” Hermione shot to her feet, chair shrieking backward. Her voice was low, lethal. “I warned you—”
“I know! Centaur Office!” He threw up his hands. “But surely I deserve to know why I’m being punished? I thought—perhaps—you need a healer.”
“I need you to shut up.”
“Fine. Fine.” He leaned back, hands raised. “I won’t mention sixth year again. Merlin.”
Then he stopped.
Really looked at her.
The perpetual amusement drained from his eyes, replaced by sharp, incredulous clarity.
“…Circe have mercy.”
“You didn’t go to St. Mungo’s.”
“You didn’t go home to cry.”
His gaze locked onto hers.
“You went back to him.”
Hermione said nothing.
Her silence was answer enough.
Zabini exhaled and slumped back, staring at her like she’d lost her mind. “Merlin’s underpants… you actually did it. You went and used him.”
A low, near-hysterical laugh escaped him before he strangled it down.
“Granger,” he said softly, shaking his head, “you’re far more Slytherin than I ever gave you credit for.”
“Shut up,” Hermione snapped, sitting back down as if he no longer existed.
“No, no—this is inspired,” he muttered, scooping up the parchment. “For this? Twenty boxes of filing are worth it.”
“Then work,” she said coldly, yanking another file from her drawer and slamming it into his chest.
“Q–T. Before lunch.”
He wailed theatrically but took it. As he drifted away, eyes scanning the page, his smile twisted into something delighted.
“…Humiliating,” he murmured, savoring it.
“She calls that humiliating?”
A quiet laugh followed him down the corridor. “Salazar’s rattling bones… she’s completely mad.”
He glanced back once—eyes bright, avid, a spectator spotting the opening act of a royal scandal.
“This just got interesting.”
His murmurs clung to Hermione like grit.
“She’s completely mad.”
“Went to use him.”
“More Slytherin than I imagined.”
The word Slytherin lodged beneath her skin—a poisoned splinter. She hated it. Hated that she had used Malfoy. Hated even more that Zabini had seen straight through her.
Cold panic crept in.
Zabini knew now. About sixth year. About the fragile, transactional alliance she’d built with Malfoy.
And Zabini was Malfoy’s friend. He would tell him.
Humiliating.
Her stomach twisted, nausea rising. The carefully maintained fiction of a purely professional arrangement was about to be shredded by gossip.
She forced a slow breath. Clamped down on the panic.
The parchment before her—Amendment to Underage Wizardry Restrictions—blurred and warped.
“Focus,” she whispered.
Work. Only work.
She tightened her grip on the quill, willing her vision to steady. The lab. The party. Zabini—all of it had to disappear.
The only thing that mattered now was Harry’s signal.
The net would close. And she would be ready.
Hermione barely made it to lunch.
Her thoughts were sludge. She needed caffeine, food—and a space free of Zabini and Malfoy.
The Ministry’s underground cafeteria was chaos as usual: stew, coffee, damp parchment. Clutching a plain sandwich and a double espresso, Hermione scanned for a quiet corner.
She rounded a stone pillar—
—and stopped dead.
In the premium booth reserved for Department Heads sat the two people she least wanted to see.
Cornelius Fudge.
And Lucius Malfoy.
Hermione shrank into the shadows.
Lucius wore an immaculate dark suit robe, silver snake-head cane resting against the table. Fudge, angled slightly in her direction, was all flushed enthusiasm—his expression stretched into something painfully sycophantic.
Fudge leaned in, hanging on every word. Lucius lounged back, elegant, stirring something that was definitely not cafeteria tea. Fudge said something; Lucius gave a mild smile and a nod.
Fudge beamed, as if pardoned.
A few steps away stood Ron.
Wrinkled Auror robes. Back to the booth. Eyes fixed on the ceiling with exaggerated boredom. Surveillance duty.
He sensed her gaze, glanced back—and immediately pulled an over-the-top grimace, rolled his eyes, then turned away.
Hermione’s heart sank.
So. Nothing had changed.
Fudge was still Lucius’s puppet.
Then someone swept past her toward the booth.
Elara Rowle.
“Ah—Elara!” Fudge sprang up at once, wiping his mouth, shooting Lucius an apologetic glance. “I was just discussing a minor matter with—er—Mr. Malfoy.”
“Minister Fudge,” Rowle said smoothly, inclining her head.
Then she turned.
Hermione braced for polite distance.
Instead, Rowle’s smile warmed.
“Lucius,” she said, with unmistakable familiarity. “I thought you’d be buried in the Wizengamot all day.”
Lucius rose—a courtesy he hadn’t bothered extending to Fudge. A genuine smile touched his face.
“Elara,” he said, bowing slightly. “I was just settling a small issue. Antique import tax, next week.”
“Oh, that is a delicate one,” Rowle replied, tone rich with understanding.
Hermione stood frozen in the shadows, hands gone numb.
Zabini had said Rowle was waiting for a scandal to topple Fudge and take his place.
But—
She stared at the tableau, a political equation rearranging itself in real time.
Fact one: Fudge fawned over Lucius.
Fact two: Rowle was close to Lucius.
Fact three: Rowle intended to overthrow Fudge.
So what role did Lucius Malfoy play?
Backing both sides? Shielding Fudge while grooming Rowle? Or—
Were they both just pieces on his board?
The answer landed with sickening clarity.
This wasn’t a murder case.
It was a political bog—and Lucius Malfoy stood at its center, stirring gently, elegantly.
Hermione fled.
She pressed her back to the lift’s cold brass rail, heart racing.
The axioms she trusted—justice, truth, procedure—collapsed into uselessness. None of them applied here.
Lucius Malfoy was the variable that made nonsense make sense.
She rebuilt the structure in her head.
Not a duel.
A pyramid.
Lucius at the top.
Fudge below him—obedient, incompetent, useful.
Rowle beside Fudge—ambitious, sharper, a better investment.
Lucius didn’t choose between them.
He owned them.
Fudge absorbed the pressure, the failures, the public rot. Rowle waited, cultivated quietly—ready to step in when the chair emptied.
Not a coup.
An internal handover.
Rowle was ambitious.
But ambition, Hermione realized with a chill, might have been sanctioned.
Encouraged.
And Rowle had been the first—the only one—to push Hermione to question Tempus Mortis using Muggle logic.
Hermione sucked in a breath.
Had Rowle known from the start the theory was flawed?
Had she been using Hermione—the brilliant Muggle-born—to manufacture a scandal just large enough to topple Fudge, but not rock the Ministry?
Look—Fudge’s Aurors can’t even establish a time of death without a Muggle-born subordinate correcting them.
Hermione’s stomach churned.
She thought she was chasing truth.
She was a tool.
Rowle’s pawn.
And Rowle was Lucius’s.
Then what about Old Nott’s murder?
Dolohov—Lucius’s friend.
Old Nott—also his friend.
One killed the other with prohibitively expensive alchemy.
This wasn’t about money.
Possibly not even about the ritual.
Was this… cleaning house?
Or an internal struggle within a world she could never touch?
Her sandwich lay cold in her hands.
She had to rethink everything.
Then—
Draco Malfoy.
Theodore Nott.
Why were they pushing for the truth?
The thought hit like ice water.
If Lucius, Fudge, Rowle—all tacitly wanted this case closed, neatly filed with a false time of death—
Then Theodore Nott wasn’t seeking justice.
He was making trouble.
A pure-blood heir fighting the system his father belonged to.
Why?
Because it was his father.
Revenge—irrational, raw, understandable.
But Draco Malfoy?
Heir to the shadow empire she’d just witnessed.
Why help Nott? Why dig up Dolohov? Why destabilize everything?
Was his lab part of the family business?
Hermione frowned.
No.
If Lucius wanted silence, Malfoy’s actions were sabotage.
This wasn’t inheritance.
It was opposition.
Rebellion.
The word was absurd—and yet.
Draco Malfoy, defying his father’s web for a friend?
Hermione leaned against the lift wall and closed her eyes.
Nothing was simple anymore.
She couldn’t read Malfoy’s motive. Couldn’t judge it.
Was he doing this for Theodore—pure loyalty, willing to burn his father’s interests for a friend?
Or was this Lucius’s contingency? A deeper design she couldn’t see?
Or—worse—was this Malfoy’s own power play? A bid to eclipse his father? To turn the case into leverage? Against Dolohov… or against Lucius himself?
She didn’t know.
The lift chimed. D.M.L.E.
She stepped out and returned to her narrow desk.
One thing was certain: she had forged a secret alliance with someone utterly unreadable—whose intentions were opaque, whose reach sat dead center in the ruthless political storm she’d only just glimpsed.
And Harry?
Where was Harry’s signal?
The thought tightened her chest.
She’d been waiting for Harry’s victory.
And only now did she understand what that victory meant.
Harry’s success meant Dolohov locked in her sights.
That meant proof against Tempus Mortis.
That meant ammunition for Rowle.
That meant Fudge destabilized.
And that meant Lucius Malfoy’s quiet handover had begun.
Justice—hers and Harry’s—wasn’t justice at all.
It was a tool.
She wasn’t just Rowle’s pawn.
She had dragged Harry onto the board with her—turned him into a pawn too—while both of them sat on someone else’s game.
She thought she was fighting.
She was helping them clear the field.
The weight of that realization crushed harder than any of Malfoy’s scorn.
She sat rigid at her desk, time dissolving. Ten minutes. An hour.
The office sounds blurred at the edges.
Zabini’s chair rolled away—break room.
Prewett’s door opened, shut—meeting.
Life went on.
And she sat there, motionless, inside the machinery she’d helped set in motion.
Everything was running normally.
Until—
A lance of silvery-white light cut through the D.M.L.E.
Silent. Precise. Merciless.
It ignored the drifting paper aeroplanes. Ignored the startled gasps. A silver stag—radiant, immense, blazing with protective magic—landed lightly atop Hermione’s stacked files.
Harry’s Patronus.
The office froze.
Quills stilled. Pages hung mid-air. Clerks stared as something wild and martial invaded their quiet bureaucratic world.
Hermione’s heart stopped—then slammed back to life.
This was it.
The signal.
The stag’s luminous eyes fixed on her alone.
And then it spoke, Harry’s voice tight with restrained exhilaration, audible only to her:
“Hermione. We got him.”
Her breath hitched.
“Surveillance worked. Dolohov. Caught red-handed—trying to destroy traces of the Will-o’-the-Wisp.”
The stag lowered its head slightly, solemn as a vow.
“Come to the Auror Office. Now. Robards is here. We need you—to make the final statement.”
A beat. A look heavy with gratitude.
Then the Patronus dissolved into silver mist and vanished.
Silence crashed down.
Hermione stood—slowly.
She felt every gaze in the room converge on her. Curiosity. Envy. Awe.
She won.
They won.
The killer was caught.
It should have been the crowning moment of her career.
Instead, cold crept into her bones.
She wasn’t being called for an award.
She was delivering the bullet she’d helped polish—the one meant to execute an internal handover.
Her hands trembled as she grabbed her bag.
Move.
She crossed the long corridor between departments. Each step felt like glass. Eyes burned into her back.
She wasn’t Hermione Granger anymore.
She was the one summoned by the youngest Auror Squad Leader’s Patronus.
The hand-picked prodigy of Madam Rowle.
A stranger wearing her face.
The carpet changed beneath her feet—dull grey to spell-scarred stone.
The door opened.
Noise slammed into her.
The Auror Office boiled with energy—laughter, shouted triumph, claps on shoulders. Harsh lights. Sweat. Residual magic thick in the air.
“Hermione!”
Harry barreled toward her, exhausted and incandescent—glasses crooked, collar torn open, eyes blazing.
“We nailed him,” he breathed, gripping her arm. “An hour ago—”
“I heard,” she said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite work.
“No—you didn’t hear all of it.” He dragged her forward. “He thought we were still chasing alibis. Didn’t know we were onto the Will-o’-the-Wisp.”
He pulled her up to the enchanted glass.
“Look.”
Her heart dropped.
Antonin Dolohov sat in the interrogation room—plain shirt, no finery, arrogance stripped bare. Silent. Animal-still.
“He tried to burn it,” Harry whispered, electric with victory. “Right in his fireplace. Last vial. We got it, Hermione. Physical evidence. You were right.”
The side door opened.
Gawain Robards stepped out, grim and unsmiling, evidence bag in hand. His gaze moved from Harry to Hermione—and locked.
“Ms. Granger.”
“Mr. Robards.”
Inside the bag, Will-o’-the-Wisp shimmered like trapped sunlight.
“Potter tells me you identified this,” Robards said. “At Nott Manor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And this,” he added, lifting Malfoy’s report, brow furrowing. “‘Dragon’s blood catalyst.’ ‘Opal particles.’ You analyzed this?”
He stared at her like she’d rewritten gravity.
This was the moment.
Harry beamed at her, silently urging tell him.
Hermione met Robards’ eyes.
“Yes, sir.” Her voice didn’t waver. “It’s the only logical alchemical conclusion.”
“The only logical…” Robards repeated softly, shaking his head.
“Merlin’s beard.” He turned to Harry. “You brought a real weapon this time.”
Back to her.
“You caught a man we’ve chased for ten years,” he said. “And overturned Tempus Mortis.”
A breath. Heavy.
“I’m reporting to the Minister.” He nodded once. “Excellent work.”
He left.
Harry elbowed her, grinning. “‘Excellent work!’ That’s Robards, Hermione!”
Then—softer, earnest, lethal—
“I couldn’t have done this without you.”
She looked away.
“We did it together.”
“No,” Harry said. “It was you.”
She couldn’t stay.
“I—I need to report to Rowle.”
“Of course! She’ll be proud.”
Hermione fled.
She didn’t return to the D.M.L.E.
She locked herself in the nearest bathroom, staggered into a cubicle, and retched.
Nothing came up.
“You saved this case.”
“Excellent work.”
The words burned.
She won.
She stared at the filthy tiles.
She’d won by turning her best friend into a weapon. By feeding his faith in justice into a political machine she didn’t control.
Using Malfoy’s intelligence.
Lying to Harry’s face.
Helping Lucius’s ally topple another ally.
“Excellent work, Granger,” she mocked silently.
The chill sank deep.
Bone-deep.
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