Professor McGonagall, seated behind her large, polished desk, peered at Hermione over her spectacles. The Headmistress's office was just as Hermione remembered, though the portraits of former headmasters seemed to be dozing more peacefully these days.
"The Restricted Section, Miss Granger?" McGonagall's voice was dry. "For Mr. Thorne? I trust you recall the… excitement that has historically accompanied your forays into that particular part of the library."
A flush crept up Hermione's neck. "I assure you, Professor, this is strictly for the Aethelred Project. Minister Shacklebolt's direct orders. We believe the texts on ancient stasis magic and pre-Founder ward construction could be vital."
"I do not doubt your intentions," McGonagall said, a faint smile touching her lips. "It is Mr. Thorne's methods that give me pause. I've heard from Professor Flitwick that his diagnostic charms in the dungeon were… aggressively inventive." She sighed, taking a quill and a piece of parchment. "Very well. I will grant you both access. But you, Miss Granger, are to be present for every moment he is in there. I am holding you personally responsible for the structural integrity of my library."
"Of course, Professor. Thank you."
"And Hermione?" McGonagall added as she stood to leave. "Do try to ensure he doesn't 'accidentally' borrow any of the more volatile volumes. We've only just finished replacing the windows from the last incident."
Hermione found Cassian waiting for her at the entrance to the library, leaning against a stone archway with an air of impatience.
"Well?" he asked.
"We have permission. But I'm to accompany you."
A smirk played on his lips. "My own personal watchdog. How charming."
Madam Pince, the librarian, eyed them with deep suspicion as they passed her desk, her expression suggesting she could smell the potential for mishap on them. The gates to the Restricted Section swung open with a creak that spoke of centuries of secrets.
The air inside was thick with the smell of old leather, dust, and dormant magic. Sunlight, filtered through high, grimy windows, cut through the gloom in hazy shafts. It was a place Hermione had always revered, a temple of knowledge.
Cassian, however, moved through it like a hunter. His eyes scanned the spines, not reading titles so much as sensing the magic within. He would occasionally pull a book from the shelf, run a long finger down its cover, and then either tuck it under his arm or slide it back into place with a dismissive flick.
"This is useless," he muttered after twenty minutes, dropping a heavy tome titled Arcane Locks and Their Keys onto a reading table with a thud that made Hermione wince. "Theoretical drivel. Written by academics who've never held a real ward in their lives."
"You can't just dismiss centuries of research because it doesn't immediately confirm your theory," she argued, carefully picking up the book he'd discarded. "There's value in understanding the foundational principles."
"Foundational principles are for children learning to levitate feathers," he retorted, not looking at her as he pulled down another book. "We're dealing with a dragon, Granger. I don't care about the taxonomy of its scales; I need to know how to calm its fire."
"And how do you propose to do that without understanding what kind of dragon it is?" she shot back, her voice rising in the quiet.
He finally turned to look at her, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "By listening to its heartbeat. By looking into its eyes. By understanding its nature, not its name."
They stood there, glaring at each other across the dusty table, the air crackling with their conflicting ideologies. It was then that Hermione noticed the book he was holding. It was slender, bound in a strange, grey, flesh-like leather she didn't recognize. There was no title.
"What is that?" she asked, her curiosity overpowering her irritation.
He looked down at it as if seeing it for the first time. "I don't know. It called to me."
"It… called to you?"
"Magic has a voice, Granger, if you're quiet enough to hear it," he said, his tone softer, almost contemplative. He laid it gently on the table. "This one is… sad."
The word was so unexpected, so human, that it disarmed her completely. She moved around the table to stand beside him, looking down at the strange volume. He opened it carefully. The pages were not parchment, but something thinner, almost translucent, covered in spidery, shifting script that wasn't any language she knew.
"Can you read it?" she whispered, the silence of the library pressing in on them.
"No. But I can feel it." He pointed to a series of symbols that swirled like smoke on the page. "This isn't instruction. It's a lament. A story of something lost, something locked away."
He traced a symbol with his finger, not touching the page, but hovering just above it. A faint, silver light emanated from the ink, following the path of his finger.
"How are you doing that?" she breathed.
"I'm not forcing it," he said, his voice low and focused. "I'm asking it. Listening to its story."
Hermione watched, mesmerized, as the silver light bloomed under his attention. This wasn't the brute-force, arrogant magic she had associated with him. This was subtle. Intuitive. It was a side of magic she understood in theory but had rarely seen in practice—a conversation, not a command.
For the first time, she saw past the prickly exterior to the sheer, raw talent beneath. It was terrifying and impressive in equal measure.
The light from the page suddenly flared, then died. Cassian let out a short, sharp breath and pulled his hand back as if burned.
"What happened?" she asked.
"It's gone. The thread. It's a memory of a memory." He closed the book, his expression unreadable. "But it confirms it. The Vault isn't just containing something physical. It's containing a state of being. An emotion, perhaps. Or a… a silence."
He looked at her, and in the dusty half-light of the Restricted Section, the usual barrier between them felt thin, almost transparent.
"We're not trying to open a door, Granger," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "We're trying to wake a dream."
The statement hung in the air between them, profound and unsettling. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The hunt for knowledge had suddenly become something much deeper, much more intimate.
Finally, Hermione cleared her throat, the sound unnaturally loud. "We should… we should check this out. For further study."
Cassian simply nodded, his usual sharp retorts forgotten. He picked up the strange, sad book, holding it with a new kind of reverence.
As they walked out of the Restricted Section, the dynamic between them had shifted. The air was still charged, but the charge was no longer solely one of conflict. It was the electric, uncertain hum of a new, fragile understanding.