Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

August 20, 2002

The British girl arrived three days before orientation, which he admired. Her timing struck a perfect chord. Early enough to suggest deliberation. Measured enough to avoid spectacle. She stood at the registration table in the Sterling Law Building lobby, hair pinned low arranged for function rather than vanity. Charcoal-grey skirt. Black ballet flats. Absence of denim, branding, undergraduate softness. From across the common room, he pretended interest in a flyer for an academic journal that had yet to materialize.

Her name reached him faintly from the registrar’s desk. The clerk mispronounced it, and she corrected it quietly, with no particular emotion. Just precision. The voice carried traces of Oxford or perhaps Edinburgh, smoothed by years of performance and control. She didn’t carry herself like someone visiting America for the first time. She moved as though she'd studied the building’s layout in advance. When she turned toward the hallway with lockers—without scanning the signage, without hesitating—he felt a shift in his chest. This term had already changed shape.

He smiled toward Rachel, a 2L in Yale-blue cotton who carried her loyalty like a priestess with ritual. “International students always look so composed,” he said. Warm, audible, shaded with irony. Rachel laughed. She liked him. Everyone did. He served as a hinge in the system: organizing seminar rosters, escorting visiting fellows, coordinating the candlelight vigil for last year’s tragedy. He remembered details. He replied to emails deep in the night. Professors trusted him to mediate without being visible.

No one noticed how quickly he could read a room, sort its contents, locate every fracture line. His eyes never lingered. He preferred reflections: glass, metal, polished tile. He watched her pass through the brass plaque by the dean’s door. Compact, exact, expressionless. He avoided speculation. Obsession rarely required motive. Shape sufficed. This girl, twenty-two, early finish, all structure and silence, offered the correct geometry.

She paused at the end of the corridor, where the building folded briefly into itself: white tile, narrow staircase, bulletin board with outdated flyers curling at the corners. Her hand hovered above the stair rail, fingers barely grazing the metal before retreating. She adjusted the strap of her bag instead, then shifted her weight back to her heels, as if reconsidering. He watched the small recalibrations in her posture. No wasted movement. Everything appeared revised mid-thought.

She turned toward the basement lounge. He knew that hallway well. It held the vending machines, the lost-and-found shelf, and a row of small, undecorated lockers assigned to incoming 1Ls. Her hand reached into her jacket pocket, thin leather, clean lines, academic black, and drew out a folded sheet of paper. He recognized it: the locker assignment form. Visible certainty in her face. No pause for help. She stepped forward.

He didn’t follow. That would have been careless. He waited six seconds, just enough to suggest disinterest, then nodded to Rachel and stepped away. His gait was purposeful, practiced. One foot met the marble tread. Then the other. He paused. Listened.

A faint click of metal. Paper shifting. A hinge settling.
Locker 3B.
No voices.

From this angle, just before the landing turned out of sight, he caught the sliver of her again: crouched at her assigned locker, bag on the floor, back straight even in this unguarded moment. She unfolded a second sheet from her file—possibly the orientation packet—and began reading while kneeling. Not skimming. Reading. Her brow didn’t crease. She breathed slowly through her nose. The world around her dimmed. She did not sense him. Or if she did, she gave no indication.

He remained still. Something in him had already begun to build.

She wore her hair low, gathered at the nape with something dark and unadorned. A black ribbon, he guessed, folded into itself like a closing parenthesis. Stray curls had already begun to escape around her ears, softening what would have otherwise been an austere silhouette. She didn’t fix them. She wasn’t performing for anyone. That interested him more than if she had been.

Her clothes spoke without speaking. The skirt were tailored, though not newly. The jacket, minimalist and collarless, revealed no label. Everything about her suggested economy of effort—choices made once and not adjusted. Pale silk blouse, ivory rather than white, with the faintest row of buttons, too small to be fastened easily. She moved like someone who had trained herself out of fidgeting. Her stillness was active, not passive. Controlled.

Her face, in profile, was sharp in the way young women’s faces sometimes are before life rounds the edges. A strong chin. High, unreadable cheekbones. Lips pressed gently together, free of the tightness that signals nerves. Her expression suggested privacy—distinct from detachment. She didn’t seem unkind. She simply remained unavailable. There was a difference. He doubted most people saw it.

She shifted to stand. He caught the motion of her hands brushing her skirt straight along the hips before she reached for the locker door again. A simple twist of the combination lock. She placed the paper inside, then closed it with a click. When she turned to leave, her gaze swept down the hallway, passing over him without catching. If she saw him, she gave him the smallest gift imaginable: nothing at all.

He looked away, only after she’d gone.

He had seen her once before. Not in person—on paper. Her file had passed briefly across his desk during the week, part of the materials for the peer advisor review. He wasn’t on the committee, technically. The Dean’s office had only asked him to “help organize,” which translated, as it often did, into quiet access. He compiled the welcome packet templates, matched names to lockers, formatted orientation grids. All mundane. All routine.

Her file arrived in a manila folder, same as the others. What caught him first was the photograph.

Her face carried an oval shape, balanced in its proportions, the kind considered most harmonious. The eyes drew him next: almond-shaped, slightly wide-set, expressive beneath naturally arched brows that lent her gaze a thoughtful, deliberate cast. The lighting washed out some of her skin tone, yet he could still see the faint suggestion of freckles, a natural flush that softened her composure. Her complexion appeared luminous even under the flat glare of the camera.

Her nose was straight and slender, the tip gently refined, giving structure without severity. Her lips were full in quiet measure, the lower slightly heavier, which lent her an unexpected softness when set against the rest of her features. A delicately curved jawline framed her expression, neither angular nor weak, only balanced. Together, the effect was not theatrical beauty, but something steadier, the kind of presence that endured after the photograph closed.

She wore no visible makeup. Jewellery remained absent except for a slim silver ring on her right hand, plain, almost severe in its simplicity. Possibly a school ring. Possibly something older. The stillness in her face held a kind of unforced poise: grace misread by many as distance, though it did not feel like distance to him. It felt like a choice.

Below the photograph, the page confirmed what the image implied. Her name appeared in block serif type: Hermione Jean Granger. British passport. Birthdate September 19, 1979. Undergraduate degree in Jurisprudence at Oxford, completed ahead of her cohort, graduating first in class with a high first. Her transcript placed her in the top 0.1% of LSAT scorers. Distinctions across every subject. Thesis: Comparative Mechanisms of Civil Liberties in Post-War Legal Orders.

Two letters of recommendation accompanied the file, both from constitutional law scholars. One closed with the phrase ethically tireless, underlined in pen. The footnotes noted a special commendation from an EU legal panel, though details were minimal. A legal research fellowship in The Hague, volunteer work, language proficiency. Credentials polished to distinction, though free of ornament. No gaps explained. No errors admitted. A record as clean as a pane of glass.

What interested him more were the blank spaces. The one-line reference to "prior international academic disruption" in her Oxford intake file, which had been redacted. A missing year between secondary school and university, annotated only with “special circumstances – cleared.” He had spent fifteen minutes that afternoon trying to find out more. Nothing had surfaced. The record had been cleaned well. That, too, told him something.

He turned her name over again in his mind. Hermione Granger. Slightly literary. Slightly inconvenient on the tongue. He liked that she hadn’t softened it.

He had closed the file slowly, then set it aside without comment. That evening, he remembered her name while brushing his teeth.

By the time she returned to the courtyard, the heat had begun to gather beneath the white welcome tent. Students moved in loose clusters, holding coffee cups and branded water bottles, shoulder bags slung low, voices unhurried. He stood behind the folding table with the alphabetized orientation folders arranged in metal trays. A position of low authority and high visibility. Most of the upper-years volunteering had taken to sitting. He remained standing.

She entered from the northwest gate, a slim figure in the shifting blur of morning movement. Her blouse, ivory silk with a soft collar, tucked into a slate-grey skirt that reached just above the knee. The fabric held its shape in the breeze, tailored close to the hips, falling straight. Her shoes were simple black ballet flats, polished, unscuffed. Nothing about the outfit was loud, but every piece had the unmistakable precision of something chosen carefully and once.

There were no visible logos. No loud colours. No bright jewellery. Just a single gold watch with a small round face on her left wrist, the soft glint of a ring. Her bag was gone now. She carried only a notebook, held lightly in one hand, as if she’d already memorized the parts she needed.

At her wrist, just below the blouse cuff, a thin red string was tied in a small knot. The color was deep, a worn crimson with faint golden threads. It looked handmade. The edges were slightly frayed. Something old. Something kept.

Her posture was perfect, though never stiff. She moved with the kind of quiet authority that doesn’t require correction. Each step was placed, not cautious, but considered. Her frame was slim and upright, medium in height, with a kind of tailored presence that drew attention without asking for it. There was nothing flamboyant about her, yet people turned to look. They always did.

As she came closer, her features settled into focus. Delicate, but not fragile. A long, fine nose. Symmetrical mouth. Cheekbones defined more by expression than bone. Her skin had the soft, even tone of someone who spent her time indoors with books and sunlight through windows. A few small freckles crossed the bridge of her nose — subtle, as if edited in by hand. Her hair, chestnut and fine, had been pulled into a low, slightly loose twist at the nape of her neck, with just one wisp fallen forward near her temple. She made no move to fix it.

And her eyes. They were warm brown, ringed with a lighter hazel that caught the light like amber in water. Focused. Measured. Intelligent in a way that made you straighten without realizing you had.

She reached the table and gave a small nod, neither shy nor performative.

“Hi,” she said. “I think I’m meant to pick up my folder.”

Her voice was calm, modulated. British — yes — though more precise than melodic. The vowels were educated but clipped, as though she’d filed them down to avoid misinterpretation. He let her words settle a second longer than necessary, then smiled as if recalling something pleasant.

He glanced at the tray in front of him, fingers already moving toward the correct stack. “Name?”

“Granger. Hermione.”

He reached for the ‘G’ stack and pulled her folder free with practiced ease. “Here you go — schedule, orientation calendar, building map, and an optional signup for the Friday meet-and-greet. Nothing urgent in there. Just Yale being Yale.”

That earned him the briefest smile. It touched only one corner of her mouth, but it registered. She didn’t rush to fill the silence afterward. She simply accepted the folder, her fingers brushing his briefly in the exchange. Cool soft skin.

“Thanks,” she said, glancing down at the name on his lanyard. He had covered his ID with a flipped-back flyer, intentionally. She didn’t comment.

He watched her step back into the flow of students, her form cutting cleanly through the ambient noise. Her stride carried an inward focus, as though the contents of the folder already lived in her mind. She didn’t look back.

He exhaled without realizing he’d held the breath.

She disappeared into the outer ring of students, folder tucked beneath her arm, head slightly inclined as she passed a cluster of volunteers. Her gait remained measured. She didn’t pause to scan the booths, didn’t stop at the refreshments table. Her path through the crowd had no visible breaks, though she never rushed. Some people moved like they were trying to disappear. She moved like she had already done it.

He watched her go with the same expression he used for faculty meetings. Open, neutral, mildly pleasant. No part of him revealed how alert he had become. He adjusted the stack of remaining folders, aligned the paper clips, offered a schedule to the next person in line. His hands moved while his thoughts stayed with her.

The sensation was familiar at first. Recognition, curiosity, a slow escalation of interest. The kind that had attached itself to others before — a certain type of student, usually bright, often disoriented, quick to bond, easy to read. They had always carried their damage like a loose button, waiting for someone to press it back into place.

This was not that.

She didn’t radiate need. She didn’t even radiate wariness. She radiated privacy. Like the contents of her mind had already been spoken aloud, somewhere else, and had no need to be repeated here. That intrigued him more than affection ever could.

The last one had been simpler. A third-year transfer from Penn, all polish and practiced charm, eager to impress but clumsy with her boundaries. She had broadcast her vulnerabilities without knowing she was doing it. Predictable. Grateful. Easy to position near. It hadn’t taken long to find where her seams ran soft. Once he understood the shape of her, the rest moved forward like a system completing itself. By April, she was gone. The silence, when it came, felt clean. Like a final page turned without regret.

But this one.

This one moved like she didn’t care who watched, because she had already judged the watchers and found them insufficient. Her composure wasn’t armour. It was origin. Which meant she had built it herself, from something real. That suggested depth. Complexity. Challenge.

He let the smile touch his face only once, and only after she was gone.

Chapter Text

August 16, 2002

The private room smelled of cedar and grilled sesame, the low hum of London beyond the papered walls. Hermione sat cross-legged on the tatami mat, hair drawn into a loose twist, silk blouse already faintly creased from the day’s packing. Around her, familiar faces filled the narrow table: Harry, with his sleeves pushed up and chopsticks expertly angled; Neville, steady and kind-eyed, refilling everyone’s cups of green tea; Luna, serene in a cloud of silver earrings that clinked faintly when she laughed; George, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh each time the waitress set down another tray. Seamus told a story loud enough to make the waitress stifle a smile, while Padma and Parvati leaned against each other, whispering commentary between bites. Angelina arrived late, breathless from Quidditch practice, sliding into place beside George with a mock glare when he stole her miso soup. The air buzzed with laughter, familiar arguments, overlapping voices. It felt ordinary, and at the same time, it didn’t.

She had been telling herself for weeks that excitement outweighed dread, that Yale represented everything she had worked for, a horizon she had carved with her own hands. And yet, when Harry brushed her hand beneath the table, his thumb grazing the red thread at her wrist, a quiet worry pressed in. Since January, they had been together in a way that felt both inevitable and fragile, as though time itself might test the weight of it. Across an ocean, with two futures moving at different speeds, how much could they hold? She tried to laugh at Seamus’s wild reenactment of a bungled Auror training drill, but her mind tugged at the question.

Harry caught her glance and leaned closer. “We’ll visit,” he said, as if continuing a conversation they hadn’t yet begun. “I’ll come over, you’ll come back here. George’s mobiles will help, and… well, they can’t exactly stop us, can they?” He grinned, flashing the small black device George had slipped across the table earlier. “DMLE approved. Don’t ask me how.” George had only winked, muttering something about “a friendly enchantment or two.” Neville and Luna had added their own parting gift: twin red string bracelets, knotted with careful hands, meant for protection. Luna had said nothing when she tied them, only smiled in that dreamy way that made promises sound like truths. Then she added, “They’ll keep you safe, because they’re tied with love, and love is stronger than oceans.”

Ron’s absence lingered at the edge of things. His chair remained empty, a folded napkin untouched. Hermione forced herself to laugh when George declared the sushi rolls had been “engineered for trolls with reinforced molars,” and when Parvati teased Seamus about spilling soy sauce on his tie. Still, a part of her registered the gap across the table. Ron’s silence since January had carried its own weight. Perhaps time would ease it. Perhaps it wouldn’t. Tonight, though, she leaned into Harry’s warmth at her side, let Luna’s words circle in her mind, and allowed herself the strange, trembling thrill of a future waiting just across the Atlantic.

The walk back through Islington glowed with the kind of quiet that only London managed in autumn. Streetlamps pooled light across the pavements, shopfront shutters rattled in the wind, and a fine mist hung in the air like breath. Harry shrugged out of his coat halfway up Upper Street and pulled it around both of them, his arm tight at her waist. The fabric barely stretched enough to cover her shoulders, which made him laugh, which made her laugh more. They stopped twice before reaching the corner — once by the bakery, once outside the bookshop — for quick kisses that turned into longer ones until the damp softened their hair.

Hermione kept telling herself that she needed to savour this walk, this night, this version of their life together. The pavement slick with slush, Harry’s breath clouding in the air, the weight of his coat pressing against her. It felt ordinary and unrepeatable at once. They giggled when a passing cab splashed water against the curb, and he tightened the coat further around her, as if determined to shield her from the entire city.

At the gate of their flat, Harry leaned in again, forehead against hers, laughter still caught in his throat. “I’ll keep it clean,” he promised, mock-serious. “Properly clean. You’ll come back and think a professional’s been in.” She raised an eyebrow, doubtful, which made him grin. “I’ll feed Crookshanks too,” he added, holding up two fingers like a vow. “Feed him, love him, and absolutely never overfeed him.”

She kissed him again, slow this time, smiling into it. “He’s cleverer than you. He’ll let me know if you cheat.” The cat, somewhere inside the flat, gave a muffled yowl as if on cue. They laughed, stepping into the stairwell together, damp clinging to their coats, the night folding softly behind them.

Suitcases lined the hallway, each one propped open, each one covered in colour-coded notes that flapped when the window rattled. Hermione crouched beside the largest case, pen in hand, scanning through the checklist for the third time. Books, arranged by subject. Blouses, folded with precise care. Stationery sealed in a pouch. Every detail accounted for, until Harry’s voice broke across her concentration.

“You forgot something.”

Her head snapped up. She ran through the pages again, eyes flicking, fingers rifling through pockets and pouches. A faint flush rose in her cheeks as she stood to cross-check against the second suitcase. “What did I miss? No, wait—tell me if it was toiletries, because I thought I put those in the—”

“It’s me.” His grin tilted sly, boyish. She exhaled, rolled her eyes, and muttered, “Harry,” though the sound of his name softened in her mouth. He stepped forward, drew her into his arms from behind, and held her close. His chin lowered to her hair, and he breathed her in committing the moment to memory. “I miss you already,” he murmured. Hermione squeezed his arm, steady and sure, then turned just enough to press a kiss against his jaw.

Later, steam blurred the mirror in the bathroom, and the only light came from the small lamp above the basin. Hermione sat back against him in the tub, knees drawn close, her silence folding around them like a second warmth. From the café across the street, music drifted through the open pane, faint but distinct — Iris playing in a low thrum. Harry pressed his lips to her cheek first, then the hollow of her neck, then the curve of her shoulder, each kiss steady and unhurried. No words passed. His touch said everything he needed: that she could go, that he would stay, that distance could bend without breaking. Her eyes closed, and for a moment, the only sound was water shifting against porcelain and the song carrying in from the street below.

Chapter Text

Flat 2A, 85 High Street. A second-floor unit, corner placement, one window looking onto High Street, the other set toward the rear lot. Brick exterior, green-tiled vestibule, a stairwell that creaked faintly on the fourth step. The space itself held no grandeur, yet she gave it form. Curtains pulled with consistency, always before the clock reached ten. Desk lamp angled precisely toward the window, casting a thin column of light visible from the pavement below. Books stacked in columns, uneven in height yet arranged with a kind of internal grammar. The room said economy, discipline, restraint. Everything within it obeyed her hand.

Her days fell into a rhythm so exact it could have been orchestrated. The lamp dimmed close to midnight, though often later, when she allowed herself another page, another note, another margin filled with her precise script. Sleep never came easily, yet she never indulged it. By six-thirty, the curtains stirred again, and by seven she was already in motion, lacing her trainers with steady hands. Her run traced the Green in an unwavering three-mile loop, pace clipped, breath controlled. Mondays and Thursdays belonged to the small grocer on Chapel Street, where she carried home two canvas bags balanced evenly across her shoulders. Sunday evenings she descended with the rubbish, placed neatly at the curb, never thrown, never hurried. Even in silence she followed a pattern. She lived as if design alone could anchor the world. His ledger marked the date with precision: Saturday, September 14th, another flawless iteration of her design.

Observation, however, had its limits. From the pavement, from the vestibule, from the benches across the Green, he could chart her movements. Yet to understand her fully, proximity would be required. Her flat itself must be seen, measured, studied. Details only walls concealed could complete the portrait. He considered the possibilities, and already the building offered one: Rachel. A second-year who wore Yale-blue cotton with the ease of a uniform, who carried her loyalty like ritual, who laughed whenever he let irony touch his voice. She lived in 2C, two doors from Hermione. Rachel liked him. She had always liked him. She lingered when conversation should have ended, remembered his name in every room, tilted her head when he spoke. She would open doors without realizing she had done so. He had no need to rush. Entry, when it came, would feel inevitable.

The mobile introduced variation, and in variation, revelation. A slim black device she carried close. When it chimed, her face changed. Her eyes lit from within, warmth spreading quietly across features otherwise composed. She tilted her head when reading messages, thumb moving swiftly, mouth curving in a way that suggested private amusement. Calls she guarded, stepping aside, lowering her voice, refusing to gift that part of herself to the room. Dates, however, she dismissed with effortless certainty. A second-year who lingered by the library stacks, a seminar assistant whose eagerness betrayed him—she turned them aside with a measured shake of the head, an expression that offered nothing further. Yet when groups gathered, long tables and crowded conversation, she accepted. Surrounded by many, she allowed glimpses of something more. Laughter that came easily. Wit delivered cleanly. Warmth that never appeared when she was studied alone. She chose the context, and by choosing, retained control.

At night, when she changed, she always drew the curtain first. The gesture repeated, consistent, never forgotten. He noted the precision of it. His previous acquisition had failed in this regard. She left windows open, light spilling outward, privacy treated as an afterthought. That lapse revealed her weakness quickly. Hermione Granger revealed everything through absence. Even her protection carried intention. He admired that. A pattern reinforced through decision, through discipline. He knew the colour of her bed sheets—pale blue, ironed flat, corners tucked with an almost military care. He had watched her fold her laundry at the small mat on Howe Street: knickers pressed into neat halves, bras laid smooth without tangling straps, socks paired without exception. Even in these private gestures, she yielded no chaos. At night she preferred a jersey with Potter 07 across the back and short cotton pyjamas. Always socks. Always order.

The name caught him. Potter. He checked the interwebs, first casually, then with precision, certain it would yield something. It did not. No player. No alumni records. No trace in the usual databases. An absence so clean it felt deliberate. She carried someone in her life who left no digital footprint. The thought stayed with him, needling. A blank space in an otherwise seamless design. He disliked blank spaces.

One afternoon he trailed her from a distance, following her steady pace along Chapel Street until she stepped into a small second-hand shop. She emerged minutes later carrying a boxed piano keyboard, the kind a serious student might use for practice. He watched her shift its weight carefully, expression calm, almost pleased. This revelation had kept him awake that night. A mind sharpened by law, a body tuned by discipline, and now hands capable of music.

His notes, however, already contained more. Archery on Thursdays, at the athletic center range. Kickboxing on Saturdays, gloves laced with quiet efficiency. Fencing in the evenings, white jacket zipped, blade in hand. He had seen her take a medal — gold, most recent competition — her victory marked by a bow as precise as her strikes. The grace of her parry had startled him: clean, balanced, an arc of movement that wasted nothing. Beauty, intellect, and talent, carried on a body capable of elegance and restraint in equal measure. A trinity too exact to ignore.

He marvelled at it, turned it over in thought again and again, as if perfection itself had been presented to him. And still, the thought pressed further: how much more perfect she would become, once joined with him.

Her mobile remained the only fracture. Each time it rang or chimed, her expression transformed with alarming swiftness. Eyes brightened, lips curved, posture softened as if leaning toward a presence he could not see. Whoever commanded her attention in those moments unsettled him more than he cared to admit. He recorded everything: the frequency of calls, the days when messages came most often, the afterglow that lingered across her face once she had read them. Each mark in the ledger carried a quiet weight, a reminder that someone else reached her first. The thought of standing second in line disturbed him enough to keep him awake long after the image of her at the keyboard had faded.

The ledger itself became its own architecture. Pages ruled with even lines, every entry clean, each stroke of ink deliberate. No crossings-out, no wasted margins. Her life rendered as a study of symmetry: the lamp dimmed at midnight, the measured path across the Green, the exact turn of her wrist when she checked the time. What others misread as reserve he recognized as design. She had built a system around herself, a structure strong enough to appear unassailable. He admired it because he understood it. He had spent his life constructing his own. Control acknowledged control. Which meant that, eventually, she would acknowledge him.

At times he joined her classes. Never beside her, never obvious, always folded into the background where his presence became indistinguishable from the rest. Close enough to hear her voice, clipped and precise, as she corrected a professor or dismantled a weak argument. Close enough to catch the faint drift of her scent when she passed his row: vanilla and lavender, understated, carried as naturally as her posture. The effect jolted him each time. A chill along the spine, followed by the sharp pull of desire. His body betrayed the stillness he prided himself on, hardening with immediacy. He welcomed it. Desire, in his hands, was another form of comprehension, another proof of her rarity, another confirmation that she belonged in his orbit even before she understood it herself.

Still, satisfaction eluded him elsewhere. The latest acquisitions had proven unremarkable, yielding quickly, offering nothing that lingered. They dissolved into silence, their absence leaving him untouched. With her it would differ. With her, patience mattered. She required study, observation, time. He yearned already, though he held himself steady. Perfection demanded discipline. He would learn her fully. He would watch. He would know. Only then would the moment arrive.

Already, one acquisition no longer served her purpose. Too dull, too meek, her supposed intellect reduced to recited phrases that faltered when pressed. Records had suggested promise, yet reality proved otherwise. She cried often, tears that soaked into his evenings, more inconvenience than intrigue. Weakness revealed itself quickly, and weakness bored him. He had little tolerance for wasted time.

Space would be needed. The ledger was clear on that. Every collection required curation, refinement, the removal of the superfluous to allow the exceptional its proper place. Hermione Granger belonged to a category all her own, and categories demanded order. He felt the necessity rising in him, calm as a tide: one subject must be cleared, so that the next—the rarest, the most perfect—could be welcomed without distraction.

Chapter Text

The athletic centre hummed faintly with echoes: sneakers against polished floor, the sharp chatter of tennis balls striking racquets, the muffled thud of weights dropped too hard. Beyond those distractions, in a cordoned space lined with mirrors and strip lighting, the fencing pistes gleamed. He took his place among the small scattering of onlookers, a clipboard in his hand to complete the disguise of belonging. No one asked him to move. No one ever did.

Hermione stood at the edge of the piste, mask tucked beneath one arm, foil balanced in the other. Even at rest she radiated precision. White jacket fitted close to her frame, wires clipped neatly, the blade angled like an extension of her arm. When she saluted, she did so without flourish — a clean incline of the foil, a bow that wasted nothing. The referee’s call echoed, sharp, and then she moved.

The parry unfolded in a single sweep, clean as a line drawn by compass. Advance, retreat, feint, disengage. Her footwork carried her forward with measured assurance, steps balanced, shoulders held in alignment. Each lunge struck with such speed the opponent seemed to register it only after the light flared red on the scoreboard. She straightened, calm, breath steady, posture intact. He felt the quiet surge of pride one reserves for a work chosen well. Her movements affirmed his discernment. His notes would record it in the usual sequence: control, discipline, elegance. A standard worthy of the medal she already wore. She moved with an economy that stripped her opponent bare, every gesture exact, every exchange tilted in her favour.

Point after point, she dismantled the bout. He allowed himself the smallest smile when she scored again, then again, foil striking with a rhythm that might have been music if one listened closely enough. Her body knew the geometry of victory, and he revelled in it. She belonged to no one here, not really. Only he could see her this way — as perfection manifest.

Then, a sound at the door.

The faint creak of hinges, a shift of presence at the periphery. She faltered for the first time. Her foil dipped, mask tilted as her head turned slightly toward the entrance. Through the narrow grill of her mask she had seen him.

“Harry?” Her voice lifted, disbelieving, cracking through the stillness of the piste.

“Hi, love.”

The words carried across the room, low, warm, filled with a tenderness that struck him as an intrusion.

She tore the mask from her head in one sharp motion. Hair spilled free, strands damp with sweat, clinging in dark arcs across her forehead. Her face flushed with exertion, breath quick, lips parted, chest rising and falling beneath the fencing jacket. For the first time that evening, she appeared undone. The sight struck him like a private gift. Her sweat carried the weight of labor, her breath the cadence of mastery pushed to its edge. Even her parted lips seemed ordered, a detail folded seamlessly into the geometry of her form. He felt the jolt of possession, the conviction that only he had seen her in this state, only he could recognize its perfection.

The mask slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor, wire mesh catching the light before it rolled flat against the strip. Her foil followed, clattering against the boards, the sound sharp enough to turn heads. She tugged at the cords clipped to her jacket, metal fittings snapping loose, wires recoiling with a whine. The gear that had bound her to the bout lay scattered around her feet in a careless ring.

Then she ran. She crossed the strip in a burst, every line of her body angled forward, urgency overtaking but still with grace. At the edge she jumped, a clean leap into his waiting arms. He absorbed her entirely, arms locking around her waist, steadying her as she buried her face in his shoulder, laughter breaking open as though nothing else existed. Around them, students turned, smiling faintly, then returned to their drills.

The sight unsettled him more than her finest parry. Every detail of the embrace announced ownership, a claim expressed without words. He had not earned it through observation, through study, through discipline. He had simply arrived, had not even spoken her name just “love”, and she had fallen into his arms as if the outcome had always been assured. Such ease offended him. Precision was meant to be cultivated, not assumed. And yet here she was, giving herself away in a gesture that should have been his to witness, his to receive.

The man was leaner than he had expected. Jawline sharply cut, cheekbones high, a structure made for clarity. Bright green eyes behind round-rimmed glasses, weak in no way, shy in no way, lit with something he disliked instantly: a kind of certainty, a recognition. The nose straight, tip angling down just enough to draw the line of his face into symmetry. Lips narrow, edges precise, resting even now in the shape of a smile touched with longing. Tousled black hair fell across his forehead in loose disarray, framing a fair complexion broken by the faint shadow of stubble. His voice carried the unmistakable cadence of a British accent, neutral Southern English, stripped of flourish, softened into intimacy.

His pen hovered, hand stiff, the last line unfinished. What should have been a clean conclusion — a bout won, a bow, a salute, all movements aligned to the design he had been charting — had collapsed into noise. The light on the scoreboard blinked red, unclaimed. Instead, the mask lay discarded, the foil abandoned, her body folded into someone else’s arms. This man had stepped into the frame and spoken as though he owned it. As though he owned her.

Agitation rose like static. He capped his pen with deliberate care, the click loud in his ears. Harry’s presence tore the symmetry of the evening. It had been her birthday — September 19th, a date he had marked with longing. She should have been at her sharpest, her most luminous. Instead, she gave herself away freely, laughter spilling, discipline broken. Not for him. For another.

He folded his notes, slid them into the inner pocket of his jacket, and rose. No words, no gestures. He walked out through the side door, shoes striking in rhythm against the linoleum, each step louder than the last. The night air hit sharp against his skin, damp with the smell of leaves and rain. His jaw tightened as he crossed the Green, refusing to glance back toward the athletic centre.

Patience, he told himself. Patience, always. He had seen her brilliance, her control, and now he had seen the fracture. The intrusion. The man called Harry. Every design allowed for disruption, though disruptions could be studied, mapped, corrected. His pen would record this too. His ledger would carry it forward. Yet agitation sharpened into clarity with every step. Patience demanded release. By the time he reached his own door, the decision had formed. One of his acquisitions had lingered too long, offering little beyond tears and meekness, her purpose spent. Tonight she would be freed.

She sensed it when he entered. Her eyes darted, shoulders tense, words spilling too quickly. “Please,” she whispered, and then again, louder, “please.” Her voice cracked, tripping over itself, pleading for something undefined, as though the air itself might intervene. She reached for him with trembling hands, trying to fold herself into his mercy. The sound grated against him.

He called it adoration, moving with the same deliberate rhythm he always did, gestures calibrated, voice even. She begged under her breath, repeating his name, repeating “please,” as if the word itself could reshape the outcome. He felt nothing. Even as he held her, his mind veered elsewhere. Hermione’s foil striking with elegance. Hermione’s laughter broken open against the man’s shoulder. Hermione’s breath quickening, lips parted in exertion, chest heaving in rhythm with the bout. The girl before him whispered please again, trembling, yet the sound carried the ghost of Hermione’s breathing in his ear. He saw only Hermione’s damp hair, Hermione’s parted lips, Hermione undone in victory. Each plea from the woman before him only sharpened the image of what Hermione was, and what this one was not.

When the moment ended, he arranged her with care. Fingers laced, wrists bound so the ropes crossed in a gentle X against her lap, the knot hidden from view. He smoothed the fabric of her dress until it fell straight, modest, the hem brushing her ankles with a stillness that suggested choice rather than constraint. A strand of hair lay across her cheek; he placed it back with patience, tucking it neatly behind her ear so her face shone untroubled. The posture recalled The Young Martyr at the Louvre — hands composed, head angled slightly, garments subdued in their fall. Fear had been erased, serenity imposed, as if the scene itself invited contemplation of faith, suffering, and the quiet power of grace. She appeared almost to have yielded willingly, a figure who had accepted her fate rather than resisted it.

Tomorrow the police would find her laid out in silence, the seventh Jane Doe. To him she was nothing more than a correction, a discarded line in the ledger, space made for the only subject worth waiting for.

Chapter Text

Sally’s Apizza swelled with noise. The scrape of chairs against tile, pitchers of soda foaming over ice, laughter spooling out in bursts from the long communal tables. The air carried the sweetness of roasted tomatoes and the sharp tang of garlic, threaded through with woodsmoke from the ovens. Hermione sat across from Harry, cheeks warmed pink from the heat, her blouse sleeves rolled back as she tugged another forkful of rigatoni through the sauce. A half-eaten garden special pizza steamed between them, its crust blistered and charred. Harry tore off a slice absently, eyes fixed on her. He cut into the tiramisu and leaned across with the fork. She wrinkled her nose, laughing, before letting him nudge it past her lips.

The room carried on in its happy din until the television above the bar shifted from a sports recap to the local news. The owner, drying a glass with a towel, turned up the volume. Conversation thinned, laughter dimmed, a ripple of attention traveling table to table until the restaurant hushed almost completely. The anchor’s voice cut into the warmth:

“…The body discovered earlier today, Friday, September 20th, 2002, has been identified as Laura Anabelle Atkins, age twenty—a pre-med student at Yale University from New Jersey. Authorities confirm that the case bears striking similarities to six previous homicides over the past three years. All victims were young women, described as intelligent, accomplished, and promising in their fields. Police sources suggest a possible serial connection, though no suspect has been identified...”

Forks stilled. Plates cooled. Hermione’s hand paused over the platter, her brow drawing tight. Around them, the quiet grew heavier, students staring at the screen, parents shaking their heads, whispers breaking like static in the corners of the room.

Harry’s hand found hers beneath the table, warm and steady, his thumb brushing the curve of her knuckles. He held his silence at first. His Auror instincts had already engaged — suspicion replaced by recognition. The way the anchor described the bodies, always presented with the same meticulous care, struck too sharply to be chance. Whoever did this had a method. Too neat, too careful to be chance. Harry felt the shape of a pattern, familiar enough to raise the hairs at the back of his neck. His jaw tightened. He fixed his eyes on the screen, his grip on Hermione’s hand shifting, protective, grounding.

The owner clicked the volume down. Conversation rose again, softer this time, voices hushed under the weight of what they had heard. Plates were pushed away half-finished. Hermione exhaled slowly and squeezed Harry’s hand back, as if to answer the question he hadn’t voiced.

Harry leaned in, his breath brushing her ear, low enough to thread beneath the clatter of plates and voices. “I brought you your holster,” he murmured. “The slim one — it fits under your sleeve. No one will notice.” His tone carried no sharpness, only quiet insistence, the kind that came from watching her too long to ignore the risks she sometimes let slip.

His thumb lingered at her wrist, tracing the loop of red string knotted there. “Luna told me these will warn us if one of us is in danger. A tingling, sharp enough to feel. Don’t take it off, Hermione. Promise me you’ll keep it on.”

Hermione’s eyes lifted, and the worry in them softened. The corner of her mouth tipped upward. “Constant vigilance,” she said.

“Constant vigilance,” he echoed, the faintest smile breaking across his face. The words hung between them, a habit polished into promise. Still, his hand closed over hers beneath the table, thumb moving in a slow circle. “You’re the sharpest person I know,” he added under his breath. “Smart. Tactical. That doesn’t stop things from catching us off guard.”

Her expression shifted, tenderness catching in her eyes. She gave his hand a squeeze, answering the worry with warmth. “I understand,” she said quietly.

Hermione’s smile softened, though her gaze stayed steady on him. The light hollowed his face, sharpening lines she knew by heart. “You’ve lost weight,” she whispered. “When I’m not there, you forget to take care of yourself. And with those shifts… Harry, I can’t help but worry.”

He tried for a grin, but it faltered before it reached his eyes. His thumb circled over her knuckles, slow, steady. “Sometimes I can’t sleep. Your side of the bed stays cold. Some nights the nightmares creep back in.” He gave a quiet laugh, though it snagged on something raw. “You always knew how to bring me back. I missed that.” He exhaled, searching her face, the noise of the restaurant fading into a blur around them. “I’m managing. And I’m proud of us — you here, me there. But Merlin, Hermione…” His voice caught, softer now. “I can’t wait for you to come home.”

Hermione’s fingers curled tighter around his, then she lifted her other hand to cup his face, her palm warm against his cheek. Her thumb brushed slowly over the faint stubble along his jaw, a smile tugging at her lips. “Me too,” she whispered. “The days are going faster than I expected. October recess starts on the fifteenth—just six days, and I’ll be home.” Her eyes held his, steady and certain. “We’ll manage. Every month, somehow. Calls, messages, visits… we’ll find a way.”

Harry’s answering smile eased some of the tension from his face. He was about to reply when she gave a small shiver, shoulders hunching against the draft sneaking through the door. Without thinking, he slipped out of his blazer and draped it over her shoulders, smoothing the fabric into place before taking her hands between his own, rubbing warmth back into her skin.

“Why do you get so cold so easily?” he asked, brow furrowed with affection more than worry.

Hermione tilted her head, the smallest smile tugging at her mouth. “Because you’re here,” she said, voice teasing, “and you’re better than a hot water bottle.”

He laughed, the sound low and unguarded, and pressed a kiss into her temple. His hands slid up to her shoulders, thumbs working slow circles through the fabric of his jacket. She leaned against him, the noise of the restaurant folding away until it felt like they sat alone.

Neither of them noticed the table across the room. A group of students lingered over their plates, one man among them glancing up just often enough to follow the curve of Hermione’s smile, the touch of Harry’s hand against hers. His gaze carried weight, though it never announced itself.

When they rose to leave, Harry guided her toward the door, his hand firm around hers, cutting a path through the press of chairs. Just as they reached the threshold, a voice carried from behind.

“Hermione?”

She turned. Rachel sat among a crowded table of classmates, nearly ten of them squeezed shoulder to shoulder, half-finished glasses of wine and tall pitchers scattered across the wood. Hermione’s expression lit as recognition sparked. “Oh, hi Rachel! Hello everyone,” she said with an easy smile, pausing at the edge of the table. Her eyes flicked toward Harry with quiet pride. “This is my boyfriend, visiting from home. Harry. Harry Potter.” She added, almost as an aside to him, “They’re in some of my classes — 1L and 2L.”

Rachel brightened, gesturing toward the empty chairs at their table. “Stay a bit! Have a pint with us — just one or two.” The suggestion was light, easy, her smile hopeful. The others nodded, one already lifting a hand to flag the waiter.

Hermione glanced at Harry, their eyes meeting for the briefest second. He tilted his head almost imperceptibly, the smallest crease in his brow, the question written clear: Do you want to? She shook her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. It was answer enough.

“Thank you,” Hermione said, her tone warm though her hand had already tightened around Harry’s. “Harry’s flight is early tomorrow, so we’re heading back now.” She leaned slightly into him as she spoke, her decision firm without apology.

Rachel’s smile flickered before settling again, easy and polite. “Of course — another time then. Bye, Harry. Safe flight. We hope to see you again.”

“Thank you. Bye,” Harry said with a soft smile, his voice echoing gently alongside Hermione’s.

Hermione inclined her head, offered the table a quick goodnight, and let Harry guide her toward the door once more. His hand never left hers.

He stepped ahead to hold the door open, his hand resting at the small of her back as she passed through, a gesture so natural it drew a quiet flush to her cheeks. She glanced up at him, smiling, her eyes alight with something unguarded.

At the table, the man lowered his glass. Surrounded by Rachel’s laughter and the chatter of her classmates, his silence went unnoticed. He observed the way Hermione lit under Harry’s hand, the ease with which she leaned into his touch, the soft curve of her mouth revealed only in his presence. Even among ten others, he could see it clearly: she gave herself away, physically and unreserved, yet only to him.

Hermione had looked at him. A single glance, no more than a breath, her eyes catching his for the briefest flicker of time. Yet it was enough. Destiny announced itself in such small ways — a secret current, a signal carried only between the chosen. Others at the table prattled on, blind and ordinary, but he had seen. He always saw. That instant bound them, proof that she recognized him as he recognized her. Connections like this did not happen by chance. They were fate.

New details settled into his mind with the weight of entries already half-written. Harry’s flight was tomorrow. He now knew his last name — Potter — and it aligned too neatly with the number stitched on her jersey. She smiled at him tonight the same way she smiled when her mobile rang or chimed. A smile held in reserve, saved for someone chosen. He had seen it, marked it, and knew: in time, she would turn that same light toward him.

Harry carried himself with more than casual ease: lean frame, posture balanced, shoulders set as if trained to stand alert. A face cut with youth — no older than twenty-four — yet his gaze held a steadiness beyond it. His accent matched hers: British, neutral, smoothed into habit.

Still, gaps remained: Harry’s occupation, the length of their bond, the depth of what they knew of one another. Rachel, with her eager laugh and leaning posture, offered an opening. If questions came, they would arrive beneath the pretence of interest in her — a compliment angled toward her wit, a remark about her class standing. Curiosity disguised as conversation. She would answer freely, convinced she held his attention. In truth, every word would be measured, another line in the ledger, another step closer.

He did not feel threatened by Harry. A type. All of it too obvious — the lean strength, the green eyes behind glass, the hand at her back as if he owned the right. Attractive enough. Practiced enough. Women had fallen for that before; they always did. Romantic. Sexual. Predictable. A copy of a copy.

It irked him. Not envy. Precision. A man so painfully ordinary holding her in ways that demanded more.

He had never stepped inside her flat, though he could have. But not while Harry lingered there. Not while her body bent toward him in private. No. Control mattered. Timing mattered. He would wait. The moment would be his. His alone.

In his ledger she was untouched. Perfect still. Perfect always.
Harry was nothing. A placeholder.
She would outgrow him. She would see.
And when she did, he would be there. Patient. Certain. Watching.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Chapter Text

The South Terrace smelled faintly of stone, paper, and oregano. Evening light gathered through the glass canopy, gold catching on the long wooden tables where slices of pizza sagged on paper plates and Coke cans sweated rings onto napkins. It was meant to be informal, though everyone knew this was no ordinary dinner. Study groups set the rhythm of the year. Choose wisely, and you had allies for the long nights and exam crush. Choose poorly, and you could spend months stranded with people who drained more energy than they gave.

Rachel sat near the centre; chair angled to command the table without seeming to. She wore engagement as if it were effortless, her smile quick, her questions quicker. The kind of person who never needed to raise her voice, because people leaned toward her automatically. “Hermione, here — sit by Talia,” she said, patting the seat as though she’d been keeping it warm. “You two should meet.”

Talia extended a hand at once, grip firm, eyes bright with genuine curiosity. “Oxford, right? You studied law there? What’s it like moving between systems?” Her voice carried the steady warmth of someone who listened as much as she spoke. Hermione felt her shoulders ease; this one was safe.

Across from them Priya stole Ben’s pen with a grin. “Careful. He’ll add it to his binder. Then it’ll be lost forever, cross-referenced and footnoted until the end of time.”

“It’s an organisational tool,” Ben muttered, tugging it back, though his cheeks flushed. The binder sat between them like a fortress, tabs bristling, pages outlined to the letter.

Simone leaned in before Hermione could speak. “Organisational tool or weapon of intimidation?” Her tone snapped like a whip, chin high, eyes bright. “Honestly, half these readings are written to keep us docile. Did you all see the way the author dodged the equal protection angle?” She launched into a deconstruction sharp enough to draw Avery’s eyes from his quiet post at the far end.

Avery smiled, courteous, hands folded. “You’re right. He sidestepped deliberately. Though I’d argue omission is a kind of tactic. Readers are forced to supply the missing logic. Clever, in its way.”

His tone was smooth, measured. He gave nothing away. Hermione had the strange sense he was always holding something back, as if each sentence had been combed before it left his mouth.

Julian and Celeste occupied the seats just beyond. Julian leaned forward slightly, notes at the ready, though his stillness carried more authority than half the table’s chatter. When he spoke, it was quiet enough to make people lean in. “It’s an omission, yes. Whether clever or lazy is the point worth testing.”

Celeste, seated beside him, stirred only when the debate grew heated. Her voice was level, precise, her pauses deliberate. “Lazy. And irresponsible.” Then she returned to silence, elegant as if she had closed a book. Together they projected a coolness that bordered on aloof, though everyone listened when they chose to intervene.

Malik tapped quietly on his laptop, eyes flicking up now and then with small, sharp glances. He rarely joined in, though when he did it was surgical. “It’s not omission,” he said once, voice low. “It’s framing. He set the terms, so you never got to ask your question.” His gaze dropped back to his screen before anyone could respond.

Avery rolled his eyes. “God forbid Malik let us get away with thinking too loudly.” His sarcasm was quick, rapid-fire, designed to provoke. He thrived on reactions, smirking when Simone bristled, grinning wider when Priya cut him off with a quip.

Noah diffused it all with a story, leaning back in his chair, voice lilting. “Reminds me of Professor Carson’s lecture this morning. You see how his left hand twitches every time someone mentions the First Amendment? Like it’s allergic.” The room broke into laughter. Even Hermione found herself laughing, the kind of laugh that slipped free rather than being constructed. Noah winked. “See? We needed that.”

Rachel glanced around, satisfied with the balance, then leaned towards Hermione. “You’ve been quiet. What do you think?”

The question pulled Hermione forward. She set her slice down, folded her hands, and let herself enter the stream. “The omission isn’t clever. It’s cowardice dressed as scholarship. Clever is finding a way through the question, not around it.”

A hush followed, short but electric. Then Priya clapped once. “Amazing. See, I knew she’d be dangerous.”

Hermione smiled despite herself, warmth rising in her cheeks. For once she didn’t feel like the youngest, or the foreigner, or the girl everyone expected to be studious and silent. Here, her voice landed.

The debate resumed, weaving around her, though Rachel’s gaze lingered, her tone light. “So… how long have you and Harry known each other?”

Hermione’s flush deepened. “Oh,” she said with a smile that slipped unguarded. “We practically grew up together. Boarding school.”

Rachel’s brows lifted, teasing. “Ahhh, that is romantic.”

Hermione’s lips curved, shy and certain at once, the words slipping out softer than she intended. “Yes. Yes, it is…” She felt the table’s attention shift, just slightly, and the realisation made her blush deepen. For once her composure faltered, and she let it.

Priya leaned across the table, grinning. “Of course, she has a perfect love story. Top marks and top romance. Leave something for the rest of us, Hermione.”

Noah tipped his head, his smile warm rather than teasing. “Boarding school sweethearts. That’s rare. You don’t hear stories like that anymore.”

Laughter threaded through the group, easing the tension. Hermione ducked her head, her blush refusing to fade.

The table rippled with a murmur of curiosity, smiles trading between them, questions hanging in the air, though Rachel let it drop before it became interrogation. She shifted smoothly back to the case study at hand, leaving Hermione with a pulse quickened by the thought of Harry’s hand brushing hers across the table at Sally’s, and his coat wrapped around her shoulders against the New Haven cold.

Then Talia leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper meant only half in jest. “You know, you and Harry aren’t the only ones keeping people guessing. The fellows—Julian and Celeste—some say they’re just colleagues. Others swear they’re friends with benefits. Either way, they look damn good together.”

Hermione followed her glance across the table. Celeste’s expression was as composed as ever, elegant in its restraint. Julian, though, looked less distant than usual. When Priya cracked a joke about the reading, he allowed the smallest smile, a flicker of amusement that softened his otherwise measured air. Friendly, open enough to be approachable, yet still carrying the kind of reserve that made people want to lean closer.

The speculation quickly turned back to Hermione, Priya smirking as she propped her chin on her hand. “So, Hermione, does Harry happen to have a younger brother? Or an older one? Or even just a friend you’d trust us with?”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though the blush still lingered at her cheeks. “I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for your own classmates.”

Talia laughed, brushing a curl back from her face. “Shame. I’m still single. Priya’s seeing someone from our section, Rachel’s waiting for someone mysterious… and I’m fairly certain the boys have stopped listening entirely.”

At that, Simone snorted, and the whole table followed her glance toward the next row of seats. Sure enough, Avery and Ben were nudging each other, eyes fixed not on the reading in front of them but on a group of second-years laughing at the neighbouring table. Malik, as usual, kept his gaze on his laptop, though the corner of his mouth betrayed amusement.

Rachel rolled her eyes with the rest, though the look she cast in Julian’s direction lingered a beat too long. The other girls caught it at once, sharing knowing glances and muffled laughs.

Hermione smiled, shaking her head. The banter felt easy, familiar, the kind of teasing that made the long road ahead seem less lonely.

They were still laughing when a shadow fell across the table. A tall figure lingered, hesitant enough to make the pause feel genuine. Elias cleared his throat softly. “Pardon me. I don’t mean to intrude, though the other group across the terrace seems… at capacity. I noticed your table’s a little more welcoming. More diverse, too. If you don’t mind an extra voice — an Asian one at that — I’d be grateful to join.”

His smile was polite, his posture easy without being presumptuous.

“Of course,” Noah said at once, pushing a chair out with his foot. “Come on, sit down. We could use the help balancing Simone’s cross-examinations.”

“Cheek,” Simone shot back, though she was smiling.

The boys shuffled to make space, hands going round in quick introductions. Avery clapped him on the shoulder, Malik gave a nod, Ben offered a hand that nearly knocked over his binder. Elias accepted each with that same quiet charm, saying little, though his eyes seemed to take in every detail of the group before settling in.

Conversation drifted back easily, the pizza cooling on its plates, the outlines forgotten for the evening. Love lives became the new subject, stories traded, questions lobbed across the table with laughter breaking every few minutes.

It was Avery who leaned back, arms folded, grin sharp. “Well, bro, you should count yourself lucky you got shut down by that lot. You’ve landed here with the cream of the crop.” His chin jerked toward Hermione. “Top marks, top romance. She’ll carry the rest of us through finals.”

Hermione felt heat rush to her cheeks again. “Honestly,” she muttered, though the smile pulling at her lips betrayed her.

Elias inclined his head slightly, voice smooth, polite. “He isn’t exaggerating. I’ve seen it myself. You dismantled Professor Miller’s argument last week. Most of us were still fumbling with the text, and you’d already taken it apart. It was impressive.”

The words hung there, not effusive, only measured, though Hermione caught the weight of attention behind them. She shifted in her seat, half-embarrassed, half-pleased, and the table rippled with laughter and groans as Simone declared she wanted Hermione on her moot court team immediately.

Hermione shook her head, the blush still high on her cheeks. “I just read closely,” she said, voice softer than she meant. “It wasn’t anything extraordinary.”

Priya groaned. “Spoken like someone who knows it was extraordinary.”

“Exactly,” Simone added, pointing at Hermione with a breadstick. “That’s why I’m drafting her to my moot court team.”

The table cracked up again, and Hermione hid her grin behind her glass.

Rachel leaned forward, seizing the moment with her usual ease. “Speaking of teams,” she said brightly, “you should all come by my flat before the October recess. The night before, actually. Nothing heavy — just food, music, a chance to unwind before everyone scatters for a few days.” Her gaze swept the table, warm and expectant. “It’ll be fun. Consider it a proper welcome to Yale.”

The table erupted in good-natured teasing, voices tumbling over each other in amusement. Chairs scraped as people leaned in closer, voices a happy jumble. Someone called across for details about Rachel’s party.

Rachel grinned, hand lifted in mock solemnity. “Hermione is only a few doors down from me,” she announced, theatrical and very pleased with herself. “That girl can play the keyboard. When she gets going, it sounds like the whole building has been blessed. Anyone who dares to complain will discover I have opinions about culture. I might very well sue, purely on principle.” Her tone made sue sound like a promise wrapped in mousse.

Priya clapped her hands and whooped. “A concert and a party. I will bring snacks worthy of such a recital.” Simone’s response was a delighted scoff that read like approval. Talia’s smile was softer, delighted in the idea of music and friends gathered in one flat. Noah pretended to be distracted by his phone yet his eyes were bright. Ben was already listing logistical possibilities aloud, colour-coded in the air.

Hermione felt warmth rise again, this time from a place that had nothing to do with embarrassment. “I practise sometimes,” she said, and the sentence came out plain and true. She caught herself smiling before the finish and let the moment sit. It felt proper and small and domestic, the kind of ordinary detail she had missed more than she expected.

Elias inclined his head with that same measured courtesy he carried through the evening. “I heard a snippet in the corridor the other day,” he said quietly. “There is a clarity to your phrasing. It stops conversation, in the nicest way.” The compliment landed differently from the earlier ones, calm and almost private. Hermione blinked, accepting it with a modest nod.

Julian added a quick, amused remark about how music would be an excellent counterpoint to study stress, and Celeste allowed herself a closed-mouth smile that suggested she agreed. Rachel seized the moment, winking at Hermione. “You will play a piece before midnight,” she declared as though she possessed scheduling authority. “That is the agreement.”

The banter reshaped itself into plans. Someone volunteered a playlist, someone else an extra speaker, and a few voices discussed bringing spices and good bread. The conversation folded back into the easy, lively cadence that had given Hermione the sense she belonged. She sat a little straighter, a small private thrill at the thought of an evening among people who would listen and laugh and cheer her on.

“Sorry,” she murmured, lifting the phone and giving it a small shake by way of explanation. “Time zones.” A few knowing smiles flickered across the table.

She rose quickly, tucking a curl behind her ear as she stepped away from the group. “Hi, Harry…” The words slipped out low, softer than she meant, though she was already out of range for them to catch much more.

From the table, they saw what she could not hide: the way her free hand moved as she spoke, tracing small arcs in the air. The way her smile unfolded easily, unguarded, her whole face alight. Whatever weight she carried through the day seemed to ease in those moments, her posture loosening, her steps lighter as she paced along the glass.

Back at the table, Avery let out a long whistle, leaning back in his chair. “Weirdly cool, isn’t it? Meeting someone who actually grew up in boarding school. Makes her sound like she walked straight out of a novel.”

Noah laughed. “A very clever novel. With better dialogue.”

Priya rolled her eyes, though she was smiling. “Don’t make it a fantasy. She’s just one of us — she just happens to be terrifyingly good at dismantling professors and in love with a boy who sounds like he’s stepped out of one of those BBC dramas.”

Elias, who had been quiet until then, glanced toward Hermione, then back at the table. His tone was mild, almost casual. “Forgive me for asking. Who is she talking to?”

Rachel’s smile warmed as she answered. “Her boyfriend. Harry. He visited last week. British, like her. We all met him at Sally’s.”

“Boarding school sweethearts,” Noah added with mock solemnity. “The stuff of legend.”

Elias inclined his head, the smallest flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth. “I see.” His voice gave nothing more away.

Hermione’s voice still carried faintly from where she stood apart, her laughter soft over the phone. At the table, Avery tapped the sleek black thermos Elias had set down, its etched silver lettering catching the terrace light.

“What’s written there?” Avery asked.

Elias turned it without hesitation. “My name. Cho Hyun-woo. Elias is my English name.”

Rachel leaned in, studying the characters. “It looks beautiful,” she said warmly. Then she winced a little. “I’m not making it sound like a novelty, am I?”

Elias shook his head, a small smile curving briefly. “No. It’s just my name.” He reached into his bag for a binder, flipping it open as though to find a note he had tucked inside. A loose folder slid forward with it, pages catching the evening breeze. Among them lay a sheet worn soft at the edges, pencilled with neat annotations. The title at the top glimmered faintly in the terrace light: FAE Sonata.

When Hermione returned to the table, slipping her phone away, her eyes fell on the page at once. Her step slowed. “Frei aber einsam,” she said quietly, recognising the shorthand in the upper margin. “Schumann, Dietrich, Brahms.”

Elias’s gaze flicked to her, steady, almost curious. “You know it.”

“Yes,” Hermione said, folding her arms as if to guard herself from sounding too eager. “It’s not often played. Too uneven across movements, though the third…” Her eyes moved briefly across his pencilled notes. “The Scherzo has its own brilliance.”

He inclined his head. “Then you’ll have to play it with me. Piano and violin. At Rachel’s party.” His tone was calm, courteous, though it carried a quiet certainty that left little room for deflection.

Rachel grinned, delighted. “Perfect. A recital in my living room. Who needs Carnegie Hall when we’ve got this?”

The table hummed with fresh laughter, Priya threatening to sell tickets, Avery asking if requests were allowed. Hermione settled back into her seat, cheeks still faintly pink from Harry’s call, though her eyes lingered on the score. She loved the music. More than that, she loved the energy of this group. It had been a long time since she had sat among people her own age, debating law one moment, teasing about music the next. The rhythm felt easy, light, alive.

Priya leaned in suddenly, eyes bright and a little triumphant, as though she’d just remembered a winning card. “Oh! I nearly forgot — my boyfriend, Tony, fences sabre. We were both at the last competition, sitting right up in the stands. When you took gold, we just looked at each other like, ‘Wait — isn’t that Hermione from our section?’ It was such a moment. You were brilliant out there.” She grinned, shaking her head in mock disbelief. “Honestly, I don’t know how you’ve kept that quiet this long. Congratulations.”

A ripple of reaction passed around the table — impressed whistles from Avery, Simone smacking the table with a delighted laugh, Noah raising his brows as though recalibrating what he knew about Hermione.

Hermione ducked her head, her cheeks colouring, though the smile tugging at her mouth gave her away. “It wasn’t anything like that,” she said softly. “Just a school competition. Thank you,” she added, voice gentler now, before lifting her eyes toward Elias. “But Elias is new too. We should hear more about him.”

The attention shifted, the conversation tilting toward Elias as glasses were lifted and plates nudged aside, the night carrying on with warmth and rising voices.

Chapter Text

The door swung open on the small flat, light catching first on the wall above her desk. Photographs crowded the space in neat, deliberate rows: afternoons on windswept hills, crowded benches, hands ink-stained from essays, Harry’s arm slung around her shoulders in almost every frame. The boys slowed as they stepped inside, their chatter faltering for a beat while their eyes adjusted to this unexpected intimacy.

Noah leaned closer to one of the frames, eyebrows rising. “Wow—you guys look, what, eleven? Twelve maybe?” It showed a cosy common room, firelight spilling across three small figures on a sofa, robes hanging loose on narrow shoulders, smiles still boyish and uncertain.

Hermione felt her face warm though her mouth curved with the memory. “Harry was my first friend,” she said quietly. Her finger moved to the lanky redhead on the other side. “And this is our other friend, Ron. We all met on the train to school the very first day.”

“Whoa,” Avery said, leaning closer. “You’ve literally known them forever. That’s kind of insane.”

Malik tilted his head toward another frame, one where Harry, Ron, and Hermione stood ankle-deep in snow, scarves crooked around their necks, cheeks pink with cold. “Is that all still your boarding school?”

Hermione nodded, a smile tugging. “Yes. Winters were long up there.”

Noah pointed lower, where a ginger blur sprawled across a windowsill. “Okay, and who’s that? Please tell me that cat’s yours.”

Her laugh escaped, light and unguarded. “Crookshanks—yes, he’s terribly spoiled. Harry’s looking after him while I’m here, though I made him promise not to overfeed him.”

Avery crouched closer to the photos, tapping the glass gently. “So the only childhood friends still around are the guys? That’s rare. My friends from middle school all scattered, the girls especially.”

Hermione’s smile softened, though she shook her head faintly. “That happens,” she said. Her tone made it clear she would go no further, her eyes already turning back toward the keyboard.

The moment stretched until Simone’s voice cut in from the doorway, light and teasing. “All right, you lot are hogging her. I need a tour too before you cart everything off.” She leaned against the frame, grinning as Avery pretended to groan under the weight of the keyboard stand.

“Fine, fine,” Avery muttered, angling toward the hall with exaggerated effort. Malik followed, the paper bag balanced neatly in his arms, Noah behind him with a laugh. Their noise faded at once, leaving Hermione to roll her eyes at Simone. A smile tugged at her lips anyway.

“Elias, would you take the other bag by the door? Julian, the cable’s just inside the cabinet.” She spoke evenly, though colour touched her cheeks. It still felt strange, letting people move so freely through her space. Elias stooped to lift the sack, the smell of bread and cheese escaping as he straightened. Julian retrieved the coiled wire with careful precision, placing it on the table as though it were something delicate.

The others crowded toward the keyboard, half-useful, half-comic in their efforts. Avery barked directions he clearly didn’t understand, Malik worked steadily at the tangle of cords, and Noah offered running commentary without helping. Hermione let them fumble for a beat, her lips curving despite herself, then stepped in to guide the process. Her voice steadied the room, her movements set the rhythm. The flat filled with their energy, easy and unforced, and for the first time it felt less like a solitary refuge and more like a place that could carry laughter without breaking.

The door shut behind the last of them, their voices fading down the hall. Silence settled back over the flat, broken only by the faint rustle as Simone drifted toward the photographs on the wall. She studied them quietly, her arms folded, a wistful smile tugging at her mouth.

“You’re lucky,” she said at last, her tone lighter than her expression. “I keep hoping I’ll stumble into someone like that. A soulmate.”

Heat rose in Hermione’s face before she could stop it. She looked down, then back at the frames, Harry’s grin fixed forever in time. “We… went through quite a lot before we finally started choosing each other,” she admitted softly.

Simone’s smile sharpened with curiosity. “Then you’ll have to tell me the story sometime. Over coffee, maybe. Just us.”

Hermione nodded, a shy smile tugging at her lips. “Okay,” she said, barely above a whisper.

Simone looped her arm through Hermione’s as they stepped into the corridor, their shoes tapping softly against the worn floorboards.

Rachel’s flat buzzed warm and bright when they entered, lamplight glinting off half-empty glasses and the sweep of mismatched chairs gathered into circles. Simone’s laugh cut sharp through the air as she argued with Ben about case precedent, Priya scribbled something on a napkin for Noah, who leaned in with rapt attention, while Malik stood quietly nearby, listening more than he spoke.

Rachel swept through it all like a conductor, topping up wine, nudging conversations forward, until she spotted Hermione and all but pulled her in. “Finally! Now we can start properly.”

Julian was leaning against the back of a chair, his posture measured yet open. He greeted her with the same even warmth he seemed to offer everyone: the kind of smile that held just enough space for the other person to fill in what they wanted. Celeste, elegant as ever, perched on the arm of a sofa with her glass balanced delicately, her dark hair tucked neatly behind one ear.

Then Elias appeared, violin case in hand, almost shy yet with a steadiness that came from somewhere deeper. He opened it without ceremony, drew out the instrument, and glanced toward Hermione. “Do you mind?” he asked, voice polite, almost formal.

Her stomach fluttered. She shook her head once, a wordless answer, and crossed to the keyboard. The fallboard lifted with a soft click, her fingers hovering just above the ivory. Elias set his bow, they shared one look — a beat, a breath — and without another word, they began.

The first notes of the FAE Sonata Scherzo burst into the air, bold and bright. No rehearsal guided them, only instinct. Her hands struck the keys with crisp assurance, each chord laying the ground beneath his line. Elias answered in kind, his bow slicing sharp yet warm, the phrases darting, teasing, answering back with a quicksilver wit. The rhythm locked almost immediately, the pulse of it steady, alive, as though both had carried the piece within them long before this night.

The music filled the flat, playful yet urgent, tripping forward in bursts of energy then pulling back with sudden restraint. She leaned into the syncopations, her footwork sure at the pedal, while his tone soared above, clear and resonant, the violin cutting like light through glass. They moved together without hesitation — no nods, no signals, only breath and instinct — her phrasing giving him space to leap, his cadence pulling her into sharper clarity.

Conversation fell away. Laughter died mid-syllable. The air itself seemed to still around the sound, until only the music remained: a dialogue without words, threaded between keys and strings. By the time the final chord rang out — her hands sinking deep into the keys, his bow stretched across the last shimmering note — the silence that followed was almost reverent.

Then applause broke, too loud, too sudden, as though the room itself startled at being released.

Rachel clapped the hardest. “Who needs Carnegie Hall when we’ve got this?!”

Priya leaned across Simone, eyes shining. “All right, next time I’m selling tickets.”

Hermione drew back from the keys, breath quick, cheeks flushed with the exertion and the sudden attention. Elias lowered his bow with the same calm he had begun with, though his eyes held a flicker of something brighter now.

He reached across the narrow space, palm open. Hermione blinked once, then let out a quiet laugh and slapped her hand against his in a clean high five. The gesture felt absurdly simple after the music they had just made, yet it broke the last of the tension, sent a ripple of grins through the room.

“That,” Elias said, voice low yet certain, “deserves a real piano.” His smile was brief, almost hidden, but it lingered as he closed the violin case with practiced care.

Hermione felt another laugh rising, shy but genuine. For a moment, the noise of the party pressed around them, yet the echo of the sonata still hummed beneath her skin, alive in her hands.

Even Julian’s calm expression shifted into something resembling admiration, his hands coming together once in quiet applause. Celeste only smiled faintly, as though she had expected nothing less.

Hermione ducked her head, cheeks flushed, laughter tugging despite herself. The teasing rolled on — Avery claiming he’d shout requests during exams, Simone swearing she wanted Hermione on her moot court team. For the first time since arriving, Hermione let the sound of her own laughter settle comfortably in her chest.

Rachel leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Encore. Come on — something romantic. Salut d’amour.”

The room buzzed with agreement, voices rising, glasses lifted in encouragement. Hermione hesitated, the heat in her cheeks flaring again, though Elias was already drawing the violin back into place. His bow touched the string, a quiet invitation.

She set her hands against the keys once more, and together they began. The melody unfurled softer this time, tender and lyrical, her chords steady as a heartbeat while Elias’s violin line traced above like a voice in confession. The chatter dimmed again, the room held by the sweetness of it, until the last notes dissolved into air.

Talia clapped first, her laughter breaking the silence. “Forget law school. You two could quit right now, tour the world, be famous. We’ll read about you in The Times before we ever make it into a courtroom.”

The group erupted in cheers and mock-serious nods, glasses raised toward them both. Hermione shook her head quickly, laughing despite herself, and Elias only gave a small shrug, his calm returning as easily as if none of it had happened.

Hermione laughed, a quick, flustered sound that broke through the noise. “My parents would kill me. Worse than getting expelled—and I used to think that was the end of the world.”

The table howled, half in mock horror, half in delight. Talia grinned, clapping once. “See? Tell your parents you’re practicing for a moot court,” she teased.

Elias gave a small, amused shrug, eyes meeting Hermione’s for a fraction of a second before he looked away. The music had settled into them both, warm and secret, and the party folded back around that ease.

Chapter Text

He lingered at the edge of the crowd as she said her goodbyes, slipping into her coat with an ease that drew fond protests and promises of “next week” from the others. He followed at a distance, his step matched to hers, each movement swallowed by the narrow corridor. No one noticed him. No one ever did.

By midnight, she was on her way to London. Her voice had been light, her farewell threaded with affection, and her friends had smiled through it all. Still, the fact scraped at him. She had taken her warmth, her laughter, her music, and crossed the ocean, while he remained in New Haven with nothing but shadows.

She was well liked, more than he had anticipated. Not loud, never grasping, yet people leaned toward her instinctively. They wanted her approval, her presence, her smile. She gave it in careful measures, just enough to keep them reaching. That balance — warmth without waste — marked her apart. Discipline lived even in her laughter.

And then there was the music. The sight of her at the keyboard had tightened something in him, a chill rising sharp against his skin. No rehearsal, no stumble — her hands moved as though the keys had been waiting for her. The sound had dragged him back against his will, to Grace. Grace at Juilliard, Grace at the piano, Grace with her hair pulled back and her eyes full of a future that did not include him. She had chosen the music instead of him, chosen ambition instead of devotion. He had given her a place in his life, and she had discarded it with a smile.

Hermione’s playing struck that same nerve, the same clean betrayal, though she had never wronged him. Her hands, her discipline, her composure — they carried Grace’s ghost in every note. Grace had been an unfinished sketch, too hasty, too early, left imperfect in his ledger. Hermione was different. Hermione would not escape the frame.

When he circled back to the hall, her door was locked and her windows dark. He waited in the hush of the corridor, listening for footsteps, voices—anything. The building had settled into sleep.

From his coat pocket, he drew a slender tool, something unremarkable to most eyes. Her flat had always unsettled him—something in the air, a quiet resistance he couldn’t name. But tonight, it yielded.

He knelt, quiet and practiced, the metal slipping into the lock with a soft click. No one passed. No one looked. The latch gave under his hand. He stepped inside.

Her scent hit first. Faint traces of shampoo — vanilla — clung to the air, woven through the sharper, clean edge of her lavender soap. He closed the door behind him, drew in a breath, and let it fill him. He moved through the small space as if it were already his, touching the spines of books, trailing his fingers across the desk, pausing at the wall of photographs where Harry’s face appeared again and again.

The bedroom drew him in with its quiet order. The sheets carried her still, the faint warmth of her skin pressed into fabric. He lay down across the narrow mattress, turning his head to the pillow where her hair had left its trace. She favoured the right side. He could see it in the deeper crease, the way the duvet folded. He smiled, then froze.

On the left pillow, folded neatly, waited a jersey. Potter 07.

The sight struck him like a blow. His chest tightened, heat rising sharp under his skin. She had left this behind, laid it there with care, as though she belonged to another man even in sleep. Rage prickled cold along his spine. He pressed his hand against the number, fingers curling until the fabric strained in his grip.

The jersey mocked him. Every stitch declared her absence, her allegiance, her unguarded smile given elsewhere. He sat there, breathing hard in the darkened flat, the scent of her soap and the sight of that jersey warring within him until the need to act burned too sharp to swallow.

Tomorrow, there would be another correction.

The jersey burned in his vision long after he had left the flat. Hermione’s scent clung to him, threaded into the folds of his coat, yet it was Harry’s name that seared across his mind. Potter 07. Grace had chosen Juilliard, left him standing in silence, and now Hermione dared to lay claim to another man’s embrace. Rage blurred the edges of his discipline. He told himself it was temporary. He told himself patience remained the law. Still, the fury needed an outlet.

Marina Holloway was the outlet. Too young, too eager, too trusting. She had smiled when he first spoke, the kind of smile that suggested she mistook attention for safety. He had not chosen her carefully; she had been there, close, convenient. That sloppiness gnawed at him even as he took her apart piece by piece, her fear rising in waves he could not savour. She cried too quickly, pleaded too easily, every “please” dissolving into the same whimper. He spent hours with her, hours trying to summon the charge that usually came cleanly, efficiently. Nothing reached him. In his ledger she would have only a single word: The Angel. A voice trained for hymns, a crucifix at her throat, faith that bled through even her last cries. A symbol, nothing more.

Even as she pleaded, even as he gripped her, it was Hermione’s face that surfaced. Not the fear before him, but Hermione at the keyboard, eyes alight, cheeks flushed, wholly absorbed in the FAE Sonata. That look of unguarded concentration, of music spilling through her with no thought for who watched, eclipsed everything else. He saw her again at Sally’s, Harry’s hand curled around hers, his lips brushing her temple, her smile soft and unguarded in that moment. He saw the photo wall in her flat, rows of images where she leaned into him, Harry’s arm draped across her shoulders as if it belonged there. The images tangled with Grace — Grace bowing after the recital, Grace walking away toward Juilliard, Grace stilled at last in his ledger. He tried again and again to anchor himself in the body before him, yet each attempt fractured, breaking against the memory of Hermione’s face at the keyboard and the sight of that jersey folded neat upon her pillow.

When Marina’s body slackened, he felt no triumph. Only the echo of frustration, raw and unfinished. She had been too meek, too dull, too far from the perfection that haunted him. He blamed Hermione for this failure, for the way her absence had unmoored him, driven him to haste. Yet even as he left Marina arranged with care, posed in the posture of piety he always granted his freed, he whispered forgiveness to Hermione. She remained untouchable, still perfect. She had earned the right to misstep. She would never be Grace.

She had gone still hours earlier, her breathing spent in sobs that had dwindled into silence. Middle child, raised in faith — he could see it in the crucifix that had hung at her neck, in the way her voice broke when she whispered prayers under her breath. He had not listened to the words, only to the rhythm of them, the cadence of belief used as a shield. Fear had bent her posture, clenched her hands, drawn tears along her face. He wiped them away as he always did, not with tenderness but with a need to erase.

There was anger beneath the care—the jersey on Hermione’s pillow still flamed in his memory—and yet the anger coexisted with a perverse tenderness. He forgave her small trespasses in words reserved for himself: she had erred; she remained pristine in his thinking. The mess of Marina’s quickness only sharpened his resolve to be better, cleaner, more patient with what he considered art.

He dressed her. The clothes were simple, modest: a plain blouse buttoned to the throat, a skirt smoothed until it lay flat against her legs. He gathered a stray lock of hair and tucked it behind her ear as if tucking a lover’s hair from their face, though his touch was clinical, almost reverent in its restraint. He folded the sleeves along the forearm with patient hands and arranged the fabric so the fall of the skirt echoed the drape he had admired in old devotional paintings.

Her wrists he bound with a thin length of cotton, knotting it with care so the crossing formed a soft, tidy X across her lap. The knot was hidden on the underside; nothing here needed to shout its construction. He arranged her hands with the same eye he had used to arrange pages in his ledger: fingers relaxed, palms softened, thumbs resting against the curve of the index. He placed a single hand across the other as one would position a model’s hands in a classical photograph.

When he stepped back, he considered the posture with the eye of someone who had long traded feeling for form. Fear had been scrubbed away; the face now held a stillness he preferred—the quiet suggested acceptance. He smoothed one last crease in the skirt and tilted her chin a fraction so the angle of light caught the cheekbone the way the museum photograph did. In his head the tableau merged with a painting he had once seen: a young martyr, calm amid ruin. The comparison comforted him. It made the act not an ending but a statement.

He took trinkets. Not trophies, exactly—just small things, quiet things. He also carried away, in words, the scene itself: the fold of fabric, the curve of a wrist, the way light fell across a cheek. He catalogued firmness and softness, the right angles, the small details that fed his idea of perfection.

He carried her through the night, the small crucifix heavy in his pocket, her body light in his arms. The forest path gave under his steps, leaves damp with early autumn rain, the air sharp with pine and earth. This place suited her more than the flat had: open sky above, silence pressing from all sides, a stage without walls.

He set her down with deliberate care. The grass bent beneath the weight of her, the skirt smoothed again where it had creased in his arms. He folded her hands over her lap, ropes neat, head tilted to catch the faint spill of moonlight through the trees. In this posture she resembled what he wanted her to be — not a girl who cried or pleaded, but an emblem. Faith and stillness arranged in flesh.

She had been gone six weeks. Long enough for silence to grow teeth, for whispers to turn into rumours. Long enough for her name to climb the church steps where her family still prayed, for hope to ache where grief should have been. When the hikers stumbled on her — and they did, the path too well-trodden to resist — the story was already waiting. Missing girl. Body arranged with care in the woods. The world gave her to sorrow. His ledger gave her to completion.

He lingered one last moment on the composition before retreating into the trees. The crucifix thudded against his leg with every step, her weight already shifting into recollection. Hermione remained elsewhere, untouchable for now — yet even in absence, she had guided his hand. Forgiven, as always.

Chapter Text

The shift in the mattress was slight, yet his body knew it before his mind surfaced. Harry stirred, eyes still closed, senses sharpening the way they did on long nights when every sound mattered. The faint rustle of fabric, the soft brush of cold skin against his arm — he registered her instantly. Hermione. Even in sleep, he would have known.

She slipped beneath the duvet with care, her hair damp from travel, her breath carrying the faint chill of the London air outside. Her weight pressed close, cautious at first as if she hoped he would stay asleep. He turned toward her before she could settle, arm sliding instinctively around her waist, drawing her against him. She fit into the curve of him as though she had always belonged there.

“Home,” he murmured into her hair, voice rough with sleep yet steady. His eyes stayed shut, holding the moment like a secret. She exhaled, a long, quiet sound that melted into his chest. The hum of the city beyond their window faded. For the first time in months, the other side of the bed was warm again.

Hermione burrowed closer, her nose brushing the rough stubble along his jaw. He breathed her in, the scent of her shampoo cut through with the sharper tang of travel, the kind of detail that rooted her to this precise moment, to him. His thumb traced a line at her waist, skimming over the fabric of her shirt until he found skin. Warm, soft, familiar.

She lifted her face, lips parting against his with the urgency of someone who had held back for too long. The kiss was unhurried at first, then deepened, her hand sliding up into his hair, anchoring him. He kissed her back, pouring into it the longing and quiet ache of weeks spent waiting for this one breath, this one return. When she broke away, she was already smiling, cheeks flushed, eyes bright in the half-light.

Harry rolled her gently beneath him, careful, reverent. Their laughter hummed low between kisses, dissolving into sighs as touch replaced words. His hand cradled the side of her face, thumb brushing the flush in her cheek, while her fingers dragged lightly down his back, pulling him nearer. They moved together slowly, a rhythm less about urgency than recognition, as though they were relearning one another after weeks apart. The city outside remained hushed. In this room, only their breath filled the space, warm and close, a language older than words.

Her cheeks were already warm from his kisses, her breath quickened by the way he held her—weeks of separation distilled into the intensity of his touch. She tried to say his name, yet the sound dissolved into a sigh when his hand slid to the small of her back, pressing her closer. He kissed her again, deeper this time, until she felt dizzy from it, her fingers tangled in his hair.

Harry drew back just enough to whisper, his voice low and rough, brushing across her lips. “Get on top of me, love.”

The words sank into her, heat flooding her skin at the quiet certainty in his tone. For a moment she only looked at him, her heart thundering, cheeks burning. She lay beneath him steady, eyes locked on hers, green and unwavering. He was asking, never demanding, offering her the space to choose.

Hermione laughed softly, nervous and thrilled in equal measure, and shifted her weight. She straddled him with care, her knees sinking into the mattress on either side, her hair falling forward in loose waves that brushed his cheek. His hands rose instinctively, resting at her hips, firm yet reverent, as if he feared she might disappear if he held too tightly.

She bent forward, kissing him with sudden boldness, her hands braced against his chest. He responded instantly, one palm sliding up her back, the other tilting her face to deepen the kiss. Their movements found a rhythm, slow and deliberate, each shift of her body answered by the press of his hands, the soft catch of his breath.

“Merlin, I’ve missed you,” he murmured against her mouth, the words breaking into a groan as she kissed along his jaw, her lips brushing the rough stubble there. She smiled, brushing her thumb over his cheek, then let her mouth trail to his ear, where her whisper drew a sharp intake of breath from him.

The room narrowed to warmth, breath, the press of bodies rediscovering each other. Every sigh, every gasp threaded between them carried the weeks of distance, the longing they hadn’t dared put into words across phone lines. When she finally stilled against him, her forehead resting against his, they were both flushed, trembling, and smiling with the unguarded joy of finding each other again.

The kiss stretched, unhurried, her hair tumbling loose around them like a curtain. He slipped one hand up into it, tangling his fingers at her nape, holding her there with a tenderness that made her knees weaken even as she straddled him. His lips moved with quiet hunger, parting hers, coaxing a soft sound from her throat that made him groan low in reply.

“Hermione,” he whispered, voice almost broken with it, his forehead resting against hers. She felt his chest rise and fall beneath her palms, fast and uneven, and knew her heartbeat raced the same.

She kissed his temple, then his cheek, her lips brushing along the edge of his jaw before finding his mouth again. He followed her lead, each kiss deeper, slower, as though they were relearning the shape of one another. His other hand slid up her back, fingertips tracing along her spine until she arched into him, her breath stuttering.

Her laugh came soft and shaky, spilling against his lips, and he smiled in answer before kissing her again, harder this time. The sound that left her throat was half surprise, half delight, her hands fisting in his shirt as if she could anchor herself against him.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, the words rough with sincerity, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth as he spoke. Her blush flared hotter, and she hid her face briefly in his neck, breathing him in. He only held her tighter, his hand firm at the small of her back, his body arching into hers as though he couldn’t get close enough.

Her laughter stilled into silence when Harry’s lips left hers and began their slow descent. He kissed along her jaw, the hollow of her throat, pausing only long enough to breathe her in. His hands steadied her hips as though she were something fragile, though the heat in his eyes told her he had no thought of letting go. He shifted, one hand sliding behind her back, the other guiding her hips, gently coaxing her down until she lay beneath him, her back meeting the cushions in a slow, deliberate descent.

When his mouth reached her collarbone, Hermione’s breath faltered. She tipped her head back, a soft sound escaping unbidden. He lingered there, tasting her skin, before pressing another kiss lower, then lower still. By the time his lips reached her stomach, she was trembling, her fingers threading through his hair, desperate to anchor herself.

“Harry,” she whispered, her voice breaking on his name.

He glanced up, his smile crooked, reverent, before his lips moved again. Down the curve of her thigh, pausing at her knee, then back upward along the inside, his tongue brushing just enough to draw a gasp from her throat. Each kiss was slow, deliberate, meant to unravel her.

Her hands tightened in his hair as her legs shifted involuntarily, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths. She bit her lip, a moan slipping past anyway, betraying her. He groaned low in response, the sound vibrating against her skin.

She trembled harder when he lingered there, teasing, refusing to rush. Her back arched, a plea forming in her throat though she could hardly find the words. He drew it out, prolonging her need, every sigh and broken whisper from her lips pulling him deeper into devotion.

When her breath finally caught on a long, helpless moan, he murmured against her skin, voice rough with restraint. “I’ve missed this… missed you.”

Her answer was only his name, gasped, repeated as though it was the only word she remembered. Her fingers trembled in his hair, pulling, pushing, caught between wanting more and wanting him never to stop. Each kiss, each stroke of his tongue, pulled another gasp from her throat until her voice broke into something closer to a sob. The tension coiled low in her body, sharp and sweet, unbearable in its urgency.

“Harry—don’t stop—” The plea fell from her lips, breathless, undone.

He answered only with a groan, deep and raw, as though her voice alone could undo him. His hands pressed more firmly at her thighs, guiding, anchoring, refusing to let her slip from the rhythm he set. Every movement was precise, deliberate, the pressure shifting just so, coaxing her higher until her breath fractured into helpless sounds. He slowed deliberately, savouring each gasp, as though he meant to memorize the exact way she unravelled beneath his touch.

He didn’t rush. His hand slid lower, steady, certain, until she jolted beneath him. A sharp breath escaped her, broken, raw. He pressed deeper, his movements slow, deliberate, testing until he found the angle that made her cry out.

She writhed against him, every nerve alight, the room reduced to the heat of his mouth, the insistence of his hand, and the pounding of her heart. Her head tipped back against the pillows, curls tumbling wild, lips parted around his name again and again.

The pressure built until it snapped, sharp and blinding. Her body arched, her cry filling the small room, broken and beautiful. He stayed with her through it, steady, unrelenting, until she collapsed back into the bed, trembling, spent.

But her body wasn’t finished. Even as the first tremors ebbed, her hips kept lifting to meet him, chasing the sensation she couldn’t let go. He held her steady, his grip both grounding and unyielding, until her cries slipped into incoherence. The pressure climbed again, sharper, fiercer, each movement wringing another sound from her throat. The shudder built relentless, overwhelming, until it broke through her with raw force. His name tore from her lips again and again, dissolving into breathless moans as she unravelled in his arms, this time harder, longer, unrestrained.

When she reached for him, pulling him up to her, his mouth found hers with desperate hunger. She tasted herself on his lips, the intimacy so startling, so overwhelming, that she whimpered against him. He kissed her through it, deep and claiming, until she could barely breathe.

“Always you,” he whispered when they finally broke apart, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath ragged. “Only you.”

Her laugh came shaky, soft against his lips. She cupped his face with trembling hands, kissed him once more, and whispered back, “Take what you need.”

Harry groaned low in his throat, his forehead pressing to hers as his rhythm grew ragged. His breath came fast, uneven, each movement carrying the weight of weeks apart, of sleepless nights and too many empty mornings. He buried his face in her shoulder, teeth grazing lightly at her skin as if to hold himself together.

“Can’t—” His voice cracked, hoarse with restraint. “Hermione—”

She threaded her fingers through his hair, tugging him back just enough to meet her eyes. Her thumb brushed his temple, steadying. “Let go,” she whispered, her voice firm yet tender. “I’ve got you, Harry. Let go.”

The words broke through him, shattering the last thread of control. The tension that had coiled through him snapped at once, his whole body bucking against hers as the release tore through him. He groaned her name, raw and reverent, clinging to her like he might come apart if he let go. Hermione held him through it, her hands stroking his back, her mouth pressing soft kisses along his cheek and jaw until the shudders eased.

When he finally lifted his head, breathless and undone, she was smiling at him through her own flushed haze — steady, sure, as though she had been waiting just to see him fall apart.

She tightened around him for a long moment, fingers splayed across his back, trying to memorize the shape of him. The air in the room hummed with the slow coming-down of adrenaline; every breath tasted like the other. He moved with her, neither hurried nor hesitant, finding small, slow ways to keep them both anchored in the present—a thumb rubbing the pad of her palm, a long, lazy kiss at the base of her throat, a low murmur of nonsense that made her laugh through the dampness in her eyes.

When they eased apart, it was only inches. Harry kept his hands at her hips, as if the contact itself could steady whatever trembled under the skin. He watched her face — the way her lashes still fluttered, how her mouth curved into a grin that was half sleep and half delight. She reached up, fingers tracing the faint stubble on his jaw, and he closed his eyes at the contact, the hush of it like prayer.

She exhaled, her body sinking into his, the quiet ease of someone who had finally reached safe harbour. He tugged the duvet higher around them, wrapping them in a cocoon of warmth, the bed narrowing into a private island. They lay side by side, foreheads touching, words traded in fragments that held no weight—small things, the kind of sentences two people save for when the world outside feels far away.

He told her about a ridiculous minor thing at work that had kept him awake, the cadence of it silly, and she laughed, the sound a bell in the dark. She told him about the party, the sonata, the way Elias had found the exact phrase in the scherzo that made her chest flip. Their voices rolled over each other like warm waves, intimate and safely trivial, until talk thinned into whispered names and the comfort of repetition.

Harry cupped her face then, thumb wiping a sleep-smear from the corner of her eye as if it were a small imperfection to be fussed away. He kissed her slowly — a kiss that asked nothing, promised nothing extravagant, simply marked presence. “You smell of home,” he murmured, and she shoved her nose into the curve of his neck, breathing him in as if to anchor herself here as much as he anchored her.

She found his hand and threaded their fingers together, lacing and unlacing them as conversation dipped and rose. His palm fit her wrist like habit; its heat was quiet reassurance. He traced the red string at her cuff with one fingertip, then stopped, not wanting to break the spell by asking too many questions. Instead, he pressed a thumb to the knot and let the silence say whatever needed saying: I’m glad you’re home, you’re safe, I love you.

Hours could have passed in those small acts. At one point she curled up against him completely, knees tucked, the slow even rhythm of him under her like a metronome. He hummed into her hair, a half-song he used to croon when things were raw and small again, and she answered with a breath against his collarbone. Outside the window the city murmured; inside, time softened.

At dawn, light leaked in pale and forgiving. Neither of them stirred much, wrapped in the cocoon of warmth they had remade together. Hermione traced a lazy pattern on his chest, her fingers soft, her eyes half-lidded, content.

“You’ve got Auror shift today?” she murmured; her voice thick with sleep.

Harry tightened his arm around her, his thumb brushing along her arm in absent reassurance. “Supposed to,” he admitted, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Filed for leave the moment you said you were coming home. They’ll survive without me a few days.”

Her smile curved, shy and pleased against his skin. She tilted her head to kiss the hollow of his throat, and he exhaled, content to stay exactly where he was. Their fingers laced together above the sheets, breathing in rhythm, holding on to the quiet miracle of being here — together, safe, warm — with nowhere else more important than this bed.

Then she pressed her toes against his shin and he flinched with a startled laugh. “Bloody hell, Hermione, your feet are freezing.”

She grinned, unrepentant, and wriggled closer. “That’s what you’re for.”

Harry shook his head, chuckling as he kissed the top of her hair. “I’ll get your thick socks in a bit. Can’t have you freezing me to death before breakfast.”

Crookshanks purred loud enough to rattle, kneading at the blanket before collapsing in a ginger heap across both of them. Hermione laughed, burying her face in his fur, while Harry shook his head, amusement tugging at his mouth.

“He ought to learn some proper chores,” Harry murmured, reaching over to scratch Crookshanks behind the ears. “Fetching your socks would be a start. Instead, all he does is demand rubs and food.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, though her smile softened as she kissed the cat’s head. “He’s perfect as he is,” she said, her voice muffled in fur.

Harry chuckled, tugging the duvet higher around them all. Morning pressed gently at the window, yet inside the room the air stayed warm, lived-in, unhurried.

Chapter Text

The flat smelled of corned beef, onions, and potatoes crisping in the pan, the promise of brunch drifting in from the kitchen. Harry sat with Hermione curled against his side on the sofa, his arm stretched along the backrest, thumb brushing her shoulder in idle circles. The telly murmured in the corner, a morning presenter droning on about politics, football scores, then shifting seamlessly into the news bulletin.

“Police in Connecticut have confirmed the identity of the woman whose remains were discovered late yesterday evening. Nineteen-year-old Marina Leigh Holloway, a Filipina-American student, disappeared six weeks ago after choir practice. Holloway, the daughter of a retired American Navy officer and a local schoolteacher, had recently received a scholarship to study drama and film at New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts. Friends described her as a gifted singer with dreams of one day playing the role of Kim in Miss Saigon.”

Hermione shifted against him, shoulders tightening, while Harry’s arm instinctively pulled her closer.

The anchor’s tone deepened. “Authorities believe Holloway is the eighth victim in a series of killings now referred to as The Curator Murders. Sources confirm that her body was arranged to mirror a well-known painting, The Young Martyr by Paul Delaroche. Each of the previous victims was discovered in a similar pose, their presentation meticulous, precise. Police have identified a person of interest, the last individual seen with Holloway after choir rehearsal, though no arrests have been made.”

The screen cut to footage outside a modest New Jersey home. Marina’s father stood at the front step, uniform stiff on his frame, voice breaking despite its discipline. “We prayed every day she would be found safe and alive. We prayed. We never imagined this.”

Harry exhaled sharply, jaw set hard. He took Hermione’s hand and threaded his fingers through hers, his grip firm as iron. “The last two,” he said quietly, eyes locked on the telly. “Yale. Too close to you. Too close from home.” He pressed his lips into her hairline, voice lower now, steadier, as though that alone could anchor her. “You’re safe here,” he murmured.

Hermione said nothing. She leaned into him, her silence weighted, her gaze fixed on the shifting images on the screen, her thoughts drawn inward where words could not reach.

Harry didn’t let go of her hand, not until the news shifted back to sport and weather. Only then did he ease his grip, his body taut with a restlessness that couldn’t stay still. He stood, crossed the room, and pulled a folded map from his satchel on the desk — the Yale campus map he had tucked away since his visit.

He smoothed it flat on the table, the paper creasing where his fingers pressed. “Where did they say?” he asked, though the answer was already lining up in his head. The broadcast had been vague, yet he traced the area with precision, marking an X near the edge of the Green with his quill. “Six weeks,” he muttered, staring at the mark as if time itself could be measured in ink. “She was gone six weeks before they found her.”

Hermione watched from the sofa, arms wrapped around her knees, though she said nothing.

Harry straightened, a decision hardening across his face. “I’ll check the DMLE archives. See if they’ve got copies of the American papers from the earlier murders. Dates, patterns, details the Muggles might’ve missed.” His tone had dropped into that clipped cadence she knew well — Harry as Auror, piecing fragments into structure. He tapped the X once more, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “This isn’t random. Whoever’s doing this… they plan. They escalate.”

He looked back at her then, the Auror vanishing for a beat, leaving only Harry — her Harry — who crossed the room to kneel at her side. His hand found her cheek, warm and steady, his thumb brushing just beneath her eye. “I need you to be safe, okay?” he said softly.

Hermione leaned into his touch, nodding once, words caught somewhere she couldn’t quite reach. The warmth of his palm lingered even as he drew back, returning to his seat beside her. The quiet between them held for a breath, two, enough for the weight of her promise to sink in.

Then her mobile buzzed against the table, sharp and insistent. Hermione blinked, the sound pulling her out of the stillness. The screen lit up with the group thread that never seemed to sleep. She swiped it open, thumb hesitating when she saw Rachel’s name at the top.

Rachel: Elias was just brought into the station. Lunch break and boom, gone.
Simone: Wait WHAT??
Talia: Connected to Marina. Same choir. Same church. Sacred Heart.
Ben: Last one to see her that night.
Priya: And it was him + his family who found the body up in the mountains.

Hermione sat a little straighter, heat pricking the back of her neck. She read the thread twice, three times, making sure she hadn’t misunderstood.

Noah: Good thing he has a solid alibi. Twice, actually. Still… police are checking everything.
Malik: Doesn’t matter, they’ll keep looking at him. Too many links.
Rachel: Yeah. Poor guy. He looked wrecked when they walked him out.

The dots blinked. Then another message appeared.

Julian: We should help him when we can. Even small things. Notes from class, someone to walk with, that sort of thing. Innocent until proven guilty, yes?

Hermione’s thumb hovered above the keyboard, then retreated. She couldn’t summon the right words — not yet. Elias’s violin, his quiet smile, the way his bow had found her chords with uncanny ease — those images felt too fresh against the ugly press of headlines and suspicion.

Harry returned from the kitchen, mug in hand, and glanced at her expression. “Bad news?”

She shook her head, screen dimming in her palm. “Just… the group,” she said quietly.

Hermione scrolled back through the thread, then angled the phone toward Harry. He leaned in, reading the stream of messages in silence, his brow furrowing at the mention of Sacred Heart and the mountains.

He set his mug down on the table, the sound deliberate. “They’re already building a case,” he said, voice low. “Last seen, family connection, found the body. Enough threads to keep him under a microscope, even if they don’t hold.” His thumb tapped once against the rim of the mug. “Might be worth looking at the overlaps. Who Marina knew. Where she went. Who else turns up in those spaces.”

Hermione drew her knees tighter, phone warm in her hand. Harry’s eyes flicked back to hers, steady, measured. “How did you feel around him?” he asked quietly. “Safe? Or… something else?”

She hesitated, searching for words that didn’t sound foolish. “We’ve never really talked, just the two of us,” she said at last. “So I can’t claim to know him. Though—” she glanced down, her thumb tracing the edge of the phone “—when we played the FAE Sonata, I did feel… safe, in that moment. He listened. He matched me. No push, no posturing. Just… music.”

Harry’s gaze sharpened, though he gave a small nod, waiting.

“He does keep to himself, though,” she added, more thoughtful now. “Not unfriendly, just… apart. I’ve seen him drift at the edges of things. And—” her mouth pressed briefly into a line “—I think he’s had a harder time of it. Some of the boys joke without thinking, and… he didn’t seem to belong anywhere until Rachel waved him over.”

Harry’s hand covered hers, warm and grounding. “That tells me enough,” he said softly.

Hermione let the phone dim again, the silence between them filled with the echo of the news anchor’s voice, the weight of names and patterns neither of them could ignore.

Harry didn’t reach for his notes or the map again. Instead, he stayed close, thumb brushing gently across her knuckles. His eyes, however, carried the alertness she knew too well — the way he weighed a room, the way he catalogued.

“You’ve been practicing,” he said carefully. “Your wandless spells. Anchoring.” It wasn’t quite a question, though his tone left room for her to answer.

Hermione met his gaze directly. “Yes,” she said, quiet but steady. “Though it isn’t the same there as it is here, with you.” Her smile flickered, small and unguarded. “You’ve always been my anchor. London makes it easier — I can feel the difference the moment I step back into this flat.” She paused, then added, more deliberate, “I know I need to strengthen the mental anchor too. I’ll work on it. I promise.”

Harry’s jaw eased, though the line of tension in his shoulders didn’t quite vanish. He squeezed her hand, grounding himself in the feel of her pulse beneath his thumb. “Good,” he said softly. “Just… keep it sharp. Let it settle into you, so it’s there even when you’re tired, even when no one else is.”

Hermione leaned forward, closing the space before his vigilance could turn into self-reproach. She kissed him, light but certain, her smile brushing against his mouth. “I will,” she said softly. “And you mustn’t worry so much.”

He gave a low laugh at that, the sound threaded with something she could feel beneath his ribs — worry was stitched into him too tightly to be unwound with words. Still, he let her kiss linger, his forehead resting against hers, anchoring them both.

A thought seemed to catch him, and his mouth curved just slightly. “Has the fencing helped?” he asked. “The discipline. The focus.”

Hermione’s eyes warmed, a spark of pride breaking through the heaviness. “Yes,” she admitted. “More than I expected, actually. It keeps my mind exact, and it’s… fun.”

“Fun,” Harry repeated, voice laced with wry affection. His grin tilted, boyish, as he leaned closer. “You do look bloody brilliant in that suit, though. It’s doing dangerous things to my self-control—not that I had much to begin with.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed despite herself, and she swatted at his arm with mock exasperation, though her smile betrayed her.

Harry’s grin only widened. “I’ll have you know,” he said, lowering his voice in mock seriousness, “I’m well acquainted with other fun things besides fencing.” He waggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated, suggestive arch.

“Harry,” she said, her tone carrying both fondness and warning in equal measure.

“What?” His grin turned shameless. “Good for stamina. Builds discipline. Requires focus.”

Hermione shook her head, though her lips curved against her will. “Brunch first. Then stamina and energy, if you insist.”

Harry’s laugh rang full and unguarded, the sound bouncing warmly off the walls. He tugged her hand, rising from the sofa with a stretch, then coaxed her up beside him. “Fine. Brunch it is.” His hand lingered at the small of her back as they crossed into the kitchen together, the smell of corned beef and eggs curling around them, grounding them in something ordinary and safe, if only for the morning.

Chapter Text

Flourish and Blotts smelled of ink and parchment, comforting in its familiarity. Harry’s arm rested easily across Hermione’s shoulders as they walked between the shelves, her eyes drifting toward him while he spoke of catching up with Neville and Luna before she left again. His voice was light, teasing about Luna’s new theories, and his thumb traced absently against her arm, reluctant to let her go too soon.

The bell above the shop door chimed, and the air seemed to shift. Hermione turned just in time to see Ron step in, tall and unmistakable, freckles standing out against the sudden flush rising in his face. “Harry, mate,” he said, voice thick with surprise. His gaze flicked to her, softer, almost shy. “Hi, Hermione.” The words carried a warmth she hadn’t heard from him in months, tentative yet genuine.

Before she could answer, the bell rang again, and Ginny emerged behind him. Her eyes snapped first to Hermione, then to Harry, narrowing with a force that left no room for doubt. She didn’t speak a greeting. Her mouth pressed into a line as she turned toward Ron. “Let’s go,” she said briskly, not bothering to mask the disdain in her glance.

Harry shifted instinctively, angling his body toward Hermione to shield her from the sharpness of Ginny’s stare. Hermione touched his arm in quiet reassurance, then laced her fingers with his, steadying the moment without speaking. As Ginny tugged him toward the street, Ron hesitated, casting one last look back at them—a glance caught between apology and longing—before the door shut on their retreating figures.

“She’ll learn to accept it eventually,” Harry said after a beat, his voice low, certain.

Hermione nodded, her hand squeezing his once. “Maybe next time I come home,” she murmured, “we should ask Ron out. Lunch. Dinner.”

Harry’s mouth softened into a small smile, eyes never leaving hers. “Yes,” he said. “We should.”

Harry’s hand tightened on hers. Without a word, he guided her deeper into Flourish and Blotts, past tables stacked with new releases and customers shuffling through parchment bundles, until they reached a narrow alcove tucked between tall shelves. The smell of dust and ink hung heavy there, the bustle of the shop muffled by the stacks. With a subtle flick of his hand, a soft hum filled the air — Muffliato — sealing them into their own quiet.

Only then did Harry turn fully to her, his hands settling on her shoulders. His green eyes met hers with a raw intensity that made her breath falter. “Hermione,” he said quietly, “none of this is your fault. Not a bit of it. I’ve loved you since we were teenagers—probably before I even understood what love was meant to feel like. And it took me far too long to admit it. I was daft, too afraid to say it first. After the war, I thought going back to Ginny was what I ought to do, what everyone expected. But I was only pretending. That wasn’t living. That was me, trying to play the part.”

He exhaled, the corner of his mouth tugging in something close to a self-deprecating smile. “I’m rubbish at this sort of thing, you know that. I never get the words right. But with you… I’ve never felt more at home. You don’t just complete me. You challenge me. You make me grow. You make me more than I ever thought I could be. Merlin, I’m hopeless at saying this right. But I know one thing — I’m the luckiest bloke alive to have you.”

Her lips parted, her breath caught. “Harry—” she began, eyes shimmering. “It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m the lucky one.” She tried for a smile, though it trembled.

She laughed, a short, unbelieving sound, then steadied. “With you… I’ve never known a place that felt more like home. You don’t just hold me — you push me, you make me braver, you make me try for things I’d been too careful to reach for. You make me better than I was on my own.”

He shook his head, leaning closer until his forehead almost touched hers. “I… I might not say it enough,” his voice caught, rough with honesty. “I love you, Hermione. You are it for me. Always.”

Her throat tightened, the words rising from somewhere deep and certain. “I love you more, Harry. You are it for me too. Always.”

For a long moment they only looked at each other, everything else falling away. Then he drew her into him, his arms firm around her, holding her—anchor and air in one. His lips found hers, slow and certain, then her temple, her hair, each kiss reverent, mapping the truth of his love onto her skin. He breathed her in deeply, eyes closing, imprinting her into him with every beat of his heart.

Hermione smoothed her hand along his cheek, her voice steady, gentle. “We’re okay. We’re okay.” She meant it, though as she looked at him properly she saw something deeper carved across his features. He carried the encounter outside more heavily than she had. Her brows drew together. “What’s wrong, Harry?”

His eyes flicked to hers, raw in a way few ever saw. “I can’t lose you,” he said quietly. “I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime.”

Her chest tightened. She framed his face with her hands, grounding him with touch. “You won’t. I’m not going anywhere.” A smile tugged, soft and teasing all at once. “I’ll go with you wherever you want. We’ll grow old together, Harry.” Then she leaned in, pressing playful kisses across his jaw, his temple, the bridge of his nose. Harry’s breath broke into a laugh, the tension loosening at last.

That was when a boy, no more than seven, rounded the end of the aisle, gawking. “Mum! Harry Potter and Hermione Granger are snogging!!!”

Hermione jerked back, her cheeks burning scarlet, while Harry stifled a laugh and fumbled into his bag. He pulled out the old invisibility cloak with a triumphant little flourish. “Well,” he murmured, tossing it over their heads, “can’t say we weren’t warned about the hazards of fame.”

The cloak settled around them, muffling the shop into a hazy quiet. Hermione buried her heated face against his shoulder, shaking her head. “Merlin’s beard…” she muttered, though a reluctant laugh escaped her. Harry steered her toward the door, his hand finding hers beneath the folds, both of them invisible to the gawking world.

They slipped into the street, the air crisp, the bustle of Diagon Alley carrying on as if nothing had happened. It was only once they reached the cobblestones outside that Hermione stopped short. “Oh—stationery! I meant to get notebooks.”

Harry grinned, squeezing her hand. “You can have mine. Merlin knows I’ve got more parchment and quills in my office than I’ll ever use.”

She swatted his arm through the cloak, her laugh brighter now. “That is not the same, Harry James Potter.”

He ducked his head, lips brushing her hairline in quick apology. “Then I owe you proper ones. Consider it a date.”

Hermione rolled her eyes fondly, tugging him along. “Come on. We’ll be late for tea with Luna and Neville.”

Together they moved down the Alley, their steps light, the cloak trailing behind.

The tea shop was warm against the October chill, its windows misted with steam and the air fragrant with bergamot and sugar. Chairs scraped as Neville rose at once, a broad smile spreading over his face. “There you are!” he said, stepping forward to pull Hermione into a brief, careful hug that still carried the weight of old camaraderie.

Luna followed, rising with her usual unhurried grace. She pressed her cool fingers lightly around Hermione’s hand as if greeting her with a secret only she knew, then tilted her head to Harry. “You look less tired than last time,” she observed dreamily, as though commenting on the weather.

Harry chuckled, pulling out a chair for Hermione before dropping into the one beside her. “That’s Hermione’s doing,” he said, his hand brushing her back with unconscious familiarity.

Plates clinked onto the table — currant scones, jam pots, small cups already waiting. The shop buzzed with the soft rumble of conversation, the occasional laugh rising above the hush. For the first time all day, Hermione felt the knot in her shoulders loosen.

They poured tea, steam curling between them, before Neville leaned in, his voice gentler now. “So,” he asked, eyes steady on her, “what time’s your Portkey?”

“Ten tonight,” Hermione replied, adjusting her napkin on her lap. “That’s five in the afternoon in New York. Then another two hours by train back to New Haven. Enough time to catch up on my reading.” She smiled faintly, though Harry’s hand pressed at her shoulder as if to remind her she didn’t need to justify every minute.

Luna poured tea into her cup, movements dreamlike as always. “And when will you be home again?” she asked, her eyes fixed on Hermione as though she already knew the answer.

“Thanksgiving break,” Hermione said. “November twenty-seventh through December first.”

Luna set down the pot, reached across the table, and folded her cool hand over Hermione’s. “Travel lightly,” Luna said, her gaze distant yet unblinking on Hermione. “Keep safe, and remember—some people are kinder than they seem. Let them in.” Her voice carried a quiet weight, the kind that made Hermione pause.

“Thank you,” Hermione said softly, giving Luna’s hand a squeeze. “I will.”

Harry’s thumb rubbed a slow circle into her shoulder, the gesture steady, grounding, as their tea cooled between them.

Plates of scones and jam arrived, the steam from their teapots curling up like smoke signals. Harry buttered one absently, but his eyes never left Hermione. “Did you tell them?” he asked suddenly, mischief edging into his tone.

Hermione frowned. “Tell them what?”

“That you took gold at your last fencing competition.” His grin widened when Neville’s brows shot up and Luna leaned forward, eyes bright with curiosity.

Hermione groaned, covering her face for half a second before lowering her hands. “It’s hardly—oh, honestly. It’s a sport. Like dueling class, only without wands, with swords.”

Neville let out a low whistle. “So basically dueling class, then,” he said, laughter in his voice. “Only with less chance of turning your opponent into a toad.”

Harry snorted, nearly spilling tea. Hermione elbowed him lightly, though the blush climbing her cheeks betrayed her amusement.

Luna tilted her head, her gaze going soft and faraway. “That does sound rather unfair to your opponents,” she said serenely, as if remarking on the weather. “You think in patterns most people never see. They must feel like they’re fencing smoke.”

Hermione flushed deeper, ducking her head. “There are far better fencers than me,” she protested.

Neville shook his head, smiling with quiet certainty. “I don’t think so.”

Harry reached across to cover her hand with his, his thumb brushing a small circle into her skin. “Neither do I.”

For a moment, the table held its breath, wrapped in quiet affection, the kind that didn’t need words. Then Neville reached for his tea, his tone shifting gently. “Harry, will you be back at work tomorrow? I might have to stop by the Ministry. Something about new safety wards for Hogwarts.”

Harry nodded, his hand still covering Hermione’s. “Yes, I’ll be there. Come find me.”

The conversation drifted on, soft and steady, the four of them cocooned in the warmth of the little shop, steam rising from their cups and laughter threading through the quiet.

Luna’s pale eyes wandered to the clock above the counter, as if it had just whispered something to her. She set down her teacup with the kind of finality that felt more like a pause than an ending. “We should be going,” she said, her voice light, almost curious. “Professor McGonagall is expecting us. She doesn’t like being kept waiting… although I suspect she secretly enjoys it. It gives her time to rearrange her thoughts into neater shelves.”

Neville gave a soft huff of laughter, pushing his chair back. “She’ll be more than cross if we make her wait longer than that.” He reached for Hermione’s hand across the table, squeezing it warmly. “Take care, Hermione. And don’t work yourself to pieces.”

Hermione’s expression softened, fondness tugging at the corners of her mouth. She returned the squeeze, her gaze steady on his. “I will. And thank you, Neville. Really.” Her smile deepened, touched with gratitude. “Send her my regards. Tell her I’m studying hard. Or at least trying.”

“We will,” Luna said, rising with her usual unhurried grace. Her fingers brushed Hermione’s, passing something invisible. “She already knows. Feelings travel faster than owls.”

The bell above the door chimed as they slipped back into the hum of Diagon Alley, leaving Harry and Hermione alone at their little table. The quiet that followed was different — heavier, closer. Around them, spoons clinked against china, a waiter refilled a sugar pot, voices murmured at other tables. Ordinary sounds. Yet Harry’s focus never left her.

Harry turned toward her, enclosing one of her hands in both of his. His green eyes met hers, steady but shadowed with something unspoken. “Hermione,” he said, her name quiet and weighted. “I still worry.” The words came slowly, reluctant in their honesty, pulled from somewhere deeper than caution. “About the Curator. Promise me you’ll walk home with someone when you can. Don’t stay too late at the library. And keep your wards up every night.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles, a small, tender movement that contrasted with the gravity of his words, like he was trying to anchor her to the moment, to him.

Hermione felt her throat tighten. She squeezed back, offering the steadiness he was searching for. “Yes, love,” she murmured. “I will. I promise. And you — promise me you’ll eat properly, and keep yourself safe too. I know what you’re like when you let the work take over.”

Harry’s mouth curved, though the tension in his shoulders lingered. “Robards loves me so much that the only battles I fight these days are with parchment piles. Truly harrowing.” He tilted his head, eyebrows lifting with mock solemnity.

The quip broke the heaviness like a crack of light, drawing a reluctant laugh from her. Harry’s hand stayed around hers, steady, anchoring, until at last he tugged her closer across the narrow space between their chairs. His other hand closed around both of hers, rubbing warmth into her fingers with a quiet focus that said more than words.

Hermione let herself lean in, her shoulder brushing his, the press of his body solid and familiar. Around them, cups clinked and voices rose in low conversation, yet for that moment she felt only the circle of heat where his hands covered hers, steadying, grounding, as the rest of the world blurred to background noise.

Chapter Text

She was different now. Changed since London. He had watched the shift take root, subtle at first — her steps lighter, her mouth curving more often, though never carelessly. She smiled, yes, though it was still measured, still hers. He had tracked the pattern across days, and every time it appeared, it needled at him. Something had happened there, across the ocean. Something that sharpened her glow.

The boy was always near. The one from her team. Not always beside her, never just the two of them, yet there he was when groups drifted from the library into the night, when clusters broke apart and still he lingered close enough to match her stride. He walked her toward her flat sometimes. Too close, too frequent, too steady. A presence she allowed. That was the part that soured.

When she returned from London she had given chocolates, a quaint gesture. Honeydukes, she said, from a tiny shop in the Scottish Highlands with no website or storefront, just a crooked door and shelves of impossible sweets. Wrapped and ribboned, a piece for each. He had held his untouched for days before finally opening it. His was different — he knew it the moment his eyes traced the detail. Special. His hand had trembled around it, the faintest quake of recognition that she had chosen him. He never liked sweets, yet he had eaten it whole, let the chocolate dissolve on his tongue like sacrament.

Outside her flat, the wrongness had returned. A heaviness in the air, a resistance that made no sense. His tools — precise, reliable — had opened her lock once before with ease. Now they slipped, stuttered, refused him. The tumblers resisted as though someone had changed more than metal. He tested, measured, tried again, the failure tightening like a fist around his patience. It wasn’t the lock. It was something else. Something unseen.

He told himself it was her. Even absent, she guarded what was hers. The space seemed to resist intrusion because it recognized her belonging. To him, it was almost confirmation: her world already knew she wasn’t meant for anyone else.

Still, he had what he needed. A sliver of her world: the faint trace of vanilla from her shampoo, lavender from her soap. He had searched everywhere for them — pharmacies, boutiques, even international imports — but nothing matched. Not exactly. They belonged to her alone. Singular. Unrepeatable.

Later, when he lay with another, it was not her voice he heard. It was Hermione’s. The sharp cadence she used in debate, syllables clipped, certain, driving her opponent into silence. The low hum of her breathing in lecture halls, steady and even until a question roused her and the rhythm caught for half a beat. He saw her lips wet as she licked them in thought, the unconscious pout when she pressed too hard against a problem, the faint mark of her teeth when she worried the edge of her pen. He could almost taste her from those details alone, the phantom of her mouth breaking open under his.

It was Hermione’s form that filled his head. The girl beneath him was pliant, eager, taking each shift of his weight without resistance. Hermione would never be so easy. He had watched her on the fencing piste, blade flashing, footwork exact. He had seen the way she strung her bow in the archery field, the steadiness of her hand, the whip-crack precision of her kickboxing strikes. Discipline sharpened every muscle, every line of her body. To meet her, he would need to endure. He would need to impress. He could not afford to falter.

So he used this one as rehearsal. He moved with force, harder, faster, demanding more of himself, driving his body into fatigue then past it, chasing the strength he knew she would expect. Her nails raked his shoulders, her mouth spilling approval, and he fed on it without slowing. Each thrust became an act of training, each gasp from her throat a measure of how long he could last. In his mind it was Hermione testing him, Hermione watching, Hermione deciding whether he was worthy.

The woman gasped as he moved harder, rougher, her nails digging into his back. She liked it. Her body opened to the rhythm he set, the urgency that drove him. In his mind it was Hermione shifting, Hermione trembling, Hermione’s skin he marked. He remembered the way she hugged herself in the cold of an air-conditioned room, arms folded tight across her chest, how she bent once to pick up her bag and a line of lace peeked from beneath her blouse. That brief flash lived inside him now, carrying him forward, her body filling the absence of the stranger’s.

A few more days. That was all. His plan needed perfection, and perfection required patience, though patience had become harder to hold. He no longer wanted to wait for the next break, no longer wanted to count the hours until she went home again. The sooner he could show her what they could be — what they already were — the better.

And yet there was a barrier. The boy, steady at her side, eyes too fixed on her. Harry was not the threat — Harry was oceans away. This one, though, kept putting himself between them, interfering, pretending at closeness that was not his to claim. A factor. A flaw in the design. Flaws could be corrected.

****

She reminded him so much of his sister. The way she carried herself, the quiet confidence in her step, even the way her wit cut through a conversation at just the right moment. Both beautiful, both sharp enough to stand out in any room. He hadn’t been home when it happened. His parents had taken the call from her school — asking why she hadn’t turned up for orientation. He’d been with his grandmother then, told to stay put, told to wait. He remembered her last message, her voice light, saying she’d arrived, that she was about to go out and meet a friend. Then nothing.

God, he missed her. They had been close, impossibly close, speaking nearly every day. She had filled the house with brightness, her laughter catching even the dullest moments and turning them into something to remember. Without her, silence seemed permanent. His parents weren’t the same now, both swallowed by grief in their own ways. He often wished he had been there, that he could have driven her, walked her in, insisted she let him stay. Maybe then—maybe—he could have saved her.

Even scent could undo him. His sister had worn Vanilla Lace from Victoria’s Secret, sweeter, heavier, impossible to mistake. Hermione carried a subtler note, vanilla edged with lavender, so faint it only lingered when she passed close by. The first time he caught it he had gone still, blindsided, the ache tearing too sharp through his chest. He’d excused himself, muttering something about needing air, because for one suspended moment he could not breathe.

He closed the folder with care, fingers pressing flat against the worn edge, as if stilling the paper could quiet the grief that never left. Three years, and the ache hadn’t dulled, yet time had done nothing but sharpen it. At first the waiting was worst, the weeks of not knowing, every phone call carrying the chance of news. He had thought that was the hardest part. Then they found her. Arranged as though she were an angel at rest, her dignity stripped away, her body marked by suffering she had never deserved. His sister, who had been raised with only gentleness, who had known only care, who had protected him from bullies at school when they were children. By middle school the roles had shifted, and he had become her shield. Except when it mattered most, he hadn’t been there.

He could still hear his father’s wail when the news came, a sound so raw it shook the walls. His mother had collapsed in the hallway, fainting dead away, and he had stood frozen, refusing to cry, holding himself upright because someone had to. Someone had to remain intact while everything else cracked. That was the day something in him hardened. He would study law. He would learn systems, statutes, the rules of power that might have given them answers. He would not stand helpless again.

Even chocolate carried her ghost. She had always loved the local brands, the small discoveries that most overlooked. On their one trip to Switzerland she’d insisted on Frey, wrinkling her nose at Lindt and Toblerone as “too common.” He remembered the mischief in her grin when she’d pressed a bar into his hand, saying it was the best kind because it wasn’t the obvious choice. That memory flickered again when Hermione had passed out Honeydukes chocolates after her return from London. He had savoured his piece slowly, more than the taste, holding onto the reminder that small joys could still carry weight.

Now, each time the news broke of another girl, the wound tore open fresh. The two most recent deaths scraped too close, their details haunting in their familiarity. The way the bodies were found, arranged with care, the strange reverence in the cruelty — it all pressed against old memory. The police called it coincidence, pattern, possibility. For him it was something else entirely: recognition.

Sometimes, when the group gathered, the ache stirred. He kept his place quietly, watching. One presence always drew his attention: the way certain eyes lingered too long on Hermione, the way stillness could tilt into something that felt like watching. He had no proof, nothing he could point to, and yet the hair on his neck lifted when they came near. He said nothing. He only stayed close. Hermione was strong — just like his sister had been — yet he knew strength could sometimes mean stepping forward without seeing the edge.

Her boyfriend seemed steady, solid, though far away. He had no wish to intrude, no wish to be mistaken for anything else. It was enough that Hermione seemed to trust him, enough that she let him share space in small ways. It gave him a chance to do what he hadn’t been able to do before: to keep someone safe, even if only in the quiet ways.

Chapter Text

The walk from the library was sharp with autumn air. Hermione wrapped her coat tighter, and Rachel’s chatter filled the quiet streets easily.

“South Terrace is already buzzin’ about the 1Ls,” Rachel said with a grin, sweet as iced tea. “Julian’s as grounded as ever — friendly, approachable, but you always get the sense he’s just a step removed, like he’s sittin’ back and watchin’ the rest of us with that quiet little smirk of his. Celeste is… well, bless her heart, she’s just Celeste. And Elias —” her shoulders lifted, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Half the girls think he’s handsome and brilliant. The other half think he’s handsome and brooding. Either way, sugar, he’s handsome enough to make a preacher stumble.”

Hermione smiled faintly, not quite committing. “He seems capable,” she said carefully.

Rachel leaned in, her grin sly and syrupy. “Talented too — Korean, could pass for an actor or one of those K-pop heartthrobs. And Malik Klein — born in Singapore, German and Chinese parents, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, hair that never dares misbehave. Put the two of them together and honey, it’s like a Calvin Klein ad come to life. Funny thing is, they hardly say a word to each other when it’s just the two of them. Like statues — beautiful, but silent.”

Hermione’s brows rose, but Rachel was already off and running. “Avery Williams — have you laid eyes on that boy? Those eyes could’ve been painted by angels. And Noah Winslow? Lord help me, the man plays hoops shirtless and I swear the campus nearly burst into flames. Those abs. That smoulderin’ stare. It’s downright sinful.”

She sighed, almost swooning. “And Ebenezer — Ben Newton — now that name might be old-fashioned, bless it, but the man himself? Pure American charm. Rugged, broad-shouldered, like Superman just strolled in wearin’ a button-down and askin’ for lecture notes. Honestly, it’s downright unfair.”

Hermione laughed outright, shaking her head. “You sound like you’re narrating a romantic novel.”

Rachel clutched her chest like she’d been struck by heartbreak. “Months, Hermione. Months with nothin’ but outlines and lukewarm beer. And now I’m surrounded by boys who look like they’ve stepped straight outta glossy magazines, and what do I get? A highlighter and a headache. Lordy, I might could write a ballad about the injustice.”

She sighed, tipping her head back like the burden of beauty around her was simply too much to bear. “And Julian Devon. Tall, solid, built like he oughta be gracing the cover of Sports Illustrated, and yet… he only ever sees Celeste. Always Celeste. I declare, it’s a tragedy—the good Lord hands all that to one man and he doesn’t even glance at the rest of us.” Her hand swept through the air, dramatic and dismissive, like she might banish the injustice with a flick of her wrist.

Hermione’s mouth curved, but her voice stayed level, crisp. “Tragic, really. Perhaps you should write a letter to the editor of that sports magazine you’ve imagined. Demand justice.”

Rachel laughed, bumping her shoulder against Hermione’s with a wink. “Oh, you!! You’d never admit it, but I know you notice too, sugar. Don’t think I missed that little blush.”

Hermione only shook her head, lips still tugged faintly upward. Inside, though, she felt the odd twist of recognition. Rachel, for all her easy charm and older age, still seemed younger somehow — eager, wide open, prone to dramatics in a way Hermione hadn’t allowed herself in years. It never stopped surprising her, how old she sometimes felt standing beside her.

Rachel’s sigh turned into a slow, honeyed grin. “I swear, sugar, your whole batch is just plain unfair. Either downright gorgeous, scary smart, or both. It’s like the good Lord sprinkled a little extra charm on y’all before you even showed up.” Her gaze drifted sideways, deliberate and playful, settling on Hermione with a twinkle. “Must’ve been somethin’ in the water at that fancy boarding school of yours. Because your Harry?” She let the silence linger, lips curling like she knew exactly what she was doing. “Mmm. He looks good—real good. Those curls? Lord have mercy, they could start a riot.”

Hermione gave a small laugh, the sound edged with shyness. “Yes, well… he does,” she admitted, voice softer, the warmth in her cheeks betraying her.

Rachel caught it immediately, delight lighting up her face like sunshine through magnolia leaves. “See? You’ve got that glow about you since you came back from London, sugar.” She tipped her head, all exaggerated mischief, then added with a wink, “And it ain’t just the Honeydukes chocolate you brought back, either.”

Hermione rolled her eyes at the teasing, but a laugh slipped out before she could stop it, her smile widening with genuine amusement.

Chapter Text

The law library carried its usual hush, the kind that made every sound sharper — the slide of a chair, the shuffle of a page, the scratch of pens moving across notes. Lamps burned low, islands of gold against the cavernous dark, while clusters of students held their corners like small garrisons.

Their group had claimed a long table near the back, books and notes spreading into the shared space. Simone’s voice cut through first, low and decisive as she underlined something in the margin of a thick casebook. Malik hunched quietly over his laptop, earbuds looped loose around his neck, though his eyes tracked everything. Ben was already surrounded by a fortress of binders, while Avery leaned back, chair tipped dangerously, hands painting arcs in the air as he told a story that made Priya smirk without looking up from her notes.

Hermione slipped into the space between Avery and Priya. She set her books in a neat stack, coat folded carefully across the back of her chair. Across from her, Noah leaned forward with his usual lazy grace, elbows braced against the table, while Elias was already there too, posture contained, his gaze flicking from page to page with a precision that made him look untouched by the din.

For a moment, the table balanced between noise and silence. The faint laugh that Avery chased, the steady line of Priya’s pencil, the rustle of Simone’s notes, the glow of Malik’s screen. And Hermione, in the middle of it, unhurried as she uncapped her pen and bent to the page, the room seeming to pivot around her.

Noah leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting from the open casebook to the rows of shelves. He liked these hours, when the campus emptied and the only sound was the scratch of pens or the faint hum of a printer in the corner. Across from him, Hermione’s pen tapped once against the margin before she wrote. She had that habit: A beat. A pause. A strike. Almost musical, and he found himself waiting for it without meaning to. Not that he was watching her. Not exactly.

He smiled faintly at his own thought, shutting the book with a soft thud. Everyone watched Hermione in one way or another. Some admired her wit, others the way she dismantled an argument like it was scaffolding she had built herself. For Noah, it was simpler. He liked the steadiness. The sense that if the room fell apart, she’d still be there with a plan. He wondered if she ever noticed him back. Probably not. Still, he didn’t mind waiting.

Noah let his pencil roll across the desk, the sound faint against the library’s hush. He wasn’t writing anymore, not really. His notes had drifted into the margin, neat lines that no longer connected to the case at hand. Hermione sat opposite, curls spilling forward as she scribbled in a hand that never slowed. She folded so deeply into her work that even Avery’s half-baked jokes or Priya’s sharp quips blurred into background noise.

Noah watched the way her mouth pressed into a line, then softened again when she paused to think. The smallest shifts felt significant. Like she was carrying on a conversation no one else could hear. He turned back to his own page, jaw tightening slightly. Just curiosity, he told himself. He forced his eyes back to his page, though the words blurred into nothing.

Across the table, Elias was quiet as always, pen moving with that precise rhythm of his. If Noah was honest, he couldn’t tell whether Elias was actually working or simply listening — to them, to her. There was something unreadable in the way his gaze flicked up now and then, catching on Hermione before sliding away again.

Their eyes met for half a second. Noah smirked. Elias didn’t return it. He adjusted the folder in front of him, neat even in the dim lamplight. Hermione’s pen kept moving, her focus unbroken, though Avery’s voice carried from beside her with some half-joke about tort reform. She didn’t laugh, not exactly, but her mouth twitched in the faintest way — the sort of acknowledgement Elias noticed more than the joke itself.

Elias’s pen moved with its usual precision, neat strokes forming tidy lines across the margin. He wasn’t sure he needed the notes — most of it he already held in memory — but writing anchored his attention, gave him a rhythm. Across from him, Hermione leaned into Priya’s explanation, her brow creased, curls spilling forward until she brushed them back with an absent hand. The gesture caught him for a moment longer than it should have. Small things often did.

Around her, the group hummed with noise. Noah’s pencil tapped in an offbeat rhythm, Avery’s muttered commentary drew Priya’s sharp retorts, Malik scribbled in silence. The room bent unconsciously toward Hermione, though she never asked for it. She held her space without effort, her voice cutting through with clarity when needed. Elias let the silence settle around him. Watching, listening, measuring.

He didn’t smile when their eyes met briefly — no raised brows, no acknowledgment, just the faintest pause before returning to his notes. Any more would be misread. Better to stay steady, as he always did. Distance allowed clarity.

Still, he couldn’t miss the way Avery leaned in too far, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, waiting for her to spar back. Elias lowered his gaze again, pen steady. Noise had its place. He would watch instead, leaving the chatter to those who needed it.

Avery sprawled in his chair like he owned the table, one arm hooked over the back, grin fixed in place. He’d caught Elias’s silent routine a dozen times already, the way he stared too long without blinking. Brooding type, sure — half the girls whispered about it. Avery found it boring. If you were going to watch Hermione, at least admit it with a joke, stir the pot, make her look up. What was the point otherwise?

So he did exactly that. “Tell me you’d wipe Blackstone off the map in under five minutes,” he said, tossing it across the table. Predictable, sure, but he liked watching the way her lips pressed thin in response, like she refused to play along. That resistance was its own sport, and if he could break her composure just enough to earn a laugh, he’d call it a victory.

The others watched her with reverence, some quiet, some obvious. Noah, with his soft-eyed staring, practically wrote poetry in his head. Ben leaned forward every time she spoke, like catching her logic was catching gold dust. Avery? He liked being the irritation in her gears, the reminder that she wasn’t untouchable. Sharp edges gleamed brighter when you tested them, and Hermione had plenty.

Avery tapped out his rhythm on the desk, satisfied enough with himself. Hermione didn’t look up, of course — she never gave him the satisfaction that easily. Still, he saw the flicker, the faint twitch of her mouth that told him she’d heard him. That was enough. Victory in miniature. He leaned back, grinning, while his chair creaked dangerously. Across the table, Ben was already straightening, pen racing across the page like the answer might evaporate if he didn’t catch it fast enough. Avery rolled his eyes. Always the eager one.

Ben ignored Avery’s antics, eyes narrowed at his own notes. His handwriting cut neat, efficient lines, though his pages multiplied too quickly for even him to keep straight. Hermione was speaking — clarifying a point Priya had raised — and he found himself slowing down, matching his pen to her cadence. She had a way of breaking apart an argument like she’d been born to it, each clause handled with precision. Ben leaned forward unconsciously, chasing the thread of her logic, hungry to pin it down.

He knew how people saw him: rugged, broad-shouldered, the easy grin that slid doors open before he even asked. Back home it was enough, that charm. Here, though? Sitting across from Hermione Granger? It felt like coasting wouldn’t cut it. Her brilliance made him want to rise sharper, steadier. Each time she spoke, he thought, Don’t miss this. Don’t waste it. That was why his pages stacked so high. Not to impress her, not really. To keep up.

Still, he felt her gravity in the way he leaned, the way his shoulders tensed whenever she drew breath to answer. He told himself it was admiration, the sort you gave a teammate you didn’t want to disappoint. Maybe it was. Yet when Avery smirked, or when Noah sat soft-eyed across from her, Ben’s jaw tightened before he remembered to loosen it. He pressed his pen harder to the page, lines darker than before, and tried not to notice.

Malik didn’t miss it. He never did. His eyes flicked up from his laptop screen just long enough to catch Ben’s pen digging grooves into the paper, then dropped again without comment. He’d been trained into silence — first by family dinners where voices tangled too fast to cut through, then by lecture halls where speaking meant risking being drowned out. Watching had always been safer. Watching taught him more.

He saw the way Hermione let quiet spool around her before she spoke, sharpening her words by contrast. He saw how Avery poked too hard, how Noah’s gaze lingered too long, how Ben leaned forward like the table wasn’t big enough to contain him. Malik logged each of it away, the way he might map a code: inputs, outputs, patterns repeating. Hermione fascinated him because she didn’t rush. She unfolded her arguments the way an elegant program unfolded — not cluttered, not forced, just… inevitable.

Sometimes her eyes flicked toward him, brief and unassuming. He never held her gaze, never needed to. He wasn’t interested in being caught out staring like the others. He preferred the quiet role, the one who knew more than he said. Besides, Elias often sat nearby, and Malik found himself unexpectedly comfortable in that company. Two men who didn’t need to fill the air. Two men who understood the usefulness of silence.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, then tapped a few lines, more rhythm than necessity. He thought about breaking the quiet with a question — something sharp enough to make her look his way. He didn’t. Not yet. Instead, he leaned back, the glow of the screen soft on his face, letting the others chase after her gravity while he stayed anchored. Some things were clearer when you didn’t scramble to reach them first.

Julian had watched all of it play out in miniature a dozen times now. From his seat angled slightly back, casebook balanced with ease in one hand, he didn’t need to force himself into their squabbles. The energy of the 1Ls was almost theatrical: Avery leaning too far, Noah soft-eyed and earnest, Ben braced like a soldier waiting orders, Malik sinking into the quiet like it was his second skin.

Hermione held the center without ever trying to. She spoke with that clipped sharpness of someone trained for years to argue, her points unfolding cleaner than some barristers Julian had worked under. Professors paused when she spoke. Fellows listened longer than they meant to. She didn’t see it yet, didn’t realize how she bent the group toward her gravity. That was what made her compelling.

He turned a page, lips curving faintly. He admired them, these younger students, their fire, their hunger. Yet Hermione carried something else — a rhythm not born of law alone. She had lived differently, he could see that. Felt differently. It gave her an edge none of the others could fake. That edge would carry her farther than she knew.

The lamps hummed, papers shuffled, Avery cracked another joke that fell flat. Before the moment could slip further, Celeste’s voice cut clean through the air. Elegant, precise, not raised — and yet it drew all eyes. “If you’re going to ask questions,” she said smoothly, “make them about the readings. Not just noise for the sake of it.” Her gaze swept the boys, lingering just long enough to make them squirm. Simone’s nod followed sharp, Priya’s pencil paused in approval, and even Talia murmured agreement. The women, united, reclaiming the room.

Chapter Text

Hermione had started to think of their little constellation less as classmates and more as neighbours with the peculiar rhythm of orbit. Rachel, for instance, lived only a few doors down — 2C to her 2A — which meant Hermione could hear the occasional strains of music or laughter through the corridor. Rachel had the kind of easy Southern warmth that filled a hallway, and Hermione had grown accustomed to her knock followed by a cheery, “It’s just me.” There was comfort in that proximity.

Priya and Talia lived further up, fifth and sixth floors respectively, in the same building. Hermione envied them their higher windows, less noise from the street, though she suspected Talia’s kitchen smelled far better than hers — the sort of home-cooked spices that clung to stairwells and made her own meals feel faintly inadequate. Priya shared her flat with Simone, which explained why their door was nearly always open to voices. Where Priya leaned sharp and quick in debate, Simone matched her with a fiercer, more unflinching edge. Hermione had learned to tread carefully there: once the two of them launched into an argument, the floor all but shook with it. It wasn’t unpleasant, though — more like being caught in the current of a river, exhausting to fight against yet strangely bracing to listen to.

The boys had settled in a building down the block. Close enough to be summoned for carrying keyboards or books, far enough that Hermione could forget they were practically a pack until they descended in force, loud and hopelessly uncoordinated. Avery’s voice usually reached her before his knock, while Ben was more likely to appear with something heavy in his hands, quietly efficient. Malik kept to the edges, earbuds tucked in, while Noah somehow managed to make even the short walk over feel like a story worth telling.

Elias was the only one who hadn’t taken up student housing. He lived with his parents, though he had his own entrance and wing and came and went without fuss. Hermione had raised her brows at first, only for Malik to explain it was fairly ordinary for Chinese or Korean families — sensible, really, if the option was there. She let it go at that. What she noticed more were the cars: a Volkswagen van and an Audi A4. The van was far too big for the narrow streets around campus, yet useful when he offers it to the team for lifts or what nots. The sedan was quieter, sleeker, more private. He spoke of road trips sometimes, as if the idea of escape hung just at the edges of his plans.

Julian and Celeste, the fellows, lived just off campus. Separate flats, despite the murmurs to the contrary. Hermione hadn’t the faintest interest in confirming or denying the rumours, though she sometimes thought the whole study group would unravel without Rachel’s speculation to feed it.

All of them, together, were now funnelling their energy into the looming pre-Thanksgiving Moots. Rachel’s flat had been claimed for the marathon prep day on the twenty-fifth, the arguments themselves set for the twenty-sixth at two o’clock in the afternoon. Hermione found herself counting the days not in briefs or practice rounds but in hours until her Portkey — November twenty-seventh, two in the morning, which would be seven in London. She pictured Harry already waiting with tea, his hand steadying the small of her back.

That night, she curled her legs beneath her on the sofa, phone in hand, and typed:

Harry, love — just a quick note so you’ll know when to expect me.

25 November – full-day prep at Rachel’s flat for the Moots. It’ll be chaos, but productive chaos (hopefully). 
26 November – oral arguments. We’ve drawn the 2pm slot, which is unfortunate — later in the day means more time to overthink. 
27 November – Portkey at 2:00 a.m. (yes, really), so I should be home in London by 7:00 am.

Counting down the days and hours. I miss you more than I care to admit. 

I love you. –H x

Her message sent, Hermione set the phone aside on the arm of the sofa. It barely rested there before the screen lit again, his name bright across it.

Got it, love. Calendar marked, pacing postponed. Two o’clock moots? Poor souls—don’t know what’s about to hit them. I’d say I feel bad, but let’s be honest: I’m mostly proud.

When you land, I’ll be there. Straight to bed if you’re knackered, tea waiting when you wake. Might even manage breakfast in bed—assuming Crookshanks doesn’t claim it first.

Counting down with you. Can’t wait to have you home. I love you more.  –H x

Hermione bit her lip, the smile tugging at her mouth before she could stop it. She set the phone aside, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. For a moment, the noise of outlines and moot prep dulled. She pictured him as he had described: calm, reliable, already waiting.

Chapter Text

Rachel’s flat at 2C smelled faintly of coffee grounds and clove candles. The walls were lined with secondhand bookshelves, bowed slightly under the weight of casebooks and paperbacks stacked sideways. A long, narrow table had been cleared to make room for folders and laptops, its surface already crowded with open notebooks, highlighters, and a scatter of half-empty mugs. Someone had left a bowl of crackers and fruit in the corner—makeshift fuel students picked at without noticing. The lights were low, shaded lamps casting yellow pools across the floorboards. Coats hung loosely over chair backs, scarves dropped across the arm of the sofa, as everyone settled into the warmth as if the place had been designed for their exhaustion.

He moved easily through the room, part of it without belonging to any part in particular. He carried plates to the sink, refilled mugs, shifted chairs when the table grew crowded. His presence never intruded. It smoothed. Names remembered, details recalled, small jokes passed like coins in the dark. When Hermione asked whether anyone had located the transcript from Katz v. United States, he answered before anyone else had turned a page. Calm, casual, perfectly placed. She looked at him then, only briefly, and he felt the air change. A flicker. Recognition, not intimacy. And it was enough.

Her gaze dropped back to the paper, and he watched the way her hand steadied the margin with two fingers before she underlined Katz in firm, slanted strokes. The small act pleased him more than it should have. She made no show of it, gave no performance. Every movement belonged to the work itself, clean and deliberate. The room buzzed around her — pens scratching, chairs shifting, voices rising and falling — yet she remained untouched, centered in her own order. The sight settled something in him, a quiet satisfaction that hummed beneath the noise.

The case law threaded itself in her mind, one citation locking neatly against another. Olmstead, Katz, Carpenter. Lines she had internalised, phrases that lived within her so fully she no longer needed the page. He saw it in the steadiness of her hand, the way her pen hovered only when the thought had already crystallised. Around her, the conversation rose and fell, more heat than clarity, but she let it pass without distraction. One precedent, placed carefully, could collapse the entire argument. He watched her trace that possibility, cool and methodical, and felt a rare sharpness in the air, as if he were witnessing something exact.

The room had filled with the rhythm of argument. Questions overlapped, citations traded, voices competing for the cleanest point. Hermione let it run until the thread began to knot, then cut cleanly through. “That precedent doesn’t stretch here,” she said, tapping her pen once against the table. The sound was soft, but it landed like a gavel. The group quieted at once.

She explained without rush, her reasoning measured, precise, each clause stacked neatly on the last. Her tone carried no urgency, only the calm of someone who knew the ground she stood on would not shift. She didn’t chase attention; she drew it by the simple weight of clarity. Even when others leaned forward to interrupt, they stopped halfway, listening instead.

This was why she sat at the center of the table, why every eye returned to her when the debate veered. She had internalised the cases, absorbed them until they came back in her own cadence, stripped of ornament. She gave no performance, but her command filled the room all the same.

Someone pressed a counterpoint about security needs. Another muttered about technology’s inevitability. Hermione leaned forward, quick to fold those into the structure she had been building. It wasn’t about winning. It was about order. When she spoke, silence formed around her, and when she fell quiet, the others rushed to fill the space again. She let them, her hand steady at the page, noting where the weak joints formed.

There was a knock at the door. A delivery bag appeared; warm cardboard pressed into Rachel’s hands. The table shifted instantly. Laptops closed; pens tucked behind ears. Plates scraped clear to make room for the new spread: cartons of rice, foil-wrapped naan, containers marked in red marker that steamed when unlatched. The sharp fragrance of curry and ginger cut through the candle smoke.

The room loosened after that, tension slipping just enough for papers to be shuffled, pens set down, someone stretching their arms above their head. Hermione shifted her notes aside and caught sight of a slim folder half-buried under the clutter. The FAE Sonata score lay open, faint pencilled cues threaded along the staves. At the top corner, in careful handwriting, a line of characters curved neatly: 조현수.

She tapped it lightly with her finger. “What does this say?”

Elias glanced over, his mouth tugging into a small smile. “It’s my sister’s. The last character means to protect.”

He reached for the black thermos at his elbow, turning it so a similar script curved along the side: 조현우. “Mine means protector. We share the same middle character — it means wise or virtuous.”

Hermione studied the script, her eyes tracing the flowing strokes. “The writing’s so graceful,” she said, her voice warm with admiration. “Would you mind if I borrow it? Just for a few days.”

For a heartbeat he looked startled, then pleased. “Go ahead,” he added, nodding toward the score.

Hermione lifted the folder carefully. In the inside margin, a small ink flourish curled where no musician would have bothered with pen. Decorative, almost careless, the sort of idle mark anyone might leave on a page. She barely registered it, closing the score and sliding it into her bag.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I’ll take good care of it.”

Red cups were passed around, set down in clusters across the table and along the floor. Some held soda, fizz rising against the plastic. Others carried juice, water, Gatorade. Hermione accepted hers without asking what it was — clear liquid, likely water — and drank quickly, throat dry from the hours of debate. She set it down by her notes, then reached for it again before anyone else had made much of a dent in theirs.

The food arrived in generous stacks. Chairs pushed back, hands reaching across one another for cartons and foil. Laughter swelled and then settled into smaller bursts. Someone broke a piece of naan in half and passed it along the line of plates. Hermione ate neatly, without fuss, her fork moving in steady rhythm. Her cup was empty before she noticed, and when a fresh one appeared beside her hand — set down in the shuffle of reaching arms and passing plates — she picked it up and drank.

The coolness steadied her at first, sharp and bracing. She drank again, more quickly than the first time, her attention pulled toward the arguments flowing around her, the soft clutter of plates, the warmth pressing in from too many bodies in too small a room. By the time she set it aside, her stomach turned with a faint twist, the liquid sitting heavier than it should have.

Conversation rose and fell around her, full of warmth and noise. She let it flow, contributing little, her attention caught instead on the pressure beginning to gather at her temples. Still, she lifted the cup again, the third time, and finished what remained. By the time the table had quieted, the lamps glowed brighter against the windowpanes. The clock on the wall slid past eight.

Hermione pressed the edge of her hand against her forehead as though brushing away a strand of hair, though the gesture lingered longer than it should have.

Chapter Text

It crept up slowly, the dizziness. At first just a flutter when I leaned too close to the page, then a faint tilt in the room as I reached for my glass of water. By the time I set my pen down, my fingers felt colder than they should, clammy against the smooth plastic. The food had helped everyone else settle; for me it left a heaviness I couldn’t name.

“Rachel,” I said quietly, leaning toward her. “Would you mind if I used your loo?”

She nodded at once, pointing down the hall, but when I stood the air seemed to thin, and I gripped the back of my chair longer than I meant to. The bathroom mirror showed a face paler than I’d expected, lips pressed tight, freckles standing out sharper against skin gone wan. I turned on the tap, splashed cool water against my cheeks, then pressed my palms flat against the porcelain sink until the tremor eased.

When I stepped back into the hall, the others were waiting. “You don’t look well,” one of the girls said softly, her eyes wide. Another reached toward me as though to catch me if I swayed again. Rachel was already at my shoulder, her hand light but steady. “Darlin’, let’s not take any chances,” she said, her voice smooth as cream, though the firmness beneath it left no space for argument. “Priya, Talia — walk her back to 2A, please. She shouldn’t be goin’ alone.”

I wanted to insist I was fine, but the words stayed behind my teeth. My body told the truth before I could.

“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “We were supposed to go another round of the mock debate. I don’t want to leave you short—”

Priya shook her head firmly before I could finish. “Absolutely not. You need to rest. We’ve got everything covered here.” Her hand hovered at my elbow, not quite touching, but close enough to catch me if I faltered.

Talia chimed in from the sofa, her tone softer than usual. “She’s right. You’ve been carrying more than your share tonight. Go rest. We’ll tighten the threads without you.”

Rachel added her agreement, her voice soft as magnolia honey yet firm enough to settle the matter. “Sugar, you go on and rest. Tomorrow’s the moot itself, and this team’s already ready to shine. The only piece needs a touch more polish is Simone’s ethics framework, and she’s near about got it. If practice ran this smooth tonight, you can bet y’all will be even sharper when it counts tomorrow. And don’t you fret — Noah and I, along with Julian and Celeste, we’ll be sittin’ right there. Silent as church mice if you falter, just guidin’ where you need it.” She gave me a quick look that wasn’t askin’ for my permission. It was settlin’ the matter outright.

The others murmured assent, one or two waving lightly as if to prove the point. “We’ll see you tomorrow,” someone said. “Don’t worry about it.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the energy drained before the words formed. My chest felt heavy, my fingers still cold despite the heat in the room. They were right. I managed only a quiet, “Thank you. I’ll see you at noon,” before letting Priya and Talia guide me toward the door.

The short walk down the hall felt longer than it should. My feet dragged against the carpet, each step a little slower, and I leaned unconsciously into the girls’ support. Priya’s hand pressed steady at my arm while Talia hovered close on the other side, matching her pace to mine as though afraid I’d stumble. The light above the aisle buzzed faintly, flickering once, and the sound rang louder in my ears than it should have.

At the door, Priya asked softly, “Keys?” I tried to reach into my hoodie pocket, but my fingers seemed unwilling to work. Numb, clumsy, as if the signal between thought and motion had blurred. Priya’s hand moved carefully, without hurry, and she slipped the ring of keys from my pocket with quiet efficiency. A twist, a click, and the lock yielded.

When we stepped inside, the familiar outline of my flat spilled into view. They guided me gently to the bed, easing me down as though I might break. My shoes slipped off with little resistance, one, then the other, and I felt the duvet drawn up over me with careful precision. The weight of it steadied my breathing, even as the chill clung stubbornly to my skin.

“There’s a glass of water on your bedside,” Priya said softly, tucking the corner of the duvet against my shoulder. “Message us if you need anything.” Her voice was calm, firm, the tone she always used when she wanted to leave no space for argument. She gave a small nod toward the table. “Your house keys are on the dining table. We’ll lock the door once we go out.”

“I can stay with you,” Talia offered quickly, her hand brushing my arm.

I shook my head faintly, the effort heavier than it should have been. “I’m okay. Truly. I’ll sleep it off.” My words came out thinner than I’d meant them to, but they seemed to accept it. Priya gave one more nod, Talia a soft smile, and then the door clicked shut behind them.

The flat went still. I drew a shaky breath, then lifted my hand with what felt like the last of my strength. The wards whispered into place around the perimeter of the room, invisible threads tugging into alignment. My wand sat in its familiar slot inside my bag, but I pulled it free and laid it on the side table, half-hidden behind a stack of books where no one would notice at a glance.

I reached for my phone, thumb shaking as I pressed the screen. The number one. Harry was set to speed dial. If I could just hold long enough. The device slipped once, then again, sliding against my palm before I could steady it. I forced my thumb down, but the glow wavered, the letters swimming into each other. My eyes blurred, heavy, and closed before I meant them to.

On the screen, the call connected. Harry’s name lit up in white. She never saw it.

Chapter Text

Back in 2C, the room had softened to a quieter rhythm. The cartons sat open on the table, spoons resting in half-empty trays, the candles guttering low. Rachel glanced toward the door as Priya and Talia slipped back inside, brushing the cool from their coats.

“She get settled?” Rachel asked, her tone half-question, half-assurance.

Priya gave a firm nod. “She’s in bed. Said she just needs rest.”

“That girl’s been carrying the weight of three people,” someone said from the sofa, shaking their head. “No wonder she went pale.”

“Yeah, and she hardly touched her plate,” another voice added. “Probably just blood sugar.”

“I’ve seen her in seminar,” a third said. “She doesn’t spook. She’ll be fine tomorrow.”

Rachel rested a hand on the back of a chair, voice warm yet steady. “Exactly. Y’all saw her tonight — clear as a bell, had the whole sequence in her pocket. Tomorrow she’ll be sharper for the rest. Let her sleep. Team’s ready.”

A few mutters of agreement followed, some softer, some more certain. Someone yawned. Another pushed the last naan into a container. The air shifted back toward ease, though quieter—everyone feeling the missing anchor without naming it.

He remained where he was, watching, listening. He didn’t add a word.

The night stretched on, voices weaving in and out of case law until the table felt as worn as the books stacked against the walls. By the time someone checked a watch and muttered the hour, it was past ten. Two hours since the last round of arguments. The cartons had been cleared, cups stacked in the sink, laptops shut. What remained was a circle of tired faces, the edge of nerves softened by warmth and repetition.

Rachel rose first, brushing her palms together. “Alright, y’all. That’s enough for tonight. You’ve got this in hand. I’ve seen plenty of teams come through these moots, and believe me, none have walked in as tight as this one. You’re clear, you’re confident, and tomorrow, you’ll show it.”

Noah leaned forward from the far end of the sofa, his tone calm but certain. “Rachel’s right. You’ve already proven it to us tonight. Tomorrow is just repeating what you already know. Don’t overthink it. Trust each other, and trust the work you’ve put in. That’s what wins a room.”

Celeste smiled faintly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve sat through a lot of prep sessions these past weeks. This is the strongest I’ve seen a group hold together. No doubt about it.”

Julian’s voice followed, smooth, even. “Exactly. You’re already ahead of the curve. Tomorrow, it’ll just be a matter of showing the judges what we’ve all seen here. They won’t stand a chance against this team.”

A ripple of nods went around the room, some relieved, others resolved. Bags were lifted, chairs pushed back, papers shuffled into neat stacks. The tension lingered, but quieter now, shaped into something that resembled readiness.

The circle broke at last. Folders snapped shut, pens slid into bags, coats lifted from the backs of chairs. Rachel stacked the empty cartons, her drawl carrying easily over the shuffle. “Alright then, darlins, get some sleep, all of you. Tomorrow’s a long day, and y’all will want your wits about you.”

Goodnights passed around the room, some quick, some lingering. One of the boys scooped up the tied trash bag on his way out, muttering something about the hallway bin. Scarves were pulled close, coats buttoned, footsteps shifting toward the door. Someone made a half-joke about coffee bein’ more important than case law, and a few tired laughs followed it out into the hall. Promises of “see you tomorrow” trailed behind the last of them. One by one, the flat emptied until only Rachel and the girls lingered.

They drifted down the aisle toward 2A, voices lowered by the quiet hour. At Hermione’s door, Rachel knocked gently, then waited. No answer. She bent slightly, glancing at the thin strip under the door — no light showing. “She’s fast asleep already,” Rachel murmured, her drawl smooth as cream, steady as a hand on a shoulder.

Simone folded her arms. “We’ll check on her tomorrow morning too, while you’re in class. Just to make sure she’s alright.”

“Good idea,” Talia agreed quickly.

Priya nodded. “Yes. She’ll need the rest tonight, but we won’t leave her be too long.”

Rachel gave a small approving smile, her voice sweet but leaving no room for doubt. “That’ll do just fine. Y’all don’t fret — come mornin’, she’ll be back on her feet, bright as sunshine. I’ve no doubt of it.” She gave the door one last glance, then turned down the hall, her steps calm, measured.

The others followed, their voices fading with distance, leaving 2A in silence behind them.  The hall had gone still after the laughter drained away. Doors latched, footsteps faded, voices dissolved into the muffled hush of walls. What lingered was the quiet hum of the building itself: a pipe ticking somewhere beneath the floor, the faint buzz of an old bulb straining above the aisle.

He did not leave with the others. He moved more slowly, as though tidying loose ends, the kind of presence no one questioned when it lingered. From 2C to 2A was only a short stretch of carpet, yet the space between them felt drawn, deliberate. He paused once in the middle, listening. No sound came from behind the door.

They had knocked, the girls. He’d watched their heads incline, their shoulders curve protectively toward her. He’d heard Rachel’s soft assurance, the voices promising to check again in the morning. They had left believing it was settled.

But he could see what they hadn’t: no seam of light bleeding under the frame, no stir within, no shadow crossing the narrow strip. The air outside her door was heavier, colder, as though the space itself had drawn a breath and refused to let it out. There was usually a kind of resistance here, a pressure that made the skin prickle if one lingered too close. Tonight it felt altered — thinner, muted, like a guard drowsing at its post. He felt it yield around him, softening. The shift pleased him. Even her defenses seemed to recognize the night as his. He stood there long enough to memorize it: the absence, the silence, the perfect stillness of her closed room.

When he finally turned away, his face carried the same mild expression he wore in seminar queues, easy and forgettable. Inside, something sharper coiled tight. She was alone. And that was where the work began.

He did not go far. Instead, he walked the corridor once, then again, his pace unhurried, a man stretching his legs at the end of a long evening. Each pass drew his eyes to her door, her window, her silence. He catalogued everything.

For once, the curtain was not drawn. A sliver of glass caught the dim orange of the streetlight outside, a narrow gleam where there should have been shadow. Near the fire exit, the small window sat slightly ajar, its latch crooked. The flat itself remained dark, the kind of darkness that pressed close and offered nothing back.

He looked higher, to the CCTV fixed at the corner. No red light blinked from its side. Still broken. He allowed himself the faintest trace of satisfaction. Three days ago, Simone had mentioned it to the admin, laughing about how useless it was if anyone tried to sneak past. He had smiled with her then, casual, unbothered. Tonight, he was grateful for her joke.

At the far end of the aisle, another camera hung near the stairwell, its angle leaving a blind pocket just outside her door. With one unit broken and the other useless, the corridor lay unobserved.

He checked his watch. Midnight exactly. The building had sealed itself in quiet: no footsteps above, no voices below, only the hum of old wires and a faint pipe tick under the floor.

Inside, she would still be under. The drug would hold her low, skin clammy, pulse dragging, her body too heavy for noise to reach.

He set his hand to the wall, fingers brushing the paint. To anyone else, it might look like balance. For him, it was recognition. The curtain left open, the window ajar, the cameras blind — every detail pointed to him, to this hour.

She was there, slowed, stilled, enclosed in silence that felt less like a barrier than an opening.

He breathed once, slow, and the coil inside him tightened. The universe had arranged itself with perfect symmetry. He would need to move soon.

Chapter Text

He saw it first when she pressed the edge of her hand against her forehead. The gesture looked casual, as though brushing back a strand of hair, yet it lingered too long. When she asked Rachel if she could use the loo, her voice faint, thinner than before.

She pushed back her chair and rose slowly. Her hand lingered on the edge of the table, fingers pale against the wood, steadying herself. He watched her cross the room, the faint drag in her step unmistakable.

His eyes flicked to the others, scanning for any shift in expression, any trace of watchful eyes, any flicker of concern. The boys carried on as usual — cartons changing hands, jokes traded under breath, the low thrum of argument still circling. Nothing in their faces betrayed that they had seen what he had.

It left him with the uneasy sense that he was the only one watching her closely. The thought made him cautious, almost afraid he might be too obvious, that his worry could be read the wrong way. So he sat back, silent, his attention fixed while pretending it wasn’t.

He tried to trace back who had been setting the cups down, who had refilled hers, but the thought slipped through him. He had been bent over his own notes, stacking papers back into their folders, distracted by cartons being passed across his arm, naan torn and pressed into his hand. By the time he looked again, her cup was already half-empty, her fork still stalled in the same patch of food.

He shifted forward, half ready to speak, to offer to walk her back.

Rachel’s voice came before his. Gentle, firm, carrying no room for debate. She called for the girls, set them at Hermione’s side, and the moment was settled. He leaned back, grateful that someone had stepped in, thankful she wasn’t left to manage alone. Still, the sight of Hermione rising unsteadily left his chest tight, a small knot of worry he couldn’t quite place.

The evening wound down by ten, Rachel’s steady voice closing the night. Packs and papers shifted, chairs scraped back, the room breaking apart at last. As they gathered their things, he caught fragments of the girls’ voices — that they had tucked her in, pulled the duvet high, left a glass of water by her bed. Reassuring details, all of them.

He had been about to suggest that one of the girls stay with her, the thought forming at the edge of his tongue. Then, from behind him, Rachel’s knock carried down the hall — firm yet gentle — followed by silence. A pause, then her voice again, steady enough to close the matter. He let it go and said nothing. Yet what stayed with him was the memory of her rising from the table, pale and unsteady, her hand clutching the wood for balance.

He left with the others, falling into the current of footsteps down the stairwell and out into the street. Conversation moved around him, laughter low and worn, but his eyes flicked once toward the line of windows above. Her flat was dark, a curtain shifting faintly in the draft from an open pane.

He told himself it was enough, that she was safe in her bed, warm under her covers, water within reach. For a moment he even thought of calling 911, the idea sharp and sudden, but he pulled it back. Too intrusive. The girls had been calm, assured, in control. He marked it in his mind instead: tomorrow, he would check again.

---

Once the others had gone, Rachel moved slow around the table, gathering up cups and cartons. She lifted one of the red cups, gave it a sniff, and wrinkled her nose. “Nothin’ but water,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else. She checked another, then a third, the faint fizz of soda tickling her nose. “No liquor, no spirits. Lord knows I’d tan the hide of anyone who thought it clever to slip some in.”

She set the cups aside, frowning at the spread left on the table. “We all ate the same rice, the same curry, drank the same juice. Only Hermione felt poorly. Doesn’t sit right.” Her drawl softened the words, but the thought weighed heavy behind them.

For a breath she toyed with her phone, thumb hovering above the screen. 911 flashed across her mind — sharp, serious. She could call, she could explain, she could bring someone with a stethoscope and a badge. Yet Priya and Talia’s voices echoed from earlier: She seemed okay enough. A little pale, but upright. A night’s sleep will do her good.

Rachel let the phone fall back into her pocket with a sigh. “Alright then,” she whispered, half to herself, half to the empty room. “Sleep’ll fix what supper unsettled.” She brushed a hand across the table, gathering the last of the crumbs into her palm, though her thoughts kept circling back to Hermione’s pale face and the way she’d leaned on the girls as they led her out.

Rachel tidied as she always did, her movements unhurried, deliberate. Cups stacked, cartons folded, crumbs swept into her palm and tossed away. She hummed low under her breath, a tune that carried the lilt of old hymns her mama used to sing while shellin’ peas on the porch. The kind of sound that made work feel lighter.

She slipped on her headset once the table was clear, the familiar click of plastic snug against her ears. Music trickled through, bright and steady, a rhythm to carry her through the rest of her little routine. The sink ran, dishes clinked. A damp cloth smoothed over the tabletop, catching the sheen of candle wax and stray smudges of ink. She didn’t hear the creak of the hall outside, didn’t hear the low groan of the building settling.

By the time the clock in the corner nudged past midnight, she was folded into bed, hair braided back, face washed clean. She set her phone facedown on the nightstand, the faint glow of the screen dimming to black. A soft sigh slipped from her lips as she pulled the quilt high, the headset still hanging loose around her neck. In her mind, she’d done what needed doin’. Hermione was safe in her bed, tucked in and seen to. Morning would find them all rested, ready to argue their case with fire.

Chapter Text

I woke to a pounding in my head, each throb hammering behind my eyes. My vision swam, catching on the red digits of the clock by my bed. 3:08 a.m. The numbers pulsed faintly in the dark, too sharp, too steady against the blur.

The air felt wrong. Too still. Too close. Someone’s here, and the room carried the kind of silence that meant they were waiting.

My hand scrabbled across the nightstand. I found the familiar shape of my wand, wood pressing against my palm, but my grip slipped — bloody useless, weak and shaking. It clattered once and rolled out of sight beneath the bed.

I tried to brace myself on the table, only to drag the glass with me. It toppled and shattered on the floor, water spraying up, cold against my wrist and the edge of the mattress. Books slid after, thudding on the boards.

The mattress dipped at my feet. Weight pressing down where no one should be. Vision swimming, breath catching in my throat. The room tilted with me. A shadow sat calmly on the bed, its outline patient, deliberate. Watching.

I rolled sideways left, away from him. My thoughts snapped to the shape of the spell, silent, urgent. Accio wand. A faint clatter answered from the shadows beneath the bed — the wand shifting, skittering, but refusing to fly to my hand.

I forced myself upright, legs heavy, knees threatening to give. My palm slammed against the side table, wood biting into my skin as I fought for balance. The room tilted, vision swimming. I shook my head hard, once, twice, trying to clear the fog. Breathe. In. Out. Anchor. Focus.

I reached again — the wand rattled under the bed. My chest heaved, breath sharp and uneven, as I forced the rhythm back under control.

He stood. He moved.

I waited, forced my muscles to hold until he stepped closer. Then I drove my heel forward, sharp and deliberate, connecting with solid muscle. The impact jolted up my leg, satisfying for a heartbeat. He shifted back with the force — then laughed. Low, too sharp, too pleased, as if the strike had been part of his design all along.

I forced the shield up silently, will snapping sharp in my chest. A shimmer burst, thin and fragile, then died before it could hold. The effort ripped through me, lungs raw, leaving me gasping. He advanced again.

I shifted my weight, drove my heel forward, sharp and measured. The strike landed, but his hand caught my wrist before I could pull back. Pain shot up my arm as he twisted. I shoved with my free hand, legs braced, every movement careful, conserving what little strength I had left.

At the edge of it, I pushed again — the air stuttered, a chair leg scraped faintly across the floor — not enough. Sparks stung at the edge of my vision as I forced the shield up in silence — fragile, stuttering, collapsing before it lived.

I pulled at the thread of a summons, sharp and focused. My wand rattled once beneath the bed, then lay still. My teeth clenched as I tried to clear the fog, to steady my thoughts. Shields. Summons. Angles. Logic and order where my body betrayed me.

I drove the command outward, sharp as thought. The door. The shelf. Move. A hinge groaned. A book toppled and slapped against the floorboards. The sound was insultingly small.

I tried again, teeth gritted, forcing will through the blur in my head. For one flicker I felt the surge catch, power swelling — then slipping away, sliding useless as water through broken fingers.

My chest heaved with the effort. I snapped into motion, arms and legs striking where spells failed me. A kick landed, heel to thigh, a punch glancing his shoulder. Too slow. Too weak.

He twisted my wrist until pain shot up my arm, and I hissed, shifting my weight, trying to spin free. My body remembered the drills, the hours of kickboxing, but every strike landed a fraction late, every block faltered. The fog dulled my edges, made me clumsy, dragged me down.

I shoved against his chest, angling my weight, forcing him back a step toward the door. If I could draw him closer, slip past, the hall would be mine. Rachel’s flat. 2B. Knocks loud enough to wake the floor.

His laugh cut through the thought, steady, amused, too calm for the chaos. My throat burned, my muscles shook, but I pressed forward — another strike, another push, another silent command to the room itself. Slam. Fall. Shatter. Nothing answered.

He steadied, certain again, patient as though he had all the time in the world.

We slammed into the wall by the bedroom door, the nightstand skidding, books scattering across the floor. His laugh came again — low, breathy, savouring — feeding on every struggle.

My muscles burned with the effort, each strike slower, every movement heavy, yet I drove them anyway: fists, elbows, knees, forcing him back step by step. All the while I fought to steady my thoughts, to lock my mind on the familiar shapes of spells, sharp and silent.

Shield. Summon. Barrier.

The door shivered once in its frame, the hinge groaning under the strain, then stilled again. A book slid across the floor, the sound small, useless.

I seized the failures and tried again, will cutting through the fog, demanding the magic hold.

I raised my voice higher, louder, the sound raw in my throat, forcing itself into the hall. If anyone was near, they had to hear.

I slammed my knee upward, sharp, driving into his side. The impact knocked him off balance long enough for me to twist, shoving us both hard into the dresser. Wood thudded against the wall, books toppling across the floor.

I struck again, heel grinding into his instep, elbow snapping back toward his ribs. He caught the blow, twisted my arm behind me, the pain white-hot down to my fingers.

His grip jerked, wrist twisting mine hard enough to cut the cry short. Something snapped — the red string bracelet tore free, slipping to the floor. He crouched without releasing me, dragging my arm down with him, the pull sharp in my shoulder. His other hand closed over the string. A flick of his tongue, tsk, tsk, tsk, as he pocketed it.

I struck while he was low, heel driving back toward the side of his head. He jerked my wrist down, dragging my balance with it. My foot sliced through empty air, the strike missing clean.

A grunt escaped him, not from pain, but from effort. His grip cinched tighter, twisting my wrist until the joint burned.

He rose, body pressed flush to my back, chest pinning me upright. The smell of him — starch, leather, something chemical already on his gloves — crowded in.

Then the cloth came forward, draped from his free hand, swinging once like a pendulum before smothering down across my nose and mouth.

The sting hit instantly, sharp, industrial, crawling through my sinuses. I twisted, snapped my head sideways, teeth clamping onto the fabric. My jaw ached, the weave rough against my tongue.

I clawed for his hand, nails catching leather, slipping. His palm pressed harder, sealing it, patient.

I drove my elbow back, sharp, cracking into his ribs. The breath hitched in his chest. Again, harder — bone into flesh — and his grunt vibrated against my spine.

I snapped my head back, skull catching his chin. His teeth clacked together with a dull knock. For a beat, the cloth loosened, air brushing in.

I tried to tear free, but his grip surged again, dragging me in. My elbow rose for another strike.

That’s when his fist drove into my side — hard, brutal, just under the ribs. The impact exploded through me, pain deep and sharp, knocking the air out of my lungs. My body folded against him, weak, reflex betrayed.

The cloth sealed again, harder now, glove grinding it tight. My elbow froze mid-swing. His hand caught it, twisted, wrenching my arm back until my shoulder burned and pain shot white-hot down to my fingertips.

I thrashed, legs kicking, heels scraping for leverage on the floor. Each breath dragged the chemical deeper, each second thinner than the last.

The world tilted, the doorframe just there, inches away. I forced my magic forward, silent, sharp — open, slam, shatter.

The knob rattled, the hinge shivered, hope catching in my chest before it failed. His laugh filled the gap, low and steady.

The cloth pressed harder. I fought to wrench free, teeth tearing at his hand, legs thrashing, muscles burning. The sting sank deeper.

My vision fractured — doubling, tripling. The wall, the flat, his shadow bent over me in three places at once. Harry. His face broke through the blur, sharp and steady, the only thing I could hold onto. Even that slipped away.

My body sagged, breath stuttering once before falling shallow against the cloth. His grip never shifted. His patience never faltered.

Chapter Text

Harry sat in his office at the DMLE, the building quiet in the small hours, only the faint scrape of boots echoing down some far corridor. A file lay open on his desk, parchment scattered and sliding, and beneath it his phone glowed faint. 12:03 a.m. London / 7:03 p.m. New Haven blinked at the top of the screen. He typed quickly, the words clipped and coded: Love. Shadow op. Safe. Miss you. Will call when I’m clear. –x

The message went out. He let the screen fade and set the phone down beside the framed photograph — the two of them at Grimmauld, caught in a looping moment. Hermione’s curls spilled loose over her shoulders, cheeks flushed from laughing at something he’d said just before the shutter caught them. She was radiant, alive in that unguarded way she rarely allowed, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed a kiss to her temple. Every loop ended the same: both of them drawing closer, faces softened with quiet joy. Both their eyes closed each time, lost in the moment, content.

A final sweep of the room, wand holster snug against his forearm, and he shrugged into his coat. Voices carried faintly from the corridor — his team waiting on him, restless to move. Harry straightened the stack of parchment, drew one steady breath, and closed the door behind him.

The phone buzzed once against the wood, screen lighting white with Hermione 🖤. The call rang, echoing faint against stacked parchment. After a stretch of silence, the glow dimmed, and the room fell still again.

Harry tugged his coat tighter as he crossed the atrium, the weight of the night still dragging at his shoulders. All he wanted was to get home, strip off the smoke and sweat, and stand under hot water until it burned the grime away. He glanced up at the clock mounted high above the lifts. 8:28 a.m. in London — 3:28 a.m. back in New Haven. The Ministry was already stirring, voices echoing across the marble, inter-department letters fluttering overhead in steady streams.

He was halfway to the lifts when the bracelet flared hot against his wrist.

Harry stopped dead.

He shoved his sleeve back, heart already in his throat. The cord glowed faint, insistent, pulsing heat into his skin.

Hermione.

His pace quickened, boots striking sharp against the floor as he shouldered through into his office. The door slammed behind him, the sound swallowed by the empty corridors. He went straight to his desk, grabbed the phone, and flicked the screen awake.

One missed call. Hermione 🖤 — 1:23 a.m. His stomach dropped. 8:23 p.m., New Haven.

Hours ago.

His thumb moved fast: Love, back safe. Saw your call. Are you all right? –x.

Sent.

The screen stayed blank, no reply. He hit dial. The tone rang steady, once, twice, then went to her voicemail — her voice cheery, familiar. Harry ended the call before the beep, jaw clenched, bracelet burning steady against his wrist.

He drew his wand, the motion automatic, and forced his breathing into steadiness.

Silver burst from the tip, bright and fluid, taking form mid-air. The stag stamped once, mist curling from its hooves, waiting.

“Prongs, go find Luna,” Harry said, voice low, clipped. “Tell her my bracelet’s tingling. Now.”

The stag dipped its head, then leapt through the wall, vanishing in a rush of silver light.

Chapter Text

Rachel was the first. The corridor smelled faintly of burnt coffee drifting from someone’s kitchen, and she paused outside Hermione’s door, juggling her bag and a half-open thermos. She knocked lightly at first, then louder, the sharp raps echoing down the hallway. “Hermione? You up?” No sound came back — not the rustle of sheets, not the scrape of feet on the floorboards. Rachel frowned, checked her watch — 7:30 a.m. — and tried again, this time calling through the wood. Her phone came out next, thumb quick over the screen. The ring pulsed in her ear until voicemail caught it, Hermione’s voice brisk and cheery, so at odds with the stillness behind the door. Rachel exhaled through her nose, muttered something about Hermione probably still asleep, and finally walked away.

Around nine, Simone and Priya came by together, their voices carrying down the corridor before they even reached the door. Bracelets clicked softly as Priya tapped the frame, Simone adding a light syncopated knock — the pattern that usually made Hermione laugh from inside. This time there was nothing. Simone pressed her ear closer to the wood while Priya pulled out her phone, waiting through the rings until the same cheerful voicemail answered. “She’s probably out already,” Simone said, though the glance she exchanged with Priya didn’t quite match the casual tone. They lingered a moment, uncertain, before heading off toward class, their voices lower now, both of them glancing back once as they turned the corner.

By mid-morning the knocks grew heavier. At ten, a hand thudded flat against the wood, then again, the sound deliberate, insistent, but the door stayed closed. No voice answered, no shadow moved under the crack. The phone rang once more, tinny through the hallway, before voicemail swallowed it. At eleven Talia tried next, balancing her coffee in one hand while she hammered with the other, sharp and impatient. She called Hermione’s name twice, then pulled her phone from her pocket, shaking her head as she heard the voicemail pick up again. “Call me back, yeah?” she muttered into the line before cutting it short.

A few minutes later, Rachel messaged their group chat.

Rachel: It’s near ’bout noon now. Y’all heard from Hermione? She ain’t answerin’ her phone this mornin’.

Simone: We tried at 9. No answer.

Priya: Still voicemail.

Talia: Nothing here either.

Celeste: Hermione said she’d see us at noon. See y’all in 10 min.

Ben: Probably at the athletic centre? I’ll go check after class.

Avery: Or she saw the reading list and ran for Heathrow.

Noah: Lol. She’s tougher than that.

Malik: She’s not in lecture.

Celeste: Not in the library either.

Elias: Hasn’t been in class all morning.

Julian: Best to assume she’s resting. Head over to Yale Health just to be sure.

Malik: I did. Stopped by and asked if anyone named Granger had been admitted. They wouldn’t say—privacy rules. I checked the ER too. No sign of her.

Simone: I think we should tell someone?

Talia: Let’s wait? She’ll turn up for Moot… she won’t miss that. Right? Damn, I should’ve stayed with her last night.

Rachel: Just in case — Priya, darlin’, you take lead counsel. Only ’til Hermione shows. Lord, I surely hope it don’t come to that. And Talia, sugar, don’t you go kickin’ yourself. You couldn’t have known, and frettin’ won’t help none. We’re all doin’ the best we can.

Priya: Understood. But yeah... hope she walks in before 2.

Ben: Back from the athletic centre. Nobody’s seen her. Checked the log book too. No sign.

Celeste: Then we go ahead with Moots. I’ll check her building and speak to admin. See if they can open the flat.

Julian: Agreed.

Rachel: I’ll back y’all up.

Noah: Same here. We’ll cover the team.

***

Celeste stood outside the admin building, hand on her hip, eyes scanning the closed glass doors.

A taped sign hung crooked on the inside: Office Closed for Lunch. Back at 1:00 PM. Of course it was. She checked the time — 12:14. Her thumb hovered over her phone again, glancing down at the last unread message from Ben: No sign at the athletic centre.

Her jaw tightened. She’d spent the last twenty minutes pacing through the lower levels of the library, then doubling back through the quad just in case Hermione had changed her usual route. Nothing. Not even that familiar flash of her curls bobbing in motion. It wasn’t like her — and that was what worried Celeste most.

Hermione Granger didn’t forget things. She didn’t oversleep. She didn’t miss calls, especially not on the day of a moot she’d been preparing for weeks in advance.

Celeste took a breath, long and low, then turned from the door, already composing what she’d say to the admin staff once they returned. Not frantic — that would get them nowhere. Just firm enough. Calm concern. Hermione’s been unreachable all morning. Yes, she was feeling unwell last night. Yes, we’ve tried calling and knocking. Yes, we understand privacy laws, but this isn’t like her.

She glanced down the path again, half-hoping Hermione might appear, tote bag slung over her shoulder, already apologising. But the quad was empty.

So Celeste waited, arms crossed, posture still — a lone sentinel beneath the brittle autumn light. After a beat, she pulled out her phone and typed a quick message into the “Upper Years + Fellows” group chat, her thumb moving with quiet urgency.

Celeste:
Admin office is closed for lunch. Back at 1. I’ll wait here. Still no sign of Hermione.

Rachel:
She’s not here either. Our meeting place is dead quiet. Team’s getting antsy. Priya’s trying to keep them focused but the room feels like it’s holding its breath.

Noah:
Understandable. I’ll swing by after this meeting wraps. Try to keep spirits up in the meantime. They’ll follow our lead.

Julian:
Moot nerves + someone missing = bad mix. Stay calm and visible. The 1Ls trust you both more than they’ll say.

Rachel:
Appreciate it. Just… keep us posted, Celeste, yeah? Soon as you know anything.

Celeste:
Will do. I’ll update the moment I get through to someone. Hang tight.

***

The meeting room was too quiet for a group expected to deliver oral arguments in less than two hours.

Priya stood near the whiteboard, marker in hand, trying to gather her thoughts — and the team’s attention. Hermione’s chair sat empty. Thankfully, she’d handed over her Moot notes to Rachel the day before. Now those pages were open in front of Priya, and she was doing her best to absorb every line. The notes were copious, neatly written, and — as expected — thorough. Hermione-level thorough.

“I’ll… do my best,” Priya said finally, her voice low but even. “But I’m not Hermione. She pulls strategy like it’s second nature, and I—well. I just hope I don’t tank it for us.”

“No one’s tanking anything,” Ben said immediately, adjusting his glasses. He leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. “You’ve been in the trenches with the rest of us.”

Avery gave a faint smirk — the kind he usually paired with a sarcastic jab, but this time, it lacked bite. “Yeah, if anyone’s gonna yell down an opposing counsel, it’s you. You’ve got that sharp-knife energy.”

“Wouldn’t mind a pint right now,” Talia muttered, arms crossed. “Loosen the nerves. Maybe Hermione’ll walk in and say it was all a test.

Simone tried for a laugh but it didn’t quite land. “You mean, ‘Congratulations, you all failed Hermione Granger 101?’”

Malik, seated beside the window, tapped a pen against his knee, fidgeting. “You think maybe she’s just… burnt out? Overdid it? That wouldn’t be strange, would it?”

Elias, quiet near the end of the table, shook his head. “She wouldn’t skip. Not without saying something.”

Malik nodded once, his phone still in his hand. “No new messages. Still no sign.”

A strange stillness moved through them then—no panic, only the quiet weight of unspoken consensus. Something was off. The chairs creaked slightly as they shifted, each one holding its own theory or fear, with no one brave enough to voice it aloud.

“Rachel will let us know,” Simone said, almost too brightly. “And maybe it’s nothing. Maybe she’s just… held up.”

Priya looked down at Hermione’s notes. Everything was there — her writing crisp, her tabs colour-coded, margin comments layered in tiny, precise script. She ran her fingers over the edge of the top page, then swallowed.

“We’ll hold it together,” she said more firmly. “We need to focus on the Moot for now.”

Chapter Text

At exactly 1:15 p.m., the hallway lights above the admin office flickered once. Celeste heard the jangle of keys just before a staff member rounded the corner. She stepped forward, calm but firm.

“Excuse me—can you open 2A? Hermione Granger’s flat?”

The admin assistant blinked, caught off guard, and started to shake his head. Celeste didn’t let him. Her voice stayed level.

“Two of her classmates walked her in last night around eight. She wasn’t feeling well. They tucked her into bed and left. No one’s heard from her since.”

He hesitated, murmuring something about policy and privacy. Celeste didn’t flinch.

“I’m not here to argue policy. This is a safety issue. Open the door. If something’s happened and we waited, that’s on you.”

The assistant’s eyes flicked to the locked cabinet. Celeste didn’t move. The silence stretched.

Her tone left no room for negotiation. After a beat, he sighed and reached for the key set. They walked down the corridor together, the clink of keys the only sound between them.

The door to 2A swung open with a groan. The windows were cracked, letting in the sharp bite of late-November wind. Celeste stepped inside and froze, breath caught mid-chest.

Inside, the living room was in disarray—cushions knocked to the floor, a lamp overturned, its shade dented. Books lay strewn at odd angles. Spines cracked. Pages bent like broken limbs. A chair in the dining nook was overturned, one leg twisted outward. Several framed pictures had fallen from the walls, glass cracked, frames askew where they lay scattered across the floor.

She moved slowly through the flat, each step careful. Her heel crunched softly on a torn page. Down the hall, the silence thickened.

The bedroom door was ajar. Celeste pushed it open with the back of her hand and stepped in.

The bed was half-stripped, sheets tangled at the foot. Pillows slumped toward the edge. One trainer lay by the wardrobe. The other was across the room. Beside the nightstand, shards of glass glittered in the afternoon light. Near the wall, a photo frame lay face down.

The rug was skewed, bunched in places where feet had dragged or braced. Books were scattered in a wide arc, some open, some bent, one wedged beneath the tipped side table.

The curtains stirred faintly in the draft from the open window, casting jagged shadows across the boards.

Hermione had fought. That much was clear.

It wasn’t just a mess. It was a struggle. Fast, brutal, and deliberate. Whoever had come for her hadn’t left quietly.

Celeste reached for her phone, fingers moving fast—before the full shape of fear could settle in.

She checked the time. Nearly 1:30. The Moot panel would begin in less than thirty minutes.

She swallowed hard and made a decision: no panic. Not yet. Let the team finish their Moot test.

She slipped out and texted the private 2L + Fellows group:

“2A’s been opened. Flat heavily disturbed. Hermione’s not there. I’m heading to Dean of Student Affairs now. Admin’s calling Yale PD.”

Without waiting for replies, she turned toward the stairwell, already composing the report in her head.

***

Harry sat rigid behind Kingsley’s polished mahogany desk, Luna beside him, both of them listening while Kingsley weighed the situation quietly. Luna explained how the bracelet worked, calm but with a tremor beneath: it had stopped tingling hours ago.

Harry’s fingers dug into the arms of Kingsley’s leather chair while Luna spoke. She showed the bracelet, slack and still. The silence between them felt heavy.

Her voice cracked, low. “It could mean she took it off, Harry.”

She met his eyes, steady and fierce. “Don’t let your mind go there.”

Her grip tightened around the bracelet. “This is Hermione. She fights.”

Then he stood abruptly and began to pace. His footsteps struck sharp against the floor. Too fast. Too tight. Too restless. Eighteen hours. No text. No call. Hermione never went silent. Not like this.

He stopped at the window, staring out at the fading light, then turned back, voice low and razor-edged. “Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”

Luna moved toward him without a word. She gently looped the bracelet back around his wrist, fastening it with slow, deliberate care. “She’ll feel you close,” she said. “And you’ll remember to stay steady.”

Kingsley’s gaze moved from Luna to Harry, then to the window where the light was dying. He opened his mouth, shut it. Finally: “We assume worst-case until we know otherwise.” The words landed like stones in Harry’s chest. He swallowed. Outside, the city seemed to pulse against the glass.

At that moment, Harry’s phone buzzed. He glanced down—7:00 PM London / 2:00 PM New Haven. A message from Dean Margaret Ellison.

His stomach dropped.

He read the words once. Then again.

Yale Law School had received a report: Hermione hadn’t been seen or heard from in a concerning amount of time. Yale Police were now involved. The message promised updates and offered what comfort it could—“doing everything we can.”

Harry’s breath caught. His thumb hovered, then pressed the screen to call back. Busy signal. He tried again. Still busy.

His hand trembled.

Luna stepped closer, her voice soft but steady. “Harry, what is it?”

He looked at her—just for a second. Her eyes held him, calm and unflinching.

Then he turned to Kingsley, eyes wide, voice tight and low. “They’re keeping me informed.”

He handed over the phone, fingers unsteady, jaw clenched. He ran a hand through his hair, rough and tense.

Kingsley read the message, then looked up. His face hardened. “Pack what you need. You leave in an hour.”

He turned to Luna. “Help him. Keep him grounded.”

Then, to Harry, quieter: “You need to be clear-headed. Focused. This isn’t just a search—it’s a rescue.”

He rose from behind his desk, already reaching for the secure scroll case. “I’ll coordinate directly with MACUSA. No intermediaries. I want eyes on this from their top brass. I’ll request a Muggle-born liaison to work with the New Haven authorities and with you. Someone who can bridge both worlds and keep things smooth on the ground.”

His voice was gravelled but firm. “This will be handled as a Muggle case. The local police are involved. You’ll be issued protection and a firearm if necessary.” He gave Harry a pointed look. “You were the best shot we had. I trust you still are.”

Harry barely nodded, already moving. Luna followed without a word. In the quiet of their flat, she gathered the practicals—toiletries, a change of clothes—while Harry packed slower, more deliberate: his wand, documents, Hermione’s photo he always carried in his pocket when she was away.

Luna placed a hand on his shoulder. “She’s not lost, Harry. Just somewhere you haven’t looked yet. Be strong—for her, and for yourself. Faith is a kind of magic too.”

By the time they returned, Kingsley was waiting beside the portkey—a worn leather satchel resting on the table, humming faintly with magic. In his hand was an envelope: travel orders, embassy contacts, and authorization for armament if necessary. Harry took it in silence.

Kingsley met his eyes, steady and grim. “You’re going in as a federal investigator, yes—but this isn’t just a mission. You’re going as the man who loves her. Don’t let that dull your edge. You’ll need it.”

He paused, then added, “MACUSA’s been briefed. They’re ready for you. You’ll meet your liaison there—Kit Mason. Muggle-born, sharp as a wand tip. He’ll keep you looped in with the New Haven authorities and make sure nothing slips through the cracks.”

His gaze held firm. “Find Hermione. Bring her home. Both of you.”

Luna stepped forward, her voice light but sure. “I’ll see you both soon. The world has a way of bringing back what matters.”

Harry nodded, jaw tight, eyes steady. Then he reached for the portkey and vanished, the air snapping closed behind him.

Chapter Text

Harry stepped off the Portkey into the lower level of MACUSA, the familiar thrum of protective enchantments brushing over him like static. Kit Mason was waiting by the checkpoint — tall, broad-shouldered, built lean with the kind of muscle that came from drills. His dark hair was clipped close at the sides, longer on top, neat without looking soft. Stormy blue eyes under a strong brow tracked the room with steady precision. His jaw was square, clean-shaven, his face still holding the youth of twenty-five yet tempered by a focus that made him look older. He stood balanced on his feet, shoulders squared, hands easy at his sides, the posture of someone trained to be ready without showing strain.

“Welcome to New York, Mr. Potter. I’m Kit Mason, your liaison.”
They shook hands firmly.
“Call me Harry,” he replied, eyes sweeping the checkpoint as the shake broke.

He fell into stride beside Kit, scanning the corridors as they moved. “What do we know?”

Kit didn’t miss a step. His tone was stripped to facts, steady and quick, running through the incident report. “One of her Fellows pressed the admin to open the door just before thirteen-thirty. Granger had been unreachable all morning, hadn’t shown for her Moot team. Admin unlocked it, manager and Dean escalated, Yale PD on scene inside the hour. Flat’s been swept—prints lifted, photos logged, evidence bagged. No forced entry. Signs of a fight, fast and messy. Deliberate.” His eyes stayed forward, stride never breaking. “Initial statements pulled from the last to see her. Case is logged as a missing person, Muggle jurisdiction. MACUSA holds off unless it escalates.”

He pulled a slim file from his brief and handed it over. “Everything we’ve got so far. Scene photos, statements, Yale PD’s prelim notes.”

Harry took it without a word. The weight was sharper than paper should be. He opened it just enough to see her name across the header and a recent photo clipped inside — Hermione, clear-eyed, smiling. He shut the file again, jaw set, the pressure in his chest tightening, each detail drove the reality deeper, sharpening the pressure in his chest.

They turned into a quieter hallway near the administrative wing, where the hum of footsteps fell away. Kit stopped just long enough to pass him a slim case. “Since this stays under Muggle jurisdiction, we’ll issue you a sidearm for protection. Standard Glock. Training’s on file — I trust you haven’t forgotten.”

Harry flipped the latch, the familiar weight settling into his palm. His fingers curled around it with recognition, a memory returning on contact. Kit’s voice came steady, practical. “You’ll stay here in New York tonight. Showing up in New Haven too soon raises questions. We’ll keep the timeline clean.”

Kit led him down a narrow corridor to a discreet guest suite tucked behind MACUSA’s north wing. “Try to get a few hours of rest,” he said as he unlocked the door. “It’s not much, but it’s secure and quiet. I’ll come by at six sharp, and we’ll head to New Haven first light. I’ll walk you through everything on the ground. For now… rest while you still can.” He paused at the threshold, eyes steady. “She’s tough. We’ll find her.” With a brief nod, he turned to leave.

Harry stepped inside. The silence of the room pressed in, heavy and sterile. He dropped his duffle near the bed but didn’t sit. His gaze landed on the sealed case in his hand. For a moment he stood still, shoulders squared, the weight of it anchoring him. Then he turned on his heel and stepped back into the hall.

“Kit,” he called. His voice carried low, even. Kit stopped mid-stride.
Harry lifted the case slightly. “Where’s the range?”

Something flickered across Kit’s face, somewhere between surprise and amusement. His mouth tugged into the faintest curve. “This way, Harry.”

The range was buried deep beneath the building, quiet as a bunker. Fluorescents hummed overhead, and the stale scent of powder lingered in the walls. A set of foam earplugs sat in a small dispenser by the stalls, with heavier earmuffs hanging on hooks for anyone who preferred them. Clear safety glasses lay in a tray, smudged from use, and a stack of standard paper silhouette targets showed outlines marked with scoring rings. Beside them, enchanted targets hovered in racks — shifting shapes that flickered between human outlines and spectral beasts, programmed to move, vanish, or strike back with harmless bursts of light. A battered Kevlar vest hung off a rack in the corner, regulation for drills though rarely worn at the range.

Harry tugged the earmuffs down over his ears, slid a fresh magazine of 9mm rounds into the Glock, racked the slide, and raised the weapon with natural steadiness. The first shot cracked through the silence, punching the centre of the paper man. He adjusted without pause, firing again. Then again. Each round struck tight to the last, the rhythm precise. His breathing stayed measured, his focus absolute. When the pulley line drew a fresh silhouette across the track, he tracked it smoothly, squeezing each shot fast and deliberate.

Further down the range, the enchanted targets engaged. Human outlines shimmered into place, shifting stances with sudden bursts of movement — some sprinting sideways, others ducking low or fading out before reappearing at a different angle. A few raised glowing mock sidearms, testing his reaction time. Harry tracked each one without breaking rhythm, squeezing rounds off with measured control, the cracks echoing sharp in the bunker air. The figures flickered, fell, reset, and came again, but his aim stayed unshaken, precise and relentless.

Kit stood behind the line, arms crossed. He’d seen plenty of trained officers handle a weapon, and more than a few wizards fumbling to adapt. Harry was different. He carried himself like the fight was already in him, stance rooted and balanced, nothing able to knock him off centre. The Glock looked like it belonged in his grip, his movements fluid and precise, natural as a wand. His shoulders stayed loose, controlled, yet every muscle was coiled with quiet readiness. Each shot broke clean, sharp, centred, the recoil absorbed without a flinch. His jaw was set, eyes narrowed, that predator’s focus Kit had seen in veterans who lived through wars and walked away sharper. Every adjustment came fast, seamless, instinctive—reminders of what he already knew. A soldier’s discipline, a duellist’s reflex, a survivor’s edge. Kingsley hadn’t exaggerated.

By the time the last target snapped back into place, Harry lowered the Glock with calm finality. Kit checked his watch, then stepped forward.

You’re good,” Kit said evenly. “Better than good.” His mouth tugged, a flicker of a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Thing is, you’ve been running more than a full day, and I’ve seen what that does. Doesn’t matter how sharp you are — fatigue’ll bleed it out of you. Take the rest while you’ve got it. Tomorrow we hit the ground, both of us sharp. She deserves that.

Harry’s eyes stayed on the far wall a beat longer, his jaw tight, then he exhaled through his nose. “Yeah… you’re right.” He set the Glock down with deliberate care, his fingers loosening at last.

Back in the suite, he stripped off his jacket and sat on the edge of the bed. His hand brushed the red string at his wrist, thumb pressing the knot once, steadying himself. Only then did he lie back, the weight of the day sinking through him. Sleep didn’t come at once, but after a few minutes his breathing slowed, and it claimed him heavy, unresisted.

Chapter Text

I woke to cold. It pressed through the duvet, sharp against my skin, and each breath clouded faintly in the dim air. For a moment I couldn’t recall the last clear thing before the darkness—only fragments: fighting back, pain in my side, the ground rushing up too fast, the heaviness in my limbs as if I’d been dropped from a height. My head throbbed, dull and rhythmic. The air smelled unfamiliar: wood, dry and raw, mixed with the clean bite of laundry soap clinging to the sheets and something else. Details came into focus: panelled walls, heavy beams, a curtained window letting in only a weak trace of light. The bed beneath me was too neat — mattress firm, sheets tucked, blanket smooth flat. A dresser stood closed, a desk held a stack of books beside a reading lamp, an electric piano gleamed in the corner. Two doors, one on either side of the room, both shut.

Then the scent registered. Lavender. Vanilla. Mine — my soap, my shampoo. It clung to the duvet drawn around me and to the pillow beneath my head. My stomach clenched. This wasn’t chance. This room had been staged, prepared, waiting. For me.

I forced my gaze downward. Same clothes from Moot practice: Yale hoodie, cotton sweats, thick wool socks — the pair Harry tugged onto my feet the last night I was home in London, teasing I’d forget them. He’d kissed my ankle after, a fleeting warmth I could almost feel even here. Now they were the only barrier between me and the cold pressing in. No shoes. No coat. Everything still on me. Relief hit sharp, loosening something in my chest: he hadn’t stripped me, hadn’t touched me while I was out. The relief twisted quickly though — that didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

My throat closed, tight and burning, and I felt tears pricking hot at the corners of my eyes. Oh, Harry, I’m so frightened. A sound crawled up before I could stop it and I clapped a hand hard over my mouth to stifle it. No tears. Not now. I bit the inside of my cheek until the sting steadied me.

I shifted and pain carved through my ribs, locking me in place. My other hand went to the spot, pressed hard. The memory replayed: his fist driving under my ribs, the fight collapsing, the dark swallowing everything. The silence that followed felt deliberate, enclosing.

The mirror on the far wall pulled my gaze next — square, centred directly across from the bed. Too precise, too intentional. Why put it there, facing the mattress? My skin prickled. I dragged my eyes away, forcing myself to focus instead on the rest: a bookcase lined too neatly, a small table with two chairs, a compact fridge humming in the corner. Every piece chosen. Every detail arranged.

I moved slowly, easing myself upright until I sat on the bed’s edge. The duvet slipped from my shoulders and the air hit sharper. Pain spiked under my ribs, folding me forward; my hand clamped to the ache. My vision swam, the edges darkening. I clenched my eyes shut and forced a rhythm into my lungs: one slow breath in, hold, a long steady out. Again. Keep counting. Keep control. Standing would take more than I had; my legs would buckle. Save your strength. Try again later.

Gather information. Stay calm. Wait for your chance. I said it to myself, quiet and firm. Gather information. Stay calm. Wait for your chance.

My other hand drifted without thought to my wrist, fingertips brushing bare skin where the red string bracelet should have been. The knot Luna had tied there, the bracelet that had held through everything until now, was gone. Memory struck: the snap against my skin, his hand closing around it, the curl of triumph when he pocketed it. My stomach lurched. Harry would have felt it break. He’d know I was in danger.

I couldn’t waste strength. Energy mattered. Control mattered. Panic would strip both away. I whispered the reminder under my breath, low and ragged but tethering: Think, Granger. Prioritise. Assess. Survive. My fingers flexed faintly against the mattress, reaching for that familiar current under my skin, the thrum of magic I’d trained myself to touch without a wand. It felt thin, distant, but there. I held onto it, anchoring myself to the pulse of it, as steady as my breathing. Stay calm. Hold it. Don’t let it scatter.

Chapter Text

Harry and Kit stepped into the flat, the door shutting with a quiet click that carried too far in the stillness. At the desk downstairs, Harry had left his name and explained that he and a colleague would be checking 2A. The clerk had pulled up the record, found his name listed as an authorised occupant, and after a pause, nodded them on.

Now the flat received them with silence. It filled every corner, the kind that had settled in after the last sound had gone. The air smelled faintly of Hermione, but beneath it ran something sharper. Harry felt it before he saw it. A charge clung to the walls, measured and restrained. The ward she cast held intention, but its strength had faltered. It pulsed faintly, thin as mist, barely holding shape. He stepped forward, and it shivered at his presence.

He let his gaze travel the small living room. The curtains were half drawn, windows cracked down the centre where force had met glass. Books scattered, a chair stood at the wrong angle, legs catching the light. Nothing looked right. He closed his eyes for a second, imagining her here, fighting hard, refusing to yield.

Behind him, Kit shifted once, his voice low. “Your girl can fight.” He wasn’t asking. Harry gave a single nod. He didn’t speak. There was no need. Kit let the silence settle, respectful, something in his expression shifted. Thoughtful. “Maybe if she hadn’t been under the weather…” Kit trailed off, not finishing the thought. The rest was understood. The implication hung there, sharp and bitter: if Hermione had been at full strength, this might have gone differently.

Kit paused near the living room, his eyes sweeping over the cracked windowpane. The fractures ran across the glass like thin white lines, a mark of force that spoke without words. He reached out, hand close to the frame, catching the residue of the Bombarda Hermione had thrown. The pulse of it brushed against his palm, faint but present.

Beside him, Harry studied the lingering traces. Hermione’s magic sharp, deliberate and still clung to the air. The spell lacked wand-formed structure, cast raw, and the energy scattered wide. It pulsed against the walls, forceful but unfocused, a blade swung with precision dulled by exhaustion. He could see it in the way the magic fractured, the way the window cracked but didn’t shatter. The power was there. It always was. But it had slipped, just enough to show the cost.

Harry’s eyes flicked to the empty holster beside the toppled chair. His breath caught. He raised his wand. “Accio wand.”

A soft clatter answered from deeper in the flat, barely audible. His head tilted, listening. He raised his wand again, more focused this time. “Accio wand.”

He moved toward the bedroom, steps careful, ears straining for another sound. A faint knock came from beneath the bed, followed by a brief pause. He could feel the pull, faint and interrupted. He scanned the floor, the corners, then dropped to one knee. Just beneath the far leg of the bedframe, a sliver of polished wood caught the light.

He raised his wand again, voice low. “Accio Hermione’s wand.”

This time, it flew to his hand with sharp precision, skidding across the floorboards and striking the leg of the bed before leaping into his grip. He caught it mid-air, fingers closing around the familiar weight. The feel of it in his palm was too personal, holding a part of her that had been left behind.

Rachel’s voice carried softly from the open doorway, breaking the stillness. “Hello?” The morning light behind her stretched into the hall, but she didn’t cross the threshold. In the living room, Kit straightened, his hand resting against the chair back as he looked over. “Morning,” he answered, the word careful, his tone holding her outside.

Rachel’s hand settled lightly on the doorframe, her drawl unhurried, lilting with ease. “I’m Rachel,” she said, eyes flicking past Kit toward the quiet flat. “I’m just next door in 2C. Second year here. Hermione’s a friend of mine.” She paused, smoothing a curl back from her cheek, then tilted her head. “Beggin’ your pardon, but—are y’all police?”

Kit’s mouth curved in something close to polite, his posture stayed level. “Kit. Kit Mason,” he said evenly. “Federal investigator.”

He tipped his chin toward the bedroom, his voice carrying steady. “Harry—come here a minute.”

The name lingered in the air, and Rachel’s lips parted, surprise softening her poise as her gaze followed the sound. “Harry? Harry Potter? Well, I’ll be,” she murmured, a low wonder under her breath.

Kit gave a small nod at the name.

Rachel’s voice followed, softer now. “Didn’t figure her quiet Englishman wearin’ a uniform.”

In the bedroom, Harry slipped Hermione’s wand into the inner pocket of his jacket. When he stepped into the front room, his eyes caught Rachel at the door. She gave a small, courteous smile, her voice smooth with that soft southern lilt. “We’ve crossed paths before, at Sally’s Apizza. Might be you don’t recall.”

Harry’s gaze settled on her, searching, then softened. “I remember. Hermione talked about you. About all of you.” His hand shifted in his pocket, fingers brushing against the wand he’d tucked away. “Listen Rachel, I’ve read the Yale PD’s incident report, including your statement,” he went on, his voice lower, careful. “The timing puts it somewhere between two-thirty and three-thirty in the morning. You might’ve noticed something that night, or heard anything—even something small. Did you?”

Rachel’s fingers smoothed along the doorframe, her shoulders squaring just a little, a quiet gesture of readiness. “I surely wish I had somethin’ to give you,” she said, her tone warm, unguarded. “But it’s like I told the officers — I didn’t hear a sound, not a knock, not a step in the hall. Place was quiet through and through.” She shook her head, a trace of regret softening her mouth. “I’d been bone-tired that night, not sick or anything, just worn out. Slept deeper than usual. If I’d caught the least bit of stir, I’d have been at her door. You can be certain of that.” Her gaze shifted briefly toward the opposite wall, then back to Harry. “I didn’t hear a thing till mornin’. Place was quiet as could be. And the tenant in 2B—he wasn’t home that night neither.” Rachel paused, her brow creasing ever so slightly. “I did knock on Hermione’s door before I headed off to class, just to check in, bless her heart. But there wasn’t a peep. I even rang her phone while I was walkin’ over, and wouldn’t you know, but it went straight to voicemail.”

Harry listened without interruption, his posture steady. When she finished, he gave a small nod. “Thank you, Rachel” he said quietly. “That helps more than you think.” He slipped a hand into his jacket, drew out a plain card, and held it toward her. “If you remember anything at all, or if any of your friends do — no matter how small — please ring me.” His eyes met hers. “It doesn’t have to be big. Even the smallest thing could matter.”

Rachel accepted the card, turning it once between her fingers before tucking it into her pocket. “I best be gettin’ on to class,” she said, the drawl easy, warm. “If somethin’ comes back to me, you’ll hear from me, sure as the sun.” She gave them each a small nod, then stepped back, her footsteps soft as they carried down the hall.

The silence settled again. Kit remained in the living room, methodical in his sweep, eyes tracking shelves, corners, and the fractured glass, noting each detail with care. Harry stood for a beat, the edge of her drawl still lingering, then turned back toward the bedroom. The air carried the same thrum of broken wards and scattered energy, sharp in his chest.

Near the desk, a tote bag rested against the chair, strap twisted, dropped in haste. Beside it lay her backpack, half-leaning against the wall. Harry lowered himself, unfastened each with careful hands. The backpack held the expected weight — law books stacked, margins inked in her steady hand. Notes tucked between pages, small slips of paper, colour-coded tabs pressed flat.

In the tote, papers were looser, a slim notebook slid against the fabric, and a yellow legal pad bent at the corners from use. A small pouch of pens rested at the side, zipped half-shut, colours peeking through. At the bottom lay a black binder, its cover scuffed from use. He lifted it out, turned it once in his hands. The lettering was faint but clear — FAE Sonata.

He opened it carefully. On the cover page, above the title, characters written in neat Hangul. Across the inner pages ran sheet music layered with annotations, the handwriting unfamiliar, sharper and more angular. Harry remembered her mentioning Elias — the Korean boy in her group, the violinist — and the piece they had played together.

His eyes caught on a small mark pressed into the margin. At first it resembled a flower, a rough sketch, until he leaned closer and saw it for what it was: like a Chinese character inked with deliberate strokes.

Harry studied the mark for a long moment, committing each stroke to memory. He closed the binder, returned it carefully to the tote, then drew his wand. With a quiet flick, the bag shrank neatly into his palm. He slipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket beside Hermione’s wand, the weight settled close against him.

When he stepped back into the living room, Kit was still moving methodically, noting angles and traces. Harry gave him a moment, then spoke. “Kit, you about done documenting the room? I’m just finished with the bedroom.”

Kit straightened, gave a brief nod. “Almost. A couple more readings before it fades.”

Harry drew a breath, his tone steady but not rushed. “All right. Once you’re done, let’s head over to the Yale PD. I want the full file, not just the summary.”

Kit tucked his notebook away, casting one last look around the flat. “Then let’s see if their file tells the story straight.”

Chapter Text

The Yale Police Department occupied a squat brick building that had outlived its renovations. The light inside came from panels that buzzed faintly overhead, washing the colour out of everything—walls too pale, tiles too clean. At the front desk, a clerk in a creased uniform glanced up when Harry produced his identification. She looked at the badge, then at him, and reached for the phone without being asked.

“Chief Marlowe’s expecting you,” she said, after a short pause. “Task room’s down the hall, last door on your right. You’ll see the board.”

Harry nodded once, signed both their names into the visitor log, and pocketed the passes instead of clipping them on. The clerk barely noticed.

They followed the corridor the way she’d said. The sound of their steps caught and faded between the walls, an echo that seemed too loud for the hour. On the right, an open door showed the edge of the task room: maps pinned in rows, whiteboards crowded with names, the dull gleam of fluorescent light against metal frames. Somewhere farther in, a kettle clicked off, and the scent of burnt coffee thickened the air.

Inside, the air was close and tired, thick with silence that came from long nights and short tempers. A whiteboard filled one wall, dense with photographs, typed profiles, and marker lines that had begun to fade to grey. Kit went still beside him, his usual calm tightening just enough to show he’d clocked it, too—the scale of it. Harry stepped closer, his eyes scanning the grid of faces and the neat columns beneath each one. Someone had printed out the table and pinned it dead-centre, columns lined like a ledger: Status. Name. Birth Year. Age. Ethnicity. Death or Disappearance.

The list was mercilessly precise. Isobel Renée Marchand, Grace Park, Carmen Elise Navarro, Margot Leigh Bennett, Sasha Mireille Fontaine, Nina Therese Caldwell, Laura Anabelle Atkins, Marina Leigh Holloway. The living column held only two names: Aurora Delphine Kim—missing since April—and Hermione Jean Granger, last seen November. The marker strokes beneath those two names were heavier, fresher; someone had retraced them in irritation or hope. Harry’s gaze lingered on the numbers beside Hermione’s—1978. 23. He’d seen her name on reports before, but it looked different here, pinned between the dead and the gone.

Kit’s voice broke the stillness, low and steady. “That’s quite a pattern.” He stepped closer, tracing the years without touching. “Ninety-nine through oh-two. Every year, at least one.” Harry nodded once, eyes narrowing. He felt it then—the cold logic behind the symmetry. No randomness, no chaos. Just rhythm. A pattern that belonged to someone who needed order. His reflection ghosted across the glass over the whiteboard, faint and split by marker lines, and for a moment, he saw her there, half in shadow, tethered to the pattern she’d tried to break.

A man stepped out from the far corner, coat still on. It wasn’t a desk coat; the fabric had the worn gloss of rain and late nights. His badge hung from a leather strap on his breast pocket, the silver dulled from handling.

“Detective Chief Marlowe,” he said by way of greeting, voice even, New England gravel. He gave Kit a nod of recognition before turning to Harry. “Appreciate you coming down. Figured you’d want to see it before the board gets cleaned again. It doesn’t stay this neat for long.”

The humour was faint, routine. Marlowe gestured toward the table, where folders sat in uneven piles, colour tabs poking out like paper flags. “Everything we’ve got that wasn’t redacted by the Bureau’s copy desk is in there. You’ll find the same names you’ve already seen, but we’ve been trying to find the through-line. Thought maybe you’d spot something we didn’t.”

Harry’s eyes tracked the rows of victims again, the order of the dates. The spacing between the years was too deliberate. He crouched a little, reading the captions under each photograph, letting the rhythm of it settle in his head like a metronome. “You’ve kept them in chronological order,” he said quietly, half to himself. Marlowe nodded. “Year, month, method,” the chief said. “Every one of them bright, promising. No obvious link between families or classes. Different ethnic backgrounds, different faculties. But there’s a run of consistency you can’t miss once you start charting it — top of their courses, full scholarships, language overlaps. Every one of them spent time in a library, and most of them had faculty recommendations that read like love letters. Someone wanted brilliance on display.”

Kit leaned back against the edge of the table, arms folded, watching Harry rather than the board. The silence from him wasn’t detachment; it was study. Harry’s posture had shifted — sharper, contained. His eyes moved line to line, but what he was seeing wasn’t ink; it was the shape beneath it. When Marlowe paused, Harry straightened and asked, “Who compiled this?” The chief followed his gaze. “Mostly Detective Albright before she transferred. Bit of a perfectionist — handwriting’s hers. She logged everything before the task force folded it into the Bureau’s archive.” Harry nodded once, tracing the scrawled marker dates that bracketed the photos. “No active prints, no witnesses, and the last scene was sealed before evidence degradation was accounted for,” he said, reading aloud as if reciting from memory. His voice was calm, measured. Kit had seen that tone before —one that built walls around grief and turned it into precision.

Marlowe watched him for a moment, then sighed through his nose. “We’ve chased every lead twice. Nothing solid. The only overlap we’ve got is that each of them was last seen by someone they knew — classmates, neighbours, study partners. Ordinary settings, nothing out of place. CCTV wasn’t wiped, but it’s no use either. The street cameras outside a few of the scenes were damaged, weeks before any of the disappearances, and the one in the hall outside your girl’s flat’s angled straight into a blind spot. Whoever’s behind this knew exactly where the gaps were and stayed inside them. The records are clean because they didn’t need to touch them.”

“He tapped the last two names on the board with a capped pen—Aurora Delphine Kim and Hermione Jean Granger. ‘The Kim girl and your investigator. Same pattern, same silence. The only difference is, this one feels closer. There’s disturbance in the flat—pressure marks on the frame, scuffing near the entryway. And there was a struggle. She fought him, hard. Took a lamp down, maybe more. Whoever he is, he lost control for the first time.’”

Harry said nothing. He stepped closer to the board until his reflection merged with Hermione’s photo in the board. Behind him, Kit caught the faint tightening of his jaw — control held on instinct, sharp and unbroken. The light from above caught the rim of his glasses, flattening the colour from his eyes. To anyone else he might have looked cold. Kit saw focus, pure and pared back, leaving no space for anything else.

Marlowe turned back to the table, pulling a file from the stack nearest the wall. “This is everything we’ve got on Granger,” he said, flipping it open, the paper whispering against the table. “Scene reports, forensics, witness statements from the neighbours. Some of it’ll read like noise, but the devil’s in the inconsistencies.” He slid it across. “You’ll see the same pattern in the earlier cases if you go back far enough — someone who knows exactly how to stand in the dark.”

Harry rested his hand on the folder but didn’t open it straight away. His thumb moved once along the edge of the cover, a quiet calibration of composure. “Then we’ll start here,” he said. He looked up at Marlowe, his voice steady. “Detective Albright compiled the board?”

“Elaine Albright,” Marlowe said. “Transferred to Hartford last spring. Good detective — thorough to the point of obsession. When this case started circling back, we called her in to assist. She’s been helping us recheck the early files, making sure nothing got lost in the shuffle.”

Harry nodded once. “Is she in today?”

Marlowe glanced toward the hallway. “Downstairs, evidence room. She’ll want to meet you.”

“Then we won’t waste time,” Harry said, closing the folder with quiet precision. “Let’s go.”

Marlowe reached for the desk phone as Harry and Kit turned towards the door.
“I’ll give her a heads-up,” he said. “She built most of this case from the ground up; you’ll want her perspective.”

He waited for the line to click through, then spoke into the receiver.
“Elaine? Marlowe. The federal liaison’s coming down with his partner. Potter and Mason. Yes, those ones. They’re cleared. Show them what you’ve been working on.”
He hung up before she could reply.

The corridor outside the task room was narrow, the lighting colder. They took the stairs down. Kit walked a half-pace behind, silent. When they reached the basement level, Harry pushed through the heavy double doors marked EVIDENCE STORAGE.

Elaine Albright was already at the long table near the back, sleeves rolled, hair tied back with a pencil stuck through the knot. She was checking a list against a stack of folders but looked up as the door swung open.

“Special Investigator Potter. Mason.”
Her tone was brisk, purely procedural — the echo of Marlowe’s call still in it. “The chief said you wanted the early case files.”

Harry crossed to the table. “We’d appreciate it.”

Elaine opened the top folder, sliding it between them. “You’ve seen the board upstairs. This is what the photos don’t show.”

She laid a print flat. The image showed a girl arranged on white sheets, hands bound, head turned slightly aside. Another photo joined it, then another — the same poise, the same terrible calm.

Elaine opened the next file. The paper inside was creased from being handled too often.

“Every scene’s outdoors,” she said. “Always in the woods, close to a clearing. He keeps them for a while, long enough to make them part of what he’s building. Then he puts them out. Within a day, two at most, someone comes across them. Yet their condition’s almost immaculate. There’s never decay. They look tended to. No hunger, no marks that shouldn’t be there. The post-mortem findings confirm repeated sexual contact, but he leaves nothing that can be traced—no foreign DNA, no epithelial transfer, no prints, no usable fibres, nothing under the nails. Even their clothing’s arranged—creases smoothed, fabric drawn into place, every fold deliberate. Whoever’s doing this keeps them somewhere controlled, then brings them here at the end. The ground’s cleared, leaves brushed aside, every detail deliberate. The poses match The Young Martyr by Delaroche - exact angle of the head, the hands bound just so. He wants them preserved, found, and admired for it.”

She placed the photographs side by side. The pattern was impossible to miss—each body set out with care, the same angle of the head, the same fall of hair against the shoulder. They looked healthy, almost luminous; death hadn’t taken the colour from them. Skin unmarked, tone still warm. Beautiful, even now. Whoever had done this hadn’t wanted to destroy them. He’d wanted to keep them.

Harry studied them in silence. The repetition built its own rhythm, each image measured, deliberate.

“No struggle?” he asked.

Kit shifted his weight beside him, the movement small, the air tightening.

“None we can read,” Elaine said. “No defensive wounds, no damage we can trace to a fight. Only the bindings. Whoever does this keeps control from start to finish.”

Kit moved closer, eyes tracing the photographs. “All by just one person, you think?”

Elaine nodded, then hesitated. “At first I thought there were two,” she said. “The staging’s too exact, too consistent over the years. It looked like someone helping—an assistant maybe, someone keeping the pattern alive. But the more I went through the details—the way the knots sit, the symmetry, the care—it reads singular. Possessive. Whoever’s doing this doesn’t share. He wants every part of it to belong to him.”

Harry looked at the images again. The faces blurred together in the harsh light. “He doesn’t kill for anger,” he said. “He kills because he’s finished with them. Like he’s making room for the next piece—something better.”

Elaine’s voice stayed low. “Exactly. He kills for composition. It even looks like he adores them.”

She turned another photo toward them. “Grace Park,” Elaine said quietly. “Nineteen ninety-nine. The first time he achieved what he wanted. Everything before her was trial and error—angles wrong, framing off. But with her, it changed. Everything about the scene looked wrong for a homicide. No trauma, no sign of struggle. At first glance, it could’ve passed for an allergic reaction. Later tox showed traces of GHB—too much of it. Enough to stop her breathing fast. She had mild asthma; that made it worse. He’d used the same compound to subdue the others, just measured it better after her. Grace was his mistake—the one that taught him control.” She paused, the line of her mouth tightening. “But even then, he posed her like something cherished, as though he’d spent hours arranging her until she was perfect.”

Elaine slid the case file across the table. “This is the original missing report. Juilliard called her parents when she didn’t turn up for orientation. First day. She’d left her things in the dorm and never came back for them. They filed her missing report that August—nineteen ninety-seven. She wasn’t found until September of ’ninety-nine. More than a year unaccounted for. Longest gap of any of them.”

Harry drew the folder closer. The pages had yellowed at the edges, the ink faded to brown. A single sheet sat on top—typed text, formal, impersonal—but in the margin, near the header, maybe a name was written by hand in Hangul: 조현수. His gaze held on it, the shape of it pulling against memory—the same characters written inside the FAE Sonata score he’d found in Hermione’s bag.

He didn’t speak. His thumb rested on the paper, the weight of the connection settling like a pulse he didn’t want to name.

Chapter Text

The days had folded into one another until she could no longer mark their edges, only the rhythm of waking and falling away again. When consciousness returned, it came unevenly, the world tilting at the seams. Sometimes she opened her eyes to the faint light through the curtains, sometimes to the dim electric buzz of the lamp left burning on the desk. The pattern of the blackouts was wrong. It wasn’t hunger; she’d managed to eat what was left for her, plain food, untouched but for the small bite she forced down. It wasn’t exhaustion either. The sleep that followed didn’t feel earned. It felt imposed—clean, dreamless, exact in its timing.

When she pushed herself upright, the air felt different—warmer, less sharp against her skin. For a moment she thought it was her imagination until she saw the small heater in the corner, its orange coil faint behind a metal guard. She turned her head toward the window next, a single wide pane set above the desk. Most of the glass had been covered by an opaque film that dulled the light to a soft, grey wash. Only a narrow strip along the top had been left clear, and through it she could make out the blur of trees—close together, thick with leaves that blocked any sense of distance. No road, no sky, only the suggestion of a forest pressed in on every side.

On the desk lay a single sheet of paper, folded once and placed dead-centre. She hadn’t noticed it before; the pale weight of it nearly blended with the surface beneath. The handwriting was neat, deliberate cursive—ink pressed hard enough to indent. Welcome home, Hermione…, it began. You’ve been very brave. Rest now. Recuperate. Don’t forget to eat; you’ll need to gain some of your strength back before we can begin again. I’m sorry you woke cold that first morning. I hadn’t expected you to stir so soon. The words were calm, almost tender. Hermione’s hand hovered above the page without touching it. Her stomach tightened, the movement shallow, careful, her pulse loud in her ears. She folded the paper once more along the existing crease and set it aside with the same precision it had been left. Then she exhaled, slow and quiet, every muscle trained to stillness.

She began to catalogue the intervals as best she could, pressing the edge of her thumbnail into her palm each time she woke, counting the marks when she remembered. The gaps between them were too long to be sleep, too short to be days. She was being kept in and out of herself. The meals stayed consistent—small portions, simple but careful: grains, fruit, something warm and protein-rich sealed in a carton. Everything designed to sustain, not comfort. So she began to watch the water instead. It came fresh every morning in a glass jug, clear, cold, nothing visibly wrong, but her tongue carried a faint metallic aftertaste each time she drank. By the third blackout, she stopped touching it.

The ache in her head sharpened as thirst set in, a dull ringing behind her eyes that made light unbearable. On the fifth day she found herself staring at the two doors again, certain now that one led to the outside and the other to the small sound she’d once heard behind it—a drip, intermittent and hollow. When she pushed the second door open, the smell of soap and tile met her. The room was narrow: a toilet, a sink, a shower head over white enamel, and nothing else. The air was cold, clean, empty of movement. It was the first space in days that didn’t feel watched.

She gripped the sink edge until the tremor in her hands steadied. Water beaded at the tap, waiting. Her reflection in the mirror above it looked unfamiliar—paler, thinner, hair unwashed and pulled back from her face. Her eyes were dark around the edges, the fog behind them heavier than it should have been. When she turned the tap, the sound hit her too loud. She hesitated, then raised her hand, palm open above the basin. The movement felt automatic, something remembered more than chosen. A whisper of current gathered under her skin, faint but alive. The water rose from the basin in a thin column, suspended for a heartbeat before falling back. She touched her fingers to it, and it felt clean—cleaner than what she’d been given. When she drank, her throat burned, but the metallic tang was gone. The headache eased by degrees, as if something inside her had finally aligned.

The relief was thin and fleeting, but it was real. She leaned against the wall until the tremor in her legs passed, the tile cold through the fabric of her sweats. Her mind cleared enough to measure the pattern again—the food, the water, the precise timing of the blackouts. It was control, nothing else. She was being managed, kept between states. The knowledge steadied her more than it frightened her. Whoever he was, he hadn’t shown himself. That absence had a weight of its own, heavier than footsteps. She’d stopped expecting the door to open. The waiting itself had become its own kind of noise, filling the space between breaths.

The change had been recent; the air still held the trace of chill beneath the heat. On the chair near the desk lay a folded set of clothes—soft cotton trousers, a grey jumper, a pair of thick socks. All of them clean, all of them her size. A smaller bundle sat on top: knickers and a bra, plain but well-made, the same quality and cut as what she normally wore. They looked close enough to her own things that the sight of them unsettled her more than it comforted. She lifted them carefully, feeling the faint detergent scent, and carried them into the bathroom with her. She would bathe, but she wouldn’t undress out here, not under that mirror facing the bed. The glass caught too much, reflected what it shouldn’t.

The shower steadied her. Heat loosened the ache along her ribs, the pain softening from sharp to dull. She tested her magic again—small, careful pulses, a whisper of intent rather than command. The taps obeyed, turning off and on beneath her hand. The water followed, obedient and soundless when she willed it. For the first time in days, control didn’t feel impossible. She stood under the spray until her breath evened. The soap smelled of lavender, the shampoo of vanilla—close to what she used, but not the same. The difference was slight, almost imperceptible, but she filed it away. Someone had chosen them knowing her habits, not guessing.

That knowledge drew the world narrower around her. She told herself to stay alert, to mark everything, but when she stepped out and saw the jug of water still waiting on the table, clear and untouched, she pretended not to notice what it meant. She lifted the glass, brought it to her lips, and let a small sip touch her tongue before setting it back down. Just enough to look convincing. The water tasted faintly sweet. She made herself swallow once, no more.

When she turned toward the desk, the room felt smaller, watched. A few books sat in a neat stack beside the lamp, spines clean, pages uncreased. She ran her fingers lightly along the edges, reading titles under her breath. Law journals, a copy of Criminal Procedure and Evidence, an old novel she recognised from the syllabus she’d read two months ago. On the shelves above, the rest were chosen with the same care: familiar authors, subjects close to her own. Nothing personal, but all specific.

Then her eyes caught the music stand beside the electric piano. A folder lay open, sheets fanned across the top—Brahms, Debussy, and others she’d played. But tucked among them were newer scores, pieces she’d only glanced at in a local bookstore a month before she disappeared. She hadn’t bought them. The sight of them here lifted the small hairs along her arms. This wasn’t memory or coincidence. Whoever had placed them knew what she’d paused over, what her hands had lingered on. The realisation came slow, deliberate, spreading like cold through her chest. She hadn’t only been taken. She’d been studied. Someone had done their homework.

She picked up the glass again, turned toward the sink, and tipped it as she moved, the motion small and natural. The water slipped away soundlessly down the drain. She rinsed the glass, then brushed her teeth, letting the routine mask the tremor still in her hands. When she caught her reflection in the mirror, she steadied her expression—half-lidded eyes, the faint slackness of exhaustion. If he was watching, she wanted what he saw to look harmless. She turned off the light, leaned once against the doorframe, body loose, as if dizzy, and let herself sag with the same weakness she’d been feigning since the first day. Then she walked back to the bed, lay down, and waited for the quiet to settle.

Beneath the stillness, she started her anchoring—slow, measured breaths syncing with the pulse at her wrist. Thought by thought, she called her focus into line: centre, core, control. When her strength wavered, she thought of Harry—the warmth of his hand, the steadiness in his voice, the way he’d said her name when he meant her to listen. Love, fear, determination; she drew each forward, shaping them into weight and direction. The air shifted faintly, just enough to prove she still could. Her watch had begun.

Chapter Text

Rachel was just sliding the bolt across the door when she heard the knock. Three short taps, light but deliberate. She leaned toward the peephole. Elias stood outside, shoulders drawn in beneath his coat, backpack slung low over one shoulder, the straps twisted from being hastily thrown on. The corridor light caught on the frames of his glasses and the pale fatigue under his eyes. He looked like he hadn’t slept, and he carried himself with that quiet, brittle care of someone afraid to disturb the air around him. For a moment she just studied him, her hand still on the bolt, before giving a low hum through her nose. “Well now,” she said, the drawl soft and unhurried, “you look about two steps from fallin’ over. You could’ve called, sugar. I might’ve put on coffee for you.” She turned the knob and pulled the door open. “Go on, come in before you freeze solid out here.”

He stepped past her, hesitating at the threshold like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to. The warmth of the flat hit him all at once—the faint hum of the radiator, the smell of lemon polish, a trace of detergent that clung to the curtains. Rachel’s place was small but tidy, a single lamp throwing a pool of gold across the table. She hung her coat on the peg, dropped her satchel on the counter, and kicked her shoes aside. “Don’t just stand there,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder. “Sit down before my neck and back starts hurtin’ just from lookin’ up at you.” She pulled two mugs from the rack, poured what was left in the pot, and set one in front of him. “It’s old, but I don’t imagine you’re here for the taste.”

Elias took the seat she offered, fingers tightening around the mug though he didn’t drink. For a while he said nothing. The quiet wasn’t awkward, exactly—just heavy in a way that drew the air thinner around them. Rachel leaned against the counter, watching him over the rim of her cup. “All right,” she said finally, her tone gentler than her words. “What’s gone and got you knockin’ on my door at this hour? Don’t tell me this is about Contracts again; I already told the study group I’m off-duty till tomorrow.” A faint smile touched her mouth, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You look like you’ve seen somethin’ that don’t belong in daylight.”

His hands tightened, and when he finally looked up, his voice came quiet, careful. “It’s not about class,” he said. “It’s about Hermione.” The name hung between them, the sound of it flattening the small domestic warmth that had filled the room. Rachel’s expression shifted, something steadying behind her eyes. She set her cup down, the porcelain clicking softly against the counter. “Well,” she said, the drawl thinning but still there, “you best start from the beginnin’, sugar, ‘cause I got the feelin’ this ain’t a story I’m gonna like.”

Elias hesitated, the silence stretching just long enough for her to see the pulse working at his throat. Rachel folded her arms, weighing him for a moment before she spoke again. “You know,” she said slowly, “maybe we oughta call Harry first. Her boyfriend.” The word came gently, not prying, just stating fact. “He’s workin’ the case with the police—some kind of special investigator, liaison or whatnot. Came over from London soon as it happened.” She gave a faint shake of her head, half disbelief, half respect. “Didn’t figure Hermione for datin’ someone in a uniform, but he carries himself like the sort that don’t ask twice. Looks like the job’s carved into him.”

Elias blinked, trying to piece that together. “Her boyfriend?” he echoed, quieter this time, the idea landing awkwardly between curiosity and discomfort. Rachel caught it and lifted a hand as if to wave it off. “I know, I know. I near about dropped when I saw him myself. Walked right into her flat a few days back while I was on my way to class—introduced himself all formal, accent and all. ‘Special Investigator Potter,’ just like that. Had another fella with him too—Kit Mason, I think he said. American. Carried himself like a man who’s seen too much and don’t much care to talk about it. Both of ‘em sharp as tacks, but you could tell quick which one had the weight on his shoulders.” She smiled faintly, the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. “Harry looked like he’d crossed an ocean and hadn’t stopped to breathe yet.”

The room went quiet for a moment, the radiator ticking softly as the heat settled. Elias let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “Okay,” he said at last, the word coming out small, more surrender than agreement. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes down, tracing the chipped edge of his mug. “I didn’t know,” he added, the words carrying a strange, apologetic weight, as though not knowing were its own kind of failing.

Rachel watched him, her voice softening. “Most folks didn’t,” she said. “But if you’ve come all this way with somethin’ about her, then best you tell it plain. I can promise you this much—he’ll listen.”

Even as she said it, she was already reaching for her bag on the counter, flipping back the clasp with one hand while the other held her cup steady. “Now where’d I put that card,” she muttered, half to herself, half to the room. “Lord help me if I went and lost it. He handed it to me himself, said, ‘Call if you remember anything at all.’ And look at me now, can’t even keep it in one place.” The contents of her bag rustled: pens, keys, a compact, a folded receipt. She pushed through it all with growing impatience until her fingers caught the edge of stiff paper. “Aha,” she said, the sound a small victory.

She pulled out the card, the plain white one with H. Potter — Special Investigator - Federal Liaison embossed across the front, numbers printed clean beneath. “Found you,” she murmured, then reached for her phone, tapping in the digits with care. Elias watched in silence, the air between them heavy enough to make the ticking of the radiator sound too loud. The call rang once. Twice. Three times. Then a voice answered—low, clipped, unmistakably British.

“Potter.”

Rachel straightened, her voice steadying. “Harry, it’s Rachel—the one from next door. Listen, you might wanna come by. I’ve got one of Hermione’s classmates here says he’s got somethin’ you’ll wanna hear.”

There was the briefest pause on the other end, a breath drawn and held. Then: “I’ll be there,” Harry said. “Ten minutes. Mason’s with me.”

Chapter Text

The knock came quick, three hard raps that carried down the narrow hall. Rachel crossed to the door, wiping her hands on a towel she hadn’t realised she’d been twisting. When she opened it, Harry Potter stood in the hallway, coat zipped, shoulders dusted with cold, Kit just behind him, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a closed folder.

Rachel stepped back from the door, motioning them in. “Come on, don’t just stand there lettin’ all the heat out.” She moved automatically, crossing to the counter. “You fellas want coffee? It ain’t fresh, but I can warm it.”

Harry hesitated just long enough to be polite. “If it’s no trouble.”

“Never is.” She poured into two clean mugs, sliding one toward him, one to Kit, then nodded toward the table. “Have a seat, sugar. You look like you been standin’ for hours.”

Elias had risen by then, setting his cup aside and smoothing his palms on his jeans. “Elias Cho,” he said, offering his hand first to Harry, then to Kit. “I’m one of Hermione’s classmates.”

Harry shook his hand, firm but not rushed. “Harry Potter,” he said quietly. “And this is Kit Mason.”

Rachel set three cups on the table, the steam faint and thin. “Well, now we all know each other,” she said, her drawl softening the edge of her words.

Harry nodded once in thanks before taking the seat across from Elias. The table between them was bare except for Rachel’s cooling mug. Kit stayed near the counter, his presence quiet but attentive. The air in the flat had gone still, the kind of silence that gathered around things people didn’t yet know how to say.

Elias sat again, his hands clasped loosely together. Harry rested his forearms against his knees, his voice low. “What did you want to talk about, Mr. Cho?”

“Elias, please,” he said, a faint, apologetic smile crossing his face.

Harry gave a small nod. “All right, Elias.” He paused, then added, “Hermione mentioned you—the group—last time she was home in London. Said you looked out for one another.” His tone stayed even, carrying just enough warmth to take the edge off the formality.

Some of the tension in Elias’s shoulders eased. He drew a breath, steadying himself. “It’s about my sister,” he said. “Cho Hyun Soo.” The name sat between them, small and heavy. “She went missing in 1997. She was nineteen then — a pianist. Juilliard had just accepted her on a full scholarship. Tuition, housing, allowance, the works. She called me the night she arrived in New York, said she’d settled into her dorm and would ring again. The last time I heard her voice, she said she was heading out to meet a friend. I didn’t ask if it was a guy or a girl. I should have.”

He paused, a muscle flickering in his jaw. “She never called again.” His voice stayed calm, but it carried a brittleness that had nothing to do with nerves. “She’d never run away before. Not once. Our family… we’re close. She wouldn’t have done that to us.” He hesitated, his eyes unfocused for a moment. “This is the first time I’ve talked about her. Outside the police. No one here knows she was my sister. It’s… different, in our community. There’s shame in it,” he said. “Losing someone like that. People stop meeting your eyes. Like it might catch.

Rachel didn’t move. The kettle on the counter clicked as it cooled, the sound thin in the room.

Elias went on. “I was in Seoul at the time, at Seoul National University. Studying instrumental music, same as her. I was supposed to follow her to Juilliard that autumn, but our grandmother fell ill and I stayed behind to look after her.” He rubbed a thumb along the edge of the mug, eyes fixed somewhere past Harry’s shoulder. “When Grace disappeared, we were lost,” Elias said quietly. “Our parents were here in the States — they looked everywhere. Church bulletins, missing-person posters, even news interviews. Nothing. No leads, no trace. Once our grandmother was strong enough to travel, we booked a flight and joined them.”

He drew another breath, slower this time. “She used our mother’s last name here in the States — Park. Grace Park. It’s a long story.” His gaze dropped to his hands, the words coming quieter now. “When Hermione went missing, I got scared. What if it’s not coincidence? Not after everything that’s happened.” He hesitated, the pause pulling taut. “There were other girls before her. I used to think I was imagining the connections. But then…” His voice thinned. “I was one of the people who found one of them. Marina Holloway. I was with my dad and uncle when we came across her.”

Rachel’s hand rose to her mouth, eyes wide.

Elias’s voice wavered, barely above a whisper. “We were out near West Rock Park. My uncle wanted firewood for the church retreat. I remember hearing him swear, and then—” He stopped, the rest catching in his throat. “She was there. Marina, from choir. We used to practice after mass—her voice, my violin. She was so bright, so alive.

He drew another breath that came out uneven. “And then—the next time I saw her…” He shut his eyes briefly, forcing the words out. “She was lying there in the woods like my Noona. Same position. Same stillness. He’d arranged her, just like my sister.”

The blood drained from his face. His hands came together on the table, fingers trembling once before he pressed them flat. “That’s when they started looking at me. The police. I couldn’t blame them. I swear to you, I didn’t—” He stopped, breath breaking unevenly. “I froze.”

His voice dropped lower still. “My dad froze too when we found her. None of us could move. It was my uncle who finally called 911.” He paused, the memory sitting heavy between them. “Everything after that was noise—sirens, shouting, the smell of wet leaves.”

Rachel’s hand lifted to her mouth, her breath catching faintly. Then she reached across the table, resting her fingers lightly over Elias’s. The touch wasn’t meant to comfort so much as steady, to remind him he wasn’t speaking into a void.

Harry then reached for the binder beside him and set it on the table. The worn spine caught the kitchen light, the faint lettering just visible: FAE Sonata.

Elias’s eyes widened as soon as he saw it. “That’s mine,” he said, reaching forward before stopping himself. His voice thinned, caught between recognition and disbelief. “Hermione borrowed it—the night before she went missing. It’s my copy, or—well, my sister’s, really. Grace’s.”

Harry’s fingers stilled on the cover. “I was hoping to speak with you actually,” he said, voice quiet, steady. “After I found this in Hermione’s bag. She’d mentioned you—your work on the Sonata, the way you played together. I thought it might tell me something before she disappeared.”

Elias nodded once, a small, sad smile ghosting over his face. “We played it together that night. Right here, actually.” He glanced at Rachel. “The evening you invited the team over, remember?”

Rachel nodded, a small, bittersweet smile ghosting across her face. “I remember. Y’all didn’t even practise, but I swear it was the prettiest thing I ever heard come out of this flat. Like you’d been playin’ together for years.”

Elias’s mouth moved like he meant to smile, but it never reached his eyes. “She reminded me of Grace that night,” he said quietly. “Same focus. Same quiet.” He paused, his gaze drifting somewhere past the table. “Hermione didn’t play like most people do. No hesitation, no showmanship—just… precision. Every note deliberate, but soft at the edges, like she was thinking her way through something only she could hear. Grace used to play that way too.”

Harry opened the binder, turning a few pages until the faint Hangul characters came into view. He tilted it slightly toward Elias. “This—here. What does it mean?”

Elias leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “This is her name in Hangul,” he said softly. “Cho Hyun Soo.”

Harry turned another page, tapping the corner of a symbol pressed into the margin. “And this one?”


Elias studied it, brow furrowing. “That’s a Chinese character,” he said after a moment. “Written in a flourish, like a signature.” He reached for the nearest napkin and, with deliberate care, drew the symbol in neat strokes — 永. His handwriting was steady, almost reverent. “It means eternal. Grace used it sometimes — to sign her books or music sheets. It was her mark, I suppose.”

He hesitated, then added quietly, “She even had a dojang made — a stone seal, carved with that same character. She used it to stamp her scores or the inside covers of her books.” Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a small wooden case and flipped it open to reveal his own seal, the surface etched with his name, 曹賢宇. “This one’s mine,” he said softly. “She had hers made the same week. Said it made her feel like a real artist.”

Harry leaned forward slightly, studying the mark. “Why Chinese?” he asked. “Not Hangul?”

Elias gave a small nod, understanding the question before answering. “In Korea, personal seals — dojang — are traditionally engraved in Chinese characters, Hanja, not Hangul. It’s old custom. Hanja was the language of scholars, of law and record-keeping. Using it makes a name feel... formal. Permanent. Grace liked that. Said Hangul was how you spoke, but Hanja was how you were remembered.”

He looked up. “Does it mean something to the case?”

Harry met his gaze. “I’m still finding out,” he said.

Kit had remained mostly silent, his notebook open, neat columns of handwriting already half a page deep. He caught Harry’s glance and gave a short nod—steady, economical, nothing wasted.

The doorbell broke the stillness. Rachel pushed back her chair, the scrape of wood sharp in the quiet, and crossed to the door. A moment later she was taking the brown paper bag from the delivery boy, a draft of cold air following her in. The smell of food spread through the room—warm rice, soy, something fried.

She turned, lifting the bag slightly. “Y’all might as well stay,” she said. “It ain’t much, but it’s hot, and I’m not lettin’ anyone go hungry in my kitchen.”

Elias nodded, voice low. “Thank you.”

Harry’s mouth eased at the corners. “We’ll take you up on that,” he said, and for the first time since they’d arrived, the room loosened—a fraction, just enough to breathe.

The food steamed between them, the scent of ginger and garlic softening the room. They ate without hurry, the scrape of chopsticks and the faint tap of ceramic the only sounds for a while. Rachel sat near the window, her hair catching the dull lamplight as she stirred the rice on her plate more than she ate it. Kit picked through the noodles with methodical patience, jotting a note every so often on the pad beside him. Harry ate in quiet, the motion of it mechanical, his gaze never quite leaving the table. The warmth from the cartons couldn’t reach the space between them, where the air held something close to waiting.

Rachel’s hand lingered on her cup. “When I saw the place the other day,” she said quietly, “door was open, you boys still inside. It looked bad. Like she fought all the way down.”

Elias’s chopsticks stilled halfway to his mouth. “She wasn’t herself that night,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I keep thinking about it—how pale she looked, how tired. We all thought it was just the week catching up with her.” He pushed a grain of rice with his chopsticks, eyes unfocused. “Now I wonder if something had already started.”

The table went still. Kit set his chopsticks down, the faint tap of wood against porcelain marking the pause. “What did you notice?”

Elias shifted slightly, his gaze fixed on the carton in front of him. “She was the only one who got sick,” he said. “At first, I thought maybe she hadn’t eaten much that day, or maybe she was just tired. But she went pale—clammy—and she barely touched her food. What I do remember is she drank a lot. Just water, no alcohol.” He paused, frowning. “If Priya and Talia hadn’t walked her back to her flat, I don’t think she would’ve made it down the hall.”

Rachel nodded slowly, her voice softening. “Those girls told me the same. They got her settled in, made sure she was tucked in proper. Said she was half asleep before they even turned out the light.” She glanced toward the window, her thumb running over the rim of her cup. “After the team left, I stopped to tidy up. Checked the cups, the leftovers. Didn’t see or smell nothin’ strange. Most of the cups still had water, some soda. No liquor, no spirits.” Her mouth pulled tight. “You’d think there’d be somethin’ to show for it.”

Elias gave a faint shake of his head. “Nothing anyone would’ve noticed. She just… faded. Like whatever it was had already started working.”

Rachel’s eyes lifted. “And 2B’s tenant was out of town that night,” she said quietly. “So no one else would’ve heard a thing.”

Harry looked across the table. Kit met his gaze, a flicker of understanding passing between them — the same thought, wordless, precise. The drinks.

Harry turned back to Elias. “Do you remember how everyone was seated that night?” His voice was steady, almost too even. “Who sat where?”

Elias hesitated, thumb moving along the rim of his plate. “Yeah… I think so. We’d kept the same layout from our mock sessions. Hermione was between Priya and me — she liked being where she could see everyone’s notes. Talia and Marcus were across from us, near the whiteboard. Avery, Ben, and Malik sat down the side toward the window, laptops open, cables tangling round the cartons. Rachel and Noah were behind us, keeping track of time and taking notes, and the Fellows — Julian and Celeste — floated between tables, checking citations.”

He stopped for a breath, his eyes narrowing as the memory settled in. “It got a bit chaotic once the food showed up. Boxes everywhere, laptops shoved to the edge, notes sliding under takeout containers. People passing plates, drinks, making space for everything. You could hardly tell what belonged to who after a while.”

He gave a small, weary smile that didn’t last. “The cups were all red disposables — Rachel hates washing dishes.”

Rachel’s mouth curved, dry amusement breaking through for a moment. “Still do,” she said.

Elias nodded, the weight returning to his voice. “They all looked the same. Once they started getting moved around, you couldn’t tell one from another.” He paused, frowning slightly. “I did notice she kept drinking, though. More than the rest of us. But she’d been on her feet all evening — led the oral argument like she’d written the damn Constitution herself. I figured she was just thirsty.”

Rachel’s expression softened. “That girl carried the team through that mock Moot. Her notes saved them. They wouldn’t have placed half as high without her notes.”

Elias gave a small nod, his voice rough around the edges. “If she’d been there for the presentation, we’d have taken the highest mark. No question.”

For a moment, the room felt smaller, the sound of rain at the window the only thing that moved.

Kit reached for his notebook and wrote something down, each movement deliberate. When he finished, he looked at Harry. Whatever passed between them was brief — a shared thought without words. Harry checked his watch, then looked back at him, a quiet signal passing between them.

He rose and turned to Elias. “Thank you,” he said, voice low but certain. “You’ve helped more than you know.” He drew a card from his jacket and held it out, not setting it down this time. Elias hesitated before taking it, and Harry met his hand halfway in a firm, steady shake — brief, deliberate, a promise contained in touch. “If anything comes to you,” he said quietly, “no matter how small, call me.”

Elias nodded once, his grip tightening for a second before he let go. “I will.”

Rachel stood too, smoothing her sleeve, her expression softening. “I’ll talk to the rest of the team,” she said. “See what they remember from that night.” She met Harry’s eyes. “We’ll keep in touch.”

Harry gave her a small, grateful nod before stepping back. Kit followed, offering Rachel his hand. “Thank you for the coffee and dinner,” he said, his tone warmer than usual. She smiled faintly, shaking his hand.

The wipers moved slow across the windscreen, clearing thin arcs of rain that blurred again before the next pass. The car smelled faintly of wet wool and coffee from the paper cups balanced in the console. Streetlights cut through the mist, pale and unsteady, throwing long streaks across the dash. Neither of them spoke for a while.

Kit sat angled toward the window, his notebook open on his knee, writing in the half-light. Every few seconds he paused, staring at nothing, the pen still. Harry drove, steady hands on the wheel, eyes fixed ahead. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, even. “We’ll go over every profile again. All of them. There’s something we’re missing.”

Kit closed the notebook, thumb pressed against the cover. “I’ll ask Elaine,” he said after a moment. “See if she’s seen anything like it before — something that ties across the cases.”

Harry nodded slightly, jaw tight. “If he’s keeping them as a collection, he’d need a system. Some way of knowing what belongs where.” His gaze drifted toward the passenger window, the world outside little more than shadow and light. “There’s intent behind what he leaves behind. None of it’s random.”

He paused, fingers tightening on the wheel. “Did the reports say anything about missing things?” he asked. “Personal items, jewellery — anything that shouldn’t have vanished?”

Kit looked up, thoughtful. “I don’t remember seeing it noted, but I’ll ask Elaine. If he’s keeping trophies, she’d know what’s missing.”

Harry gave a small nod. “Please. Ask her that too.”

They stopped at a red light, the glow bleeding into the car. For a moment, Harry’s reflection met his own in the glass, split down the centre by the rain. He drew a slow breath, almost a prayer. Keep her safe, he thought, not sure who he was asking. Please—just until I find her.

The light turned green. He drove on. Neither of them spoke again. The wipers kept their rhythm, steady and unyielding, as the city thinned into dark.

Chapter Text

He preferred the middle room. It was where he could listen without being heard, see without being seen. The mirror in front of him—half the length of a man, rectangular, fixed into the wall—reflected nothing of his own face, only the bed beyond it. A one-way pane. From here, he watched the rise and fall of Hermione’s breathing, the faint shift when she turned her head against the pillow. Every motion registered, precise and fragile.

The light in her room was kept low, soft amber that flattered the skin and blurred the edges of bruises. She hadn’t stirred since morning, the sedative still tracing slow lines through her system. He’d adjusted the dosage two nights ago; her body had begun to steady after the cold. The first night had been an error—he’d misjudged the insulation. She’d woken shaking, disoriented, and it had taken twelve hours to bring her temperature back to the range he wanted. He had written that down. He wrote everything down. Control was a discipline, not an instinct.

He’d replayed the fight a dozen times in his notes. Each movement catalogued: her resistance, the angle of her strikes, the precision of her footwork even through the haze. She’d been magnificent in that moment—terrifying in her defiance, all sharp will and clean lines. He’d made himself write that, too. Validation: she met every expectation. Exceptionally. The bruises on her ribs were evidence of his own failure, not hers. He hated that. The violence had been crude, wasteful. It had taken something from her body he had not meant to mar.

He stayed close, the chair drawn to the edge of her bed. cataloguing her breathing, the pattern of her tremors, the minute adjustments of her hands as the drug thinned from her system. The restraint had burned through him like fever. The urge to reach out—to trace the pulse at her throat, to test how close he could come before she woke—was an indulgence he refused himself. She was not ready. He would not risk another imperfection.

He wrote nothing down for a while. He only watched, the certainty settling through him like warmth after a fever. She was home. Safe in the way he defined it. His order. His world.

He reminded himself that the most difficult part was done. The waiting could begin now. Everything else would follow, exactly as planned.

The ledger lay open on the desk beside him now, his handwriting neat and even. Acquisition 10. Recovery stable. Pulse regular. Temperature maintained. Correction applied to sedative ratio (0.5ml increase). Maintain environment at 24°C. He paused, pen hovering above the page. Below the data, he added one final note: Do not touch until balance is restored.

To his left, another pane of mirrored glass faced the second room. The girl there—Aurora—was still awake. He could see the rhythm of her movement, sharp and uneven, a body unaccustomed to confinement. She had the look of something untamed: youth still clinging to her like defiance. He watched her pace the narrow strip of floor, then stop, her shoulders drawn tight as though she could feel the weight of his gaze. She couldn’t, of course. None of them ever could. The mirrors were soundproof. Sight without contact. That was the balance he kept.

She’d stopped eating three days ago. He saw it in the sharpness of her collarbones, the way her sweatshirt hung looser each morning. The numbers on the scale had begun to dip, the data mocking his precision. It would need correcting soon. He couldn’t have an acquisition looking frail. Presentation mattered. Every detail did.

He turned back to the first window. Hermione lay motionless, one arm tucked under the blanket, the other resting near the edge of the mattress. Even unconscious, she carried a kind of stillness that unsettled him. Most subjects fidgeted, whimpered, fought the haze. She did none of that. She endured. There was a discipline in it he hadn’t expected—a quiet that made the air hum differently. He found himself leaning forward, close enough that his breath fogged the glass. Not yet. His fingers brushed the reflection, the faint warmth fading instantly against the cool pane.

He moved back to the desk and opened the ledger again. The ink on the last entry had dried clean. Two names, written in precise block letters: 9 – Aurora. Beneath it, a newer line: 10 – Hermione. He drew a straight line between them, paused, then added a single word at the margin. Balance.

He drove with the windows cracked an inch, the night air cutting through the heat that still clung to his skin. Every movement was deliberate. The gloves came off first, folded into the evidence satchel on the passenger seat; then the outer jacket, its fabric already wiped clean, sealed in plastic. He checked the clock on the dashboard. 4:47 a.m. He had thirty-eight minutes before the first commuter buses began to stir in the city. The streets were still empty, washed silver by the glow of the lamps, the world holding its breath in that thin space between night and morning.

At the red light, he lifted the small receipt from the petrol station counter and flattened its corner against the dashboard. The timestamp aligned exactly with the CCTV at the forecourt — he’d checked it before leaving. The second receipt, from the late-night diner, would follow. Two cups of black coffee to go, paid in cash. He’d memorised the cashier’s face, her pale hair pulled into a knot, the chipped varnish on her nails. Witnesses were currency. They made time believable.

When he reached her street, he paused before pulling into the drive. Every light in the building was dark except the one spilling faintly from her bedroom window. He sat there for a moment, engine ticking, eyes on the curtains shifting in the heat vent’s breeze. There was no urgency in him, no trace of guilt or fear. Everything had been accounted for. Even her sleep.

Inside, the flat smelled faintly of rose and candle wax, the remnants of last night’s wine still on the table. He unbuttoned his shirt with care, rolling the sleeves to the elbows, folding the fabric with neat precision before setting it on the chair. No stains. No dust. He checked twice.

He slid into bed beside her, matched his breath to hers—slow, steady, calibrated like a metronome. When she stirred and murmured his name, he answered with warmth, his hand resting lightly against her back, steady as if he had never left. He drew her close, pressed his mouth to her shoulder, and held her there, skin to skin, until her breathing settled.

His mind drifted elsewhere. Back in the cabin, with his girls. The hush of the radiator, the amber light, the stillness he’d shaped with his own hands. The silence that obeyed. Something shifted in him then—low, insistent, sharp as a wire pulled tight. He took her with focus, with force. Closeness held no meaning. He moved for quiet. For control. Her body shifted beneath him, warm, yielding. Still, it wasn’t her he felt. Only the echo of stillness. The shape of obedience. The rhythm steadied him. Anchored him.

She would do for now.

He watched the ceiling until the first light broke through the curtains. The pale blue cut across her hair, and he noted how easily the world fell back into its rhythm. At seven, he rose, brewed the coffee, and kissed her temple, the act practiced, unhurried. He smiled when she smiled back. She never saw the ledger hidden beneath the folded shirts, nor the notation that would mark this morning cleanly: 04:48 return. Presence confirmed. No deviation detected.

By the fifth day, the routine had settled into something precise, almost ritual. Hermione remained under, her body curled into long hours of stillness. When she stirred, it was only briefly—an arm shifting beneath the blanket, a breath catching before it steadied again. He kept the lights low for her, the amber glow constant, the air kept warm and dry. She slept through most of his visits, which pleased him. It allowed him to study without interruption. To learn the quiet language of her recovery.

In the next room, Aurora had stopped pacing. The defiance had bled out of her with the days. Now, she slept too, the IV line running down from the rack, the slow drip keeping her balanced where resistance had thinned to thread. He had corrected the loss in her weight, calculated the exact caloric restoration, and logged it neatly beside her name. She looked almost peaceful now, the sharpness smoothed from her features. Perfect. His.

He moved between the two rooms in silence, recording pulse and temperature, every breath accounted for. Outside, the forest pressed close to the glass, the light thinning earlier each day. He heard the news in passing, the way certain words slip through a half-open door and refuse to leave. A pair of 1L’s from Hermione’s team were talking just outside the archives room—one of them lowering her voice the moment she said the name. An investigator from London, she whispered. Working with the Bureau now. Harry, Hermione’s boyfriend. Harry Potter. The syllables settled into the air like a dropped pin, small but resonant. He didn’t move. Just listened, head bent over the records he’d come to collect, the sound of their footsteps retreating down the hall.

So, it was him. The inevitable had arrived. He felt no alarm, no flicker of panic, only the slow, bright hum of satisfaction that began somewhere behind his ribs. The symmetry of it pleased him—the man who had haunted the edges of her world now stepping willingly into his. He pictured him there, inside her flat, tracing the shape of what he had already touched. Let him search, he thought. Let him see what perfection looks like up close.

When he left the university that evening, the sky was washed thin with winter light, the kind that bleaches colour into bone. He carried the thought with him, turning it over like a coin between his fingers. The game had shifted; he could feel it in the hush of the corridors, in the way the cold settled into his coat. She was nearly ready—her body quiet, her pulse slowed to something he could manage. Sedation suited her. It softened the edges, made her pliable, kept the world at bay. Strength had no place here. He needed stillness. He needed silence.

He’d kept her alive. Kept her beautiful. Kept her his. What remained was proof. A sign. Something to mark the space she was meant to occupy. His space. His design.

He didn’t wait. On his way out, he stopped by the bench near the vending machines—just outside the camera’s sweep. His notebook stayed zipped in his bag. Instead, he wrote on the back of a postcard—Delaroche’s The Young Martyr, his muse. One line. Measured. Exact. He used his left hand. No one knew he could. The script was looped, deliberate, elegant without flourish. He taped Hermione’s red string bracelet to the card, careful with the placement, the angle. “I’m keeping her warm and safe.”

Then he slid it into Locker 3B. He knew the blind spots—where the lenses blinked, where the angles failed. No one saw. That was the point.

It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. Quiet. Absolute. Soon, she would finally be his.

Chapter Text

The call came just after eight.
Morning light was already carved into the floorboards, long and bright, like something that didn’t belong in that room.
Harry sat at the edge of the desk Elaine had taken over, the place crowded with open folders, each page half-read, coffee ringed, handled to exhaustion. Kit stood by the whiteboard, marker cap between his teeth. Elaine poured what passed for coffee and didn’t bother with milk.

The building hummed around them — phones, footsteps, the kind of noise you stop hearing until it stops.
Harry’s phone buzzed once against the file. He didn’t look at the screen before he answered.

“Potter.”

The voice that came through was clipped, careful, the sound of someone holding a line that wanted to break.
“Mr Potter, Margaret Ellison. Yale Law.”

He straightened. “Dean Ellison.”

“One of our fellows came in early this morning,” she said. “Miss Granger’s locker’s been opened. No sign of damage. But—”
The pause came thin, breath on glass. “I thought you’d want to see it.”

Elaine stopped mid-pour, cup hovering. Kit’s head turned.

“When?” Harry said.

“Last night, by the looks of it.” Her tone didn’t change, but the air under it did — worry pressed flat. “He called me first thing. I thought it best you see it yourself.”

Harry’s hand closed around his pen, not writing. “Keep the corridor sealed,” he said. “We’ll be there in ten.”

“Of course.” A pause. “I’ll meet you there.”

The line clicked.

For a moment, the only sound was the slow drip of the coffee machine.
Then Kit grabbed his jacket. Elaine set her cup down and took the keys from the drawer. No one spoke as they left.

Sterling Law was almost empty when they got there.
The corridors held the smell of bleach and paper, coffee that had cooled hours ago. The floor still shone from cleaning, but you could see where shoes had passed — faint tracks in the gloss, light catching on them like residue of movement.

Margaret Ellison waited by the entrance to the student wing. She was smaller than Harry remembered, silver hair drawn back into a twist so clean it looked carved. Her posture didn’t bend. She offered her hand; he took it lightly.

“Thank you for coming,” she said. “We’ve closed off the area. No one’s been in since Julian found it.”

Harry nodded. Kit moved past them without speaking, already scanning the hall — light fixtures, doors, angles of sight. Elaine stayed close to the dean, her tone low, all calm procedure.

They reached the end of the corridor.
Locker 3B. The black numbers stencilled over the vent. Metal clean, latch untouched.

Harry pulled on nitrile gloves — a soft snap that sounded too loud — and crouched. The air smelled faintly of polish, that sterile tang that came with effort meant to erase. He traced where the dial met the latch, slow, eyes following the seam. Nothing broken. He pulled.

The door opened easy.

Inside, everything waited like a reconstruction of someone’s life — too neat, too arranged.
Books on the left, lined in order. Constitutional Law. Moot prep. Case notes, her handwriting in the margins. Papers stacked straight, edges square.

And taped to the door: a few photographs.
Him and Crookshanks, both asleep on the couch in London. The light in the picture was warm, softer than he remembered it ever being.

Further down — a single postcard.
Paul Delaroche’s The Young Martyr.
The girl adrift, her face half under water, the light breaking across it.

He turned it over.
One line, written in neat cursive, the pressure of each letter controlled.

I’m keeping her warm and safe.

Beneath the words, taped flat: a red string bracelet. Hermione’s.
Knotted twice. Frayed at the end.

The air changed. Elaine drew in a small breath; Kit didn’t move.

Harry stayed there, still crouched, eyes on the bracelet.
The thread looked darker now, faintly warped from wear. A trace of magic clung to it, quiet and cold, moving once through the air like a pulse before fading.

The fluorescent light hummed harder, pressing against his ears.

He slid both postcard and bracelet into an evidence sleeve, sealing it slow.
“He’s not hiding anymore,” he said. The words came quiet, almost to himself.

Margaret’s voice broke the quiet. “That was hers, wasn’t it?”

Harry didn’t answer at first. He sealed the bag, the sound of adhesive peeling slow, final. Then he nodded once.

The silence thickened again, soft but close, like dust settling after a fall. The fluorescent hum seemed louder now, the air too thin for breath.

Kit moved first. He pulled his gloves from his pocket, slipped them on, the motion clean, automatic. He crouched by the locker, unzipped his kit, and took out the graphite brush. Each stroke slow, circular, patient. The powder caught the light in a dull shimmer, tracing edges, ghosting over prints that weren’t there.

Elaine stood beside him, arms folded. Her eyes stayed on Kit’s hands. “We’ll need the CCTV,” she said. Her voice was low, more thought than order. “Forty-eight hours minimum. Hallway, stairwell, courtyard.” A pause. “Someone might’ve crossed the feed.”

She turned toward Margaret. “Who found it?”

Margaret blinked, coming back to herself. “Julian Devon,” she said. “One of our fellows. He came early, around seven. Needed to collect the mentor files. Saw the latch sitting wrong. Called me from the hall, said he hadn’t touched it. I told him to leave everything.”

Harry watched Kit, the slow sweep of the brush, the patience in it. It looked almost like faith — the kind that believes something will answer if you just keep at it long enough.

“Can we speak with him?” Harry asked.

Margaret nodded. Her hand went to her phone, fingers trembling once before they steadied. “Of course.” She stepped away, her voice lowering. “Julian? It’s Dean Ellison. Could you come down to the lockers, please? Now. Nothing to worry about. Just to clarify something.”

When she hung up, Kit was brushing the far corner of the locker, graphite spreading like smoke. He looked up, shook his head. “Nothing clean.”

Elaine didn’t reply. She was watching the dean, her silence the kind that measures.

Margaret came back to them, phone still in her hand. “He’s on his way,” she said. Her voice steadier now, but the rough edge still there. “He sounded… unsettled. He and Hermione worked closely. He’s been taking it hard.”

Harry’s eyes went to the evidence bag on the table — the faint gleam of plastic, the postcard’s surface dull under the light, The Young Martyr staring up through the seal. The red string coiled against it, neat, exact.

He didn’t move for a long time. His reflection ghosted in the plastic, then slipped away when he spoke.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “Let’s see what he saw.”

The sound of footsteps reached them first — steady, light, a faint echo off the tile. The rhythm of someone used to quiet halls.

Julian appeared at the far end of the corridor. The light caught on the sleeve of his coat, the cuff damp where the morning had reached it. He saw them — the dean, the two investigators, Elaine beside the open locker — and came on, unhurried.

“Mr Devon,” Margaret said, her voice lowered, the syllables even. “Thank you for coming.”

He nodded once, then again, a small recalibration rather than nerves. His gaze moved across the room, pausing on each face — Elaine, Kit, then Harry.

He crossed the last few steps and offered his hand. Kit took it first, brief. Then Elaine, lighter.
As he turned, he shifted the folders in his left hand. When Harry stepped forward, Julian’s right hand was already waiting, palm open, thumb angled inward. The handshake was firm, deliberate, held just long enough.

Harry felt the alignment—skin cool, a faint callus near the index joint, roughness from ink and paper, shaped by desks and pens, not tools.

“Julian Devon,” he said quietly, though they all already knew. The words came even, placed. “Dean Ellison said you wanted to ask about the locker.”

Harry stepped aside, leaving the open door between them. “You found it this morning.”

Julian nodded. “Around seven. I came in early for the mentor briefs. The corridor was empty, lights low. The door caught my eye.”
He looked toward the locker, then back. “I didn’t touch it. I called Dean Ellison.”

Elaine’s tone stayed level. “You’re here most mornings.”

“Most. My office is just past the stairwell. I walk this way in.”
A pause. “It’s been quiet since she went missing.”

Kit shifted his stance, notebook in hand. “Anyone else here when you arrived?”

Julian shook his head once. “No one. Cleaning crew must’ve finished earlier. I heard a vacuum somewhere below, that’s all.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, just long enough to notice.

Elaine nodded. “Thank you.”

Kit closed his notebook, the click of its spine sharp against the quiet.

Julian inclined his head, polite, already turning toward the door.

The CCTV room sat three floors down, behind a door with no label. The air changed there—heavy, still, carrying the smell of warm circuitry. Rows of monitors glowed blue in the dark, light moving across the walls like water.

Elaine stood behind the technician’s chair, hand on the backrest. “Locker wing,” she said. “Start from midnight.”

He scrolled through the feed. The monitors flickered: static, time stamp, a corridor stretched in grey.

1:04. Empty.
2:17. A cleaner’s cart sliding through the frame.
3:22. Stillness.

Harry leaned closer. “Earlier.”

The cursor jumped. 1:04 straight to 3:22. A breath between, then nothing.

Kit spoke from behind him. “That’s an hour.”

The technician rewound, slower this time. Same break, same blank.

Elaine’s voice was quiet. “No feed?”

He shook his head. “That section’s dead. Locker corridor, east stairwell, part of the courtyard.”

Silence thickened. The hum from the machines filled the room, low and constant.

Harry’s reflection hung in the glass, blurred between frames. “How long’s it been like that.”

“Since installation,” the tech said. “Never recorded properly.”

Elaine straightened. “Strange place for failure.”

No one answered. The screens kept their pulse of light.

Harry dragged a hand through his hair, the motion sharp, frustration flashing and gone. The glow caught on his sleeve, across Kit’s jaw, over Elaine’s shoulder, washing them all in the same blue-grey.

The missing hour stayed between them, bright and empty.

Chapter Text

Morning came in pieces. Thin light slipped through the narrow crack of the curtain, tracing its way across the floorboards before it reached her bed. She kept her eyes closed through most of it, the warmth from the radiator brushing against her cheek. The room smelled faintly of her — vanilla, lavender, the same scent that clung to her scarves back home. It should have been comforting. It wasn’t. The air carried too much quiet, too much order.

He came once a day, sometimes two, footsteps soft against the wood. She’d learned the rhythm of them, the small scrape before he stopped at the door, the exhale that always came after. He was tall, maybe six feet, his shadow reaching the far wall when the light was right. Always dressed in black — not uniform, not casual, something heavier, the faint whisper of maybe leather when he moved.

He always left the door open when he came in, and from where she lay she’d begun to piece together the shape of the cabin — one floor, maybe four rooms, the faint echo of space she couldn’t see. A hallway stretched somewhere to the left; she could hear the radiator there too, its soft click carrying through the walls. He wore gloves — thin, pale, almost clinical — and when he adjusted her blanket or brushed a strand of hair from her face, the touch came gentle, almost careful. He’d tuck the corners in, smooth the sheet like it mattered, and once, the back of his gloved hand grazed her cheek. She fought the instinct to flinch, forcing her body to stay soft, small, the picture of someone too tired to react.

Sometimes he spoke, just a word or two, never enough to hold on to. Still, there were moments — the turn of a phrase, the low pull of his voice — that caught somewhere deep in her memory. She couldn’t place it, couldn’t name where she might have heard it before. She found herself listening harder than she should, waiting for him to speak again, hoping for a word that might break the pattern of silence.

Everything else stayed constant — the warmth, the hush, the hum of the radiator breathing through the walls. Every sound had its place now, every silence its weight.

Her body had started to remember itself again. The tremor in her hands had faded to a faint vibration, a whisper under the skin.

When she was alone, she practiced the smallest movements — the slow curl of her fingers, the lift of her wrist, the stretch of her toes beneath the blanket. The first few days, she’d drunk from the jug he left by the bed, careful to make it look easy. Now she only pretended, tipping the rim to her mouth when she thought he was watching, letting a drop slide down her chin.

She’d learned to wait until she washed or brushed her teeth to drink, counting each swallow like it might cost her. On the eighth morning, she woke with a dull ache behind her eyes and a bandage in the crook of her arm. Above her, a clear bag hung from a stand she hadn’t seen before, the line already pulled free.

Some days she woke with it there, some days without, and the headaches came like clockwork after. She fought the instinct to move, to flinch, to show she understood. She lay still, eyes half-open, forcing her breath slow and uneven, the picture of someone too weak to wake.

She had begun to turn inward again, the way she used to when Harry helped her anchor — eyes closed, breath steady, patience pressed into every heartbeat. Sometimes she wanted to cry just from the ache of it, the sound of his voice in her mind. She told herself she needed to get out, to go home to him. That thought steadied her more than anything.

In the hours after he left, she practiced small things: a flicker of heat in her fingertips, a hum of light that never reached the air. Just enough to remind herself she could.

Sometimes she pretended to read, choosing the heaviest book she could find, one wide enough to hide her hands. Beneath its cover, she shaped invisible spells, whispering them into the quiet, feeling the weight of the magic gather and fade at her will. When she tired of stillness, she stretched — the slow roll of her shoulders, the press of her heels into the rug, the careful tension of muscles relearning their work.

She stayed there for a long time, listening for any shift in the air, the weight of footsteps outside. Later, she practiced the act of sleep again — head turned, mouth parted, breathing slow and even. Every movement became a performance, every stillness part of the lie.

By evening, she could make herself look half-lost to it, the perfect portrait — serene, untouched, exactly the way he liked her.

At night the house changed. The air grew thicker, holding sound too long.

She felt it then — a faint current beneath her skin, slow and unsteady, but hers. It had been so long since she’d dared to reach for it.

In the shower, with steam softening the air and her reflection lost behind the fog, she tried. Homenum Revelio. The words left her lips in a whisper, carried off by the sound of the water.

For a heartbeat, the air shifted. In the mist, a shape appeared — smaller than him, slight, only the suggestion of a person. A silhouette caught between breath and light. Hermione’s chest tightened. Relief came first, sharp and bright, followed by something deeper — strength. Her magic stirred, no longer dulled, no longer thin. It gathered under her skin, alive and certain, answering her call.

Then came fear — for the other person, for herself, for what it meant that someone else was close. The image flickered, shimmered once, and vanished.

She stood there, shaking, one hand gripping the tile, the other pressed protectively over her ribs. Somewhere beyond the mirror, silence waited, patient and listening.

She could feel it now — he would come for her soon.

She dried her face, drew a long breath, and let the warmth of the radiator steady her heartbeat. Then she chose one of the books from the small stack on the table and carried it to the bed.

She ate slowly, measured, tasting everything, reminding her body what strength felt like. The food sat heavy at first, but she forced herself to finish. She would need her mind clear, her hands steady. Beneath the calm of each movement, her body remembered other rhythms — the draw of a bowstring, the lunge of a blade, the coiled patience of defense before strike. Stillness took strength. She let it live in her bones.

While she read, the pages blurred once or twice, the words slipping out of focus, but she kept going. She needed the rhythm of the sentences, the quiet shape of language.

Her eyes stayed on the page, but her thoughts moved elsewhere — tracing patterns, timing footsteps, measuring silence. Every detail mattered. The hinge of the door, the weight of light at dusk, the angle of his shadow as he passed. Each observation a thread in the map she was building, piece by piece.

Every small thing he left unchanged became part of a pattern. She catalogued them without meaning to — how long he stayed, how often he turned his back, what he touched and what he never did. Her mind moved the way her body once had — precise, deliberate, always a breath ahead.

It steadied her — a reminder that she could play his game.

Chapter Text

The evidence room at Yale PD smelled faintly of old paper and burned coffee, a scent that clung to the walls like fatigue. Harry stood at the table, jacket off, sleeves rolled to the elbow, staring down at the postcard sealed in plastic. The Young Martyr. He used to think it was beautiful — they’d seen it together once at the Louvre, standing shoulder to shoulder while Hermione explained the brushwork, the light, the softness of surrender mistaken for peace. Now it gave him the chills. He couldn’t look at it without seeing her in that pose, her face half-lit and still. Beside it, the bracelet lay coiled like a promise undone. He couldn’t look at that for long either.

Kit leaned over the opposite end of the table, the faint buzz of fluorescent light tracing the edge of his hair.
“You know,” he said, tone mild, “if we keep staring at that postcard long enough, it’s not going to tell us its secrets out of pity.”

Harry’s mouth tipped into something almost like a smile. “No, but it might if you stopped breathing on the glass.” His voice was dry, half an echo of himself from better days.

He glanced up, catching the blink of the CCTV camera in the corner. Too sharp—one of those that caught every breath, every blink. “Do me a favour,” he said, voice low. “Loop the feed for ten minutes. I need the room to myself.” His eyes flicked to the postcard. “This isn’t going in the official report.”

Kit gave him that sidelong look — half curiosity, half amusement. “You want me to pull the plug?”

Harry’s fingers drummed once against the table, the faintest grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just make it blink, yeah? Pretend it’s shy.”

Kit’s brow lifted. “You’re the only man I know who flirts with surveillance equipment.”

When Kit moved toward the console, Harry waited until the tiny red light flickered out. The silence deepened in its wake. He didn’t bother reaching for his wand. His hand came up instead — fingers steady, movements spare — and the air answered him. The spell formed cleanly, without sound, without flare, a shimmer of controlled energy moving from his palm to the postcard on the table.

Revelio chartis.

The whisper barely disturbed the air. The postcard glimmered, surface lifting in faint relief. Ink split from shadow, heat blooming soft beneath the varnish.

Kit tilted his head, brow creasing. “That’s new,” he said quietly. “Never heard it before.”

Harry’s mouth curved faintly. “You wouldn’t have. Hermione came up with it.”

He adjusted the angle of the light, voice low and even. “Muggle paper didn’t always respond to standard charms. But Revelio chartis had been refined for forensic work — subtle enough to coax secrets from even the most mundane materials.”

Kit watched the glow shift across the postcard, his tone softening. “That’s… brilliant,” he said, genuine awe threading through the words.

Harry’s smile deepened a fraction, pride quiet and certain. “That she is”

He turned back to the postcard. There — an impression beneath the message, discreetly embossed into the paper. He leaned closer. The strokes curved with deliberate care, each line exact — the same character he’d seen on the FAE Sonata, Grace Park’s notation in the margin. The mark was subtle, hidden unless the light caught just right.

His gaze shifted to the handwriting above it — the line meant for him. The pen pressure faltered near the curves, the rhythm too controlled, the flow too careful. It wasn’t natural. Whoever wrote this hadn’t used their dominant hand.

He didn’t say it aloud. He just filed it away, the corner of his mouth tightening — another piece of the game sliding quietly into place.

He drew in a breath, slow and careful. His gaze drifted back to the faint Chinese character for eternal. Maybe it wasn’t just hers anymore. Maybe the curator had taken it for himself — a signature turned calling card. His pulse steadied, thought moving clean through the shock. “Merlin, Grace,” he murmured, voice low, half to the air. “What are you trying to tell us from the grave?”

By the time Kit brought the CCTV feed back online, the air in the evidence room had thickened with the kind of quiet that followed discovery. He turned toward Harry, who was still staring at the postcard, jaw set, the gloved edge of his thumb tracing the seam of the plastic sleeve. Kit didn’t ask. He’d learned that Harry spoke only when he was ready. Instead, he reached for the evidence ledger, flipping through the tabs until he found the section marked Unclassified: Associated Cases. “If this mark’s more than a one-off,” he said lightly, “we’ll find it where it shouldn’t be.” He straightened, already walking toward the adjoining cabinet. “Elaine’s hoarding the other girls’ files. Let’s go borrow some ghosts.”

Elaine looked up when they entered her office, eyes narrowing just slightly above the rim of her glasses. She didn’t ask what they were doing — just pushed the half-empty coffee mug aside and gestured toward the sealed folders on the credenza. “You two look like you’re about to ruin my afternoon,” she said dryly. Harry gave a short nod toward the stack. “We need to re-examine the victims’ evidence. Clothing, photos, anything that came in from the scenes. There’s something we missed.”

Elaine didn’t move at first. She just watched him, understanding already there in her eyes. “I’ve been circling this for years,” she said quietly. “Couldn’t make it hold.” Her voice carried the steadiness of someone who had stopped hoping for patterns and learned to live inside them. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Harry crossed to the side table, unzipped his case, and drew out the evidence sleeves — the postcard, the bracelet, and now the black binder from Hermione’s bag. He set them in sequence beneath the projector lamp. The light caught on the plastic, sharp and sterile, throwing the faintest sheen across the table. He adjusted the angle until the postcard’s surface bloomed in faint relief — the embossed character rising through the varnish like a breath held too long. “There,” he said.

Elaine leaned in, lips parting in a small exhale. “It’s deliberate,” she murmured.
Harry nodded once, the motion spare. “Same mark shows up on Grace Park’s Sonata. I bagged it from Hermione’s tote.” He slid the binder toward her, the black cover dull under the light. “I think he’s using it now.”

Elaine straightened slowly, eyes still on the mark glowing faintly under the projector’s beam. “Then let’s start pulling everything that came in with the girls,” she said. “If he’s been signing them all this time, we’ll see it soon enough.”

Elaine passed them the first box — clear bags folded with precision, each label written in her neat, sharp hand. Kit angled the light until it skimmed the surface, the beam sliding across plastic and cloth. Inside were photographs and sealed swatches of fabric, the details careful, clinical.

They began with the latest file. Holloway, M.L. Elaine set the contents out one by one — the preserved dress, the fiber samples, the printed reports. The dress lay flat beneath the sleeve, pale and simple, its color leached by time and handling.

The fabric caught the light, pale and ordinary until the shadows deepened. Kit leaned in, studying the shape beside him. “Same cut,” he murmured. “Same make.”

Elaine gave a small nod. “Tailored cheap. Department-store pattern, reworked. No tags.”

Harry leaned closer, eyes tracing the hem, the collar, the seams drawn too tight. The red cord was clean, new, deliberate. He adjusted the lamp a fraction, watching the light roll across the inner lining until something faint caught — a shallow raised mark, easy to miss unless you knew where to look.

Harry leaned closer, his gloved hands careful against the evidence sleeve. “Angle the beam,” he said. Kit shifted it, and the light rolled across the fabric, catching on the inner lining. There — faint but deliberate — the embossed curve of a mark, shallow and exact, nearly invisible unless the light hit it just right.

Elaine exhaled slowly. “So it wasn’t just the postcard.”

Harry’s gaze didn’t move from the mark. “No. It started long before.” He straightened, rubbing the back of his neck once, the motion small, contained. “Grace Park used this character as her signature — Elias told me. Said she even had a dojang made for it, her seal for finished scores and books.” His voice lowered, almost to himself. “And now it’s turned up here.”

Elaine’s expression shifted, a flicker of understanding and unease. “That’s not coincidence.”

Harry’s voice stayed level. “No. It’s intention.”

Elaine turned back to the table, her movements slower now, thoughtful. “Then we check the rest,” she said. “Every piece of clothing that came in with them. Focus on the fabric itself — seams, lining, anywhere a mark could hold.”

They worked in silence after that, each taking a box. Kit recorded the case numbers as Harry and Elaine moved through the evidence — dress after dress, folded carefully between sheets of archival paper, each one belonging to a girl whose name had lived too briefly on the file tabs. The air grew dense with the scent of latex and old cotton, of fluorescent heat pressed against the back of the neck.

Every few minutes, Harry would tilt a sleeve beneath the beam, searching the threads for what didn’t belong. Sometimes nothing. Sometimes a faint rise where the weave caught the light. Slowly, a pattern began to form — not in every piece, but enough to make the silence feel heavier. Always the same size, the same shallow press, never stitched, never seen unless the light found it first.

Elaine exhaled once, steadying her hand against the edge of the table. “He’s marked them all,” she said, almost under her breath.

Harry didn’t answer. He only leaned closer, studying the curve of the symbol as if it might change under his gaze. The shape sat there, patient and deliberate — quiet proof that this had been building for years, long before anyone had thought to look.

Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on the open file. “What about Grace?” he asked. “Did her parents ever mention anyone she might’ve been close to? A boyfriend, someone persistent?” His voice carried no accusation, only the slow precision of a man used to building meaning from fragments.

Elaine shook her head. “Nothing formal. Her mother said Grace kept mostly to her music, her students, the church ensemble. She was a piano prodigy — spent most of her time at her teacher’s studio or performing at recitals and halls around the city. If she had friends, they were all girls, or at least that’s what she let her parents believe. Grace struck me as the type who knew what to keep to herself.”

Harry nodded slightly, jaw tightening. He’d gathered enough from Elias — the way he spoke about his family, his sister — to understand that quiet meant more than absence. Caution shaped affection; silence was its own kind of guardrail. Grace, the elder, the example, would have known the cost of misstep.

Kit leaned back in his chair, pen rolling between his fingers. “They’re pretty conservative,” he said. “Even here. Family like that — you keep close, stay home till you’ve got a degree or a wedding date. Elias is what, twenty-four? Still living with his parents?”

Elaine gave a short nod. “That’s right. First-year law. Drives in most days, sometimes gets dropped off or picked up by his parents.”

Harry glanced down again at the open file, the faint mark pressed into the fabric beside it. “Then he’s used to keeping things close,” he murmured. “Grace would’ve been the same.”

Elaine’s voice came softly from behind him. “He isn’t just collecting,” she said. “He’s composing. Look at them — posture, age, the symmetry in every file photo. You’ve seen the painting, Harry. The Young Martyr. That’s what he’s building toward. Each one closer to the image.”

Harry didn’t turn right away. His gaze stayed on the board, moving slowly from face to face — the stillness in each photo, the quiet submission in the way the light caught their features. “He’s staging them,” he said at last. The words weren’t a question. “Every pose. Every detail. It’s deliberate. He’s not killing them for pleasure — he’s preserving them.”

Elaine nodded once, the confirmation quiet, almost reluctant. “It’s not random. It’s art to him. He’s trying to make her real.”

The air in the room shifted. Harry stepped closer to the board, his reflection catching between faces, red string, and notes curling at the edges. “There’s a pattern here,” he said quietly. “It’s too clean to be chance. If we line this against older cases—same staging, same type—we might give the profiling team something to work with.” He glanced toward Elaine, voice dropping lower. “Even the smallest change in how he sets the scene could tell us whether we’re looking at the same man… or someone trying to rewrite his work.”

Elaine’s eyes moved to the far corner of the board where the earliest files sat — Isobel Marchand, Grace Park — the ones that had gone cold before she took over the unit. “If there was,” she said after a moment, “it’s buried deep. The Bureau never linked them. No matching signatures, no shared evidence trail. Just girls who vanished and came back staged in the same way.”

Harry’s gaze lingered on Grace’s photo, then Marina’s, then Hermione’s — three points in a line that had been there all along. “Then we start digging,” he said quietly.

Kit leaned back from the board, arms folded, eyes still tracking the web of photos. “Patterns are one thing,” he said, “but we’re still missing what he takes. Every collector keeps a piece.” He turned toward Elaine. “Anything noted missing? Jewellery, keepsakes, something that didn’t make it back to evidence?”

Elaine reached for the nearest file, her thumb tracing the edge before she opened it. “Marina’s parents mentioned a cross necklace,” she said. “Gold, small, diamond at the centre. Her seventh birthday gift. She never took it off.”

The page turned softly beneath her hand. “Sasha Fontaine,” she continued. “Missing a trinity ring — three bands, gold. Eighteenth birthday gift.” Another file, another page. “Laura Atkins. Class ring. Same story.”

The air between them seemed to still. The fluorescent hum pressed faintly against the quiet.
Harry’s eyes stayed on the open files, his tone almost thoughtful. “Three girls. Three keepsakes.”
Elaine looked up, met his gaze. “All personal.”

He nodded once, slow, the words barely more than breath. “He’s not just taking them,” he said. “He’s keeping score.”

Kit nodded slowly. “Then that’s his trophy.”

Elaine muttered something about needing air and stepped out for a cigarette. Kit followed a beat later, craving a burger and asking Harry if he wanted anything. He just shook his head.

Now the room was still. Even the hum of the lights seemed to draw back, leaving only the faint buzz of the radiator and the soft rustle of paper as he reached for the postcard again. The bracelet lay beside it. He rubbed it once between his fingers, his gaze fixed on the neat cursive line sealed beneath plastic.

I’m keeping her warm and safe.

A taunt. A message meant for him. Whoever this man was, he fancied himself sharp — thought he’d found a way to twist the knife and watch Harry bleed for it.

Harry’s mouth curved, humourless. “You think you’re clever,” he said softly. “You put my Hermione at risk. That’s not a game. That’s a death wish.”
He paused, thumb pressing once against the plastic, eyes still on the words. “I came back from the dead, mate. You’re going to have to do better than a postcard.”

He slid the evidence sleeve back into the file, slow, deliberate, the motion quiet as a promise. The red thread caught the overhead light, burning faintly against the sterile white of the table — steady, defiant, unbroken.

Chapter Text

She woke before the radiator. That was new. The air hadn’t begun to hum yet, and the silence pressed close enough to feel weighted. For days the room had moved in a rhythm she could count — the pipes breathing, the faint shift of air when the vents opened. Now it held still, expectant. She sat half-upright, the sheet drawn to her waist, watching the narrow line of blue light creep across the wall. It was early, too early. Even the birds hadn’t begun. Her pulse matched the ticking in the pipes. Something had changed. She couldn’t name it yet, but she could feel it — the pause before a door unlatches, the breath before an answer.

She drew her knees up and rested her chin against them, keeping her breathing slow, measured. She’d spent the last few nights memorising sound. The click of the lock. The drag of his steps along the hall. The faint creak that meant he’d turned right, not left. She rehearsed escape the way she used to rehearse arguments in court — every possibility marked, every variable tested. Her body was stronger now; the ache had become memory. When she closed her eyes, she could sense her magic again, not wild but quiet, obedient. It flickered beneath her ribs like a heartbeat she could finally trust. Whatever was coming, she was ready to meet it.

The room was too still. The radiator whispered behind her, soft, uneven, a faint ticking beneath the hum of the pipes. She’d spent the last four days building her strength in silence, piece by piece—small movements under the blanket, short bursts of focus pressed between shallow breaths. Every hour had been a lesson in patience. Her ribs no longer burned when she turned. Her magic now pulsed steady under her skin. She could feel it gathering when she breathed. Waiting.

Outside, the snow caught what little light there was, turning the dark into something pale and watchful.

She knew his routine now: the footsteps, the pause, the low murmur she could never make out. But tonight, there was no pause. The door opened quietly. The sound of his shoes on the floor was soft, deliberate. The smell reached her first—clean soap, faint leather, warmth edged with something sterile.

He never came this early.

He never broke pattern.

He stood near the bed, his presence heavy, patient. The mask caught the weak light — smooth, expressionless, cutting his face from the world. The gloves were still on, pale against the dark sleeve of his coat. He didn’t speak at first. Just watched her, long enough that her pulse began to count the seconds. Then, quietly: “You’re looking much better now.” The words were gentle. She kept her breathing uneven, eyes half-lidded, her hand loose against the blanket. When he leaned closer, she could feel the warmth of his breath through the mask — faint, measured. His gloved hand brushed her hair from her face, then stopped at her jaw. The fabric against her skin was soft, tender. He lifted the glove away. The air changed. Bare fingertips traced the line of her cheek. Her heart hammered once, twice. She could smell his cologne now, something light, expensive, wrong. Every part of her body wanted to recoil, to strike, to scream. She didn’t. She waited for him to exhale.

She moved before he did. The pen she’d hidden days ago slid into her hand, its metal cold, sure. She drove it hard into his arm — not deep, but fast, the angle exact. His breath hitched, a sound closer to surprise than pain. He faltered, the rhythm of him breaking.

She didn’t hesitate. Her other hand came up, flat against his chest, and she shoved with everything she had. The force of it threw him off balance — his shoulder caught the edge of the table, a sharp crack of wood as he stumbled. For a single heartbeat, he was no longer the one in control.

She ran. The pen fell, clattering against the floorboards behind her, but she was already through the door, heart hammering, the air in the hall too cold, too new, too wide.

She’d put on the thick socks earlier, the ones from Harry— the grey wool pair that reached her calves. They muffled her steps now, turning every stride into silence. Her heart beat fast but steady. She ran for the hall, each breath a sharp slice through her chest. The boards complained beneath her weight, a low groan swallowed by the sound of him rising behind her.

The corridor stretched, a tunnel of shadow and pale light. She tried the first door. Locked. The next — stuck fast, no handle. The third rattled but didn’t give. She swallowed a cry, pressed forward, her hands scraping the wall for edges, seams, something. Her ribs burned when she twisted, the old injury flaring. Behind her, glass broke — a shatter sharp enough to cut through thought.

She reached the last door. The latch caught against her palm; she threw her shoulder into it. It gave suddenly, flinging her forward into air so cold it felt like punishment. The world outside hit her all at once — black sky, white snow, wind sharp enough to tear the breath from her throat. After so long indoors, her body wasn’t ready for the shock of it. Her lungs seized; her legs trembled beneath her. The cold bit straight through her thin clothes, the ache in her ribs turning jagged.

The night was a blur of movement and noise — the howl of wind, the sting of snow against her face, the disorienting sprawl of trees she could barely see. Every direction looked the same. She staggered, fell, caught herself on hands already numb. The world tilted, too wide, too loud after so much silence. For a heartbeat, she thought she might be sick.

Then she heard it—the cabin door slamming, boots crunching through snow. He was coming.

The cold bit deep, clean and merciless. She stumbled forward, lungs raw, breath spilling white into the dark. That slam echoed behind her—final, deliberate. She could hear him now in the rhythm of his stride, the calm precision stripped away.

Snow and twigs lashed her face. The trees seemed to close in, tall and black against the blur of white. She slipped again and again, hit the ground hard, caught herself on her palms. Blood smeared red against the ice. The air shook under her skin.

“Hermione.”

His voice carried through the dark, steady, gentle. “You can’t run. There’s nowhere to go.”

She ran anyway. Her socks were soaked through, heavy with snow. Her ribs screamed every time she drew breath. Her thoughts splintered — Harry, 2A, home. Home. For a heartbeat, she almost reached for it. Then she stopped herself. Home wasn’t safe. Not anymore. Whoever he was, he’d planned too carefully, known too much. Going back would only lead him there.

She pushed forward, the snow dragging at her knees. Think, Hermione. The words came like a command. Think of somewhere safe. The air was a blade in her throat now, her hands shaking from cold and fear. He was close—close enough that she could hear the crunch of his boots, the steady, unhurried pace.

“Hermione.”

Her name again, drawn out, coaxing. She lost her footing, pitched forward, rolled hard onto the ice. Blood smeared across the frozen ground as she scrambled to rise.

She saw it too late—the edge of the clearing, where the ground vanished into black, bottomless air. Wind rose from below, hollow and sharp, carrying the scent of stone and ice. Behind her, the snow whispered under boots. Unhurried. Certain.

Her heel struck the brink. Snow crumbled beneath it. The boots kept coming. Measured. Closer.

“Stop.” His voice came quiet through the dark, shaped with a kind of care that almost sounded like love.

“Hermione.”

Her name lingered in the air, stretched thin, threaded with longing. “Come back with me. I won’t hurt you. I love you — do you hear me? I love you. You’ll freeze out here.”

She backed away from him, step by step, the drop behind her a threat she hadn’t measured. Her pulse pounded in her throat. Her breath came too fast. Tears burned her eyes before she even felt them fall, hot against the cold air. She shook her head — once, twice — the motion sharp, desperate. No.

There was nowhere to run. She couldn’t fight.

Her body trembled, the cold and realisation sinking deep, bone-deep. Her fingers had gone numb; each breath caught against her ribs. The wind tore at her hair; she hardly felt it. Tears blurred the edges of the world, her chest tight, breath breaking in shallow bursts. Fear had passed hours ago. What filled her now was clarity — the simple, terrible knowledge of what she had to do. Her voice was gone. Her mind was still hers.

She’d rather die than go back.

He reached for her. Slow. Beckoning. A gloved hand extended in silence. To anyone else, it might have seemed kind. To her, it was the end.

She didn’t flinch. She chose.

She stepped back off the edge.

The wind caught her, wild and sharp, tearing past her skin. Behind her, his voice broke — no longer soft. No longer in control.

“NO—!”

The word vanished into the gale.

The sound that followed was swallowed whole — a rush of air, a faint thud softened by snow. Something distant, muted, like a body meeting not stone, but the weightless hush of winter itself. Or maybe it was only the wind.

He stood at the brink, breath ragged inside the mask, staring into the dark where she’d been. The drop below was a blur of white and shadow, endless and still. No movement. No sound. Only the storm closing over what had fallen.

He waited — a minute, maybe more — until the cold began to bite through the seams of his gloves. Then he straightened, every trace of calm stripped from him.

“She jumped,” he whispered, like saying it aloud might undo it. His gloved hand reached toward the empty air, useless, trembling. “My girl… you were supposed to be mine.”

The wind answered, low and endless, sweeping his voice away.

Then silence.

She was gone.

Chapter Text

He woke at three, mid-scream. The sound caught in his throat before it found air, dissolving into the dark. His pulse was racing. His breath came uneven, shallow. The sheets were damp beneath his palms. The dream had already slipped away, but something lingered—a feeling he couldn’t name. The air in the flat felt heavy, still holding its breath, a quiet that followed the end of a storm.

A phone rang somewhere beyond the wall. The sound was soft, distant, deliberate, threading through the silence like a wire. He didn’t move. Just listened. The ringing stopped, and the silence that followed pressed close, heavier than the sound had been. He stared at the ceiling, the faint outline of the blinds trembling with the rhythm of a draft. His heartbeat began to slow from exhaustion. He closed his eyes. Sleep began to return, slow and thick, finding its way back through the dark to him.

Then his mobile buzzed. The sound cut through the quiet, small but absolute. He sat up fast, shaking his head once, trying to clear the fog. His chest rose and fell too quickly; he forced himself to slow it, counting each breath until it evened out. The room was dim, caught between dark and light. The phone glowed, casting a thin blue wash across the sheets, across his hands. It was Day Eighteen since Hermione had gone missing. He knew—before they spoke—what kind of call came at that hour. He didn’t check the number. “Potter.” His voice came out calm, steady, professional, far from what he was feeling. His throat still burned from the dream. She said his name quietly, rehearsed, each word too careful.

He listened as she explained, his eyes fixed on the window. A weak strip of light pressed through the blinds, the city still asleep beneath it. Her words came measured, chosen phrases meant to reassure, to delay the weight of what wasn’t being said. He caught only fragments. The quiet between sentences carried more than the sentences themselves. His fingers tightened around the mobile, the movement small but sharp enough to sting. He drew a slow breath through his nose, let it out, and kept his tone even. “Okay,” he said quietly. The word felt fragile, unsteady on his tongue, but it was all he could manage without letting anything else break the surface.

When the line went silent, he stayed there a moment, the phone still in his hand. The room hadn’t changed, but it felt smaller, the air folded in on itself. He turned on the lamp, a low glow spilling across the floorboards, soft against the edge of his wand on the table. There was order in the motion of standing, in buttoning his shirt, in reaching for his coat. He needed that order.

He paused at the door, fingers brushing the worn fabric of his sleeve, listening to the slow pulse of the city outside—an ambulance turning somewhere far off, a train sighing against its tracks. His hand found his wand, the weight grounding him. He looked once toward the mobile on the table, its screen gone dark now, and exhaled. He picked it up, slipped it into his jacket pocket, and opened the door. The hallway light had dimmed overnight; it carried that strange, blue weight of the hours before dawn.

He moved quietly, his steps soft against the old wood. Outside Kit’s room, a thin line of light glowed under the door. Harry hesitated just long enough to steady his hand, then knocked once—measured, precise, a sound that broke the silence cleanly in two.

The door opened almost at once. Kit stood there, hair uncombed, the edge of wakefulness still clinging to him. His eyes found Harry’s face and whatever he’d meant to say didn’t make it past his throat. Harry didn’t need to explain; the truth was already written there, plain as breath. “Kit,” he said quietly, voice even but low, the decision fully formed. “We need to go to MACUSA.”

Kit’s gaze sharpened, the last traces of sleep gone. He didn’t ask when or how; Harry’s face told him everything that mattered. Without a word, he stepped back into the room, grabbed his jacket from the chair, and checked the wand holster at his wrist. The lamplight caught on the silver clasp, throwing a faint line across the floor. He looked up once more, studying Harry the way one might study the air before a storm—measuring, bracing. “All right,” he said quietly. He moved closer, stopping just within reach. The sound of the city barely touched this high corridor, only the hum of a refrigerator down the hall and the faint pulse of water in the pipes. Kit held out his hand, his voice steady now. “Hold on.” Harry did. The gesture was practiced, a simple clasp of trust. The air tightened, the light bent. The world seemed to draw a breath, then folded in on itself. The corridor, the lamplight, the smell of rain all vanished into a thin thread of pressure—soundless, weightless—before opening again into the sterile brightness of marble and glass, the insignia of MACUSA shimmering faintly against the far wall.

The marble floor gleamed beneath their boots, the seal of the institution stretching wide under the light. For a moment, neither spoke; the echo of arrival still rang in their ears. A clerk at the front desk blinked at them, startled, then straightened quickly at the sight of Harry’s expression. Kit stepped forward, tone level but urgent, asking where they were expected. The woman hesitated, eyes darting to the logbook, then nodded toward the west corridor. “Medical Healing Division,” she said quietly. “Healer Lorette Russell’s waiting for you.” Her words fell with the weight of what she didn’t say. Harry gave a single nod and started down the corridor, the echo of their footsteps following them through the clean, humming quiet.

At the reception desk, a young witch in pale green robes met them halfway, her tone brisk but polite. “You’ll need to gown up,” she said, motioning to a row of hooks along the wall. The air carried that faint sting of sterilizing charms and potion astringent, a sharpness that clung to the throat. She handed them each a folded robe—lightweight, disposable, charmed clean. Harry unfolded his and slipped it on over his jacket, tying the sash at his waist. Kit did the same beside him, the movement quiet, practiced, both men aware this was less about safety and more about what waited beyond. When they turned back, the witch had already retrieved a pair of protective masks, offering them with a nod. “Healer Russell is expecting you on the third floor,” she said. “High-Risk Response Unit.” Her words were even, but her eyes flicked once between them before she looked away. Harry adjusted the mask in his hand, the fabric cool against his fingers. He nodded once, and they followed her down the corridor toward the lift, the quiet hum of the hospital deepening as they walked.

Healer Lorette Russell met them just outside the High-Risk Response Unit, her posture straight, her expression unflinching. She was a tall woman in her late forties, with warm brown skin and sharp, discerning eyes that missed nothing. Strands of silver threaded through her dark hair, pulled neatly into a low twist at the nape of her neck. Her hands were steady even as she spoke, a calm shaped by too many nights like this. “Auror Potter,” she said quietly, acknowledging Kit with a nod before continuing. “She was found by a roving guard a little after two-thirty this morning, inside City Hall Park. Unconscious and barely breathing. The healers were called immediately.” Her voice stayed even, clipped by professionalism, but the slight pause before her next words betrayed the weight beneath them. “One of the cursebreakers on call recognised her from the MACUSA missing bulletin. That’s how we got your number.”

Harry didn’t speak. He just nodded once, his throat too tight for anything else. Healer Russell’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer, assessing, then she turned. “Come with me.” She led them down the corridor, her steps brisk, the hem of her robes whispering against the tile. They passed through a set of enchanted glass doors that hissed open at her approach, the air inside cooler, sharper with containment wards. When they entered the room, the world seemed to narrow.

Hermione lay on a narrow bed in the centre, the white sheets bright against the bruised skin at her temple. Cuts marked her face and neck, thin and red along the edges, left by branches and ice. Her hair had been washed clean but still clung in damp curls to her forehead. Dried blood shadowed the inside of her forearm where a deeper wound had closed under potion, the skin beneath pale and tight. Her left hand was wrapped, the fingers stiff beneath the charm bindings, and faint traces of spell residue shimmered at her wrist. Eight diagnostic charms hovered above her—soft orbs of light in shifting hues, pulsing faintly in rhythm with her heartbeat. One traced the slow rise and fall of her chest; another flickered with the fractured colour of an active curse reading. The air smelled faintly of potion burn and charmed linen. Kit stood silent near the door. Harry stepped closer, the slow beep of a monitoring charm matching the thud in his chest. Healer Russell adjusted one of the orbs, her hand steady as she glanced back at him. “She’s stable for now,” she said. “But it was close. We took images of the injuries for procedural record before treatment began—if you’d like to review them, I can authorise access.”

Healer Russell took a step back from the bed, her gaze sweeping over the diagnostic charms before settling on Harry. “From our initial findings,” she began, her tone careful but clear, “it appears she Disapparated mid-air—wandlessly. The energy signature matches a free-cast jump, uncontrolled but powerful enough to pull her through. Her magic was completely depleted. From what we can tell, she performed the Apparition under duress.” She adjusted one of the orbs hovering near Hermione’s chest, its light pulsing between blue and soft green. “That kind of spell requires perfect intent, precision, and a surge of adrenaline to bridge the gap. It’s dangerous even for trained wizards. The fact that she managed it—without splinching herself—speaks volumes. She’s a brilliant witch.” Her voice softened briefly, the edge of clinical distance fading. “Her physical injuries are mostly environmental—branches, ice, exposure. She was very cold when she arrived, temperature dangerously low. Thin clothes, no shoes. Just wool socks. We’ve bagged what she was wearing for evidence.” She hesitated a moment before finishing, “There’s no indication of sexual assault.”

Harry exhaled, slow and deliberate, the tension in his shoulders barely easing. Healer Russell’s voice gentled as she went on, “She’s under a controlled magical coma—we induced it to stabilise her core and give her reserves time to recover. Based on her readings, she should wake within twelve hours.”

Her voice steadied again as she gestured to the soft hum of charms around the bed. “She was heavily drugged—we’ve identified traces of multiple compounds,” Healer Russell said, glancing at the diagnostic orb nearest Hermione’s shoulder as it flickered with shifting colour bands. “A Muggle cocktail—Rohypnol, GHB, and Ketamine—modified with an alchemical stabiliser. The mixture would’ve kept her subdued. It causes confusion, disorientation, loss of coordination, hallucinations. She would have drifted in and out of awareness, her body unable to fully respond.”

Healer Russell stepped closer to the bed, pulling back the edge of the sheet with clinical care. She lifted Hermione’s arm, revealing the inside of her elbow—cleaned but still bruised, a small puncture mark visible beneath the skin. “We found this on both arms,” she said quietly. “The drug was administered intravenously, likely on a regular schedule. Based on her blood work, she’s been dosed daily for at least several days—possibly longer.” She covered the arm again, her tone softening. “For her to run, to Apparate—wandlessly, no less—after being under those conditions…” She shook her head slightly. “It shouldn’t have been possible. She’s got one of the strongest minds I’ve seen. Most wouldn’t have stayed coherent enough to think, let alone fight back.”

She adjusted one of the hovering charms, its light deepening to amber as Hermione’s pulse strengthened. “We’re purging the drugs from her system now. Her nutrition levels are good, and there’s no internal trauma beyond exhaustion and exposure.” Her eyes met Harry’s. “Because there’s an active Muggle case, we can’t close all the surface wounds magically. Some will have to heal naturally, to preserve evidence for both jurisdictions.”

Harry’s eyes didn’t leave Hermione. “Thank you,” he said quietly, the words simple but carrying more weight than gratitude alone.

Healer Russell inclined her head slightly, her tone softening. “She’s safe now, Auror Potter. That’s what matters.” The room fell back into the steady rhythm of the monitoring charms.

Kit shifted slightly, his voice low, angled toward Harry. “I’ll take the images,” he said, already pulling his notebook from his coat pocket. “Get a clearer sense of what we’re dealing with before anything’s filed.” His gaze flicked briefly to the sealed evidence bag resting on the counter, then back to Harry. “I’ll process the report and log the bag with Records. Once I’ve coordinated with MACUSA’s documentation unit, I’ll reach out to Elaine and the Yale PD—let them know she’s been found and is under care. They’ll want confirmation before the news spreads.” He paused, voice quieter now. “I’ll advise them once she’s ready to give a statement.”

Harry gave a small nod, his eyes still on Hermione. “Keep me in the loop, yeah?” he said quietly. The words were simple, but they landed heavy, threaded with the weight of trust. Kit nodded once in reply, no need for further assurance between them.

Healer Russell gave a short nod, approval flickering across her face as she reached for her clipboard. “Of course,” she said, her tone all business again. “We can go over the images in the observation room next door.” She had just started toward the door when Harry spoke.

“Can I stay?” His voice wasn’t loud, but it stopped both of them. Healer Russell turned, studying him for a moment. The exhaustion in his face was plain, but so was the steadiness beneath it—the refusal to leave. She glanced once at Hermione, then back to him, her expression softening at the edges. “I’ll notify the station,” she said quietly. With a small flick of her wand, the air in the corner of the room shimmered, and a narrow cot unfolded itself beside the diagnostic charms, sheets crisp and pale. “Try to rest if you can,” she added.

Harry nodded once, his gaze already back on Hermione. He didn’t sit right away. The room hummed with quiet magic, the soft rhythm of her breathing holding everything steady. He let out a slow breath, one that emptied the weight in his chest, and raked a hand through his hair, fingers dragging down to the back of his neck. The motion steadied him. He drew his mobile from his pocket, the screen’s glow washing over his face in the dim light. Two messages—one to Kingsley, one to Luna. Found. Alive. Under care. He read them twice, then sent them off and slipped the phone away.

He turned back to her. The sight of her—still, bruised, but breathing—pulled something raw and wordless through him. He stepped closer, brushed a strand of hair from her temple, and leaned down, his lips finding her cheek. Her skin was warm, softer than he’d remembered. He stayed there a moment longer than he meant to, eyes closing, his hand finding hers on the sheet. Her fingers were cool and fragile in his palm, marked with cuts and bruises. He traced them gently, thumb catching against the ridge of her knuckles. His throat tightened, the ache rising until it almost hurt to breathe.

“You brilliant, brilliant witch,” he whispered, voice rough but tender. A smile tugged at his mouth—soft, adoring. “Of course you wouldn’t need saving.” He lifted her right hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it softly, lingering there as the warmth of her skin steadied him. “You’re here,” he murmured, the words barely more than breath. “You're safe.” His voice broke—quiet, full. “I love you, Hermione,” he whispered. “Thank you for coming back.”

Then he lowered their joined hands to the edge of the bed, his elbow braced against the mattress for balance. He leaned in and rested his cheek against her hand, cradling it gently between his own. Her pulse fluttered faintly beneath his touch—small, stubborn, alive. He kept his eyes on her face, tracing every bruise, every shadow, every fragile proof that she had fought her way back.

Chapter Text

The rain had stopped just before evening, leaving the air soft and heavy with that faint scent of wet brick and basil that always drifted out of Sally’s Apizza when the doors swung open. Inside, the long tables were crowded with plates and glasses, voices overlapping in the easy, tired rhythm of people who had worked too hard and were trying, if only for an hour, to forget it. Elias was telling some story about Professor Marten’s disastrous evidence lecture, his hands moving as though the absurdity of it needed space to exist. Across from him, Priya was laughing so hard she could barely breathe, her head tipped back, curls falling into her face. Even Julian had abandoned his usual reserve, a half-smile tugging at his mouth as he reached for another slice. Rachel leaned back in her chair, letting the warmth and noise wash over her. It felt good—normal, almost. The place smelled of garlic, smoke, and something comforting that reminded her of home, of summer nights that didn’t ask for much more than good company and sweet tea.

The television above the bar was tuned to a local station, sound low, closed captions scrolling lazily across the screen. The waitstaff had strung fairy lights around the old wooden beams for autumn, their reflections trembling faintly in the window glass. Rachel was just reaching for her drink when the light from the screen shifted, the familiar blue of a breaking-news banner slicing through the warmth like lightning across still water.

At first it was only the colour that changed the room. Then a word caught her eye—Breaking News—and the bartender, a big man with a Red Sox cap and the kind of easy smile that never quite fit the New Haven weather, looked up. “Well, hey now,” he said, already reaching for the remote. The sound swelled, chasing the laughter off the walls.

“…some good news tonight,” the anchor was saying, her voice bright with the practiced calm of live television. “Yale Law student Hermione Granger, missing for eighteen days after being abducted from her New Haven apartment, has been found alive. Authorities confirm she is in stable condition; no further details have been released pending the investigation...”

The words fell into the air like a dropped glass that somehow didn’t break. For a heartbeat no one moved. Then the noise began to ripple through the restaurant—forks against plates, chairs scraping, someone whispering, “Did they say Hermione?” A stranger at the next table turned toward the TV; another lifted his beer in half-understood celebration. The bartender grinned, shaking his head. “’Bout time we got somethin’ good on this thing,” he said, turning the volume up another notch.

Rachel felt the world tilt—softly, impossibly—as if gravity had loosened. The screen showed only the words found alive over a still photograph of Hermione’s smiling face, the one Yale had used for the missing-person posters. The caption shimmered in white across the blue background: no location, no details, just that clean, certain line, steady as a heartbeat. She froze, glass halfway to her lips. Around her, voices stuttered and fell. Elias made a sound—half laugh, half gasp—and pushed his chair back hard enough to rattle the table.
“She’s alive,” he said, like he didn’t quite believe it even as he said it again. “She’s alive.”

The words caught, and this time they stayed.

The table erupted in motion—Avery’s eyes wide, Malik covering his mouth with one shaking hand, Celeste blinking hard and laughing through the tears that wouldn’t wait their turn. Noah swore softly under his breath and then started clapping, the sound awkward and human and perfect. Priya reached across the table, catching Talia’s hand, her knuckles white from the grip. Elias just sat down again, burying his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with a sound that could’ve been laughter or something close to it. “God,” he breathed, voice rough. “I thought—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to. The sentence hung there between them, unfinished but understood. Around them, the restaurant carried on—someone ordered another pizza, a waitress laughed at a joke from another table—but their small corner of the world had shifted. The air felt different now. Lighter.

Rachel blinked through the blur in her vision, already reaching for her phone. Her hands were trembling just enough that she nearly dropped it before she found Harry’s number in her contacts. The line rang twice, then again, then cut to voicemail. She let out a soft breath, part relief, part resignation, her voice thick with the trace of her drawl when she whispered, “You’re probably where you need to be, sugar.” She hesitated, then typed the message slowly, carefully, each word chosen the way you pick flowers for someone you love.

Tell her we love her, Harry. Tell her her team’s been waitin’ for her to come home.
She stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering, then hit send. When she looked up, Elias was watching her, eyes red but bright. “He’ll tell her,” she said softly, her voice steady now. “He always does.”

The table was still bright with laughter, plates pushed aside, glasses half-empty and sweating in the warmth. Someone called for another round. Someone else started a story that no one really heard. The sound swelled, blurred, folded in on itself until it became a single hum—the contented noise of people who finally believed the worst had passed.

From where he sat, near the edge of the group, he watched the ripple of joy move through them. He had always liked this place. The noise, the smoke, the faint scent of yeast and charred crust in the air—it made people careless. The human mind relaxed in warmth. Patterns loosened; secrets leaked. Around him, the law students were still glowing, unspooling from their tension like marionettes whose strings had just gone slack. Relief, he noted, softened the eyes first. It made their laughter rounder, slower. A beautiful, predictable thing.

It had been only two days, but to him it felt like the long breath between movements of a symphony—silence holding shape, waiting for his hand to lift again. He felt a quiet swell of satisfaction knowing she had lived; of course she had. He had chosen well. He always did. The others mistook chaos for chance, but he understood design. Even her breaking away, her panic, her running—those had been part of the pattern, though she had not seen it yet. She was brilliant, but brilliance without guidance always frayed. He forgave her for that. Fear, after all, was simply a form of recognition. She had seen too much of what he was and mistook it for danger, when it was only truth. His truth. He had been patient enough to wait for her to see it.

He smiled when they toasted, raising his glass half a beat after the others. The timing mattered. Too soon and someone might notice. Too late and it became performance. He’d learned that the trick was to exist in the rhythm of others without ever joining the song. Rachel was crying softly across from him, dabbing her eyes with a napkin, her accent thickening as she spoke. He liked the way accents changed with emotion—the body’s geography revealing itself. Tell her we love her, Harry. The words hung in the air, sweet and clumsy. He repeated them silently, tasting the weight of their sincerity. It fascinated him, how love made people certain they understood each other.

He turned slightly, studying the reflection in the restaurant’s front window—the warped mirror of lights and faces. Ten bodies, eight conversations, four open phones. He mapped each motion without thinking: Priya’s left hand over Talia’s, Simone’s shaking shoulders, Celeste’s gaze darting to the TV again as though the words might vanish. The details arranged themselves into something clean, almost mathematical. Hermione Granger: found alive. He had always known she would survive. She was too precise to die that way. But survival was data too. Survival changed the next set of equations.

He reached for his notebook, the small black one he kept in his jacket pocket, and drew a neat line beneath the last entry. His handwriting was immaculate. He wrote only a single word: Revision. Then he closed it, set it beside his plate, and took another sip of wine. Around him, laughter swelled again, clumsy and bright. He let it wash over him, the noise of joy and ignorance filling every space it could find. His pulse stayed steady. The room smelled of basil and smoke and ordinary hope.

He would leave when the bill came. No hurry. He had time to catalogue the rest of the scene—the way the waitress smiled when she placed another round of drinks, the way condensation slid down the glass, the way the young man at the end of the table kept glancing toward the door as if waiting for her to walk in. Every detail would go where it belonged. He always kept his records in order.

Outside, the city hummed—neon, rain, the low static of traffic—but here, under the warm lights, everything was exactly as it should be.
He felt the faintest lift of satisfaction, quiet and private, like the click of a lock fitting cleanly into place. It was not joy, exactly, but something close enough to keep him still.

Chapter Text

Her fingers moved first. A small twitch, almost nothing, a pulse against Harry’s palm where his hand still wrapped around hers. The charm lights above the bed adjusted at once, colour shifting from soft blue to green, the room seeming to breathe again after holding its silence too long. Harry didn’t stir. He was half folded over the edge of the mattress, cheek resting against her arm, the hospital cot beside them untouched. His glasses were crooked, one lens fogged by the slow rhythm of his sleep. The blanket over his shoulders had slipped, pooling at his waist, but his grip on her hand had never loosened. Her skin registered warmth before her mind found the word for it.

Sound returned in pieces. The low hum of the monitoring charms, the faint hiss of filtered air, the whisper of someone’s shoes moving down the corridor outside. Memory came slower, thick and uneven, like light filtering through deep water. Pain first—dull, somewhere distant. Then cold. Then the sharp, impossible rush of wind and the crack that had split the world open when she jumped. The thought of it flickered and was gone, leaving only the echo of falling. She tried to breathe and the air caught in her throat, dry and foreign, but it was enough to pull her closer to waking.

When she opened her eyes, the light hurt. The ceiling above her blurred into white. A figure moved at the edge of her vision—Healer, maybe, or a nurse—but her focus stayed on the man beside her. His hair had fallen forward, too long, the way it always did when he forgot to care. His face was drawn, lined by exhaustion, but there was peace there too, the stillness of someone who had waited longer than he could admit. The sight of him anchored her; for the first time since the dark, the world felt solid. She tried to speak, but only a rasp escaped. The effort was enough to make Harry stir. He blinked, confused at first, then wholly awake in an instant, the disbelief breaking across his face like dawn.

“Hey,” he breathed, voice rough with sleep and relief all at once. His hand tightened around hers. “It’s all right. You’re safe.” She wanted to answer, to tell him she knew, that she’d felt him there even in the dark, but the words tangled somewhere behind her teeth. So she looked at him instead, eyes meeting his, and let the smallest smile form—fragile, aching, real. The room steadied around them, the charm lights humming in time with her pulse, the air warm again.

For a heartbeat the stillness held. Then something inside her broke open. The tremor started in her hand, spread to her chest, and before she could stop it the tears came—silent at first, then shaking through her until she couldn’t keep them in. The sound was raw, small, but it filled the space between them. She had held everything too long—fear, pain, the weight of surviving—and now her body let it all go.

Harry gathered her close, his movements unsteady with everything he hadn’t let himself feel. His hand found the back of her head, fingers sliding into her hair; the other wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her in until there was no space left between them. He breathed her name once, quietly, the sound barely a word. Then, against her hair, he began to whisper, “You’re safe.” The words came again and again, soft and certain, as if repetition could make them true.

Harry’s breath hitched. One hand coming to the side of her face, his thumb brushing away the tears that had already begun to fall. “You’re safe,” he whispered. The words trembled in his throat. “You’re safe now.”

He bent his head and pressed a kiss to her temple, then another to the crown of her head. His forehead rested there for a moment, breathing her in, the scent of antiseptic and vanilla clinging to her hair. She was shaking, the sobs coming hard, sharp as breath after too much silence. Harry’s eyes burned, but he kept his hold steady, fingers tracing the curve of her cheek, needing the contact to prove she was real.

“Gods, Hermione,” he breathed, the words breaking before he could stop them. “You’re here.” His voice caught, rough with everything he couldn’t say—relief, fear, something dangerously close to a prayer. He drew her closer, his hand at the back of her head, his lips brushing her hair once more, the proof of her heartbeat steadying his own.

He stayed there, repeating the words until his voice cracked, until the weight in his chest eased just enough for him to breathe again. The light in the room dimmed around them, soft and steady. All that remained was the sound of her breathing and the uneven rhythm of his own.

And for the first time in eighteen days, the word safe felt real.

A soft chime broke through the stillness. One of the diagnostic charms above the bed flickered from green to amber, its light pulsing once before settling into a slow, steady glow. The sound was small, but it carried through the quiet room like a knock on glass. Harry lifted his head, blinking against the light, his hand still tangled with hers.

The door hissed open and Healer Lorette Russell stepped in, her robes brushing the floor, her smile gentle but certain. “Welcome back, Hermione,” she said, voice warm enough to soften the edges of the sterile air. “You gave us quite a scare.” She moved to the side of the bed, wand already in hand, checking the charm readouts with a practiced glance. “You’re doing well—better than I expected, honestly. But the drug in your system hasn’t been completely cleared yet.”

Hermione tried to nod, but the movement sent a faint tremor through her arms, her muscles remembering before her mind did. Healer Russell caught it at once and laid a hand gently on her wrist. “Easy,” she murmured. “That’s perfectly normal. Your body’s been through a great deal.” She paused, her expression softening. “We have a mind healer on call if you’d like to speak with someone. I’d recommend it when you’re ready. What you’ve endured—it leaves echoes.”

The charms above the bed flared in response to her presence, their soft light painting her face in shifting blues and golds. “Good,” she said after a quick glance at the readings. “You’re stabilizing, Hermione. Your magic’s low but recovering. That’s exactly what we want.” She smiled, small but genuine. “You’ve done very well.”

Hermione tried to focus on her words, but the meaning drifted in and out, half-heard through the haze. The Healer’s tone, though—gentle, confident—was something her mind could hold onto.

“You’ll feel tremors for a while,” Healer Russell continued. “And the dizziness will come and go. The compounds in your system aren’t completely gone yet.” She set two small vials on the tray beside the bed, their contents glowing faintly. “Take these slowly. They’ll help your body settle.”

Healer Russell gave one last approving glance at the charm readouts, its light softening to green. “Magic stabilizing, vitals steady. That’s exactly what we want.” She offered a small smile.

Hermione’s throat worked, the words caught somewhere between gratitude and fear. Before she could find her voice, the door opened again. Kit stepped in, the look in his eyes somewhere between relief and disbelief. Harry stood and turned toward him.

“Hermione,” he said quietly, his voice steadier now, “this is Kit, Kit Mason—my partner with MACUSA. He’s been helping with the investigation.” Kit moved closer, offering a nod that carried more than courtesy. “It’s good to see you awake,” he said, the formality in his tone unable to hide the genuine relief beneath it. She managed a small smile, the room steady around her for the first time.

Kit lingered near the foot of the bed, his hands resting loosely in his pockets. For a moment, he said nothing—just watched the quiet between them, the steadiness that had finally found its way back into the room. When he spoke, his voice was low, careful.

“Hermione,” he began, his tone more gentle than official, “we’ll need your statement once you’re able. MACUSA’s coordinating with the local authorities, and they’re hoping to take your firsthand account soon.” He paused, glancing briefly toward Harry. “But only when you’re ready.”

Harry eased himself onto the edge of the bed, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him beside her. The hospital sheets rustled softly beneath the weight. His voice stayed low, meant only for her.

“Love,” he said gently. “You have two options. You can give a statement—just talk through what you remember—or we can extract your memories into a pensieve. Either way, you’ll have control. No one will rush you.”

Hermione’s gaze lifted to his, searching. For a long moment, she just looked at him, her breath caught somewhere between her ribs and her throat. Talking meant remembering; remembering meant reliving. Her fingers curled in the blanket, then released. Giving the memories would be easier—cleaner—but even that thought made her stomach twist. She swallowed hard, eyes still on him, the steadiness in his face might help her find her own.

Healer Lorette Russell stepped closer, her voice calm, shaped by years of knowing when not to press. “The pensieve isn’t about forgetting,” she said softly. “It’s distance. Sometimes that’s what the mind needs—to see without standing inside it. You won’t have to relive anything you’re not ready for. It lets the body rest while the memory does the work.” She gave a small, understanding nod. “You’ve been through enough. This way, we can help without reopening what isn’t healed yet.”

Kit, standing near the foot of the bed, added quietly, “And it’ll help us investigate the area where you were held. The memory records more than what you consciously noticed—sound, movement, traces of residual magic.” He hesitated, then went on, “It may also show who else was there with you. Faces, shadows, even voices that didn’t register in the moment. We can trace them, verify patterns, piece together what really happened.”

She met his eyes, his tone softening. “It’s evidence—your evidence, Hermione. And we’ll keep it sealed until you’re ready to see it.”

Harry reached for her hand, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. “I’ll be here,” he said softly. “The whole time. You don’t have to look. You don’t have to say a word. We’ll take it slow.”

For a moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the charms around the bed. Hermione kept her eyes on Harry, her gaze steady. He didn’t move or speak. He simply stayed there, a quiet constant. She drew a slow, uneven breath, the decision settling in her chest.

“All right,” she whispered. “The pensieve.”

Harry leaned in, slow and careful, his hand still around hers. He pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, the warmth of it lingering in the cool, sterile air. “I’m right here,” he murmured.

Healer Russell gave a small nod and turned toward the preparation tray. Kit moved beside her, adjusting the alignment of the silver basin and the neat cradle of glass tubes etched with faint runes and copper seals.

Harry stayed at Hermione’s side as they worked, his fingers wrapped around hers, steady and warm. “You’re safe, Love,” he murmured. “Just breathe. I got you.”

Hermione’s eyes found his. She nodded once.

Healer Lorette Russell stood on the other side of the bed, her wand poised her expression calm. “We’ll monitor your vitals throughout,” she said softly. “It won’t hurt—just a gentle pull. You may feel light-headed afterward, but it will pass quickly.”

Kit moved to the tray beside her, where a neat row of slender glass tubes rested in a silver cradle. Each was etched with runes and small copper seals. “We’ll start from the earliest,” he told her, his tone both kind and precise. “Each memory will find its own place. Healer Russell will guide the separation. We’ll tag them by date and keep them secure.”

The air shifted. Magic stirred, soft and luminous. Healer Russell’s wand glowed faintly as she touched it to Hermione’s temple. Threads of silver light began to thread from Hermione’s temple—thin, trembling strands that drifted into the waiting tubes. The first filled slowly, swirling with faint colour, memory suspended in motion. The rune on its side glowed faintly gold. Each one then filled slowly, swirling with faint colour, time captured in glass.

Harry stayed where he was, holding her hand through every breath as the past began to take shape in light.

Chapter Text

The office was too bright for the hour, all white glass and humming wards, the light sharp against the faint grain of exhaustion that clung to both men. The scent of coffee and ink lingered in the air, a small thing that kept them anchored. Across the square, in the adjoining MACUSA complex, the Medical Healing Division held Hermione under quiet observation — her magic monitored, her body relearning what safety felt like. Here, in the narrow analysis chamber of the DMLE, Harry and Kit worked through the stillness. The walls were layered with privacy charms; every sound seemed to fold inward. Their joint report — Hermione’s statement, the evidence logs, the timeline cross-referenced with Yale PD’s findings — had already been submitted. It should have felt like progress. It didn’t.

The Pensieve sat between them, its surface dim, silver light pulsing in a low, steady rhythm. They’d gone through the memories again and again — the laughter, the shuffle of papers, the hum of laptops left running too long. The living room was crowded, warm, alive with motion. Cups shifted, hands crossed over plates, someone reaching past another for the rice.

Harry moved among them, retracing the same moments, each time a little slower. Who refilled what. Who passed which cup. Whose sleeve brushed Hermione’s as she reached for her drink. Too many gestures at once — all harmless in isolation, all blurring together in the noise of ordinary friendship. Yet somewhere in that overlap, something deliberate waited. The Curator was there, among them. Or someone working for him. Maybe both. No single motion gave it away, intention lingered in the air, quiet and exact.

Kit paced slowly around the table, eyes narrowing as he studied the cluster of men caught mid-conversation. “None of them stand out,” he murmured. “Too ordinary.”

Their shapes wavered — tall, slight, solid, each framed by the same casual gestures: a laugh, a reach for a cup, a glance toward Hermione. Nothing remarkable, which made it worse.

Harry’s jaw tightened. “That’s what he counts on,” he said quietly. “No one remembers the ordinary ones.”

Kit circled the table once more, eyes tracking the faces frozen in light before stopping beside Harry.

The clock on the nightstand burned red: 3:08 a.m. Her body stirred on the bed, caught between dream and panic. The sound came next — glass tipping, books sliding, water scattering across the floor. Harry and Kit stood just beyond it all, the scene rebuilding itself in precise, merciless detail.

The Curator moved through the shadows with a calm that turned Harry’s stomach — unhurried, practiced, every gesture deliberate. Hermione fought, even as the drug thickened her limbs. Her wandless magic flared weakly, scattered bursts of light slipping through her fingers — Accio, Bombarda, Protego — each one faltering before it found strength. She didn’t stop. One spell, one strike, one breath of defiance. For a heartbeat, she connected — an elbow driven hard into his ribs, the brief, human sound of pain cutting through the dark. But his patience held. The cloth came down again, pressed over her mouth. Harry could see her eyes, wide and unbroken, even as her body began to fold.

Kit exhaled slowly, stepping forward into the half-light, his face tight with something between awe and anger. “I know I’ve said it before,” he murmured, watching the frozen echo of her struggle, “but seeing her like this… she can really fight. If only—”

Harry’s voice cut through, quiet but sure. “She’s scary,” he said, but there was softness in it — admiration wrapped in ache. His eyes stayed on Hermione, on the fierce will that hadn’t dimmed even in collapse. “She doesn’t just fight with her mind,” he went on, voice low. “She’ll take you apart with words, with spells — and if that fails, she’ll do it with her bare hands.”

Kit nodded once, jaw set. “Let’s go back to the cabin,” he said after a moment, turning toward the silver light that waited behind them. “We need to look at it from another angle.”

They had reentered this memory for what felt like the hundredth time. The cabin unfolded around them—dim, narrow, cold light settling over the bed where Hermione lay. The man stepped into view again: masked, gloved, movements measured. He stood too still, too deliberate, the air around him seeming to belong to him. Every detail replayed exactly as before, yet something new pressed at the edges of Harry’s awareness, sharp and insistent. The parallels scraped against his thoughts—quiet but relentless. He could feel the truth circling just out of reach, like breath caught behind glass.

“He’s been studying her,” Harry said at last, his voice low, shaped more by certainty than thought. “He knows her rhythms—what she trusts, what she overlooks. Even the smallest things—the books she keeps by the bed, the soap she uses. Merlin, even the knickers in her drawer. He’s mapped her down to habit.” He paused, eyes narrowing on The Curator. “But he missed what mattered. He underestimated her. Thought he could catalogue a mind like hers and keep it still.”

Kit didn’t answer at once. His jaw shifted, a small tic of irritation he didn’t bother to hide. Harry kept his eyes on the figure half-lit by the cabin’s dim glow—face hidden behind the mask, body unnervingly still. There was nothing remarkable about him, nothing to catch the eye, and yet everything about him demanded attention. A man who could walk through a room without leaving sound or shadow, who’d turned invisibility into an art.

“When she cast Homenum Revelio,” Kit said quietly, “her magic was still depleted, but she still reached for it. That wasn’t instinct—it was strategy. She must’ve sensed something.”

Harry studied the scene, watching the faint silhouette flicker in the mist—slight, indistinct, gone before it could take shape. “She wasn’t looking for anyone else,” he said. “She just needed to know she wasn’t alone.” His voice dropped lower, the thought settling. “But that…” He exhaled slowly. “Maybe she wasn’t the only one he was keeping alive.”

The memory’s light dimmed, the air thinning around them as the scene began to dissolve. Kit moved first, drawing a long breath before stepping back. Harry lingered for a moment, eyes locked on the last flicker of silver mist, his reflection caught in it—tired, determined, unrelenting. Then, without a word, he followed. The world of the Pensieve folded in on itself, and together they rose out of it—back into the quiet, white glare of the room.

Kit straightened, the decision already forming. “I’ll pull everything we’ve got on Aurora,” he said, his voice even, controlled. “And we should see Elaine at Yale PD — she’ll have whatever’s come in from the Muggle side.” Harry nodded once, eyes still on the swirling light. The cabin’s image dissolved, replaced by a colder one — the edge of the clearing, snow and shadow. December 14. The night she escaped. He leaned closer, jaw tightening. “Go ahead,” he murmured, not looking away. “I’ll stay here.”

Harry dipped back into the Pensieve. The light wavered, the sound of the room collapsing into silence as the cabin rebuilt itself around him—walls, air, the faint hum of the radiator.

He moved around them, circling the edge of the bed. The Curator leaned closer, the mask tilting in a gesture that might have been admiration. His breath hitched, shallow and contained. His hands flexed, then unclenched. One dropped low, adjusting then touching himself. The movement kept going—slow, fast, steady, chasing something only he could feel while watching and softly saying Hermione’s name. He grunted, quiet and pleased, and started forward.

Harry stayed back, close enough to hear the faint rhythm of Hermione’s breathing, uneven beneath the hum of the radiator. When the man spoke - “You’re looking much better now”- the sound threaded through the air like silk, too soft, too careful. Harry’s stomach turned.

He’d come into the memory as an Auror, trained to observe, to catalogue, to stay detached. Detachment didn’t hold. The man moved, slow and deliberate, still working through that private rhythm, saying her name — a gift he gave himself.

Heat rose in Harry’s chest, sharp and sudden. His jaw clenched. Copper bloomed on his tongue. Rage settled in his bones—clean, quiet, waiting. It didn’t flare. It stayed.

He watched. He needed to do his job. He owed her that.

The glove brushed Hermione’s hair, then lifted. He stripped it off, slow, deliberate. For the first time, bare fingers touched her skin. Harry froze. The air drew tight, a pressure building in his chest that had nowhere to go. Every instinct screamed to move. To stop it. To drag the man back. The memory held him still. The Curator’s touch lingered, soft, obscene in its patience. Harry’s jaw locked. He tracked the minute details—the slight tilt of the man’s head, the pause before contact, the measured breath afterward. Satisfaction. Possession. Control. His pulse hammered in his throat, hot and sharp. Then Hermione struck—pen flashing, motion exact—relief tore through him, fierce and clean. Admiration followed, just as strong. The Curator recoiled back; the composure shattered.

Then the scene shifted. The door slammed open, and he was outside with her—the air burning cold against his face, the ground white and endless beneath her feet. He followed, through the trees, each breath visible in the dark. Her heartbeat echoed in the air, quick and wild, as she stumbled through branches and ice. Behind them, his voice carried—low, coaxing, steady. -“You can’t run. There’s nowhere to go.” - It was gentle. That gentleness was worse than shouting, worse than cruelty.

Harry’s throat locked with something raw and wordless. When the voice rose again -“I love you — do you hear me? I love you. You’ll freeze out here.”- the words cracked open whatever restraint he had left. He wanted to turn, to reach for the man, to drag him down into the snow and silence him. But the memory would not bend. It only went on, inevitable and cold.

Hermione turned toward the man, her face streaked with blood and tears, her hair whipping against her cheeks. Her body trembled from cold, from exhaustion, but her eyes—her eyes were steady. There was no fear left in them now, only certainty, a fierce and quiet knowing. She understood the cost, understood what waited if she faltered. And still, she stood her ground. The wind tore at her clothes, the snow stung her skin, but nothing in her gaze wavered. It was the look of someone who had already chosen her freedom, no matter the price.

Harry followed her to the edge, breathing hard though the air wasn’t his to breathe. The drop yawning black and endless below. Hermione turned to face him, meeting his eyes through the mask. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Then she drew in one last, steady breath and stepped backward into the dark—still looking at him as she fell. The wind broke against her body, the snow rising to meet her, and behind her, his scream tore through the night—raw, human, empty.

The masked figure lunged forward, gloved hand reaching toward the empty air.
“NO—!”

The word tore through the wind and snow, and then everything broke. The ground vanished beneath Harry’s feet. For one dizzying instant he felt himself falling too—wind screaming past, light fracturing around him, the cold slicing through his chest. The snow, the sky, the sound—all of it splintered into silver and shadow. The world folded in on itself, dragging him upward, the last echo of her name swallowed by the dark.

Harry came up hard, gasping, his palms pressed flat against the edge of the table to steady the ground beneath him. The room swam for a moment—too bright, too still. Kit stepped back inside, bringing the cold air with him, but Harry barely looked up. His pulse thundered in his ears, the echo of wind still lodged in his lungs. He reached for the glass tube before his breathing had fully steadied, fingers slick with sweat. Silver ripples flared under his touch, alive again.

“November twenty-five,” he said, voice rough. His hand was already in motion, drawing the memory thread forward. Something in his face had shifted—alert now, sharp, the edge of realisation cutting through the exhaustion. Something in him stirred—a faint pull, the instinct that a lead was there, just out of reach, waiting for him to see it.

Chapter Text

The night had thinned, stretched past the point where time felt real. The air in the analysis room was dry, over-warmed by the wards humming in the walls. Every few minutes, one of them would move — a scrape of a chair leg, the drag of paper across wood — small noises that marked the hours better than any clock. Kit had taken off his jacket, his white shirt faintly creased, sleeves rolled high. A scatter of transcripts lay open in front of him, the corners curling from use. Across from him, Harry read with that narrow, deliberate focus that came when exhaustion stopped mattering. Between them, the Pensieve waited, dull silver under the light, its surface unbroken. The faint rasp of paper and the dry click of Kit’s pen were the only things left that proved they were still awake.

The statements read like a chorus of ghosts—too many voices saying too little. Friends from the Yale Law flat describing the same evening from slightly different angles: who ordered food, who laughed first, who refilled Hermione’s glass. Each version matched just enough to ring true, too convincing for comfort, ordinary in a way that felt practiced. Every one of them had an alibi—neat, verifiable, solid enough to hold. Digital forensics had coughed up the same silence—no footage, no trace, no prints, not even a partial. The evidence didn’t argue with him; it simply refused to exist. On paper, it looked like nothing had ever gone wrong.
He knew better. He’s there—the Curator, sitting in plain sight, breathing the same air, wrapped in a story polished clean.

Kit paced slow circles, his boots whispering against the floor, that restless rhythm Harry had come to know too well. “We’ve got gaps on every angle,” he said, not looking up. “She was taken in a building with eight cameras, zero witnesses, and one open corridor. And still—” He stopped, thumbing the edge of a page until it tore. “Still, the bastard’s a ghost.” Harry didn’t answer. He was watching the ink of Hermione’s name, the neat line of it written in someone else’s hand. To the Muggle world, she’d been found—alive, recovering, another miracle for the papers. Yet every time he closed his eyes, she was still there, suspended in the silver haze of memory, running through the snow, falling before he could reach her. What had been done to her lived between those two worlds, caught somewhere between the relief they saw and the horror he couldn’t unsee.

Hermione was sitting by the window when Harry found her, knees drawn to her chest, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like armour. Outside, New York’s winter light slanted pale and uncertain across the skyline, the kind of grey that held no warmth. The world had gone on spinning without her, and she was still learning how to trust it again. Harry stopped just inside the doorway, the scent of antiseptic and vanilla clinging faintly to his sleeves. He didn’t speak at first. He just stood there, taking her in—the soft fall of her hair against the blanket, the faint tremor in her hand where she held her tea. When she finally looked up, her eyes met his, steady but tired. “You’re hovering,” she said quietly, a ghost of her old humour trying to find its way back. He smiled, barely. “I’m terrible at leaving you alone,” he said, and the words landed somewhere between apology and truth.

He crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed beside her, close enough that their knees brushed. “Yale PD’s still spinning their wheels,” he began, voice low and careful, as if one wrong note might send her spiralling back into silence. “They’re looking for a man with the wrong face, the wrong hands. But I’ve got a hunch—something in the overlap between your flat and the Moot night. We need to go there—work with them, not around them.” He watched her face as he spoke, saw the way her eyes drifted toward the window again, measuring something invisible. She didn’t answer right away. Her thumb brushed the rim of her cup, slow and deliberate. He knew that look—she wasn’t just hearing him; she was testing the air, gauging the quiet. Counting heartbeats between footsteps that weren’t there.

Finally, she drew in a breath and turned to him. “You know he’s not done,” she said, her voice quiet but unflinching. “He’ll come back for me, Harry. I can feel it. People like him don’t just… let go. I wasn’t meant to get away.” Her fingers tightened around the blanket at her knees. “To him, I’m not a person. I’m something unfinished. A piece that slipped out of place.” The tremor in her hand gave her away, small and human, and Harry reached for it without thinking, covering her fingers with his own. The warmth of his touch steadied her more than she’d admit.

“I know,” he said softly. His voice carried the kind of tired certainty that came from too many sleepless nights. “That’s why we take this one step at a time. Yale PD’s pulling together a group of men who fit what you described in your statement — height, build, voice. It’s not much, but it’s something. They’ll need you to look, see if anyone stands out.” He hesitated then, the words slowing, careful. “If it’s too much, you say so. We stop. I mean that, Hermione. You don’t owe them your strength.”
His thumb brushed the back of her hand, slow and certain. “You won’t have to face him alone this time.”

She looked at him for a long moment, reading everything he didn’t say — the sleeplessness in his eyes, the hunger for justice running just beneath the surface.
“You’re not going to let him win,” she murmured.
“Not while we’re still breathing,” he said, his voice rough but steady.

He reached for her then, pulling her into his arms, the motion slow and protective, gathering her back piece by piece. She let him, resting her head against his shoulder, her breath warming the edge of his collar. The steady thrum of his heart pressed against her cheek — a sound she’d missed so much. He leaned back just enough to see her face, his thumb tracing a faint line along her jaw.

For a moment neither moved. The air between them was thin, trembling, heavy with everything that hadn’t been said. Then his hand slid to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, and he kissed her — slow at first, careful, reverent. She rose into it, answering him, the ache of too many sleepless nights breaking loose all at once. The kiss deepened, turned rougher, need surging beneath the quiet like a tide that had been waiting.

His hand tightened at her waist; hers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer until breath and heartbeat blurred together. The world outside fell away — the snow, the light, the hum of monitoring charms — gone. There was only this: the warmth of his mouth, the salt of tears she hadn’t known were there, the desperate certainty that he was real, that she was home.

When he finally drew back, both of them were breathing hard, foreheads still touching. He pressed one last kiss into her hair, softer now, his voice low against her temple.

“We end this,” he said, his voice quiet against her skin. “On our terms.”

~~~

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, steady and low. The air smelled of metal and bleach, sharp enough to sting when she breathed in. Hermione pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders, scarf wound close at her throat. The chill lingered anyway — deep, marrow-cold, the kind that stayed. The chair beneath her was metal, cold even through the layers of wool and fabric, the edge pressing into the backs of her knees. She kept her hands clasped in her lap, fingers hidden in her sleeves. Across the glass, the mirror threw her reflection back at her — pale, still, bundled like someone bracing for a storm. Beyond it, she could feel the quiet weight of people watching, the soft buzz of voices she couldn’t make out.

Ten men. That’s how many they brought in. Different faces, different colours, similar build — mid-twenties to thirties, clean-shaven, careful haircuts. Wealth showed in small, deliberate details: wristwatches, posture, shoes too polished for winter. Some tried to look composed; others couldn’t hide the small tics — a shifting foot, a clenched jaw, the nervous swallow before being called forward. They stood behind the glass, waiting, the air inside the lineup room colder than hers.

Elaine’s voice came through the speaker, low and even. “All right, gentlemen. Please put on the masks.”

They obeyed. White masks came down over their faces, covering from the forehead to just above the mouth, leaving only the lips exposed. The eyeholes were dark and slightly oversized, turning each man into a hollow outline of himself. The lack of expression made them worse — emotionless, clinical, detached. Then the black bonnets were pulled tight over their hair, no strands escaping, no trace of the ordinary left. Ten near-identical silhouettes stood there, waiting.

“Number one,” Elaine said, her voice even through the speaker. “Step forward. Say the line softly.”

Each voice followed, one after the other — soft, unsteady, uncertain of what the words meant.
“You’re looking much better now.”

The sentence moved through the room like a current, the same words, ten different throats — like a drop of ink in water, spreading, staining, impossible to pull back. Hermione kept her breathing even, her eyes on the curve of each mouth, the shift in each pair of eyes. Wrong. Wrong again. Too tall. Too bulky. Wrong cadence. The mask changed everything, and nothing. She felt the tremor behind her ribs, counted it off like a metronome. One, two, three — steady. She pressed her thumb into her palm hard enough to leave a mark.

From behind the glass, Harry leaned forward, every muscle in his jaw tight, watching each man. His eyes lingered on their right forearms, searching for the mark that should have been there — a cut, a bruise, something from the pen Hermione drove into flesh. Kit’s pen stopped moving halfway through his notes. Both listened to the voices, to the tiny hesitations no camera could catch. They said nothing. The rules didn’t allow scent tests, didn’t allow proximity beyond sight and sound. Evidence, not instinct.

When the last man stepped back, the silence held. Hermione’s pulse filled the space the words had left behind. She exhaled slowly, the breath trembling at the edges. “None of them,” she said. Her voice was calm. Flat. Certain.

Harry closed his eyes. Kit didn’t move. Elaine turned toward Hermione, her expression composed but softened around the edges. She didn’t speak — the protocol didn’t allow it — yet the question was there all the same, held in the faint lift of her brows, the small, human ache behind procedure. Hermione met her gaze once, then shook her head.

The hum of the lights went on.

The corridor stretched long and pale, its silence carrying the hum of distant voices. Elaine caught up to them near the exit, her coat half-buttoned, breath misting faintly in the cold air. “I know it’s been a day,” she said, eyes moving between the three of them, “but if you’re free, come by the house tonight. It’s my daughter Ava’s birthday — just dinner, nothing fancy.” The words hung there for a moment, a small piece of normal life breaking through the sterile air. Harry nodded. “We’ll be there.” Hermione’s mouth lifted, the faintest curve of a smile, soft and real. Kit huffed a quiet laugh, a spark of warmth slipping back into his voice. “God, I miss home-cooked meals,” he said. Elaine’s grin caught, quick and bright. “Good thing, then, that it’s my husband who cooked. If it were me, you’d have me dialing takeout.” The sound of their shared laughter — brief, low, unforced — echoed off the walls, cutting clean through the quiet. For the first time all day, the air didn’t feel so heavy.

At the threshold, Harry paused and turned to her. His hand found hers, steady, unhurried. “You did well, love,” he said, voice low, meant for her alone. The words settled somewhere deep, easing the tension she’d been holding. She looked up, and he stepped closer, his arm sliding gently around her shoulders. She leaned into him, her breath warming the edge of his collar. His lips brushed her temple — soft, certain, a quiet promise in the cold. “It’s enough for tonight,” he murmured.

Outside, snow drifted under the streetlights. The world held still, a calm that waited. She paused at the edge of the steps, her breath ghosting into the air, the lights from the precinct glowing behind her — bright, deliberate, unyielding. It should have felt safe.
Even with Harry’s hand in hers, the feeling didn’t leave — that prickle at the back of her neck, the sense of still being watched, still being curated.