Sunlight streamed into Hermione's bedroom, painting bright stripes across her duvet. She woke not with a jolt, as was her usual habit, but slowly, languidly, a deep sense of contentment warming her from the inside out. Then, the memories of the previous night washed over her—the private room, the conversation, the walk home, the kiss—and a giddy, disbelieving smile spread across her face.
She stretched, her body humming with a pleasant awareness. Cassian Thorne had kissed her. And she had kissed him back.
The day felt different. The air in her flat seemed lighter, the sounds of London from her window more musical. She hummed as she made tea, the simple act feeling brand new. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a faint, rosy glow on her cheeks and a light in her eyes that hadn't been there in a long time.
Her good mood was a buoyant force at the Ministry. She greeted her colleagues with a cheerful "Good morning!" that made several of them do a double-take. She powered through her paperwork with an efficiency that was almost alarming, her mind clear and focused, yet constantly drifting back to the feel of his hand in hers, the sound of his laugh.
Just before lunch, a familiar eagle-owl landed on her windowsill. Her heart gave its now-customary leap. She hurried to let it in, untying the scroll with eager fingers.
The message was short.
Granger,
I find my concentration is… suboptimal today. I keep thinking about a certain smile and the taste of wine. A catastrophic failure of professional discipline.
I'll be at the chamber at six. I have more to show you regarding my theory. If you're interested.
—C.T.
P.S. I am, of course, assuming your concentration is equally compromised.
Hermione read it three times, a delighted laugh bubbling up. It was so him. The dry, intellectual framing of a love note. A "catastrophic failure of professional discipline." She could picture him writing it, that faint, private smirk on his face.
She penned a reply immediately, not caring if she seemed overeager.
Thorne,
My own concentration is, indeed, in a state of utter ruin. I blame a distracting combination of intellectual stimulation and a very memorable kiss.
Six o'clock is perfect.
—H.G.
P.S. Your assumption was correct.
She sent the owl off, feeling like a teenager. This was what it was supposed to feel like. This lightness, this anticipation. It was a feeling she'd read about in books but had never truly experienced herself. With Ron, it had been comfortable, familiar. This was… electric.
The afternoon dragged, but in the best possible way. Every slow minute was filled with the happy anticipation of seeing him again. When she finally left the Ministry and Apparated to Hogsmeade, walking the familiar path to the castle felt like a homecoming.
She pushed open the heavy door to the chamber. He was already there, standing before the Vault. He turned as she entered, and the look he gave her was so openly warm, so devoid of its usual guardedness, that it made her breath catch.
"Hi," she said, suddenly a little shy.
"Hi," he replied, his voice soft.
He didn't move towards her, but his gaze held hers, saying everything words couldn't. The air between them was thick with a new, comfortable intimacy.
"So," she said, breaking the spell and walking towards him, her professional curiosity taking over. "Your theory. You said it was about something older than human magic."
The familiar spark of intellectual passion lit his eyes. "Yes." He gestured to the Vault. "I've been studying the emotional resonance, the texture of the grief. It's not… personal. It's elemental. It's the sorrow of mountains eroding, of stars dying. I think the being in here wasn't just a powerful entity. I think it was a custodian. A guardian of a layer of reality that… faded away."
He began to explain, pulling out notes and sketches. He spoke of ley lines and primordial magic, of worlds that existed alongside their own, now forgotten. It was a grand, sweeping, almost mythical theory. And as he spoke, his hands moving animatedly, his eyes alight with passion, Hermione fell in love with him just a little bit more.
This was the man she had glimpsed beneath the arrogance—the brilliant, boundless curiosity, the reverence for magic in its purest form. And he was sharing it all with her.
When he finished, the chamber was quiet save for the Vault's hum.
"It's a beautiful theory, Cassian," she said softly.
"It's just a theory," he said with a shrug, but he looked pleased.
"It's more than that. It's a way of seeing." She stepped closer to him, looking up at the Vault. "We're not just studying a tomb. We're listening to the last echo of a lost world."
He looked down at her, his expression tender. "You see it too."
"I do."
He reached out and took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. It felt natural, right. They stood there together, hand in hand, before the ancient, grieving magic, two brilliant minds finally in sync, their hearts beating a quiet, steady rhythm alongside the Vault's eternal hum. The morning after had bled into a perfect evening, and the future stretched out before them, full of mystery, magic, and each other.