The silence in Hermione's flat was different that night. It wasn't the empty silence of being alone, but a busy, humming silence, filled with the echo of Cassian Thorne's words. We're trying to wake a dream.
She sat at her small kitchen table, the strange, flesh-bound book lying in the center. She had filled three rolls of parchment with notes, cross-referencing his observations with her own research. The facts were there, neat and orderly. But the feeling, the intuition he had spoken of, remained just out of reach.
Frustrated, she pushed the books away and picked up the novel she'd been trying to read for a week. The words blurred on the page. All she could see was the intense focus on his face as he'd traced the symbols, the way the magic had responded not to force, but to a gentle, almost reverent inquiry.
It was maddening. He was the most irritating person she had ever met, and yet, he possessed a fluency in the language of magic that she could only envy. She was a scholar; he was a poet. And the Aethelred Vault was their incomprehensible, humming sonnet.
The next morning, she arrived at the chamber before him, a small victory in their unspoken war. She approached the Vault, ignoring the cold that seeped into her bones. She didn't pull out her wand. Instead, she did what he had done. She listened.
She closed her eyes, tuning out everything but the low, steady hum. It was a vibration that seemed to originate from the center of the earth. It wasn't a sound you heard with your ears, but one you felt in your soul. Beneath the hum, there was something else. A… quality. A texture. It was the magical equivalent of a colour she'd never seen before.
"It's not a hum, is it?"
His voice, quiet and close behind her, made her jump. She hadn't heard him enter.
She opened her eyes but didn't turn around, not wanting to break the spell. "No. It's not. It's a… a resonance. A memory of a sound."
She felt, rather than saw, him step up beside her. "What does it feel like to you?"
The question was so simple, so devoid of challenge, that she answered without thinking. "It feels old. And lonely."
There was a long pause. The only sound was the not-sound of the Vault.
"Yes," he said, and the word was a soft exhalation. "That's it exactly."
They stood there, side-by-side, not as rivals, but as two people listening to the same distant song. For several minutes, neither spoke. The shared silence was more productive than any of their previous arguments.
Finally, Cassian moved. He didn't go to his instruments. He sat on the cold stone floor, cross-legged, facing the Vault. He looked up at her, a question in his eyes.
After a moment's hesitation, Hermione lowered herself to sit beside him. The stone was freezing, even through her robes.
"The book," he began, his gaze fixed on the dark, swirling surface. "It's a record. A personal one. Written by someone who was there when the Vault was sealed."
Hermione's breath caught. "Who? Why?"
"I don't know. The script… it's not meant to be read by just anyone. It's a soul-language. You have to feel your way through it." He glanced at her. "It's not in any of your books."
The old barb was there, but it lacked its usual sting. It was just a statement of fact.
"So teach me," she said.
He looked at her, truly looked at her, his stormy eyes wide with surprise. It was the first time she had ever asked him for anything, the first time she had acknowledged that he possessed knowledge she did not.
The surprise in his eyes softened into something more complex. Curiosity, perhaps.
"It's not something that can be taught with a lesson plan, Granger," he said, but his tone was thoughtful, not dismissive. "It's like… learning to taste a new flavour. Or see a new colour. You have to stop trying to define it and just… experience it."
He held out his hand, palm up, not towards her, but towards the space between them. "Give me your hand."
Hermione stared at his outstretched hand. It was a long-fingered, elegant hand, calloused in places she wouldn't have expected. This felt like a line, a boundary they were about to cross. Did she trust him? Professionally, yes, she was beginning to. Personally? She wasn't sure.
But her thirst for knowledge, for this new way of understanding, was too great.
Slowly, she placed her hand in his.
His skin was warm, a stark contrast to the chill of the chamber. His fingers closed around hers, not tightly, but with a firm, sure grip.
"Close your eyes," he instructed, his voice low. "Now, listen to the Vault. But don't listen with your ears. Listen with this." He squeezed her hand gently. "Magic is energy. It flows. Let the resonance flow into you, through the point where we're connected. Don't analyze it. Just feel it."
She did as he said, closing her eyes. At first, all she was aware of was the warmth of his hand, the slight roughness of his palm against hers. Then, she focused on the hum. She let it vibrate up from the stone, through her body, and as she focused on their joined hands, she felt it—a subtle shift.
The hum wasn't just a vibration anymore. It was a feeling. A deep, profound sorrow, so ancient and vast it felt like the bedrock of the world itself. It was the loneliness of a thousand forgotten years. It was the grief of a final, permanent goodbye.
A single, hot tear escaped from under her closed eyelid and traced a path down her cheek.
She felt Cassian's hand tighten around hers. "You feel it," he whispered. It wasn't a question.
She could only nod, unable to speak around the lump in her throat. She had spent weeks trying to dissect the Vault, to categorize and understand it. In a single moment, sitting on the cold floor holding her rival's hand, she had finally begun to know it.
After what felt like an eternity and no time at all, he released her hand. The connection broke, and the profound emotional weight lifted, leaving her feeling hollow and strangely cold.
She opened her eyes, quickly wiping the tear from her cheek. He was watching her, his expression unreadable.
"The stasis," he said quietly, looking back at the Vault. "It's not a prison. It's a tomb. And we're the first people to come and pay our respects in a very, very long time."
He stood up, offering her a hand. She took it, and he pulled her to her feet with an easy strength.
"We're not breaking in, Granger," he said, his voice back to its usual business-like tone, though a little gentler. "We're conducting a séance."
He walked over to his instruments, leaving her standing alone, her hand still tingling with the ghost of his touch and the echo of an ancient, magical grief. The game had changed entirely. This was no longer just a project. It was a conversation with a ghost. And Cassian Thorne was the only one who knew how to speak the language.