The days that followed the delivery of their report were unnervingly quiet. The official response from the Ministry was a terse memo from Kingsley, acknowledging receipt and stating the matter was "under review." The Hit Wizards were withdrawn from the dungeon door, replaced by a simple, but powerful, Notice-Me-Not Charm and a plaque that read, Magical Historical Site - No Unauthorized Entry. They had gotten what they wanted. The Vault was to be left in peace.
For Hermione, the sudden lack of urgency was disorienting. Her life, which had been a whirlwind of ancient magic, ethical dilemmas, and Cassian Thorne's intense presence, abruptly returned to its normal, monotonous rhythm. She went back to her desk in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, to memos about elf rights and gnome-wrangling regulations. It all felt so small. So trivial.
She found herself staring into space, her quill hovering over a proposal for werewolf support funding, her mind a million miles away in a cold dungeon, feeling the echo of a shared sorrow.
And thinking of him.
It was a constant, low-level hum in the back of her mind, a new kind of resonance. She'd replayed their every interaction, from their first barbed exchanges to the quiet solidarity in the Leaky Cauldron. The memory of his hand holding hers, first in the chamber and then to steady her, was burned into her skin. The sound of her name on his lips—Hermione—was a loop she couldn't shut off.
It was infuriating. He was infuriating. And she missed the constant, challenging pressure of his mind against hers.
Three days after they'd filed the report, she was trying and failing to focus on a particularly dense paragraph about the migratory patterns of Augureys when a familiar, stern-looking eagle-owl landed on her windowsill, tapping imperiously on the glass.
Her heart gave a traitorous leap. She hurried to let it in, untying the small scroll from its leg with slightly trembling fingers.
The script was, as always, sharp and precise.
Granger,
The silence is deafening. I'm conducting a long-term baseline study of the Vault's 'memorial' state. My readings indicate a slight, but perceptible, calming of the resonant frequencies since our… intervention. It's as if it knows it's been heard.
Your input on the data would be… appreciated. If you're not too busy with your other, undoubtedly thrilling, Ministry work.
—C.T.
There was no demand. No challenge. An invitation, laced with his characteristic dry humour, but an invitation nonetheless. Your input would be appreciated.
A slow smile spread across Hermione's face, a genuine, unforced smile she hadn't felt in days. He felt it too. This strange, quiet void their project had left behind.
She scribbled a quick reply, not allowing herself to overthink it.
Thorne,
Augurey migration patterns can only hold one's attention for so long. Send the data. I'll be there at six.
—H.G.
She sent the owl off and turned back to her desk, the words on the parchment about Augureys suddenly seeming a little less impenetrable. The hum in the back of her mind had quieted, replaced by a warm, anticipatory buzz.
At precisely six o'clock, she pushed open the heavy door to the Vault chamber. He was there, of course, not surrounded by a storm of magical instruments, but sitting calmly on the stone bench, a single, floating parchment covered in his elegant script hovering in front of him.
He looked up as she entered, and that same, unguarded smile from the Leaky Cauldron—the one that transformed his entire face—made a brief, heart-stopping appearance.
"You came."
"You have data," she said, trying to sound professional and failing miserably, a matching smile tugging at her own lips.
He gestured to the space beside him on the bench. "Sit. It's… interesting."
She sat, leaving a respectful few inches between them, but she was hyper-aware of his proximity, the warmth of his body in the cool room. He began to explain the subtle shifts in the Vault's magic, his voice a low, focused murmur. It was the same technical discussion they'd had a dozen times before, but the undercurrent was entirely new. It wasn't a debate; it was a conversation. He listened to her thoughts, truly listened, his eyes on her as she spoke.
After they had exhausted the topic, a comfortable silence fell. The Vault hummed its low, now-familiar song, but the sharp edge of grief seemed, as he had noted, slightly softened.
"It's strange, isn't it?" Hermione said softly, gazing at the dark surface. "To miss the chaos."
Cassian followed her gaze. "I don't miss the chaos. I miss the clarity." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "When you're facing something like that, everything else just… falls away. All the noise. All the pointless complications. It's just you, and the work, and…" He trailed off, not finishing the sentence.
And me, Hermione's mind supplied, the thought so loud she was afraid he might hear it.
He looked at her, his expression serious. "What happens now, Granger?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. What happened to the project? What happened to them?
"I don't know," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper.
He held her gaze for a long moment, the air between them crackling with possibility. Then, he gave a slow, single nod, as if her honest uncertainty was answer enough for now.
"Well," he said, turning back to the Vault, a hint of his old smirk returning. "The data won't analyze itself. And I believe you promised me your input on the harmonic dampening coefficients."
And just like that, they fell back into the easy rhythm of their work. But as Hermione leaned in to look at the parchment, her shoulder brushing against his, she knew with a terrifying, thrilling certainty that everything had changed. The crisis was over, but the story, their story, was only just beginning. The real complication, she realized, wasn't the ancient, grieving magic sealed in the wall. It was the living, breathing, complicated man sitting right beside her.