Hermione didn't sleep. Cassian's words, and the cold finality in his eyes, replayed in her mind on a relentless loop. "That's your solution to everything, isn't it? More rules. More control." By sunrise, she was exhausted, her head throbbing, but her resolve was clear. She had been unfair. She had let her fear, and maybe a bit of her own pride, poison her judgment.
She arrived at the Ministry early, the halls still quiet. Instead of going to her office, she went straight to the small, windowless room that served as their project headquarters. It was empty, as she'd expected. She lit the lamps with a flick of her wand and got to work.
She didn't open a book. She pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and began to write, not a report for Kingsley, but a proposal. A risk-assessment for a controlled, non-invasive magical probe. She outlined every possible variable, every safeguard, every contingency plan for catastrophic failure. She used his theory about the stress fracture as the foundation and built a framework of such meticulous, logical caution around it that even the most conservative Ministry official would have to admit its intellectual rigor.
It was her language. It was her form of an apology.
She was so engrossed she didn't hear the door open. She only sensed his presence when his shadow fell over her desk.
She looked up. He stood there, his expression unreadable, his usual sharpness softened by what looked like a faint tiredness around his own eyes. He had probably slept as little as she had.
He didn't speak. His gaze dropped to the parchment she was writing, his eyes scanning the dense lines of her script.
Hermione's heart hammered against her ribs. She forced herself to remain still, to not snatch the parchment away.
After a long, silent moment, he reached out, his fingers brushing against hers as he slowly took the parchment from the desk. The contact was brief, electric. He didn't look at her as he read, his brow furrowed in concentration.
She watched him, her breath held. This was it. This was her throwing her carefully constructed rulebook out the window, not in reckless abandon, but in a deliberate, calculated leap of faith. For him. For the work.
He finished reading. The silence in the room was absolute. Then, he placed the parchment back on her desk, his movements deliberate.
He looked at her, his stormy eyes searching hers. The anger was gone. In its place was something raw and uncertain.
"Why?" he asked, his voice low and rough.
"Because you were right," she said, her own voice barely a whisper. "Not about being reckless. But about needing to ask a question. I was… scared. And I took it out on you. That was unprofessional."
He absorbed this, his gaze never leaving her face. "You built a cage for my idea," he said, but it wasn't an accusation. It was an observation.
"I built a foundation," she corrected softly. "So it doesn't collapse when we start to build on it."
A slow, deep breath escaped him. He looked down at the parchment again, then back at her. The corner of his mouth twitched, the barest hint of a smile. "It's… thorough."
A wave of relief so powerful it made her knees feel weak washed over her. "It's what I do."
"I know." He paused, then added, "It's a good foundation."
It was more than an acceptance. It was a restoration. The fracture between them wasn't gone, but a bridge had been built across it, stronger for having been tested.
"Okay," he said, the word simple and final. "We'll do it your way. We'll run the simulations. We'll have every counter-charm ready. And then… we ask our question."
Hermione nodded, a real, genuine smile finally breaking through her anxiety. "Together."
The word hung in the air, significant and new.
"Together," he agreed.
He didn't move to his own desk. Instead, he pulled up a chair and sat beside her, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. "Now," he said, pointing to a line in her proposal about harmonic resonance dampeners. "Explain this part to me. Your logic is… surprisingly elegant."
And just like that, they were back to work. But the air in the room was different. Lighter. The competitive tension had been replaced by a focused, collaborative energy. They spent the next few hours bent over the parchment, their heads close together, his intuitive leaps meeting her structured planning, creating a whole that was greater than the sum of its parts.
It was the most productive morning they'd ever had. And as Hermione explained the intricacies of her arithmantic models, she realized with a jolt that she was enjoying herself. Not just the work, but his company. The sharpness of his mind, the way he listened now, truly listened, to her ideas.
The crack was still there. But instead of fear, she now felt a thrilling, terrifying sense of possibility. They were no longer just co-leads or rivals. They were partners. And she had no idea where that was going to lead.