The warmth of the Leaky Cauldron was a stark contrast to the dungeon's chill, but Hermione still felt a deep, residual cold lodged in her bones. She and Cassian had chosen a secluded booth in the back, a compromise between the oppressive silence of the Ministry and the potential for interruptions at Hogwarts. A half-eaten Ploughman's lunch sat between them, largely ignored.
Two empty butterbeer bottles stood sentinel next to two full ones, a testament to the hours they'd already spent. Parchment, ink pots, and a small mountain of crumpled drafts littered the table.
"We cannot lead with 'it screamed at us'," Hermione said for what felt like the tenth time, massaging her temples. "The Wizengamot will have us committed."
"Then what do you suggest?" Cassian leaned back, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. He looked as tired as she felt, shadows under his eyes, but the usual impatience was tempered by a shared sense of gravity. " 'The entity exhibits non-corporeal, empathic resonance indicative of profound metaphysical distress'?"
"That's just a fancier way of saying it screamed at us!" she shot back, a frustrated laugh escaping her. "We need to find a middle ground. Something that conveys the… the emotional payload without sounding like we've lost our minds."
This was the core of the problem. How do you file an official Ministry report on a feeling? How do you quantify a sob from a thousand years ago?
"We state the facts of the probe," Hermione began, picking up her quill again. "The magical methodology was sound, the safeguards were effective. The data retrieved was not visual or auditory, but purely empathic in nature." She started writing, speaking the words aloud as she formed them. "The dominant emotional signature is one of catastrophic, eternal loss. The scale suggests a sentient, or formerly sentient, magical consciousness of immense power, now in a state of perpetual, self-contained mourning."
Cassian watched her write, his head tilted. " 'Perpetual, self-contained mourning'," he repeated slowly. "It's cold. But it's accurate."
"It has to be cold to be believed," she said, not looking up. "We can't write that it broke our hearts. We have to write that the data indicates a high probability of non-hostile intent, with the primary risk being psychological contamination to untrained personnel."
He was quiet for a moment. "You're good at this," he said, his tone unreadable.
"Good at what? Bureaucratic spin?"
"At translating the impossible into something people can understand. Or at least, something they can file away without panicking."
She finally looked up, meeting his gaze. "It's a survival skill."
A faint smile touched his lips. "I'm beginning to see that."
They worked for another hour, the report slowly taking shape. It was a strange dance—her structured prose providing the framework, his sharp, intuitive insights providing the crucial, chilling details. He would veto her more clinical phrases, insisting on language that captured the Vault's unique nature, and she would temper his more poetic descriptions with legal and magical precision.
"Here," he said, pointing to a paragraph. "Instead of 'recommend re-classification as a historical artifact', say 'recommend designation as a Sentient Magical Memorial Site, with access restricted to those trained in empathic shielding'."
Hermione considered it. " 'Sentient Magical Memorial Site'… Kingsley will hate it. It's unprecedented."
"So is the Vault."
She nodded, scratching out her own words and writing in his. "Fine. But you're the one who has to explain it to him when he asks what the hell that means."
"I'll just bring you with me," he said, a hint of his old dry humor returning. "You can do the translating."
As the final words were scrawled onto the parchment and the last bottle of butterbeer emptied, a weary silence fell over them. The cacophony of the pub seemed to fade into a distant hum.
"It's done," Hermione said, rolling up the parchment and sealing it with a tap of her wand. She felt a profound exhaustion, but also a sense of accomplishment. They had captured the ghost of the experience, trapped it in ink and official language.
Cassian stared at the sealed scroll as if it contained a live creature. "Do you think it will be enough? To make them understand?"
"I think it will be enough to make them leave it alone," she replied. "And for now, that's the best we can hope for."
He looked at her, his stormy eyes reflecting the warm light of the pub. In this quiet moment, surrounded by the mundane evidence of their shared labour, the last vestiges of their professional facade seemed to dissolve. They were just two people, bound by a secret too vast to comprehend.
"Thank you," he said, the words simple and sincere. "For today. For… all of it. I wouldn't have wanted to do this with anyone else."
The admission was so frank, so devoid of his usual guardedness, that it stole the air from Hermione's lungs. She could only manage a small, shaky nod.
He stood up, gathering his cloak. "I'll deliver this to Shacklebolt's night desk. Get some rest, Granger. You look like you need it."
He turned to leave, then paused, looking back at her. "Oh, and Hermione?" It was the first time he'd ever used her first name. It sounded foreign and familiar on his lips, like a secret he'd been keeping.
"Yes?"
"The next time we have to write a report," he said, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face, "let's just tell them it screamed."
Then he was gone, weaving through the crowded pub and out into the London night.
Hermione sat alone in the booth, the sound of her own name echoing in her ears. She looked at the empty space where he had been, at the discarded parchment scraps and the empty bottles. The report was finished. The immediate crisis was over. But as she sat there in the warm, noisy pub, she had the distinct and terrifying feeling that her real work, and her real trouble, had only just begun.