Chapter Text
The click of heels cut through the Atrium with a sharp, measured rhythm. The dark wooden floor echoed each step, gleaming so brightly it seemed the girl walked not on a surface but across the frozen surface of a lake.
The ceiling—a deep shade of blue, inlaid with golden symbols that moved ceaselessly, folding and scattering apart again—resembled a living map of the night sky. The Ministry of Magic loved to remind everyone of its grandeur. Of order. Of control.
Hermione Granger hurried toward the meeting, moving through the still half-empty corridor of the Ministry of Magic, having just stepped out of one of the many fireplaces. She approached the golden fountain and found herself pausing to look at it.
She remembered what it had been during the war. She remembered how the Death Eaters had reworked the stone, recarved the symbols, laid bare the true meaning. Muggles—at the very bottom. Where they belonged, in the Death Eaters’ view. To serve. To die.
Hermione gave a sharp shake of her head, as if she could rattle the images loose, pressed her bag closer to herself, and walked on. Those times were long gone. Seven years had passed since Voldemort’s death. Seven years—and still it wasn’t enough.
She still had nightmares. Sometimes she woke in the middle of the night with the sensation of cold metal against her skin—Bellatrix interrogating her. In another dream, followers of the Dark Lord chased her through a forest. Sometimes she saw Harry—dead, motionless, in Hagrid’s arms, who weeping as though the world had broken beyond repair.
No matter how many potions she swallowed. No matter how many Healers and therapists she cycled through. Fear always found its way back.
She would wake with a parched throat, heart hammering wildly in her chest, sometimes with a cry. She’d rouse Crookshanks, or someone else—someone passing through, temporary, silent, someone who didn’t ask questions and didn’t stay long. Someone she could be with without having to think.
The war had left its mark on everyone. A year spent hunting Horcruxes had burrowed into her more deeply than any curse. The wizarding world had not fully healed—and that was felt even in the air, heavy, saturated with unease.
The rustle of robes and the low hum of voices pulled her back to reality. In the meantime, she had nearly reached the lift that was to carry her to the first level—to the meeting with the high-ranking officials. Young as she was, she already held the position of Lead Detective in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. And she had no intention of stopping there.
Hermione had clawed her way to her position through sheer work. An analytical mind, sleepless nights, flawless conclusions. And still, behind her back, the whispers circulated: too young. Too sharp. Muggle-born.
Supporters of blood purity hadn’t gone anywhere. There were fewer of them now, but they held together, like poison circulating slowly through the blood of the wizarding world. Hermione had already caught some of them. Conducted investigations. Closed files. And she already knew—the new case would lead her right back there.
A tall man in a black robe had already stepped into one of the lifts. A hood concealed his face, leaving only a silhouette—straight posture, unhurried movements. She couldn’t tell if he was a colleague or simply a wizard who had come to the Ministry on personal business.
“Hold on!” she called, and the man turned.
Hermione managed to slip inside just in time, murmured a quick thanks, and automatically smoothed a strand of hair that had escaped from her plait. The doors closed. The cabin moved upward.
“You’re not running late to the meeting, are you, Granger,” the man said. “Or did you simply decide to spend a little more time with me?”
The voice was familiar. Cold. Controlled. In the lamplight, the robe no longer looked black—it shimmered dark blue. The colour of ministerial authority.
“Oh, it’s you,” Hermione said evenly. “Had I known, I would have waited for the next one.”
“You’re so rude, Detective Granger.”
“Lead Detective, Advisor Malfoy,” the girl corrected. “Whether you like it or not.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” he scoffed, a crooked smile on his lips. “I have nothing against you in that position.”
“And yet you wanted to see Zabini there, didn’t you?”
The man was quiet for a few seconds. Briefly, but long enough for Hermione to notice.
“If I were to set aside Blaise’s candidacy and choose between you and anyone else,” he said at last, “I’d choose you. At least meetings aren’t dull with you around.”
The corner of his mouth gave the faintest twitch.
“And pleasanter to look at than the old windbags waiting for retirement like it’s a mercy.”
Hermione didn’t know exactly what Draco Malfoy did in the Minister’s office. Only that he served as an advisor and liaison between the departments—Auror Headquarters included—and the Minister of Magic himself. And as an expert on the Dark Arts, which was, all things considered, hardly surprising.
They had never worked together, though officials of his kind sometimes assisted Aurors and detectives on delicate matters—with their connections, or their money. Or their minds.
Malfoy had all of these. She knew very well who he was.
Malfoy was obscenely wealthy. Influential. Intelligent. And dangerously ambitious. She had no doubt he eyed the Minister’s seat as though it already belonged to him.
The war had changed everyone—him included.
Not much remained of the Malfoy family. In practice—only him. They had been apprehended at the Manor a few hours before their planned escape to France. The Aurors had arrived in time. Lucius’s trial was long, made into a spectacle, with no leniency. The Daily Prophet had savoured every sordid detail of the Malfoy Manor’s interior—the family nest, stained with the blood of Muggles and Muggle-borns, tortured and killed on Voldemort’s orders.
At the final hearing, it had taken the Minister several hours to read out the names of all those killed before delivering the ultimate verdict on Lucius—death by a Dementor’s kiss.
The skin on his face had gone white, though that seemed impossible. He had wept. He had begged for mercy, offered the Manor, his fortune, everything, if only they would let him live. He blamed everything on Voldemort, on his influence, on intimidation—everything except himself.
Narcissa was acquitted. The woman left Britain and had nothing more to do with the wizarding world. After her husband’s death she had reclaimed her maiden name, and so in wizarding circles she was known as Cissy Black.
The younger Malfoy, meanwhile, became the sole heir, the last Malfoy still living. He had been questioned—first as a suspect, later as a witness—though the stain of those interrogations had remained on his skin forever. The argument was that he had still been a child, a teenager under the influence of his father, his unhinged aunt, and Voldemort. But not everyone believed it. Even now, behind the man’s back, some still whispered as though he were a copy of his father. As though he would cross to the dark side, because once he already had.
He seemed to care nothing for it. He had changed since his school years—grown up, bolder, harder. Whether it was time, or the absence of his father’s toxic influence, he handled his responsibilities well, whatever they were.
The voice in the lift cabin announced arrival at the first level of the Ministry.
“After you, Lead Detective.”
“What an honour,” Hermione said dryly, rolling her eyes.
She stepped out of the cabin without looking back. Behind her came sharp, assured footsteps—the click of expensive lacquered shoes—and the soft whisper of robes. Her shoulders tensed like a string wound too tight.
Hermione entered the meeting room. It was empty—five minutes remained before the start.
This was no ordinary office, and only a select few had access to it. The walls were upholstered in dark blue fabric; layers of Muffliato charms absorbed all sound. The air here felt thicker, heavier.
On the walls hung portraits of former Heads of Aurors and Ministers for Magic. They were silent—too silent—but their eyes followed every person who crossed the threshold.
Malfoy took his usual seat, to the right of the presiding chair. The very same chair that had been occupied for many years by Head Auror Gawain Robards.
Robards was a veteran. Severe as hewn stone. Old scars crossed his face, and his gaze was sharp and heavy. He couldn’t abide the fact that Malfoy sat beside him. Robards belonged to the school that believed apples never fell far from the tree.
He tolerated “the smug blond whelp” only out of respect for the Minister.
Hermione liked Robards. He said little, but always to the point. Listened more than he commanded. And, which was a rarity, he genuinely heeded those who now went on raids and carried out arrests in his stead.
Ordinarily, these meetings included Department Heads and senior officials. Hermione was among those the Minister trusted personally, and had long occupied her seat by virtue of past merit. But today, the witches and wizards were oddly slow to arrive.
Into the room came Rufus Crowley—Senior Unspeakable from the Department of Mysteries. A man of indeterminate age. His face was so devoid of expression it might have been a mask. A grey robe—plain, without a single identifying mark. He almost never spoke. He only made brief notes on parchment that ignited and vanished once read.
Hermione was wary of him. She tried not to look in his direction, though he almost always sat opposite her.
Behind the Unspeakable came Theodore Nott—the main specialist in magical linguistics and ciphers.
“Hey, you blond prick,” he addressed Malfoy. “How was the night?”
Nott sat down beside him at once. They leaned toward each other, whispering quietly about something. Then the man shifted his gaze to Hermione and nodded at her with a sly smile.
“Hi, Mione,” Nott pressed his palm to his lips and blew her a kiss across the table, then mouthed silently—I miss you.
She waved away the ghost of the kiss drifting across the table toward her and arched a questioning brow. Seriously? Here?
Nott merely scoffed and rolled his eyes theatrically. Malfoy, beside him, suppressed a laugh and shot a sharp glance at her.
Nott was one of her lovers.
Malfoy likely knew.
Tall, slender, with curly dark hair, dark green eyes, sharp cheekbones and long fingers. He knew very well what to do with those fingers, and not only those. He was always impeccably dressed, but more relaxed than other wizards their age. He often appeared at her small flat in a silk shirt with the top buttons undone, rings on his fingers, an earring in his ear, and invariably with a cigarette and a glass of expensive wine he’d brought himself.
No feelings, of course. Nott knew he wasn’t her only one, just as she wasn’t his only one. After the war, Hermione hadn’t wanted complications, hadn’t wanted to dive into a relationship with all its anxieties. Ron had been too emotional, and Theo was perfect. He was intelligent, he didn’t demand love, he gave her peace at the end of a hard day.
A minute later the doors opened again. Robards entered with a fast, heavy stride. And behind him—Kingsley Shacklebolt. The Minister for Magic. He didn’t usually participate in meetings like this. So if he was here—something truly serious had happened.
With a wave of his hand, Kingsley cast Muffliato and sealed the room with a Colloportus bearing the Minister’s seal. Those present grew tense. Unease was palpable in the air. Even the portraits on the walls stirred, breaking their usual silence with murmurs. The smiles faded from the Slytherins’ faces.
And no one else is coming? Hermione thought.
“Good morning, colleagues,” The Minister’s low, velvet voice was swallowed by the soft walls of the room. “I see you are surprised by my presence.”
Beside him, a Self-Writing Quill moved through the air, capturing every word.
“And not without reason. Today’s conversation will not be easy. I ask for your full attention. Robards. Report.”
Hermione caught Kingsley’s gaze. His eyes were alert, his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in several days.
“Thank you, Minister,” Robards picked up. “Colleagues, what you are about to hear must not leave these walls. We don’t simply have a problem. We have a crack in the foundation.”
The room went still.
“The last several operations to apprehend dark wizards, including Felix Rosier, responsible for illegal trafficking of artefacts from France and suspected in several murders, were not disrupted by chance.”
His gaze moved over those present. It lingered on Nott for a moment. On Malfoy for a moment longer.
“They were traps,” Robards continued. “We were expected.”
Crowley noted, calmly, “Are you implying treason, Mr. Robards? I should remind you that all employees of the Department of Mysteries undergo Veritaserum verification every six months.”
“I am not implying,” Robards answered coldly. “I am stating it plainly.”
Nott slowly turned a silver quill between his fingers.
“Rufus,” he said quietly, almost lazily, “Veritaserum can be circumvented. Especially if the person sincerely believes their own lie.”
A silence settled over the room. Heavy, viscous, the kind you wanted to scrape off your skin. Kingsley’s Self-Writing Quill stilled in the air for a moment, then resumed moving, as if nothing had happened.
“What we have,” the Minister said at last, “does not resemble the typical activity of Voldemort’s remaining followers. The strikes are too precise. The disappearances too well-timed. Someone has access to information before it even reaches the field teams. We therefore suspect there are rats in the Ministry.”
“Who are reading us like an open book,” Robards added drily.
“Precisely,” Kingsley replied, and shifted his gaze to the Unspeakable. “Mr. Crowley?”
Rufus Crowley raised his head. His face did not change.
“The magical trace in the information leaks is unstable,” he said. “As if deliberately obscured. But the methods—” he paused for a moment, as though choosing his word, “—are familiar. These are not new players. These are people who remember the old rules well.”
Hermione’s gaze slid toward Malfoy. He was staring straight ahead, calm, focused. Too calm.
“Therefore,” the Minister continued, “we need someone who can think systematically. Someone who can piece fragments into a complete picture. And someone who is not afraid to go deeper than is comfortable.”
His gaze came to rest on Hermione.
“Granger.”
She didn't flinch. Only straightened her back slightly.
“Yes, Minister.”
“As of today, you will be setting aside your current case. Temporarily.”
Hermione felt something cold contract inside her.
“You will be heading the investigation into the information leak within the Ministry.”
She caught Crowley’s blank gaze.
“You will have full access to the materials of all departments involved,” Kingsley continued. “Without exception.” The quill made a sharp stroke. “However—” Kingsley paused. “You will not be working alone. You will need a partner and protection.”
By her sixth sense, Hermione already knew what was coming next. And still she felt the tension beneath her skin grow almost painful.
“Mr. Malfoy.” The man raised his gaze. “You will be working together,” the Minister said calmly. “On equal terms.”
“My role?” Malfoy enquired in a neutral tone. “I am not an Auror or a detective, you’ll recall.”
“Analysis. Connections. The psychology of dark wizards,” Kingsley listed. “That in which you are, ahem, competent.”
The word hung between them, sharp as a blade.
“You both have experience that cannot be found in any textbook,” the Minister added. “And that is precisely why I expect not emotions from you, but results.”
Hermione nodded. “Understood, Minister.”
“As you wish,” said Malfoy.
Neither of them allowed themselves to show more than that.
“Then that will be all,” Kingsley concluded. “Begin immediately. And remember: there is less trust in this matter than there appears to be.”
The Minister’s seal flared, the spells lifted. The room gradually began to empty. Hermione gathered her parchments and moved toward the exit. She was nearly out the door when it swung shut before her at a wave of Malfoy’s hand.
“Well then,” came the familiar voice behind her, “congratulations on our first collaboration. Though I suspect you’re not exactly thrilled.”
She turned slowly. They were alone. She, before the door. He, a few metres away.
“You have no idea how much,” Hermione answered coldly. “Especially given the company.”
Malfoy gave a faint smile.
“Likewise, Granger. I didn’t volunteer to be your partner.”
“Then let’s establish the terms now,” she said, looking him directly in the eye. “I lead this investigation. You don’t get underfoot. No games. No secrets.”
“A bold demand,” he tilted his head. “Given the nature of the case.”
“If you obstruct me, I’ll be the first to find out.”
“And if I help?” he asked quietly. “I can be useful. Occasionally even obedient.”
Another silence fell between them. Different from the last. Sharper.
“Actually,” Hermione answered after a pause, “that’s your job.”
Malfoy crossed to the exit, opened the door for her, and stepped aside.
“After you, Lead Detective.”
She walked past him without looking back. The day promised to be a tense one.