Cost Analysis
Chapter 5 – Cost Analysis
Sunday passed in a gentle blur.
After their meandering walk and golden afternoon along the Wandle, Harry and Hermione had parted ways with soft smiles and plans to reconvene midweek. He returned to Grimmauld Place alone, made a cup of tea he didn’t drink, and curled up in the chair by the window with the newest round of intelligence reports from the Department of Magical Surveillance. Reading through the case files—encrypted communiqués, redacted interviews, unnerving glimpses into the darker corners of wizarding society—was a stark shift from café conversation and exclusive dress shops.
By the time Lily tumbled through the front door just after supper, cheeks flushed and plaits undone, Harry was ready for a distraction. Ginny was in and out in a heartbeat, pressing a quick kiss to Lily’s head and offering Harry a quick wave. “Call me if you two need anything,” she said, already halfway down the hallway to the door.
Lily barely noticed.
She chattered nonstop as she pulled Harry toward the kitchen, hopping up on a stool and diving into stories from the Burrow. Hugo had taught her a spell to make dragon-shaped sparks. Molly made blackberry pie and didn’t even care that they snuck seconds. Louis, with the help of Uncle George, charmed Uncle Ron’s jumper to flash "Puddlemere United’s No. 1 Fan" in bright, blinking letters anytime someone said the word 'Quidditch.' Uncle Ron and Hugo retaliated by enchanting the garden gnome to yodel the Chudley Cannons anthem at the top of its lungs. The fort they'd built along the hedgerow had a mossy roof and a 'no grownups allowed' policy—except for Uncle Ron, who bribed the children with Wagon Wheels and lemonade in a floating bucket and joined the kids for a broomstick tag game that ended with him mock-dramatically crashing into a hay bale.
“He let me win,” she whispered with a grin, “but only barely.”
Harry listened, rapt, smiling at how bright she was—how alive. They curled up together on the couch after her bath, Lily tucked against his side under the Gryffindor blanket. She was asleep before the credits of The Sword in the Stone had finished rolling.
Monday morning arrived clear and crisp, sunlight striping across the kitchen table as Harry sipped his coffee and watched Lily sharpen her black Staedtler Noris pencils and double-check her notebook, her colorful gel pens, and her carefully labeled supply case for the fifth time. Lily approached her Muggle schooling with the same intensity that Aunt Hermione once applied to crafting detailed study schedules for him and Ron during exam season.
“I think I’ll sort everything by subject this time,” she declared, rifling through her satchel again. “Hugo said our new teacher is obsessed with neatness.”
Harry grinned and kissed the top of her head. “You’ll be the star pupil. Again.”
By mid-morning, he was at the Ministry, navigating the usual gauntlet of memos, budget line items, and personnel charts that had become the bread and butter of his role. It wasn’t always thrilling, but after years on the frontlines, the steadiness had its own appeal.
He was halfway through a recalibration of next quarter’s training protocols when Draco appeared at his office door, leaning casually against the frame with a crooked smirk.
“I heard there was dancing in your kitchen this weekend,” he drawled.
Harry didn’t look up. “You heard wrong.”
“I heard Hermione was involved.”
Harry glanced over the rim of his glasses. “Do you have anything useful to report, or are you just here to be a pain?”
Draco stepped inside and settled into the chair across from Harry, every movement deliberate.
“Oh, I’m being incredibly useful. I’m helping you confront the fact that you're finally waking up to what’s right in front of you.” He gave Harry a long look. “That is what’s happening, isn’t it?”
Harry didn’t answer, just held his gaze, calm and unreadable.
Draco let out a huff and rolled his eyes. “Took you long enough.”
Harry snorted. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re transparent. Honestly, I thought it would take another near-death experience for you to admit you’re in love with her.”
Harry said nothing. But something shifted in his expression—barely perceptible to anyone but Draco, who, of course, noticed.
Draco’s smirk faded into something quieter. “Don’t wait too long,” he said, his voice low. “Not everyone gets another chance at something good.”
Before Harry could reply, an urgent tap on the doorframe drew their attention. A young Auror trainee stood in the open doorway, slightly out of breath.
"Head Auror Potter? Director Madani requests your presence," she said. "As soon as possible. Preferably immediately."
Harry stood and glanced at Draco, who rose with a small, knowing nod and straightened his robes. The moment between them was brief but heavy with unspoken understanding.
As Draco stepped out, Harry turned to the trainee. “Tell her I’m on my way. I just need to grab a few things.”
The Director of Magical Intelligence and Threat Assessment, Yasmin Madani, was not easily rattled. A formidable witch with decades of fieldwork behind her and a reputation for steel-trap memory and unmatched instinct, she greeted Harry with a nod and motioned him inside.
“I assume you’ve read the reports we sent,” she said without preamble, not even waiting for him to be fully seated.
“I have,” he confirmed, gesturing to the folder in his right hand. “The pattern of incidents. The silence around the rogue French coven. The rituals in that hidden vault in Austria. It's all... disturbing.”
Her brow furrowed as she sat down. “It’s more than disturbing, Harry. The Aeternum Circle’s presence has moved from myth to credible threat. We’re still piecing together their full purpose, but the pattern is clear—they’re fixated on magical bloodlines. They’re trying to revive something old. Something dangerous.”
“Selective magical inheritance?” Harry asked.
Madani nodded. “Blood rituals. Dark genealogy. Experimental spellwork on developing magical cores.” Her eyes searched his face—not accusing, but intent, like she was measuring his understanding, weighing how best to bring him along. “We believe they’re targeting pregnancies tied to high-value magical lineages—especially where Muggle-born magic intersects with ancient bloodlines.”
A chill ran through Harry.
Madani leaned forward slightly, her expression shifting—less formal now, more grounded. “You're good friends with Nott and Malfoy, yes?”
He nodded.
"I know a little of their story but not everything," she held up her hand at his expression. "I'm not asking you to betray any confidences. Let me tell you what I understand—and stop me if I get anything wrong.”
“They’ve been married nearly a decade now. From what I gather, they tried for years to have a child through the traditional magical surrogacy process that many same-sex couples use. But the magic that typically supports those pregnancies—particularly the anchoring spells that bind magical essence to the gestational parent—requires complementary magical genetics. Their bloodlines are too similar. Too pure. The spells either didn’t take or collapsed halfway through development."
She gave him a meaningful look. "That’s the irony, isn’t it? The very thing their ancestors prized is what made it impossible for them to have a child that way."
Harry nodded slowly, processing.
Madani continued. "Enter Elira. Muggle-born. Diverse bloodline. Stabilizing magical presence. Brilliant and expansive personality reflecting the magic within her. Her core harmonized with Theo’s magic and Draco’s magic in ways that surprised even the Healer who was developing new protocols for magical gestational bonding. She’s not just carrying the child—her magic is helping shape him. And that is why the Aeternum Circle is likely watching.
A child like this? It’s a challenge to every dangerous ideal they hold sacred."
Harry exhaled, long and slow. "I'd say you’ve got a better grasp on it than I do."
“Draco and Theo’s child—carried by a Muggle-born surrogate, part of the Black family legacy, magically conceived—that child is almost certainly already a target. Elira too.”
Harry’s stomach sank. “Does Draco know?”
“No. And I don’t want him to. Not yet. He’s too close to this for us to just present him with vague unknowns.”
“And Hermione?” Harry asked quietly, almost reflexively. "She's the Healer who understood what was happening and created the protocols to allow this pregnancy to be viable."
Madani looked at him for a long moment, then shook her head. “Her name hasn’t come up in any intelligence... but I imagine you’re thinking what I am.”
“She’s the most visible Muggle-born witch in the wizarding world. And she’s their Healer. She and Nott are doing groundbreaking work. If the purists are watching this pregnancy with malicious intent…” He trailed off, heart beginning to race. "Madani, she and Nott are presenting their findings to the Board of Directors tomorrow."
The look that passed between them was one of mutual understanding.
“We'll increase surveillance,” Madani said. “But discretion is key.”
Harry nodded, jaw tight. “Understood.”
Later—after an hour of brainstorming and strategizing with Madani—Harry left the meeting with a thick folder in hand and an even thicker fog settling over his thoughts. They had sketched out layered surveillance strategies, debated ethical spellwork boundaries, identified potential informants, and set contingencies in motion. It was the sort of session that normally helped him feel like things were under control, or at least moving toward it.
But this time, it hadn’t worked.
The easy warmth of the weekend felt like it belonged to a different life. The stakes had shifted. The noose was drawing tighter around something fragile and dear.
He paused outside the lifts, the folder still in hand, staring blankly at the indicator lights. He wasn’t sure whether he meant to head back to his office or was simply reluctant to sit still, unsure what movement might quiet the storm of thoughts gathering behind his eyes. A familiar pressure was tightening in his chest—something he hadn’t felt since the war. Not fear exactly. But the grim clarity of understanding how far some people would go.
His hand drifted to the scar on his forehead. Faded now, barely visible. His battles had been public, dramatic, commemorated in textbooks. But Hermione’s? Hers were quieter. Relentless. Still ongoing. The price she paid came in pieces, collected across years—and the toll was still being exacted, bit by bit.
Draco and Harry sat in the break room, both exhausted and scattered from lack of sleep and the physical demands of their first few months of Auror training. Draco held a cup of tea the color of creosote, and Harry pounded back his fifth cup of terrible coffee. Theo and Draco had just moved in together, and Draco was telling Harry about his boyfriend's grueling schedule and the tribulations of a trainee Healer.
"So there's this pureblood Healer who specializes in blood magic curses," Draco said, pouring sugar into his tea with far too much precision. "New appointment. French. Big deal somewhere and thinks he's doing us all a favor by gracing the British with his presence. Arrogant sort."
Harry nodded at the irony of Draco describing an arrogant French wizard. Harry could picture the type.
Draco went on. "Apparently this ponce said to Theo—while Granger was standing right beside him, mind—that ancestral magic couldn’t be truly understood by someone of Muggle heritage. Said it was like trying to learn a language without ever knowing the alphabet."
Harry nearly dropped his cup. "He said that? While she was standing right there?"
Draco gave a slow nod.
Harry gaped. "And Nott didn’t hex him?" Theo was fiercely protective of Hermione. It was one of Harry's favorite things about him.
Draco shook his head. "Didn't need to hex him. Granger handled it."
Harry frowned. "What did she do?"
Draco smirked, the kind of expression that meant he was very impressed. "Turned, looked him straight in the eye, and performed a diagnostic spell on a patient he’d just cleared for discharge. Revealed a latent curse residue he’d completely missed. Removed it on the spot in front of three other Healers. Then handed him his own clipboard without a word. Theo said Le Monsieur didn’t speak to her for a week after that—out of sheer embarrassment."
That night, she sat in the living room at Grimmauld Place, textbook spread out on her lap. Ron had disappeared upstairs to go to bed and she said she'd join him after she finished the chapter she was reading.
Harry remained there with her, studying her. Finally, she'd looked up.
He spoke quietly, hesitantly. "Malfoy told me about that blood curse idiot. Did he really say you'd never be able to learn blood magic?"
She nodded, almost absently. "Yes. He said it." She waved her hand dismissively. "It wasn’t new. Or even the worst."
He stared at her. "And you just... let it go?"
She gave a soft laugh. "I had a full caseload that day, Harry. I didn’t have the luxury of righteous indignation. I vomited in the loo and moved on."
Harry emerged from the memory with the same ache in his stomach he’d felt all those years ago. It clung to him now, heavy and sour.
He shook his head, trying to dislodge it, but it stayed with him—an echo of the helplessness he’d felt then.
And now, with the Aeternum Circle resurfacing—whispers of bloodlines, tampered magic, and targeted Muggle-borns—he understood something he hadn’t really understood before.
The danger to her had never truly ended.
It had only gone underground. Grown quieter. Smarter. More insidious.
And if it was coming for her again, well... he wouldn’t stand by. He couldn't stand by.
He would protect her—at any cost.