Chapter Text
The fashionable Muggle bar in central London was buzzing like a disturbed hive. Voices, laughter, loud music — it all merged into a deafening roar that made your ears pop. Ginny Weasley, known for the past four years as Quinn Perkins, sat at a corner table feeling out of place. She didn't do blind dates. It was an ironclad rule. But this time, a moment of weakness and her friend's persistent pleading had won out, and now she was biting her lips, regretting her compliance.
Ginny nervously twisted the stem of her white wine glass when the door opened, admitting a fresh wave of noise and revellers. Among them, like a shark among colourful minnows, one guy stood out. And she'd be lying if she didn't admit how hot he was. His dark suit, custom-tailored, hugged his athletic frame perfectly, and his entire posture screamed of a price tag inaccessible to most patrons. Despite his youth, his confidence was almost tangible. For once, her expectations hadn't been betrayed. He was clearly a step up from the last suitor from the dating app—a "hot Latin stallion" who'd turned out to be a dyed old man with glued-on eyelashes, in a cheap red shirt, holding onto the bar to keep from falling. The newcomer's gaze, cold and assessing, found her effortlessly in the thick crowd, as if he'd known exactly where she'd be sitting.
The man of mixed heritage approached her table without a hint of doubt and sat opposite her; his movements were fluid and ruthlessly efficient. The moment he opened his mouth, all the charm of the situation evaporated without a trace.
"Quinn Perkins?" The voice, low and even, cut through the noise like a blade. "Oxford graduate, Magical Law faculty."
That was the name she had lived under for the past four years—ever since she woke up in a small London flat, having lost almost all memories of her past life. She only remembered that she now had a new identity, a new name, and had to stick to this cover to stay alive.
This stranger, who knew more about her than he should, clearly represented a threat.
Ginny stared at him with growing confusion and fear. Despite all his magnificence, he was beginning to genuinely frighten her. She always went on the offensive when she was scared.
"Yes. But, actually, I thought this was a blind date. Which I don't do anymore, but I decided to make an exception today. And it seems I shouldn't have. You come off like a psychopath in an expensive suit."
"This isn't a date," he cut her off, his obsidian-dark eyes studying her intently, leaving no chance for escape. "For dates, I choose better restaurants and offer women a proper dinner. This is an interview."
He smiled, clearly aiming to defuse the tension, and raised an eyebrow when Ginny flinched, noticing his hand move towards his jacket's inner pocket. The girl was gripping her wand under the table, but, seeing he was only pulling out a piece of paper, she decided to try and look as nonchalant as possible and maintain a playful tone.
The guy placed a thin parchment envelope on the table. Its only adornment was a sturdy wax seal bearing a stylized, almost aggressive letter 'G'.
"An interview?" she eyed his elegant hands with a signet ring and his impeccable tie knot skeptically. "With you? You look too rich, young, and... dandyish for a lawyer."
The corner of his mouth twitched in a semblance of a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"I'm thirty, but thank you for another compliment. I'm not a lawyer. And the expensive suit is my work dress code. And you're dying to ask who I work for then."
"Alright," she said defiantly, feeling her anger rise. "Who do you work for?"
"For Granger & Partners."
He said it as if those words were supposed to explain everything. Seeing they hadn't had the desired effect on her, he leaned a little closer; his voice grew quieter and more intimate, cutting through the bar's noise.
"We're gladiators, Quinn. Just in suits. We fight the dirtiest wars—political ones. We don't handle cases, we don't file court documents. We fix other people's mistakes. We erase our clients' misdeeds like with a rubber. We are the magical shield standing between people in power and their inevitable, terrible failures. My boss is the best in the business. Believe me, you've spent your whole life wanting to meet someone like her. You dream of becoming her. I don't know what surprises me more—that you haven't heard of her, or that she somehow chose you. Even though you're not even the top of your class."
"Oh, I am the best, believe me. It's just that Professor Hawkins is an old paedophile who'd rather swallow his own shrivelled bollocks than give a fair grade. Maybe you and your boss erased his harassment with your rubber? What did you say her name was? Granger?"
Blaise just shook his head and slid the envelope across the smooth table surface towards her.
"There's a Portkey and an address inside. Tomorrow. Midnight. Come—you'll learn more. Don't—and you'll get a pathetic job in the bowels of the Ministry, drafting indictments against mag-rodents selling magical trinkets. The choice is yours."
He rose as swiftly as he had appeared.
"Wait!" she shouted, standing up. "Zabini! If I tell you to fuck off, will that be a problem? Will you make me regret it?"
He turned on the threshold, and something resembling respect flickered in his eyes.
"We won't. But you might regret it yourself."
He dissolved into the crowd, leaving her alone with her undrunk wine, a mountain of questions, and an envelope that seemed to be waiting, radiating a quiet, authoritative magic. Her fingers trembled as they touched the seal. And for a moment, she thought she heard a distant, familiar female voice calling her... but not "Quinn."
A voice calling "Ginny."
She jerked her hand back as if burned. A sense of déjà vu, sharp and painful, pierced her, making her heart race wildly. It all sounded absurd and dangerous. She couldn't remember who she was, but something deep inside, beyond the control of her rational mind, insistently whispered that this envelope was the key to answers, and she needed to meet these people.
***
The abandoned warehouse in London's magical industrial district was icy and reeked of death. The air, heavy with dust and the scent of rusty metal, carried a faint but undeniable animal musk. Flashes of light from the wands of two wizards snatched piles of incomprehensible equipment and shadows that moved too swiftly and silently for humans from the impenetrable gloom.
"Remember, Finnegan," said Hermione Granger, her voice level and loud, echoing in the metallic voids of the hangar. Her white suit was the only spot of colour in this grey kingdom of decay. "No heroics. We're here to negotiate."
Seamus Finnegan, a huge, broad-shouldered Irishman whose reddish hair and smattering of freckles seemed a mockery of the surrounding darkness, radiated irrepressible energy even here. He was nervously tossing his walnut wand from hand to hand.
"Just seems like 'negotiating' with werewolves in their den isn't the best idea for a day I planned to propose," he gave a crooked smile, a familiar glint of recklessness in his eyes. "If I get torn to shreds, tell Gabrielle I loved her."
"You've only known her for three months, Seamus."
"But what a three months!" he exclaimed, spreading his arms. "You wouldn't believe what that French minx gets up to in bed! Ever heard the phrase 'suck the nails right out of a board'?"
Hermione winced slightly and poked her lewdly winking partner in the side.
He was about to continue but straightened up sharply, transforming in an instant from a playful ladies' man into a stern soldier, and nodded into the darkness, from where, as if from the shadows themselves, three figures emerged. They moved with the grace of predators, their shoulders tense, their eyes glowing yellow like an owl's in the semi-darkness. The leader, tall and wiry, his face etched with scars that stood out white against his dirty skin, stopped a couple of meters away. He was breathing heavily, plumes of vapour erupting from his nostrils in the cold air.
"Granger," he hissed. "Did you bring the money?"
"I did, Aldo," Hermione took a small but resolute step forward, showing no trace of fear. "But not the ten million you asked for. There's eight here."
Aldo growled, a low, guttural sound from deep in his throat.
"We had a deal!"
"No," Hermione countered coldly, her eyes narrowing. "You made demands. I am making an offer. You take these eight million. You release the son of the Wizengamot member. And you leave British territory within fifteen minutes."
Seamus felt a chill run down his spine. He gripped his wand so hard his knuckles turned white. Every time, he feared Granger's madness and courage would land them in a grave. And every time, he stood by her, ready to take as many of the scum they always dealt with with him to the other side.
"Or what?" Aldo sneered, baring yellowed fangs. "You'll tickle us to death with a charm?"
"Otherwise," Hermione spoke quietly, but each word hit its mark, freezing the soul, "in twenty minutes, it won't just be the Aurors here. There will be scarier guys. And when this story gets out, when the Prophet blows up the scandal about a pack of werewolves kidnapping an official's child, all that tiny progress you've made in your rights over the last few years will be wiped out. The Wizengamot will pass an amendment for total registration, and you'll be banned from coming within fifty miles of magical settlements. Do you want that, Aldo? Want to set your people back a century? Want to face the wrath of your pack leaders? Look your children in the eye after that?"
She didn't raise her voice. She was just stating facts. Seamus saw the werewolves' faces change. Anger gave way to uncertainty, then to animal fear. They looked at this fragile girl standing before them with an utterly impassive face as if she were a prophetess foretelling doom.
Aldo was silent, breathing heavily. An eternity seemed to pass.
"Fifteen minutes?" he finally exhaled, defeat in his voice.
"Fifteen," Hermione confirmed. "And we'll return the child to his father. His vote against expanding your rights will be withdrawn. Officially due to a 'reconsideration of position.'"
The werewolf nodded slowly, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the decision. He took the bag of money.
"The meeting is over."
Without another word, the pack dissolved into the darkness as if they had never been there.
Seamus exhaled as if he'd run a marathon. He turned to Hermione, his face lit by a wide, almost boyish grin.
"Merlin's beard, Granger. I'm three times your size, trained with the toughest unit, and I nearly shit myself from fear. And you... you just destroyed them. Without a single spell."
She turned to him, and for the first time that evening, a spark of weary satisfaction flickered in her eyes.
"I just showed them the truth. People, even people with wolfish hearts, fear for their children's future more than anything else."
"I love this job," Seamus said with delight, shoving his wand into his robe pocket. "Godric's bollocks, I fucking love it. And you know what? I'm going to propose to Gabrielle after all."
Hermione shook her head, but a slight smile played on her lips.
"Just make sure, Finnegan, that she isn't a werewolf. I've had enough trouble with them for one day."
"She's a Veela! And she's the love of my life!"
Chuckling, the girl turned and strode decisively towards the exit, her silhouette in white stark against the light of streetlamps piercing the broken windows, with Seamus's large shadow following her closely. This battle went to the gladiators in suits.
***
Lord Eldridge's study was drowning in semi-darkness, broken only by the soft light of a polished oak desk lamp. Lord Eldridge himself, an aging wizard with greying temples, was pacing the room nervously, his fingers aimlessly fiddling with the folds of his expensive robes.
The door opened silently, admitting Hermione Granger. Behind her, holding her hand, followed a boy of about seven—Alexander Eldridge. The child looked pale and frightened, but unharmed.
Lord Eldridge rushed forward.
"Alex! My son!"
He grabbed the boy, hugging him so tightly his bones creaked. Hermione stood motionless, observing the scene with cold, professional detachment.
Lord Eldridge looked up at her, his eyes shining with tears of relief.
"He... is he alright? They didn't... bite him?"
"Your son is perfectly fine, Lord Eldridge," Hermione's voice was as even as the surface of a lake on a windless day. "He was untouched. Just frightened. I recommend a calming draught for a few days."
Lord Eldridge rose, his face a mixture of relief and anger.
"I... I don't know how to thank you, Miss Granger. I was desperate. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement..."
"The Aurors weren't an option, and you knew it," Hermione smoothly interrupted. "Politics. Now, about your part of the agreement."
She made a small, weighty pause.
"Your vote against Bill 394, expanding employment rights for lycanthropes, will be withdrawn. Tomorrow morning, you will send an official letter to the Wizengamot presidium about your reconsidered position."
Lord Eldridge froze. Relief was replaced by understanding of the price of his son's rescue.
"But... my sponsors... my constituents... they..."
"They will swallow it," Hermione parried. "Or you will have to explain to them why your son spent the night in a werewolf den. If this story becomes public, your career is over. Theirs are not."
She looked at him without threat. Just a statement of fact.
Lord Eldridge bowed his head, defeated.
"Fine. It will be done." He led his son deeper into the study and returned to Hermione, his gaze becoming assessing, almost insolent. "You know... I've always been amazed how you remain so... unflappable. Even after everything. After your work with the current Minister. You must have nerves of steel. Or just... a good school."
He smiled, and there was something unpleasant in that smile, hinting at familiarity with gossip.
Hermione didn't even bat an eye. She adjusted a fold on her sleeve.
"My school, Lord Eldridge, is necessity. And necessity, as you know, makes one forget fear. And the past. Take care of your son. He is your main priority now."
Without giving him a chance to reply, she turned and walked out of the study, leaving the politician alone with his child, his humiliation, and his futile attempts to get under her skin.
***
Ginny stood on the dark, deserted street, clutching the parchment envelope like a lifeline. The address had led her to an old, nondescript building squeezed between a bookshop with curtained windows and a pub closed for the night. No sign, no markings. Just a dim light barely penetrating the heavy oak door's frosted glass. Of course, alone at night in a Merlin-forsaken alley – she'd have no one to blame if something terrible happened. No one but herself, her own stupidity and curiosity.
She took a deep breath, gathering her courage, and pushed the door.
Inside, she was met by an interior that sharply contrasted with the dismal facade. A spacious loft with high brick ceilings, bathed in the warm, soft light of magical orbs and expensive, stylish lampshades. The air was thick and complex—it smelled of old book bindings, expensive coffee, the ozone tang of magic, and faint notes of fine whisky. The walls were hung with tactical maps, newspaper clippings from the Daily Prophet and other popular magical and Muggle papers and magazines, and intricate runic schematics glowing from within. In the centre of the main hall stood a huge wooden table, littered with scrolls, crystal balls, potion bowls, and bizarre magical artefacts whose purpose she couldn't even guess.
Leaning against a shelf near the table stood Blaise Zabini. Opposite him, sprawled in a leather armchair with his feet on the table, sat Seamus Finnegan. And between them, leaning her hips against the edge of the table and slowly stirring a smoking glass with a long wand, stood Pansy Parkinson. She was dazzlingly beautiful, with sharp, clear features and perfectly styled dark hair. Her expensive, severe suit accentuated her impeccable figure. A few years ago, she hadn't left the pages of the society columns and glossy magazine covers.
Seamus was passionately telling some story, gesticulating wildly. Pansy periodically rolled her eyes, but the corners of her lips twitched, and her gaze never left the Irishman.
"Your stories get more epic by the day, Finnegan," she said, slowly stirring the smoking glass with her wand. "About to jump out of your pants just to turn a simple contraband delivery into an epic world-saving mission."
"But you love it when I'm out of my pants, Parkinson," Seamus winked at her and deftly dodged a spell. Pansy snorted in annoyance and turned her head to Blaise for support, but her gaze remained languid and mocking.
"And you, Zabini? Do you believe these fairy tales too? Or do you prefer more... tangible proof of skill?"
"Oy, Parkinson, my skills are more than tangible, as you well know," the irrepressible Irishman reinforced his lewd hint with a gesture towards his crotch.
This time he had to dodge an inkwell sent his way non-verbally by Blaise. Without looking up from studying the shelf, the man of mixed heritage replied in an even tone:
"I prefer results. And Finnegan usually delivers them. However colourfully he embellishes his exploits."
At that moment, the young men noticed Ginny entering. Seamus took his feet off the table and grinned widely.
"Well, look who's here! Our new gladiator!"
Ginny took a hesitant step forward and shivered under Pansy's icy gaze.
"I... I'm not sure what I'm even doing here. Zabini said..."
She was interrupted by the appearance of Hermione Granger herself from the depths of the loft. The firm's director had removed her jacket and was left in elegant trousers and a light sleeveless blouse. Ginny had time to notice barely visible scars on her graceful, slender arms.
"Blaise said you have potential. And I hope he's not mistaken."
Hermione approached the table and summoned one of the scrolls.
"Quinn Perkins. Your essay on the International Statute of Secrecy was naive. But in your naivety, you pointed out a systemic flaw. Here, we don't write essays. We rewrite reality. It's often dirty. Almost always—illegal. And you will never be completely safe. Think you can handle it?"
Ginny stood, mesmerized by her gaze and the power emanating from this young woman. She herself dreamed of becoming strong and taking control of her life. Fear mixed with a wild desire to say 'yes'.
"I... don't know. But I want to try and find out."
"Did Blaise slay you with his gladiator speech?" The corners of Hermione's lips twitched as she watched the mixed-heritage man frown. She nodded towards Seamus:
"Introduce our new intern to the office and the rules."
Finnegan jumped up briskly.
"With pleasure! Come on, Red, I'll show you our humble abode."
He led Ginny deeper into the loft. On the way, they passed a workstation cluttered with strange mechanisms and Muggle computer equipment. Behind it sat a young man with perfect features. He looked up at Ginny—a ruthless, scanning gaze. His fingers froze over a runic interface. He slowly inhaled the air, as if trying to catch her scent. A shadow of something ancient and hungry flashed in his dark eyes before he lowered his gaze again. Ginny felt a strange thrill—a mix of fear and inexplicable attraction.
"This is Tom, our mad genius," Seamus explained. "No one but Hermione knows who he is or where he's from. We gave him the surname Riddle ourselves. He's a mystery to everyone, but to us, he's a member of our team and family. Don't let Tom's youthful looks fool you, and never ask how old he is. Seriously, he's... got his quirks. Better not to talk to him at first, he can scare the wits out of you. He'll initiate contact if needed. His past is a dark secret, but he can uncover the darkest secret of anyone. The lad is our secret weapon, a specialist in Dark magic and all sorts of Muggle and magical tech."
"Got it. And the girl in the hall? She scared me even more than Tom. She looks like a right bitch."
"That's Pansy Parkinson. She might be a bitch, but she's the best investigative detective you'll ever meet. Former socialite from an obscenely wealthy pure-blood family. Married off to some old git from an ancient line in her youth. Pans went through a real nightmare but got out. Granger helped her, and they've been inseparable since. I've never met two more different women, but their bond sometimes scares me. So yeah, Parkinson is to be feared, but she's got a lot to teach you, and eventually you'll start admiring her, just like Hermione."
"You're clearly smitten with her; is she your girlfriend?" Ginny asked with interest.
"Only in my dreams," Seamus continued to smile, but a note of bitterness flickered in his voice. "Anyway, we have a rule—no office romances, keep that in mind. We're all more like sisters and brothers here, and Hermione is our guardian. One big crazy dysfunctional family."
"Yeah, a real freak show, only you all look like you've stepped off a magazine cover. What about you and that Zabini?"
"Blaisey is the most educated among us and the closest to an actual lawyer. Like Pans, he's the heir to a rich family, but never talk to him about that. Zabini handles all legal matters, sometimes represents clients in court if it comes to that. A few years ago, he was sentenced to life himself, represented himself and won the case. Of course, not without our Granger's help. Since then, he's been a gladiator. Came up with the term himself and is terribly proud of it."
As if hearing the conversation, the mixed-heritage man threw a glance in their direction through the glass doors, and Seamus immediately shot him two middle fingers. Blaise, to Ginny's surprise, promptly responded with an even more obscene gesture, momentarily transforming from a strict professional into the Irishman's typical office mate. Moreover, long, slender fingers elegantly flicked up from behind the monitors in the corner. Ginny couldn't help but laugh as Finnegan, roaring with laughter, pulled her further down the corridor.
Only a moment later did Ginny realize he hadn't told her anything about himself.
Pansy, watching the pair disappear around the corner, turned back to Blaise.
"Well, Zabini, seems our Seamus has found himself a new toy. Hope this one has the sense not to fall for him at first sight."
Blaise shrugged.
"Her eyes, her problem. And your problem will be solved once you let him go. You pushed him away yourself, Pans. He's not coming back; you need to move on."
"He's planning to propose to Gabrielle Delacour. I asked Tom to arrange for the rings to be delivered". Granger added cautiously.
Parkinson opened her mouth but, with an effort of will, closed it and quickly left the hall, her heels clicking sharply on the parquet.
Hermione and Blaise watched her go with equally sympathetic looks, remaining alone by the central table.
"Continuing the theme of love dramas... The Minister's Chief of Staff, Snape, called," Blaise said quietly. "Again. Says it's something important about Malfoy. Insists on a meeting."
Hermione sighed heavily and closed her eyes.
"Tell them... I'm busy. Fixing their mistakes."
"Hermione…"
"Alright, I'll meet him at dawn."
Suddenly, the air in the room trembled. A quiet hum passed through the walls, and faint runic symbols flared with a blue light.
"Defensive charms activated," Tom reported in a dispassionate tone, not looking up from his task. "We have a client."
Pansy appeared in the doorway of the office, a coat draped over her shoulders.
"It's past midnight. Tell him we'll review his case tomorrow."
"The client is already here," Tom replied.
The door burst open, and a young man stormed in. His clothes were bloody, his hair dishevelled, his eyes wild with terror. It was Oliver Wood, former Quidditch team captain, now the Minister's Sports Advisor.
"Help..." his voice broke. "You have to help me. I... I found her... Katie... She's dead. In our house. And everything... everything points to me."
Hermione approached him, her face focused.
"Calm down, Mr. Wood. Tell us everything from the beginning."
When Oliver finished his story and they sent him to wash up in the restroom, Hermione scanned the team.
"Dossier. Seamus?"
"Three-time world champion," Seamus responded immediately. "Known for a fiery temper. Got into a bar fight with a fan after a loss a year ago."
"Pansy?"
"No serious relationships before Miss Bell," Pansy stated coldly. "Witnesses confirm frequent arguments. He was jealous of her teammate."
"Blaise?"
"Motives exist," Blaise said. "Means and opportunity. Doesn't look good."
"Tom?" Hermione addressed him.
Tom looked up, his gaze empty.
"Probability of guilt—eighty-seven percent. All the numbers are against him."
Hermione slowly circled the table and stood next to Ginny, placing a hand on her shoulder.
"Vote. Who thinks we shouldn't take this case?"
Seamus, Pansy, and Blaise silently raised their hands. Tom remained impassive. Ginny was afraid to state her position but felt Hermione's palm gently squeeze the fabric of her jumper.
Hermione looked thoughtfully at the moving photograph of Oliver, already displayed on the central wall.
"My gut says he's innocent. We're taking the case."
The team members exchanged glances but remained silent.
Granger turned to Blaise.
"Make sure he can't contact anyone, search him. And start preparing the defence."
Zabini nodded and silently disappeared towards the lounge where Wood was pacing.
"Pansy, I need the full picture from the crime scene."
"On it. The detective on duty was visiting his stripper girlfriend again, behind his pregnant wife's back. I'll be back in half an hour," the brunette replied, adjusting her coat.
"You are such a bitch!" Seamus whistled in admiration and held out his palm for Pansy to high-five. The girl slid her manicured fingers over his hand and vanished into thin air.
"Boss, I'll talk to my contact at the morgue. See what the autopsy shows," Finnegan addressed Hermione.
She nodded on her way, already heading for the exit and throwing on her cloak.
"And where are you going?" Seamus asked, hastily following her.
"To Potter. We have exactly twenty-four hours to prove his innocence before the Aurors arrest him."
"Quinn," Hermione turned to Ginny, "go home, get your things, freshen up, and return to the office as quickly as possible. Look after the client. Coffee, breakfast, conversation—whatever, but he must not leave that room. If you learn anything important or have questions—ask Tom. Tom, you're in charge, keep an eye on Wood."
And before Ginny could object, the door to the main office slammed shut, and the crack of Apparition was heard. Looking at the top of Riddle's head, indifferently bent over his desk, the girl sighed heavily. It was going to be a long night and a long day.
***
The office of the Deputy Head of the Auror Office was spartan: bare walls, a simple desk, mountains of documents. Despite the late hour, Harry Potter sat behind the desk. Although he was in uniform, the young man looked as if he had just gotten out of bed. A cup of black coffee steamed before him. He took off his thin-framed glasses and rubbed his eyes. Harry Potter had become the youngest Auror at such a high rank in the last two hundred years.
He grew up a happy and popular child in a model family. During his school years, he shone in Quidditch matches as a Seeker and dreamed of a professional sports career. The Potters—young, handsome, and promising—were a well-known couple in the magical community. James, Harry's father, was tipped for a great political career; his wife Lily was a shining example of how talented Muggle-born witches could be.
But all plans and prospects were cut short by a monstrous tragedy that took the lives of the Potters under unexplained circumstances the year their son Harry finished school. Along with them, close friends died—the powerful heirs of the ancient Black family, one of whom was Harry's godfather, and Remus Lupin—the most popular and beloved werewolf in Britain, a leading advocate for magical creatures' rights. The unexplained deaths of a group of influential, young, and promising wizards were shrouded in mystery and riddles. Harry Potter abandoned sports and devoted himself to studying to become an Auror, rapidly climbing the career ladder. He unsuccessfully continued to search for answers to the many questions surrounding his loved ones' deaths and was known as the most relentless and honest crime fighter. However, everything went to hell when his old acquaintance in the white suit appeared.
The door opened without a knock. Hermione entered the office.
"Potter."
"Granger," he set down his quill. "I thought I'd be seeing you today."
Hermione stopped opposite his desk.
"Oliver Wood. I need twenty-four hours."
Harry shook his head.
"I have a body, evidence, and a motive. He won't get far."
"Twenty-four hours, Harry," she repeated. "You know him. He was your school team captain; he's not capable of this. I'll find the real killer."
"Or give him time to flee," Harry countered. "Heard about the Dean Thomas case? He was a close mate of mine until he blew up a family of seven four years ago."
"Wood is innocent."
Harry sighed heavily.
"Why are you always so sure? Even when all the evidence is against it?"
"Because someone has to be," Hermione said quietly. "Twenty-four hours, Harry. I won't let you down."
He looked at her for a long moment, his gaze a mix of weariness, sadness, and something resembling respect.
"Twelve," he finally said. "And only because you once saved my life."
"Twenty-four," Hermione insisted. "Or I'll call Kingsley and remind him how the dragon egg smuggling case in his administration was really solved."
Harry gritted his teeth. A silent battle passed between them.
"Fine," he surrendered. "Twenty-four hours. But if he runs..."
"He won't run," Hermione cut him off. "Thank you, Harry."
She turned and left, leaving him alone in the cold office. Harry took off his glasses again and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He knew—these twenty-four hours could cost him his career. But he could never stand against Hermione Granger's intuition.
***
Ginny returned to the office feeling slightly more rested but no less wound up. The bag with a change of clothes and toiletries seemed impossibly light for the start of a new life.
She found herself back in the spacious loft, but its atmosphere had drastically changed. The soft, muted light was replaced by bright, workmanlike illumination. The air was filled with the energy of concentration and mild tension.
In the centre of the main hall, by that same wall with tactical maps and runic schematics, stood Blaise Zabini. He had removed his jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up his shirt sleeves, but his posture remained straight and collected. With non-verbal spells, he was placing photographs, newspaper clippings, diagrams, and notes on the wall, creating a complex and dynamic magical composition. At its centre, like a spider in a web, was a smiling photograph of Oliver Wood in his Quidditch captain's uniform. From it, connections radiated out like rays to other elements: a picture of a beautiful dark-haired girl—Katie Bell, a floor plan of the country house, a photograph of the bloodied living room, a list of witnesses, and the official Auror report.
Ginny slowly approached, trying not to disturb. She watched as, under Blaise's deft wand movements, the chaos of evidence and facts began to take on a coherent, albeit sinister, structure.
"Back quickly," he said without turning. His voice was even and businesslike. "Good. Go figure out the coffee machine. It's in the kitchen, to the left of the entrance. Bring two—for me and yourself. Black, nothing in it."
His tone brooked no argument. It wasn't a request but a work task. Ginny, slightly taken aback, nodded, though he couldn't see it, and headed to the indicated place. The small kitchen was equipped with the latest in Muggle and magical technology. She struggled with the chrome coffee machine, and a couple of minutes later returned with two steaming mugs.
Blaise took his without looking and took a sip, his eyes never leaving the wall.
"Thanks. Now watch and remember."
He pointed his wand at the central photograph.
"Oliver Wood. Former athlete, now a bureaucrat. Hot-tempered, ambitious. A perfect target for the prosecution."
The wand moved to Katie's photo.
"Katie Bell. Star of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Smart, ambitious. At the peak of her career. Their relationship—public, passionate, with violent arguments. The last one was recorded a day before the murder at the 'La Mer' restaurant. A fight over jealousy."
"Over whom?" Ginny asked quietly, absorbing the information.
"Unknown yet. The Aurors think it's because of her colleague, Mark Spencer. But that's too obvious." Blaise moved his wand to the house schematic. "The body was found here, in the living room. The murder occurred between nine and eleven p.m. Wood claims he was at the training pitch, practising shots. No witnesses."
"Weapon?" Ginny asked by inertia, feeling the thrill of investigation awakening in her, drowning out the residual fear.
"Not established yet. No weapon found at the scene. No signs of breaking and entering either." Blaise took a sip of coffee. "But there are two key points. First: Wood claims he found the door open when he returned home. Second: and this is the main one, according to Pansy, whom we just sent to the crime scene, a pendant is missing from Katie Bell's body. Not an ordinary one. Enchanted with 'Veritas,' enhancing sincerity. Whether she was wearing it at the time of death is the question."
Ginny looked at the wall, at the interweaving of facts and assumptions. The picture was grim and unequivocally stacked against Wood.
"And yet Hermione thinks he's innocent," she muttered more to herself.
Blaise finally turned to her. His dark eyes studied her with cold interest.
"Granger isn't guided by emotions. She sees what others don't. A flaw in the pattern. An inconsistency. Our work can be compared to dismantling a complex spell. Everyone sees the flash of light, but we look for the one rune that was drawn incorrectly. Your task now is to find that mistake. Go to Wood. Talk to him. Not like an investigator, but like a... sympathetic person. Sometimes people open up that way. Find out about the pendant. Ask what kind of gift it was, why he gave it to her, if he noticed any strangeness in Katie lately."
Ginny, still under the impression of the scale of the investigation, couldn't resist asking the question that had been on her mind from the start.
"But why not act like regular lawyers? Go to court and challenge the evidence there?"
Blaise didn't take his eyes off the wall, where he was methodically adding new data.
"Because our main goal is to ensure the case never reaches court," he replied in an even, emotionless tone. "Court is a public theatre where even an acquittal leaves a trail of dirt and doubt. We aren't like legal firms because we mostly operate outside the legal framework. We are fixers. Crisis managers. Our job is to make a client's problem disappear, be it a small secret or a huge scandal. We don't work to solve a crime and achieve justice in the conventional sense. First and foremost, we work for the client. His interests are our law. Sometimes that means finding the real killer. And sometimes—it means burying the truth so deep no one will ever dig it up."
His words hung in the air, cold and merciless. Ginny realized she had plunged into a world where morality was a luxury no one could afford.
He turned back to the wall, his wand already tracing new connections.
"And, Quinn?"
"Yes?"
"Don't let him sleep. A tired person loses vigilance and says more than he should. But don't overdo it. We're not Auror investigators. We are his last line of defence."
Ginny nodded, took her mug with the now cooling coffee, and headed to the lounge where they had left Oliver. She felt the weight of Blaise's gaze on her back. This was another test. Not an interview in a bar, but a real trial by fire. She took a deep breath, drank a sip of bitter coffee, and crossed the threshold. She had to win the trust of a man accused of murdering his lover and find that one erroneous rune in the web of lies and evidence. And whether she succeeded depended not only on Oliver Wood's fate but also on her place in this strange, dangerous, and madly attractive family of gladiators.
...Several more hours passed. Oliver Wood, pale and despondent, sat in the lounge staring blankly into space. He repeated that he was innocent but couldn't say anything else coherent. He refused food but mechanically drank the coffee Ginny offered. All her attempts to get him to talk failed spectacularly. He seemed to simply exist in a state of shock.
One by one, the others returned to the office. Pansy, without taking off her coat, went straight to the wall, correcting and adding information. Seamus, back from the morgue, immediately began sharing his findings. The air was thick with fatigue mixed with adrenaline.
Suddenly, Tom, without looking up from his runic interfaces, spoke in an icy tone:
"I can get the necessary information from Wood. Quickly and efficiently. My methods... guarantee results."
Silence fell over the room for a moment.
"No," Hermione, Blaise, and Seamus answered in unison. Pansy just shook her head, looking at Tom with a strange mix of disgust and admiration.
Ginny, trying to diffuse the tension and satisfy her curiosity, quietly asked Pansy:
"Tell me, do you... ever do anything else? Or are you always here? Day and night? What about your personal life? Friends? Family?"
Pansy turned to her, and a near-smile touched her perfectly lined lips.
"Personal life? Darling, this is our personal life," she spread her arms, indicating the entire loft. "Friends? You're looking at them. Family? Here it is, all present and accounted for, crazy as it is." She stepped closer and lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, laced with irony. "Everyone here has their own bedroom and bathroom in the back. I, for example," she adjusted a strand of hair with slight vanity, "have a simply fabulous walk-in closet. A word of advice: bring more clothes. For all occasions. From a night stakeout to a society ball. You never know what kind of day it'll be."
Everyone gathered by the wall again, studying the updated magical diagram. Seamus sighed heavily, staring at Wood's photograph.
"Still no one can confirm his alibi. His defence is pure fantasy. I'll be straight—the guy looks guilty. I'd bet he's the killer."
"Agreed," Pansy nodded, crossing her arms. "The picture is too perfect. Too much passion and fighting. A crime of passion—a classic."
Hermione, standing slightly apart, was looking not at the evidence, but at the photograph where Oliver was gazing at Katie with adoration.
"Pans, this pendant... Are you sure it's not at the scene?"
"Absolutely. The Aurors and I both looked for it. It's gone. And if it had a 'Veritas' charm on it..." Pansy didn't finish, but the meaning was clear. The pendant could be the key.
"Alright. I'll do it, I'll find the pendant."
Then Hermione turned to Blaise.
"Blaise, look at him," she nodded at Wood's photo. "He's looking at her not like a victim, but like the love of his life. And the desperately in love... always have the strongest motive. And the most painful one. Dive into their relationship. Find that crack."
"I need more information," Blaise stated, and his gaze became detached, analytical. "Deeper. We need to dig deeper. Tom?"
The team dispersed in silence, each immersing themselves in their task. Hermione glanced at her watch, and her face darkened.
"I need to step out."
"What's happening?" Ginny asked, feeling the general focus shift to wariness.
Seamus, passing by with a stack of documents, laughed hoarsely.
"Here's what, rookie. When the boss needs 'more', we go and find it. There are no other options."
***
Buckingham Garden was deserted and shrouded in gloom at this hour. In one of its sections, protected by powerful illusion and silencing charms, it was unnaturally quiet. Around the perimeter, blending with the shadows of the trees, stood the motionless figures of Aurors from the Minister's personal security.
Hermione Granger emerged from the shadow of an old oak. Her white suit seemed ghostly in the moonlight. Severus Snape was already waiting for her.
The Head of the Minister for Magic Draco Malfoy's office was, as always, clad in severe black robes. His face, etched with deep wrinkles, bore the imprint of past storms and decisions made. Once a man with a dark past, he now had a reputation as a brilliant wizard and ruthless politician, the second head of the dragon, guarding the interests of his godson and protégé—Draco Malfoy. Young, handsome, incredibly wealthy, and the most promising Minister for Magic in decades. Hermione had also been Snape's protégé and favourite student for many years. Until recently, they had all been an inseparable trio, one team and closest allies. Malfoy, Granger, and Snape had taken the Ministry by storm and made a revolution, securing the heir of the most ancient family the post of the most powerful man in the magical world. But almost immediately after the election victory, Hermione Granger left the Minister's residence for good, opening her own firm and leaving behind an endless trail of speculation, gossip, and questions.
"Granger," his voice was low and sibilant, just as it had been years ago.
"Severus," she nodded. "What do you need?"
"Good morning, glad to see you, hope you're well?"
"Good morning, glad to see you, I'm well, hope you are too. What do you need?" Hermione was trying her hardest to contain the surging emotions, but the deliberate rudeness wasn't helping much.
"To solve a problem," Snape cut off, bypassing all ceremonies and ignoring her behaviour. "Romilda Vane. A junior clerk in the Department of International Cooperation. Claims she had an affair with Draco. Threatening to go public."
Hermione froze. Not a muscle moved on her face, but Snape, who knew her better than most, caught the instant tension in her shoulders and the barely perceptible narrowing of her eyes.
"Draco... is married," she said, and her voice sounded slightly hoarser than usual. "He has children. The image of a perfect family is the foundation of his political capital."
"Which is precisely why this problem needs to be eliminated," Snape countered coldly. "And I'm asking you for this service. You know better than anyone how to settle such matters."
He looked at her, and in his gaze was not only the request of a stern politician but also the regret of a friend and the disappointment of a mentor.
"I'm sorry you left the Ministry, Hermione. The office lost its best mind. Draco and I..." he made a tiny pause, "valued you not only as a specialist."
Snape only knew for certain that Hermione and Draco, not without his active participation, had become close friends and allies during Malfoy's election campaign.
But he had enough hints to make guesses.
"I prefer working for myself, Severus," Hermione replied, and her voice regained its steely firmness. "I appreciate your trust. And I'm always ready to help you and him. But if the Minister requires my service, I want to discuss the details with him personally."
Snape shook his head, and his expression became stern.
"Now is not a good time. He's immersed in the budget crisis."
Hermione took a step forward, and her eyes flashed in the dark.
"Then let him make time, Severus."
"Either I speak with him face to face, or you find another 'crisis manager'. My terms are non-negotiable."
Without letting him answer, she turned sharply, and the white spot of her suit dissolved into the night, leaving Snape alone in the magically silent garden. He sighed heavily. His best student and friend once, and now—one of the most dangerous and unmanageable figures in magical London. And he had just thrown her into the heart of doubts and old grievances.