The problem with saving the world, Hermione Granger decided, was that everyone expected you to be endlessly thrilled about it afterwards.
Two years. It felt like both a lifetime and the blink of an eye. The great hall had been rebuilt, the portraits re-hung, the blood scrubbed from the stones until the castle smelled of lemon polish and new mortar instead of curses and grief. On the surface, everything was repaired.
But sitting at her desk in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, Hermione felt the cracks inside her like fault lines. The Ministry buzzed around her, a hive of normalcy she couldn't quite penetrate. She was Hermione Granger, War Heroine. A title that felt like a heavy, ill-fitting cloak.
A familiar shock of red hair appeared in her doorway, pulling her from her thoughts.
"You're still here?" Ron Weasley leaned against the frame, grinning. He'd filled out a bit, no longer the lanky boy from the tent, but the easy-going smile was the same. "It's past six. Even the gnomes in Misuse of Muggle Artefacts have clocked out."
"Some of us have work to finish, Ronald," she said, but a genuine smile touched her lips. This was their dance now. Easy, familiar. The awkward, unspoken thing that had simmered between them during the war had cooled into a deep, brotherly affection. It was simpler. Better.
"Right, well, don't work too hard. Mum's expecting us for dinner on Sunday. Don't make me come drag you out again." He winked. "I've got to run. Meeting Padma for a drink."
Hermione's smile widened. Ron and Padma Patil had found their way back to each other a year ago, a surprise to everyone, including themselves. It was a good fit. Padma was sharp, calm, and didn't put up with any of Ron's nonsense. He was happier than she'd ever seen him.
"Give her my best. Don't be late."
After he'd gone, the silence in her office felt thicker. She looked down at the parchment in front of her—a proposal for stricter laws against the illicit trade of house-elf parts. Important work. Vital work. But tonight, it just felt like words.
She packed her bag, the simple leather satchel a replacement for the beaded bag that now lived in a trunk at the bottom of her wardrobe, a relic of a different life. She walked through the near-empty halls of the Ministry, her heels clicking a lonely rhythm on the polished floor.
The Atrium was grander than ever, the fire-gold statue of the witch, wizard, and centaur replaced by a beautiful, swirling fountain. Harry stood near it, waiting for her as he often did. He was taller too, more settled in his own skin. The shadow of the Boy Who Lived had been joined by the solid presence of the Man Who Chose to Keep Living.
"Gin's got dinner on," he said by way of greeting, falling into step beside her. "She's trying a new recipe. I think we're the taste-testers."
"As long as it's not like her mother's potato-and-onion thing," Hermione joked, feeling some of the office tension ease in his company.
They Floo'd directly into the cozy sitting room of their little cottage in Godric's Hollow. The place was a mess in the best way possible—a Quidditch magazine open on the sofa, a half-knitted blanket draped over a chair, and the smell of something garlicky and delicious wafting from the kitchen.
Ginny emerged, wiping her hands on a towel, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. "Success! It's edible. And before you ask, Harry, yes, I remembered the salt this time."
This was their peace. Harry and Ginny, a unit, their love a quiet, steady flame. Hermione loved being here, loved being Auntie Hermione to the fat, purring ginger cat, Crookshanks Jr., who dozed by the hearth. But sometimes, in the middle of their comfortable domesticity, she felt a pang of something sharp and lonely. She was a guest in their happiness.
Over dinner of a surprisingly good chicken casserole, Harry pushed his plate away. "So, Kingsley cornered me today."
"Oh?" Hermione took a sip of wine.
"He's putting together a new task force. A special project. High-level, hush-hush stuff."
Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Let me guess, he wants you to lead it."
"He does. But I told him I'm happy where I am in the Auror office." Harry looked directly at Hermione. "He asked me if I knew anyone else who could handle it. Someone with a brilliant, analytical mind. Someone who isn't afraid of complicated, ancient magic."
Hermione's fork stilled. "What kind of project?"
"It's called the 'Aethelred Project'. They found something during the Hogwarts renovations. A chamber, deep under the school, older than the Founders. It's… humming with magic they can't identify. Some of it feels… Dark. But not like any Dark magic we know. Kingsley wants a team to study it, contain it, understand it."
A thrill, the first she'd felt in months, shot through Hermione. A mystery. A real, proper magical mystery that didn't involve filing paperwork or arguing with bigoted wizards on the Wizengamot.
"He wants you, Hermione," Harry said softly. "Said you're the only one he trusts with it."
Before she could answer, Harry added, "There's a catch, though. It's a joint operation with the Unspeakables. And the lead curse-breaker they're assigning from their side… well, he's a bit of a prick, according to Bill."
Ginny snorted. "Bill thinks anyone who isn't covered in scars and sun-weathered is a prick."
"No, this one's different," Harry insisted. "Said he's brilliant, but arrogant. Thinks he's Merlin's gift to magic. His name's Cassian Thorne."
The name meant nothing to her. A prick. She could handle pricks. She'd handled Dolores Umbridge, for heaven's sake. This was different. This was her kind of magic. The deep, dangerous, intellectual kind.
"When do I start?" she asked, her voice firm.
Harry smiled. "Meeting's tomorrow. Tenth floor. Nine o'clock. Don't be late."
---
The room on the tenth floor was circular and windowless, lit by cool, blue floating orbs. Kingsley Shacklebolt, his presence as commanding as ever, stood at the head of a polished table.
"Miss Granger, thank you for coming," he said, his voice a deep rumble. "This is Cassian Thorne, our lead curse-breaker from the Department of Mysteries."
The man standing beside Kingsley turned.
Hermione's first thought was that he was younger than she'd expected. Maybe in his late twenties. He was tall and lean, dressed in simple black robes that hung well on his frame. He had dark, slightly unruly hair and intense, deep-set eyes that seemed to take in the entire room—and her—in a single, sweeping glance. He had a sharp, almost severe handsomeness, the kind you'd see in a portrait of a young, disgruntled aristocrat. She could see, with startling clarity, why someone had imagined Hayden Christensen in this role—there was a brooding, restless intelligence in his face.
"Mr. Thorne," she said, offering a polite, professional smile.
"Granger," he replied. His voice was quiet, but it had a cutting edge to it. He didn't return the smile. His gaze was appraising, lingering for a moment too long on the faint scar on her neck, a souvenir from the Department of Mysteries all those years ago. It wasn't a look of admiration for a fellow war hero. It was the look of a scientist examining a specimen.
"I've read your file," he said, not as an introduction, but as a challenge. "Impressive. For a field agent."
Hermione's smile tightened. "And I've heard you're the best. For a curse-breaker who's never left a library."
A flicker of something—amusement, or perhaps annoyance—crossed his features. "Libraries often contain more dangerous things than tombs, Granger. But I suppose we'll see if your practical experience can keep up with the theory."
Kingsley cleared his throat, a low sound of warning. "The two of you will be co-leading this project. I expect professionalism. The magic in that chamber is volatile. I need your minds, not your egos."
Cassian's eyes met Hermione's again. They were a stormy shade of blue-grey, and in them, she saw no trace of the reverence she was used to. No "Brightest Witch of Her Age." No war heroine. He saw a rival. An obstacle.
And as her own competitive spirit flared to life, hot and bright after so long lying dormant, Hermione Granger decided that was just fine with her. Let him be a prick. She was about to show Cassian Thorne exactly what she was made of.