Chapter Text
Hermione’s breath fogged against the cold sterile air of the Ministry autopsy room, and she hated that she’d already memorised the pattern.
Three to the chest.
One to the neck.
Two to the abdomen, angled up.
Four in a deliberate square across the ribs.
Precision shooting. Close range. Repetitive pattern. Meant to kill, not intimidate. Or maybe –
She stopped herself, squeezed her eyes shut for half a second, and opened them again.
Objectivity.
Focus.
But it was hard to stay clinical when the body on the table was Rabastan Lestrange – war criminal, torturer, escapee, and recently pardoned "victim of circumstance" by the increasingly bureaucratic Wizengamot
She didn’t need to remember what his voice sounded like when she was on the floor of Malfoy Manor. She didn’t need to remember what he smelled like, either, but her body remembered, even if her mind tried to be rational.
She cast a sterilisation charm with unnecessary force, like maybe that would scrape the memories clean too.
Behind her, Harry stood silent. Pale. Jittery. He always hated the bodies. He wasn’t built for this part of justice.
“Same pattern,” she said, her voice tight. She flicked her wand, and the wound sites glowed faintly, highlighting each bullet path in clean, luminescent blue.
Harry stepped closer, his breath shallow. “Ten shots again?”
“Exactly ten,” she said. “Like the others.”
He cursed under his breath. “That’s the fifth body in six months. All former Death Eaters. All escaped or pardoned.”
Hermione nodded sharply. “And all killed with the exact same weapon, or the same model. Nine millimetre, muggle design. Semi-automatic, based on the grouping and penetration depth. Probably military-grade, judging by the casing left behind.”
“No magical residue?”
“None. No defensive spells. No wards. No magical energy signatures of any kind, not even ambient trace.”
Harry looked at her, brow furrowed. “So we’re back to the same theory.”
Hermione clenched her jaw.
He said it anyway. “It’s someone who understands muggle weaponry. Either a muggle or a muggleborn.”
She bristled. “You think this was done by a muggle? Getting past international anti-magic security, tracing down Death Eaters in hiding, bypassing magical wards?”
Harry hesitated. “I think it’s someone raised muggle. Someone who knows how to shoot without relying on a wand.”
She turned away, arms crossing tightly over her chest.
It made sense. Too much sense.
Raised muggle. Magical knowledge. High intelligence. Access to Ministry files. Familiar with case histories. Capable of bypassing protections. Motivated.
Hermione’s brain was already running, timelines, legal pardons, last known addresses. Four victims before this. Five now. All of them connected. All of them monsters in clean robes, walking free.
And the press hadn’t said a word.
“I need the original crime scene photos,” she murmured. “And I want every wand signature from the last twenty-four hours cross-referenced with the Department of Transportation’s Portkey logs and–”
“Hermione–”
“And I need to look into Gringotts vault accesses. If they’re funding themselves, if this is hired, then–”
“Hermione.” Harry stepped in front of her, his hand gently pressing her shoulder.
She blinked up at him.
“You’ve had two hours of sleep in the last three days,” he said. “You’re spiralling.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but didn’t. Because she was. Just a little.
She ran a hand through her curls, muttering, “It’s too neat. Too clean. Too deliberate. It’s either the perfect framing or someone who knows exactly how to kill without leaving evidence.”
She glanced back at the body.
It was the fifth one in the last six months. Jugson, Gibbon, Crabbe Sr, Runcorn, and now Rabastan Lestrange.
All had a few things in common. Hiding, secluded, found dead with precisely ten bullet holes and no magical signature on it. Killed completely in the muggle way. Almost mocking their ideology.
You lived being proud of your magical blood. Now look at you. Died like a muggle.
The only difference was their release. Some death eaters had escaped the battle of Hogwarts, most prominent being Rodolphus Lestrange, Bellatrix Lestrange – Hermione still shivered thinking about her – Antonin Dolohov, Fenrir Greyback.
Some had survived trials and were released free. Some had barely served any time and then released.
Rabastan Lestrange was one of them.
Now dead in front of them.
The wizengamot had been taken over by old school purebloods. Not death eaters. But the world wasn't divided between good people and death eaters.
Blood prejudice still roared, albeit beneath the surface. They were just hiding it well.
Hermione straightened her gloves, peeled them off carefully, and tossed them into the disposal bin. The snap of latex echoed too loudly in the sterile silence.
“It’s getting bolder,” she said at last. “Whoever it is. This wasn’t even hidden. They wanted him to be found.”
Harry exhaled slowly, rubbing his jaw. “Or they wanted us to find him.”
Her gaze flicked up to his. “You think it’s a message?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Five bodies, Hermione. All ex-Death Eaters. All shot the same way. No wand, no trace. It’s not just revenge—it’s theatre.”
She frowned. The word sat uneasily in her stomach. Theatre.
If it was theatre, then someone wanted an audience.
Her mind ticked through possibilities, faces, motives. There were hundreds—thousands—who’d lost someone in the war. Hundreds who never got justice. But this wasn’t random fury. This was cold, efficient. Exact.
“This is someone who understands order,” she murmured. “Patterns. Ritual through repetition. It’s not chaos, it’s… balance.”
Harry gave her a wary look. “That sounds like justification.”
Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not justifying it. I’m saying whoever’s doing this believes they are.”
She turned back to Rabastan’s body, his lifeless face pale under the cold enchantment lights. “He tortured, killed, destroyed families. And the system pardoned him. Maybe someone decided to balance the scales.”
Harry’s voice softened. “That’s not justice.”
“I know.”
But she wasn’t sure she believed it. Not entirely.
She felt the weight of the war in her chest again—years of rebuilding, reconciling, forgiving. Pretending the world was fixed because it looked polished on the surface.
Maybe someone had finally stopped pretending.
Hermione picked up her notes and tucked them under her arm. “I will check for powder residue again. I don’t care if it’s the tenth time. And I want access to every wandless trace signature detected near the wards of Lestrange’s safehouse.”
Harry sighed but nodded. “I’ll talk to Kingsley. Try to keep the press quiet.”
She paused at the door, her reflection ghosted in the metal. “Don’t bother. They’ll find out soon enough.”
“And when they do?”
Her eyes flicked to him, unreadable. “Then the wizarding world will finally have to admit it has a problem.”
Harry frowned. “You mean the killings?”
“No,” she said, her voice low, almost a whisper. “The reason they started.”
_____
Grimmauld Place smelled like roast chicken and old grief.
Hermione sat at the end of the dining table, absently shredding a roll with her fingers. Her plate was full, peas, potatoes, buttered carrots all carefully arranged, and untouched. Across from her, Harry was halfway through his second serving, still chewing as he spoke.
“I keep thinking about the entry wounds,” he said, mouth full. “How clean they were. Not even hesitation shots. Like whoever did it, had no nerves. None.”
Kreacher was skulking behind them, muttering under his breath in that gravelly rasp of his, spooning more gravy into the bowl even though no one had touched it.
Hermione stared at the pool of it. Brown. Shimmering slightly. The same colour as the drying blood that had leaked from Rabastan’s wounds.
She pushed her plate an inch away.
“I think the killer has training,” she murmured. “Muggle military, maybe. Or trained by someone who understands combat tactics. And there’s rhythm in the shots, like counting time. Like they were-”
“Oh my god, enough,” Ginny snapped, dropping her fork with a loud clatter.
Both Hermione and Harry startled.
“Sorry,” Ginny said, not sounding sorry at all. “I just… can we please eat one meal without dissecting corpses or bullet wounds or magical trajectory paths?”
Hermione blinked. “I– sorry.”
“You’re not,” Ginny said flatly, standing to grab the jug of water. “And Harry’s worse.”
Harry frowned. “We’re just trying to figure it out–”
“You’re always trying to figure it out,” Ginny cut in. “Even in your sleep. You talk about wand residue in your dreams, you know that?”
Kreacher snorted somewhere near the cabinets.
Ginny ignored him and poured herself a glass of water with a little more force than necessary.
Hermione offered a weak smile. “I suppose we’re just not very good at switching off.”
“You’re not good at switching on, either,” Ginny muttered. Then, louder, too sweet: “Which is why I’ve set you up with someone.”
Hermione blinked. “What?”
“A date,” Ginny said, sitting back down and taking a sip. “Holy Harpies team healer. Nice hands. Probably soft hair. Great smile. You’ll meet him on Saturday.”
Hermione made a face. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you haven’t dated in a year, and I’m tired of watching you have dinner with autopsy reports.”
“I’d rather marry my files than endure another round of awkward small talk with a man who thinks I’m intimidating because I can pronounce the word transmutation,” Hermione said dryly
Kreacher returned, sliding more bread into the basket.
Ginny, not to be deterred, pressed on. “He’s charming. Polished. Smart.”
“No one polished wants a woman who forgets to brush her hair and sleeps beside her wand like it’s a teddy bear.”
“That’s the point of dating. You show him your softer side.”
“I don’t have one.”
Ginny snorted. “You used to.”
Hermione looked away.
She didn’t want to think about it used to. Didn’t want to think about the last time someone held her hand just to hold it. Or how Ron had smiled, back then, like he’d won something when he made her laugh. Or how he’d wanted her to quit the Ministry and come open a joke shop franchise in Brighton.
She loved him once. Fiercely. Stupidly. Thought she could build something between them that would last.
But it had turned out that Ron didn’t want her, not really. He wanted a softer, quieter version. A woman who smiled more, argued less, cared more about tea cozies than policy drafts. A woman who’d step into Molly’s shoes and call it a victory.
She would rather topple herself into the Thames than become a hotter version of Molly Weasley.
She had gone on a few dates after breaking up with Ron. Viktor Krum, but the long distance got challenging and he for some reason expected her to leave her life behind and travel across the world with him. Then more distastrous dates and all had one expectation etched. Leave your work. Prioritize family. Have seven kids. Don't be so smart, it intimidates me.
It was tiring.
So she was avoiding dates like a plague for now. Maybe after the case, she'd try again when she had more tolerance for bad company.
“Not interested,” Hermione said finally, stabbing a carrot with uncharacteristic violence.
“Fine,” Ginny said, a little too quickly. “But eventually, you're going to have to live a little, Hermione. You can’t just bury yourself in corpses and paperwork.”
“I’m not burying myself,” Hermione said softly. “I’m trying to make sense of something.”
“I just think,” Ginny said, too lightly, “you should give it a try. Let someone in. Just once.”
Hermione didn’t look up. “Ginny, I don’t even have time to let myself in. I get home at midnight, I talk to dead bodies in my sleep, and the last time I flirted with someone, he said I was ‘too intellectually aggressive.’”
Ginny gave a brittle laugh. “Sounds hot.”
“It wasn’t. He was sweating.”
Harry chuckled under his breath but didn’t say anything. He was halfway through the napkin again, finger tracing a line down the edge like he wanted to fold it into something. A shape, maybe. A way out.
Silence settled again, one of those long, uneven ones that felt like it stretched just a little too tight at the edges.
Ginny stood abruptly and started clearing plates. She didn’t use magic this time. Just gathered them, one by one, stacking them with careful quiet.
Harry didn’t move to help. Just sat there, eyes distant, fingers still tapping the edge of the table.
Hermione noticed, but not really.
Kreacher skulked back in, eyeing the stack with a scowl. “Witch leaves mess, expects house-elf to clean up,” he muttered under his breath.
Ginny said nothing. Just kept stacking.
Harry finally looked up.
“I’ll get the rest,” he said, reaching for his plate.
Ginny paused for a heartbeat too long. “I’ve got it.”
Hermione was staring into her untouched peas, thinking about bullet angles and blood loss rates and how sometimes you could be dead before your body even hit the ground.
Ginny’s footsteps moved away down the hall. Plates clinked in the sink. Kreacher grumbled in the corner.
Harry sat back in his chair and watched Hermione, like he wasn’t sure what world she was in anymore.
She didn’t look up. Didn’t notice the way he looked after Ginny had left, like maybe he’d missed the chance to say something, and couldn’t remember what it was anymore.
And Hermione, oblivious, finally said, “Do you think the killer’s picking names off a list?”
Harry exhaled.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I do.”
And no one mentioned that the house was too quiet now. Or that dinner had ended, and somehow, no one had gotten full.
____
The Minister’s office was too quiet.
Hermione stepped inside without being announced. She didn’t need to be. The security charms recognised her wand, her gait, her heartbeat. She was expected.
Kingsley Shacklebolt looked up from behind his desk, his dark robes immaculate, his expression unreadable. The sunlight filtering through the enchanted windows threw long stripes across the carpet, like bars.
“Granger,” he greeted, gesturing to the chair across from him. “You look like hell.”
“I didn’t come here to charm you.”
He offered her the ghost of a smile. “No. I don’t imagine you did.”
Hermione sat, dropping a thick folder on his desk with a muted thump. “Rabastan Lestrange. Ten shots. No magical residue. No defensive spells triggered. The pattern matches the previous victims exactly. Spacing, entry angles, caliber. These aren’t improvisational attacks. This is premeditated. Ritualised, almost.”
Kingsley said nothing. He opened the file slowly, as if already familiar with the contents but willing to let her speak anyway.
Hermione pushed on. “We’re looking at someone with muggle weapons training. Possibly ex-military or taught by someone who was. That narrows the field. Wizarding communities don't just stumble into nine-millimeter semi-automatics.”
Kingsley gave a low sound of acknowledgement. Not quite agreement. Not quite concern either.
“The fact that there’s still no magical trace at any of the scenes tells me two things,” she continued. “One: they’re either wandless, or they’re choosing not to use magic. Two: they know how to avoid magical detection.”
He glanced up. “So someone trained.”
Hermione nodded. “Trained. Disciplined. Possibly ministry adjacent, given the victims. All former Death Eaters, all acquitted or overlooked post-war. Someone with access, knowledge, and… intent.”
Kingsley exhaled through his nose. Folded his hands.
Hermione leaned in slightly. “You’ve seen the chatter. The Ministry is burying the story, but rumours are going out. The public’s whispering. People are starting to admire whoever’s doing this all the while half our ministry is crying over the decline of purebloods and the other half is wondering why we're concerned about "death eater scum."”
Kingsley’s expression didn’t shift, but something in his shoulders went still.
“Careful, Hermione.”
“It’s the truth. They’re calling the killer a cleansing force. A necessary shadow. They’re using words like reckoning.”
“That kind of language is dangerous.”
“So are unpunished war criminals,” she said sharply. “So are ministers that shake hands with murderers because it’s politically convenient.”
A beat passed between them.
Kingsley’s voice, when it came, was low. Measured. “And what do you think this is?”
Hermione looked at him evenly. “This is someone who doesn’t believe the system works anymore. And they’re proving it. One bullet at a time.”
Kingsley looked down at her notes, but he wasn’t reading them. His eyes were somewhere else.
The pause stretched long.
Something about the quiet made her stomach twist, like she’d stepped into a conversation halfway through and didn’t know it yet.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
Kingsley’s eyes flicked up. “We’re managing the situation.”
“You might be. But out there?” She nodded toward the window. “People are starting to take sides.”
Kingsley didn’t deny it.
There was a shift in the air. The quiet weight of something coming. Something neither of them named.
He finally closed the file.
“Thank you for your report,” he said.
Hermione stiffened. That was it? No follow-up orders. No leads. No joint task force. Just thank you.
Her spine straightened. “You’ll let me know if you want me to pursue a suspect line?”
“We will.”
We.
Because, of course, he could try and pretend that he had power. That he wasn't just a pawn for the panel of purists in the wizengamot seats.
Hermione stood slowly. She looked at him for a moment longer than she needed to, waiting. Measuring.
Kingsley was still. Composed. Fingertips pressed together, gaze fixed on nothing. But something behind his eyes had shuttered shut.
On his desk, behind her closed file, sat another folder. Slim. Unmarked. Sealed with a gold ministry stamp.
Hermione pulled open the door with more force than necessary.
Her boots clicked across the Ministry floor with a little too much force, hard enough to echo, just softly, down the long corridor outside the Minister’s office. She didn’t look back. Didn’t let herself unravel. She had too much practice at this: straight spine, clenched jaw, storm tucked neatly beneath the skin.
She felt it before she saw him. The silence bent differently. Time slowed a little, like it had been holding its breath for years just to drop this moment in her lap.
Her eyes lifted.
And there he was.
Draco Malfoy.
Tall. Sharp. Distilled elegance wrapped in a tailored black suit that fit him like sin. His hair was pale, perfectly tousled, like a brush of frost, no longer the stiff, slicked-back boy she remembered. His eyes, still that glinting grey, had lost none of their cut, but now they were colder. Still, more dangerous for their calm.
He walked with practised grace. Not swaggering, not humble. Just sure of his place, his body, the temperature of the room when he entered it.
And he was walking right toward her.
“Granger,” he drawled, voice like smooth fire. “You’re looking… conscientious.”
Hermione stopped. Just for a beat. Her breath caught, shallow, betraying the smallest tremor, though her chin lifted in defiance.
She hadn’t seen him since his sentencing. She’d watched it from the gallery. Azkaban robes, wrists bound, that haunted look in his eyes. She hadn't expected to ever see him again.
And then there were the articles. That quiet release no one wanted to talk about. A line in the Prophet, a ghost story wrapped in politics. His release two years ago.
And now… here he was.
Breathing. Smirking. Tall enough to cast a shadow on her intentions.
“Malfoy,” she said, her voice barely audible.
His grin spread wider, slow and cruel, and amused.
“You whisper my name like it’s a secret. Sweet.”
Her spine stiffened, but her hands itched with restless energy, fingers flexing against the files as though bracing for a duel. “What are you doing here?”
He stepped closer, not enough to breach space, but enough for her to feel him. The scent of cold cologne and polished control curled around her, making her chest tighten before she could school her features into neutrality.
“Here to make it official,” he said smoothly. “As of this morning, I’m off probation. A free man, in every sense.” He held up a folded document, Ministry seal still wet with magic. “Signed and stamped by the man himself.”
As if summoned, the door behind her creaked open.
Kingsley stood there, gaze flicking between them like he’d caught the end of a conversation rather than the beginning. His eyes narrowed, not suspicious. Curious.
“Minister,” Draco greeted easily, stepping around Hermione like she were a column or a fire to be warmed by. “You’re looking terribly sober this morning.”
“Malfoy,” Kingsley said flatly. “You’re early.”
“I like to make an impression.”
Hermione scoffed under her breath, though her lips trembled faintly around it before she forced them still.
Draco turned to her apgain, the corner of his mouth curling. “You always did get tight-lipped when I was in the room, Granger. Still haven’t grown out of that?”
“You’re still insufferable,” she replied, sharper than she meant, the heat in her chest sparking up into her cheeks.
He looked at her, really looked, and for the first time, his smirk faded just a breath. “You’ve changed,” he murmured. “In a good way.”
“Don’t flirt with me.”
“Who said I was?”
Her pulse thundered in her ears, betraying her no matter how fiercely she tried to hold his gaze steady. Goodness, she had forgotten how insufferable Malfoy could be. She hadn't really given him much thought in the last seven years. The occasional nightmare where three blonde heads watched her getting tortured. The occasional reminders of that word whenever someone questioned her in the Ministry. Death eater releases. He looked different though, the condescending sneer was off his face, so was the cruelty and digust in his eyes. He looked more approachable. Almost content. Hermione didn't know how she felt about it. She had never really possessed the "I can fix him" energy.
They stared at each other, long, quiet, and far too familiar for people who hadn’t spoken in seven years.
Kingsley cleared his throat. “Hermione, if you’re finished—”
“Yes,” she said quickly, breaking eye contact. She tucked the files tighter under her arm, shoulders back, nails biting into parchment. “Congratulations, Malfoy. On your… freedom.”
Draco gave a small, ironic bow. “You know I always liked when you sounded begrudging.”
She brushed past him, her skin prickling, heartbeat still tripping against her ribs.
His eyes followed her until she disappeared into the corridor.
Only then did Kingsley say, quietly, “You didn’t have to prod her.”
Draco smirked. “I didn’t have to enjoy it, either. But here we are.”
_____
The Auror Department's meeting room smelled like sweat and stale coffee. Its walls, painted a peeling shade of Ministry beige, had once held war maps. Now, they held prejudice disguised as protocol.
Hermione stood stiff-backed near the rear of the room, arms folded, jaw tight. Beside her stood Alice Patel, fresh from her Forensics apprenticeship. Bright-eyed, hypercompetent, and still young enough to believe her intelligence would shield her from the system’s uglier truths.
It wouldn’t.
“…which brings us to the Lestrange body,” John Dawlish barked from the front, shuffling parchment with performative aggression. “Shot ten times, clean as a ritual, no spells, no witnesses. Same as the others. Let’s call it what it is. Someone with Ministry intel is doing this, and they’re doing it with muggle tools to keep us chasing our tails.”
He paused, then fixed Hermione with a look that barely masked its disdain.
“Which brings us to our experts,” he said, the word laced with something bitter. “Granger. Patel. Anything new to offer besides the obvious?”
Alice shifted beside her, lips parting - but Hermione lifted one hand to stop her gently.
“I’ll speak,” Hermione said.
She stepped forward, letting the room settle around her like frost on stone.
“There’s no magical trace because the killer isn’t using magic. That alone rules out most of the wizarding world, including your average angry war survivor with a wand and a vendetta.”
She glanced around the room, men and women in Auror robes, most of them pureblood, many of them staring at her like she was a useful tool they weren’t sure they liked having to listen to.
“But it does not rule out someone with muggle knowledge. Someone raised in both worlds. Someone who knows exactly how to avoid your detection spells, your trace magic, your wand logs.”
She let that hang a moment. No one moved.
“Which, statistically, makes it likely the killer is muggleborn. Or a halfblood raised in muggle society.”
Murmurs.
Dawlish grunted. “Well, isn’t that convenient.”
Hermione’s eyes sharpened. “What is?”
He shrugged. “That it’s always your kind with the answers. Your kind with the insight.” He leaned against the table, fake-casual. “Your kind with the motive.”
Alice’s gasp was soft, quick, like she hadn’t expected someone to say it out loud.
Hermione didn’t flinch.
She’d fought this fight too many times to let an aging relic get a rise out of her.
“I wasn’t aware justice had a bloodline,” she said, voice cool as polished steel. “But I suppose you would know.”
The room went quiet.
A few Aurors looked away. One or two looked impressed. Dawlish just stared at her.
“You lot always walk into the war room like you own it,” he muttered. “Like you're the only ones who bled.”
“I didn’t bleed to make room for you,” Hermione said. “I bled to tear out what’s still rotting in these walls.”
Kingsley wasn’t here.
Of course he wasn’t.
It was always like this. When policies were signed, smiles were easy. But in the briefing rooms, where decisions got made and bias ran unchecked?
She was still the enemy.
Still the girl who’d dirtied the sacred spaces with logic, and books, and inconvenient truths.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides. For one electric second she wished the killer would walk in right now and put a bullet between Dawlish’s eyes.
She stepped back beside Alice, spine straight. The meeting continued.
Alice whispered, “I don’t understand how you do it.”
Hermione didn’t answer.
The truth was, she wasn’t sure she did either.
But she had work to do.
Bodies piling up. Ghosts walking in suits. And whatever Kingsley wasn’t saying? It was getting closer.
The murmuring in the briefing room had just begun when the door creaked open with the kind of timing only the bold or the supremely self-possessed dared to claim.
“Apologies,” came a voice smooth as satin and twice as smug, “did I miss the fireworks?”
Every head turned.
Pansy Parkinson swept into the room in high heels and Ministry-approved neutrality, black pencil skirt, ink-colored blouse with sheer sleeves, dark plum lipstick perfectly intact despite what must’ve been a brisk walk through the atrium.
Her heels clicked like punctuation. She wasn’t here to be ignored.
Hermione blinked.
Harry, three rows up, turned toward her with a look that might as well have screamed what the actual hell.
Pansy smiled, all teeth and charm and subtle ruin.
“Mr. Dawlish,” she said, voice syrupy with amusement. “You owe me a headline. Or have you forgotten our little agreement?”
Dawlish, the man who only moments ago had been throwing barbs like darts at Hermione, actually had the gall to smile.
“I didn’t forget,” he said, voice roughened by age and ego. “Just wasn’t expecting you to collect it in person.”
“Oh, darling.” She leaned one elbow on the edge of the briefing table, wrist dangling elegantly. “That’s why I always do.”
Somewhere behind her, an Auror dropped a quill.
Hermione could feel her own eyebrows lifting, unbidden. Her fingers twitched at her sides.
Because apparently, owner of the not quite independent Daily Diricrawl newspaper was flirting with Dawlish.
Which wouldn't have been so shocking had she not been married.
Parkinson didn’t even glance Hermione’s way, which meant she knew she was being watched and chose not to acknowledge it.
“It’s a rather sexy little story you’re sitting on,” Parkison purred, now tapping one perfectly manicured nail on the parchment in front of Dawlish. “Serial killer, Ministry coverups, unsanctioned bullets through infamous throats… Are you certain you want the Prophet getting the exclusive?”
Dawlish, despite being about as charming as a knut in a garbage disposal, preened.
“We’re still verifying details.”
“And yet somehow the Prophet already has names,” she said, tilting her head. “Would be a shame if they got the story wrong.”
Hermione watched as Dawlish tried to hold his ground and still maintain that uncomfortable lean of flirtation. “You want a comment, Parkinson?”
“I want a conversation,” she corrected. “Preferably one with proper nouns.”
Across the room, Harry leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. His lips parted like he wanted to ask Hermione what parallel universe they’d wandered into, but she beat him to it with a single murmured word:
“Theodore Nott.”
Harry looked down at her, blinking. “He’s–?”
“Still married to her,” Hermione said through a tight jaw. “Last I checked.”
They both turned their eyes back to the scene unfolding.
Pansy had slipped a DictaQuill out of her purse, glossy, black, and shaped like a cigarette holder, and it hovered beside her with a slight whirr.
“I’ve been told,” she said coyly, “that whoever’s doing this is working with surgical precision. Ten bullets. No spells. No trace. Just good old-fashioned muggle violence.”
Dawlish raised a brow. “And?”
Pansy’s eyes flicked to Hermione, then to Alice, then back to him.
“And that makes for a very complicated Ministry message, doesn’t it?”
Hermione inhaled slowly.
There it was.
Not subtle. Not even trying to be.
The Ministry was cornered, murderers cleaning up its failures, a muggleborn whisper trail, and now the press circling like crows.
Dawlish chuckled, brushing past her with mock gallantry as he made for the door. “We’ll talk later, Parkinson.”
“Oh, I’m counting on it,” she murmured, the line following him out like a caress.
Once the door shut, the room remained frozen for a beat.
Then Pansy turned, and for the first time, her eyes landed squarely on Hermione.
“Granger,” she said, with a smile that almost looked friendly. “Lovely to see you still playing watchdog.”
Hermione stared. “You’re sleeping with Dawlish?”
Pansy grinned. “Please. I’ve got standards.”
A pause.
“...He thinks he’s seducing me.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out.
The door clicked behind her.
Hermione looked at Alice.
Harry stood slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “What in Merlin’s name is going on in this place?”
Hermione didn’t have an answer.
____
The Burrow smelled like cinnamon, firewood, and tension.
Hermione stood in the kitchen doorway with a glass of wine she hadn’t touched, her spine too straight and her smile too polite. The room was packed, as usual, with Weasleys. Laughing, bickering, hugging, shouting over each other. It should’ve felt like home.
It didn’t.
“Oi, Hermione!” George called from across the table, raising a mug. “Still mentally cataloguing every cursed fork in the country, or have you finally admitted you love death scenes?”
“Depends on the death,” she replied dryly, earning a bark of laughter from Charlie.
Charlie, all tattoos and sun-weathered arms, clinked his butterbeer with hers as he passed by. “I’ll be honest,” he said with a grin, “I’d sleep better if you were out there hunting the killer. At least we’d know the paperwork was immaculate.”
Hermione snorted and took a sip.
It should’ve been warm, the way the twins and Charlie and Bill still gravitated toward her. Protective. Teasing. Loyal in that bone-deep, Weasley way.
But her and Ron hadn’t spoken more than three words and the tension between them was sharp enough to slice through the tablecloth.
“Oh, they’re at it again,” Ginny muttered, breezing up beside her with a bowl of mashed potatoes and murder in her eyes. Her ponytail was frizzed, her blouse slightly rumpled, and she looked more like a battlefield medic than the youngest Harpy captain in a generation.
Hermione followed Ginny’s line of sight.
Harry and Ron were locked in another silent not-quite-argument in the garden through the window. Their body language said everything: Harry with his arms crossed, Ron pacing like a caged dragon.
“They haven’t been the same since you broke up,” Ginny said, voice too casual to be casual.
“We broke up five years ago,” Hermione said, trying not to sound tired.
“Exactly.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow.
But Ginny had already turned, scooping peas into a serving dish like she hadn’t just detonated a bomb in the middle of a domestic conversation.
Across the room, Molly was setting the table with her wand, plates clinking, gravy boat hovering. Her eyes kept flicking to Hermione. Too long. Too unreadable.
“I set out the good cutlery,” Molly said loudly, not looking at anyone. “Even though it’s just family tonight.”
Hermione flinched.
Arthur, ever the diplomat, swooped in a moment later with a tray of treacle tart and a sheepish smile. “Molly’s just had a long week,” he said under his breath.
“She’s had a long decade,” George chimed in, snatching a roll. “Still mad Ron fumbled the smartest girl in the country, I reckon.”
“Don’t,” Ron snapped suddenly, stepping inside from the garden.
The room quieted just a fraction.
Hermione met his eyes once. Brief. Cold. She looked away first.
Dinner passed in a blur of noise and unspoken things.
Bill asked her about the case. Fleur complimented her coat. Percy brought up policy changes, and Hermione feigned interest while tracking Harry and Ginny at opposite ends of the table, pretending like they weren’t avoiding each other with surgical precision.
At one point, Molly asked if Hermione was seeing anyone.
The silence was immediate.
“No,” Hermione said crisply. “But thanks for your concern.”
“Just curious,” Molly replied, too quickly. “You’re not getting any younger, dear.”
Ginny muttered something under her breath about the patriarchy and took another swig of her wine.
Hermione didn’t speak for the next ten minutes.
Eventually, the table cleared. Dessert plates scraped. Someone turned on the wireless. Charlie and George started bickering about Quidditch leagues.
And Hermione sat in a corner of the room, still clutching the same glass of wine, watching a family she loved that had never quite loved her back in all the same ways.
A few minutes later, the plates had mostly cleared. Someone had turned on the wireless, Celestina Warbeck murmuring sweet nothings in the background while dessert passed hands like truce offerings. The fire crackled.
Hermione had almost managed to disappear into her chair when Molly’s voice cut through the room like a disarming spell.
“Harry, dear,” she said gently, too gently, “you look exhausted. You alright?”
Harry rubbed a hand down his face, fingertips digging into his brow. “It’s the case,” he muttered. “We’re drowning in parchment and theories and no leads. Just ghosts and bullets and angry superiors.”
He looked like he had been sleeping on the couch for a week.
Molly, bless her, gave a maternal hum. “Well, I’m sure you’re doing your best, dear.”
Across the room, Ron snorted softly and leaned back in his chair. “You need to let it go sometimes, mate. Come fly with us. There's a new Quidditch club. Me, George, Charlie when he’s in town…”
Harry looked at him over the rim of his glass.
Ron smirked. “You could stand to let off steam without shouting at suspects or arguing with Hermione.”
George elbowed him. “And without getting hexed by Hermione mid-meeting, that’s a bonus.”
“I haven’t hexed anyone this week,” Hermione said primly.
“Yet,” George added, deadpan.
Harry gave a tired laugh, the first real one in days. “I’ll think about it.”
“You better. You’re getting soft,” Ron said with a grin. “Though Pansy Parkinson might still outfly you. She shows up most Fridays.”
Hermione lifted a brow. “Parkison’s flying?”
“She’s doing more than that,” Ron muttered darkly, stabbing his fork into his tart. “Acts like she owns the bloody club. Talks down to everyone, wears lipstick like she’s doing a press shoot instead of drills, and makes sure she’s paired with someone she can humiliate.”
“Oh no,” George said with mock seriousness, “not like Ron, who always picks the newest recruit so he can strut around like a Firebolt peacock.”
“Stuff it, George.”
“I’m just saying," George grinned, looking around for support. “Ron’s only salty because Parkinson smoked him on a broom today. Twice.”
“She cheated!” Ron barked.
“Sure she did,” Charlie called from the sofa. “Did she charm your broom to lag, too? Or did she just fly circles around you while you made excuses?”
“She distracted me!”
Hermione took a long sip of her wine.
“Oh yes,” George smirked. “That lipstick, how dare she weaponize cosmetics.”
Ron flushed. “Shut it.”
Across the room, Ginny hadn’t said a word. She stood by the window, arms crossed, staring out at the dark garden where fairy lights glowed in the hedges. Her glass dangled loose in her hand.
Harry glanced at her. Then away.
Hermione saw it.
The way Ron kept glancing to make sure she was laughing.
And the way Ginny hadn’t looked at Harry once all night.
____
The clock above Hermione’s office door clicked past ten-forty-five.
She’d already had two coffees and a quiet breakdown over the state of Rabastan Lestrange’s autopsy notes before Alice arrived - bright as always, dressed in sensible heels and still under the illusion that every morning might bring progress instead of fresh rot.
“You were right,” Alice said, brushing toast crumbs off her blazer as she hovered by the evidence table. “The fourth bullet casing from the Gibbon case, muggle manufactured. No magical residue. Non-wizard powder. All metal.”
Hermione gave a tight nod, flipping through her files, quill scratching furiously.
“Did the binding spell work on the residue?”
“Better than the last attempt,” Alice said. “We got a cleaner spectral read. Still no trace signature.”
“Which means they either charmed the bullets after loading them, or someone’s working with anti-detection alchemy.”
“Do you want me to–?”
The door slammed open so hard the sound echoed down the corridor.
Harry stood in the doorway, white as a sheet, chest heaving. His hair was wild, wand clutched in one hand, parchment in the other. He didn’t even blink.
Hermione shot up so fast her chair skidded backward.
“Harry,” she said sharply. “What– what happened?”
He stepped into the room, eyes blown wide. His fingers were trembling.
“They brought in a body,” he said hoarsely. “No trace. No witnesses."
“Who?” she asked.
Harry looked at her like he was still trying to say it out loud.
“John Dawlish,” he whispered. “He’s dead.”