Chapter 5
Cold. That was the first thing Hermione felt upon regaining consciousness. The penetrating, damp cold of the stone floors of Malfoy Manor's dungeon, seeping into her bones.
The second thing she felt was pain. All-encompassing, pulsing in every nerve of her body. Bellatrix knew perfectly how to inflict suffering that lingered long after the Cruciatus Curse had ceased.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The monotonous sound of water drops hitting stone was the only sound filling the cramped, windowless cell. The steady dripping, which in another context might have been soothing, now seemed like an additional torture—marking the time she had left.
Hermione tried to move and immediately regretted the decision. Every muscle protested, and the fresh wounds on her forearm burned with a living fire. The darkness of the cell was almost absolute—only a narrow strip of light penetrated through the gap under the door.
Hermione's thoughts immediately went to Ron. The last thing she remembered before losing consciousness was Bellatrix's scream: "Bring in the blood traitor!" Was Ron being tortured too? Was he alive? The uncertainty was almost as painful as the physical wounds.
From the adjacent wall came a faint tapping. Ron. He was alive. He was in the neighboring cell. This awareness brought her momentary relief, though she knew he must have gone through a hell of interrogation too. The Death Eaters were ruthless in their methods. From both of them they wanted the same thing—information about Harry, his plan, his whereabouts. Information that neither of them possessed.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
In the silence of the cell, Hermione considered their situation. After the first series of tortures, Yaxley had effortlessly invaded Ron's mind. He discovered exactly what Hermione feared—carefully cut gaps in memory, empty spaces where memories of Harry's plans should have been. The Death Eaters already knew that Ron didn't possess the information they were so desperately seeking.
But with her it was different. Through years of studying Occlumency, through countless hours spent over books on mind magic, Hermione had managed to create barriers. Not perfect, but strong enough to resist superficial attempts at Legilimency. Strong enough to withstand even Bellatrix—at least during the first interrogations, before torture weakened her will.
Hermione knew that her resistance was a double-edged sword. On one hand, as long as the Death Eaters couldn't see her memories, as long as they weren't certain that she also didn't possess the information they sought, they kept them alive. On the other—her resistance only increased the intensity of the torture, fueled their conviction that she was hiding something valuable.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Her head throbbed with a dull pain as she tried to maintain clarity of thought. Time was working against them. Each subsequent torture session weakened her will, brought her closer to the point where her barriers would collapse. And when the Death Eaters finally saw that both she and Ron possessed no useful information—that Harry had effectively erased everything that might betray him—what awaited them?
Best-case scenario: a quick death. Worst: they would become Bellatrix's toys, a living demonstration of the punishment for resistance against the Dark Lord.
And yet, Hermione couldn't give up. She had to defend her mind as long as possible. Every day they survived was a day in which Harry could get closer to destroying the Horcruxes. Every hour of their resistance was an hour won for the Order.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Footsteps beyond the door interrupted her reflections. Heavy boots striking the stone floor—not Bellatrix's light, dancing gait, but a man's heavy, measured step. Yaxley. He had come to try again.
Hermione closed her eyes, focusing on her barriers. She felt their fragility, the cracks from previous attacks. But they were still there—a thin line of defense between her secret thoughts and the enemy.
When the door opened, she was ready. Her last weapon, her last way of fighting—a closed, protected mind. She would maintain it as long as she could. For Harry. For Ron. For the chance of victory that might still come.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
* * *
In the following days, the situation at St Mungo's Hospital began to take a worrying turn. After Padma and Zabini, more cases of the mysterious coma appeared. First Terry Boot, then an elderly herbalist from Hogsmeade, followed by two employees from the Department of International Magical Cooperation. By the end of the week, the number of patients had risen to eight, all with identical symptoms—intense brain activity with complete unawareness of the outside world.
Hermione spent increasingly more hours at the Ministry, often staying long after the last employee had left. Her desk, usually impeccably organized, was now covered with stacks of documents, vials collected for analysis, old medical volumes borrowed from the hospital archives. Before her lay a long list of possible causes, each methodically crossed out in patient, meticulous handwriting.
"Unconsciousness Curse—ruled out, no characteristic magical fluctuations." "Draught of Living Death—ruled out, no traces in patients' blood." "Poisoning from illegal imported ingredients—unlikely, too diverse a group of patients." "New type of dragon pox—ruled out, no physical symptoms whatsoever."
Each evening she added new hypotheses to the list, each morning she crossed out most of them. Methodical, persistent work was her salvation—as long as she thought about the comas, as long as she immersed herself in analyses and research, she didn't have to think about something else. About someone else.
Three black coffees and one Invigoration Draught later, Hermione was still sitting at her desk, her hair wilder than usual, with shadows under her eyes that deepened with each day. To her standard portion of Calming Draught, she now added a double dose of concentration enhancer. The mixture had changed color from pearly to slightly purple, but it worked—her mind was razor-sharp, though the rest of her body protested against such treatment.
For a moment, she wondered whether to try that new substance that had been making headlines lately—Claritas. She had heard its praised properties: extraordinary mental clarity, no fatigue effect, improved memory. It sounded like the perfect solution. But after a moment, she dismissed the thought. One type of addiction was enough in her life. She didn't need another.
It was almost half past one in the morning when a silver Patronus peered through her office window. Harry's stag materialized in the middle of the room, bringing a message:
"Another case. Elias Boggs. Owner of an antiquarian bookshop in Hogsmeade, found in his store an hour ago."
Hermione frowned. Boggs? She had never heard that name. She could recall a small, dusty shop with used books and magical antiques somewhere on a side street in Hogsmeade, but she hadn't visited it even once, probably. She couldn't even bring to mind the face of the owner.
She continued sifting through documents, continued looking for connections. Padma, Zabini, Boot, Boggs—people of different ages, from different backgrounds, performing completely different occupations. No obvious connections, no mutual friends or places.
This wasn't an attack aimed at specific people. This was something much more disturbing—a blind, random process that could affect anyone. Perhaps someone was testing a potion, spell, or curse without a clear target? Or maybe it was about sowing panic in the wizarding community itself?
Hermione recorded her observations in a notebook. "No pattern among victims = greater probability that the cause is a widely available product or frequently visited place." This narrowed the search field, but still left too many variables.
Her gaze involuntarily wandered toward the window. The seventh day without a black rose. Without the address of another motel. Without his cold, precise hands on her body. Turning over another document, she wondered if Malfoy had simply grown bored with their arrangement. Or perhaps his wife had suspected something?
Tapping her quill against the parchment, she imagined what Draco was doing now. Sitting in his elegant office? Conducting business as if nothing had happened? Or perhaps lying beside his beautiful wife, discussing plans for the future, about the company, about the family they might start?
She clenched her teeth and forced herself to return to the analysis. She wouldn't think about him. She wouldn't wonder why he had stopped sending roses. And above all—she wouldn't miss it. It was sick, toxic, self-destructive. She should feel relieved that it was over.
So why, every morning upon waking, was the first thing she checked the surface of her bedside table, where a black rose might appear, materialized from nowhere? Why did her heart accelerate every time something rustled in her empty apartment?
Hermione vigorously shook her head, as if trying to physically expel thoughts of Malfoy from it. She took a deep breath and returned to the documents. She needed to concentrate. This was about human lives, about a mystery that was becoming more disturbing with each day.
She had to prepare a report for Harry for the nine o'clock meeting. Gather all the facts, develop a theory, propose a plan of action. She leaned back in her chair, yawning discreetly. She stood up to brew herself another cup of coffee.
The hot beverage was bitter, but that was good—bitterness helped maintain mental clarity. She returned to her desk, trying to ignore the heaviness of her eyelids, the growing fatigue, and thoughts that kept returning to Malfoy.
Just a few more paragraphs. Just the final conclusions. It's almost finished, she repeated to herself. She didn't even notice when her head dropped onto her arms folded on the desk. She didn't notice when the quill slipped from her fingers, marking the parchment with an irregular line of ink.
She was awakened only by a sharp, insistent sound—rhythmic tapping on the glass. She jerked, abruptly raising her head. She had a stiff neck, numb arms, and a trace of ink on her cheek. For a moment she didn't know where she was. And then reality hit her with full force—she had fallen asleep at work, at her desk, over reports.
The tapping repeated, more insistent. Hermione turned toward the window. An elegant, dark brown owl with an envelope attached to its leg sat behind the glass. The bird had a proud gaze and impatiently tapped its beak on the window, as if disappointed by the need to wait.
Hermione approached the window, opening it with one motion of her wand. The owl flew inside, making a short circle above her head, then landed on the desk, knocking over the inkwell. It extended its leg with the envelope, looking at Hermione with something that appeared to be superiority.
"Sorry you had to wait," she muttered, untying the message. She recognized the official Ministry envelope. Probably some urgent summons, since it was sent at such an early hour. She glanced at the clock—it was six thirty.
The owl, freed from its task, rose into the air and flew out through the still-open window, not even waiting for a possible reply.
Hermione opened the envelope. Inside was a short note from Harry.
"I sent a Patronus, but you didn't answer. Come immediately to St Mungo's, 4th floor. Ron Weasley in a coma, found an hour ago. It's urgent."
Her body reacted before her mind had time to process the information. She jumped to her feet, wand already in hand, ready for immediate Apparition. Her heart was pounding in her chest like a hammer. Ron. Ron in a coma. She had to be there. Immediately. She almost felt the characteristic squeeze of Apparition when sudden awareness hit her like a Bludger.
Ron is dead. For five years. She saw him die in the dungeons after weeks of torture. She held his hand as life left his body. She laid flowers on his grave on every anniversary.
It was impossible.
And yet... for that one brief moment, her mind and body accepted this message as obvious truth. As if Ron had never died. As if he were waiting for her in the hospital, needing her help. As if the last five years had been merely a nightmare from which she had just awakened.
Feeling sudden dizziness, she held onto the desk for support. Her hands were trembling so much that she could barely hold the parchment. She forced herself to look at it again, focusing on each letter, each word.
"I sent a Patronus, but you didn't answer. Come immediately to St Mungo's, 4th floor. Percy Weasley in a coma, found an hour ago. It's urgent."
Percy. Not Ron. Percy.
She fell heavily into the chair, shocked by how her own mind had betrayed her. For a moment she had the impression that she herself had fallen into some kind of coma, where reality mixed with desires so deeply buried that she no longer remembered them.
This wasn't the first time her perception of reality had failed. It happened often—sudden flashes of memories that couldn't be true. Images of impossible things that for a fraction of a second seemed real.
Especially when she mixed potions. Sleeping draught with concentration enhancer. Mixture for hand tremors with Calming Draught. More and more, more frequently, stronger doses.
She ran trembling fingers through her disheveled hair. Could she trust her own senses? Her own mind? Her own judgment in conducting this investigation?
Percy Weasley. Another victim of the coma. She needed to focus on what was real. On facts, not on ghosts. She needed to gather her notes and go to the hospital.
She took a deep breath, collecting her scattered thoughts. Percy. Ron's brother. Another victim of the mysterious coma. That was the fact she needed to concentrate on.
But for a few seconds Ron had lived. And it was almost... soothing. For those few heartbeats she felt a strange peace, as if some part of her soul, curled up and perpetually trembling, suddenly relaxed, allowing itself hope.
Hermione stood up, forcing herself to act. Clearly the name Weasley would always trigger in her that automatic association, that unconditional reflex—Ron. Only Ron. Always Ron. As if for that one second of false hope her heart wanted to say: "I remember. I will always remember."
In the bathroom adjacent to her office, she washed her face with cold water, looking critically at her reflection. Dark circles under her eyes, pale skin, tense features—she looked like a shadow of herself.
"Pull yourself together, Granger," she said to the mirror, using her most official tone. "Percy needs you. Everyone needs you."
She cast a few tidying spells on herself—one smoothed her wrinkled robes, another arranged her tangled hair, a third removed the ink stain from her cheek. Superficial solutions for superficial problems. The deeper ones she would have to face later.
When she Apparated to the lobby of St Mungo's Hospital, she already felt almost like the professional everyone saw in her. Almost. Somewhere beneath her skin, she still felt that strange pulsing—as if some part of her mind, independent of consciousness, was still searching for Ron among the patients and staff.
The hospital was bustling with life despite the early hour. In the elevator to the fourth floor, she stood alone, closing her eyes for those few seconds of privacy. When they opened, she saw Harry waiting for her by the exit.
"Hermione," he greeted her, his face was tired, but his gaze alert. "Thanks for being here."
"How's Percy?" she asked immediately.
Harry shook his head, leading her along the corridor, away from the main traffic.
"Condition identical to the others. Unconscious, zero response to external stimuli, but the brain working at full capacity. The Healers are helpless."
Hermione nodded, writing something in her notebook. Focusing on facts, on data, on anything measurable—this helped her maintain the professional distance she had built over years.
"Did you find anything in his blood? Any traces of potions or..."
"Hermione," Harry interrupted her gently, placing a hand on her shoulder. "All the Weasleys are here. Molly, Arthur, Bill, George, Ginny. Even Charlie flew in by Portkey from Romania."
His words hit her like an icy wave. She felt her body stiffen, and her breathing become shallow and accelerated. The Weasleys. All of them. Here.
Images flashed through her mind—Molly, hugging her at Ron's funeral, whispering "It's not your fault, dear." Arthur, silent, aged a decade in one month. George, with the empty gaze of someone who had already lost too much. Ginny, holding her hand during the ceremony, her small fingers cold as ice.
She hadn't seen them all together since... Merlin, she couldn't even remember since when.
"I can't," she whispered, hating the tremor in her voice. "Harry, I... I don't..."
"They asked about you," Harry said quietly. "Especially Molly. I think it might... help them. And you."
She shook her head violently, feeling panic constricting her throat. Her hands began to tremble so hard that she had to clench them into fists. She needed a potion. Now. Immediately. Anything to suppress this wave of emotion that threatened to consume her entirely.
"Are you all right?" Harry asked, looking at her more carefully. "You look pale."
"I'm fine," she lied mechanically. "Just... I'm tired. I slept at my desk today."
Harry studied her for a moment. She knew he sensed her lie, but she hoped he would attribute her state to general exhaustion, not the sudden, violent need to take a potion.
Her fingers involuntarily traveled to the inner pocket of her robe, where she always carried a small vial for a dark hour. It was there, she felt it through the material. All it would take was a moment of privacy, a few seconds in the bathroom...
"Molly asks about you every time we see each other," Harry said suddenly. "Everyone asks."
That didn't help. On the contrary. Molly Weasley, who treated her like a daughter. Molly, who lost her son partly because of her, because if she hadn't insisted they help that Muggle family, maybe he would never have ended up in those dungeons, maybe he would never have died in her arms...
She felt her breathing accelerate, and a ringing noise grow in her ears. This was the beginning of a panic attack. She knew these symptoms all too well.
"I need to... excuse me," she mumbled. "Bathroom."
Without waiting for his response, she walked down the corridor, trying not to run, though every cell in her body screamed to hurry. Around the corner, she noticed a sign indicating toilets. She pushed the door, thanking all deities that the bathroom was empty.
She locked herself in the first stall, pulling out with trembling fingers a small vial of Calming Draught. She was afraid she wouldn't be able to unscrew the cork, but she managed. She drank the contents in one gulp, feeling the cool liquid flow down her throat. The effect wasn't immediate, but just the awareness that help was coming allowed her to calm down a bit.
She sat on the closed toilet, breathing deeply, waiting for the ringing in her ears to subside and her stomach to stop churning. Slowly, very slowly, the potion began to work. Relaxation first encompassed her shoulders, then her arms, finally her fingers. The trembling stopped. She could think clearly again.
The Weasleys. Percy in a coma. The investigation. Malfoy. All of it now seemed distant, as if separated from her by a layer of fog. And that was exactly the point. That distance, that fog, which allowed her to function.
She exited the stall and approached the mirror. She washed her face with cold water, trying not to look too long at her reflection. She hated what she saw in it—a woman empty inside, a woman who escaped from life into work and potions.
But at least she now looked composed. Professional. As everyone expected her to be.
When she returned to Harry, she felt almost normal. Almost. The thin layer of ice covering all her emotions sometimes cracked at the most unexpected moments. But for now, it was holding.
"Better?" Harry asked, and in his eyes lurked something that looked suspiciously like concern. She didn't need his concern. She just needed him to stop pressing about the Weasleys.
"Yes, much better," she replied, trying to make her voice sound normal. "Sorry about that. Just... you surprised me with that information."
Harry nodded, as if he understood, though Hermione doubted anyone could truly understand the chaos that reigned in her head.
"I understand," he said simply. "But think about it, Hermione. Maybe meeting them would help... everyone?"
She wanted to tell him to stop, to not push, to leave her alone. But that would be rude, unprofessional. And she was always professional.
"I'll think about it," she lied, knowing she had no such intention. "But now we really need to focus on the investigation. Percy, the other victims... something connects them, Harry, and we need to discover what before more cases appear."
It worked. Harry immediately returned his thoughts to the case, and the topic of the Weasleys was set aside. For now. Hermione knew it was only a temporary victory. Sooner or later, the question about Ron's family would arise again. It always did.
But for now she had peace and that delicate cocoon of the potion, which separated her from the worst memories. That had to be enough. She couldn't allow herself more.
"...and that's the most frustrating thing," Harry sighed, running his fingers through his hair in a gesture that always betrayed his nervousness. "No signs of a break-in, no suspicious substances in the tea, no magical residue. Percy just... fell into a coma, like everyone else. Without any reason that..."
She broke off when the door to the room at the end of the corridor suddenly opened. Ginny Potter stood in the doorway, her face pale, eyes reddened from crying, but her posture still proud.
"Harry, Mom is asking if..." she paused when her gaze fell on Hermione. "Hermione? I didn't know you were here."
Hermione felt the Calming Draught suddenly lose its strength. Her heart began to beat faster again. This was Ginny—they saw each other occasionally at Harry's birthdays, sometimes even exchanged letters, but Hermione always made sure the meetings were brief, matter-of-fact, devoid of deeper conversations that might evoke memories.
"I just got a message from Harry," she said quickly. "I came in connection with the investigation. I need to... gather information, compare with other cases."
She began to collect her notes, not looking Ginny in the eye.
"Tell your family I'm very sorry about Percy. We'll do everything in our power to find the cause and..."
"Hermione," Ginny's voice was gentle but firm. "Everyone is there. Mom, Dad, Bill, Charlie, George. Why don't you come for just a moment? Mom was just asking about you."
Hermione froze, feeling panic rising again. She could handle everything else—individual meetings, letters, even brief conversations through the fireplace. But the entire Weasley family together, all in one room, all looking at her, all thinking about Ron...
"I'm sorry, Ginny, but I really can't," she said, trying to make her voice sound confident. "I have to get back to the Ministry, file a report. The sooner we start acting, the better our chances of finding the cause of these comas."
Ginny came closer, placing her hand on her shoulder. It was a simple gesture, but Hermione felt her tense muscles trembling beneath her touch.
"I know it's difficult," she said quietly. "For me too. Every time I see you, I think of him. But running away doesn't help, Hermione. Believe me, I've tried."
"Ginny, that's enough," Harry's voice was gentle but firm. He approached them, placing his hand on his wife's shoulder. "Hermione has the right to decide what she's ready for. If she says she can't meet with the whole family right now, don't pressure her."
Ginny looked at her husband with a mixture of frustration and resignation.
"But Harry, Mom keeps asking..."
"I know," he interrupted her. "And we'll pass on Hermione's regards. We'll explain that she's working on the case and that she'll do everything in her power to help Percy."
Ginny sighed deeply, as if releasing all the tension from herself. She looked at Hermione, and understanding appeared in her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I went too far. All this... Percy, the hospital, memories... It's a bit too much."
"I understand," Hermione replied, feeling immense relief that she wouldn't have to face the entire Weasley family. "I'm really sorry about Percy. I'll do everything I can to solve this case."
Ginny nodded, and then, as if remembering something, asked:
"Hermione, could I ask you for a huge favor? I know it's a bad time, but... Could you look after the children tonight? Molly usually helps us, but now with Percy... We need to be here at the hospital, and Luna is out of the country on an expedition, Angelina has a shift at George's shop, and I really don't have anyone else who..."
"Of course," Hermione replied before she had time to think. Although the panic about meeting the Weasleys still pulsed somewhere on the edges of her consciousness, Harry and Ginny's children were something different. "What time?"
The relief on Ginny's face was so evident that Hermione felt a pang of guilt. She should offer her help more often. She should be a better friend, better...
"Around six?" Ginny asked.
"Yes, sure. I'll prepare a room for them. I still have those toys from last time."
"Great," Ginny nodded. "We should be back by eleven at the latest."
"No problem," Hermione assured her.
"Thank you," Ginny briefly squeezed her hand, and Hermione felt her body involuntarily tense at the contact. "This really means a lot to us. I know we haven't seen each other much lately, but..."
"It's fine," she interrupted, not wanting to expand on the topic of their cooling relationship. "It's a difficult time. We should all help each other."
When Ginny moved away toward the family room, Harry gave Hermione a grateful look.
"Thanks," he said quietly. "I know this isn't easy for you."
"I enjoy their company," she replied honestly. That at least was true—children didn't evoke painful memories. They didn't know Ron, didn't have memories with him, didn't look at her with that mixture of sympathy and regret she saw in the eyes of the adult Weasleys. With children, it was simpler.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was already planning when to take an additional dose of Calming Draught before the children arrived. She needed to be composed. Stable. The way everyone knew her—reliable Hermione Granger.
And then she thought of something else—the small black rose she had expected the previous night. Would it appear today? And if so, what would she do with the children? How would she explain to Ginny and Harry that she suddenly had to leave?
She shook her head, banishing these thoughts. It wouldn't come. Malfoy wouldn't send a rose when she was busy with Percy's case. He was too clever, too cautious.
But what if he did? What would she choose—her toxic addiction or her duty to her friends?
They spent almost another hour analyzing the details of Percy's case and comparing them with the other incidents. In the end, Harry was right—no concrete clues, just more questions and fewer answers.
"I need to get back to the Ministry," Hermione finally said, gathering her notes. "I'll review the laboratory reports on Claritas and let you know if I find anything significant."
"Thanks," Harry squeezed her arm. "And I really appreciate you looking after the boys. Can I take you to dinner as a thank you once we solve this case?"
"No need," she replied, forcing a slight smile. "It's really no trouble."
She said goodbye to Harry and headed toward the elevators. As the car began to descend, she leaned against the wall, closing her eyes for a moment. Too many impressions for one day—the case, the Weasleys, the prospect of caring for children... she felt her emotional reserves slowly depleting.
When the elevator doors opened on the ground floor, she heard her name.
"Hermione! Hermione Granger!"
She turned and saw Parvati Patil running toward her. Her long, dark hair was gathered in a careless bun, and beneath her eyes were shadows—traces of sleepless nights at her sister's bedside.
"Parvati," Hermione greeted her, trying to sound professional despite her fatigue. "How are you feeling?"
"How can one feel," Parvati sighed, waving her hand. "But it's good I ran into you. I was cleaning the apartment yesterday and found something that might be important."
She began searching through her bag and after a moment pulled out a small glass vial, wrapped in a handkerchief.
"It was in a chest under her bed," she explained, handing the vial to Hermione. "I hadn't seen it before, but now I was cleaning to kill time, so... I thought it might be significant."
Hermione took the vial in her hand, turning it carefully. The small, elegant container was empty, but traces of clear liquid remained at the neck. The shape was distinctive—slender, with a delicately engraved leaf pattern on the glass. It immediately reminded Hermione of the vials she had seen in "Claritas" advertisements in the Daily Prophet.
"This could be a very important lead," she said, carefully tucking the vial into the inner pocket of her robe. "Thank you for thinking of it."
Parvati nodded, her eyes full of fatigue and anxiety.
"I'm going to her now," she said quietly. "The Healers say it doesn't make any difference, but... I can't just sit idly at home."
"I understand," Hermione replied, and she truly did understand. The desperation, the need to act, the inevitability of sitting beside someone who doesn't respond. "Let me know if you need anything."
She waited until the elevator doors closed behind Parvati. As soon as she disappeared from view, her professional mask cracked.
"Damn it!" she hissed, clutching the vial so tightly that the glass almost cracked. The fury that had been building during the conversation finally found release. "Damn Malfoy!"
Claritas. A new, revolutionary potion enhancing concentration. The latest product. Billboards everywhere, advertisements in the Prophet. "Claritas—for those who strive for perfection."
Of course it all led to him! To bloody Draco Malfoy, who always had to be at the center of everything. Who ran his network of potion shops, constantly introducing something new to the market, increasingly innovative, increasingly profitable.
"Padma, Percy, Zabini... they were all using Claritas. They were all working on something important. They all fell into comas!" she muttered to herself, pacing around the hospital lobby like a madwoman. "It can't be a coincidence!"
Her mind was working at full capacity, connecting facts. She could swear she had seen a Claritas advertisement on Padma's desk during one of their last conversations. Percy was known for his obsession with efficiency—of course he would use a new concentration potion. And Zabini with his ambitious plans for a Quidditch academy...
"That bastard was experimenting on people!" she hissed, regardless of the surprised looks from passing Healers. "He put a dangerous potion on the market, and then..."
And then what? Why would he do it? What would be his purpose? What did he gain by putting people into comas?
The elevator doors suddenly opened and Hermione saw Harry's familiar silhouette.
"Harry!" she rushed toward him, grabbing him by the shoulders. Her eyes were wild, her hair disheveled, and her breathing accelerated. "Where does Malfoy live?"
"What?" Harry looked at her, disoriented, instinctively placing his hand on her shoulder. "Hermione, what happened?"
"Where does Malfoy live?" she repeated, ignoring his question. Her eyes were wild, almost manic, and her hands clenched into fists were trembling. "The address, Harry. I need the address. Now!"
"Slow down," Harry tried to calm her, looking around nervously. Several people in the lobby were already watching them. "Breathe. What's going on? Why do you need..."
"WHERE DOES MALFOY LIVE?!" she shouted, no longer caring who heard them. Her voice echoed off the marble walls of the hospital lobby. "I see you don't understand the gravity of the situation!"
Harry stepped back, surprised by her outburst.
"Estate in Wiltshire," he finally answered, still looking at her with concern. "New residence on the hill, not the old Malfoy Manor. There was a mention of it in the Prophet a few months ago, remember? But Hermione, you can't just..."
He didn't finish. Hermione suddenly became completely calm, as if some internal switch had been flipped inside her. Her eyes became clear, focused, almost cold.
"Thank you," she said matter-of-factly, stepping back. "That's all I needed."
"Hermione, wait!" Harry grabbed her by the arm, but she pulled away with a decisive movement. "What are you planning to do? If this is related to the investigation, I need to know!"
But Hermione had already turned away. The image from the Prophet was clear in her mind—a modern residence on a hill in Wiltshire, surrounded by iron gates and a hedge of white roses. Ironic, she thought, considering his preference for black ones.
A sufficiently detailed point for Apparition.
Without a word of farewell, without explanation, without a plan—she turned on her heel and disappeared with the characteristic crack, leaving Harry with an outstretched hand and an expression of complete astonishment on his face.
Appearing on the hill was like being hit by cold air—literally and figuratively. The wind lashed her face and tugged at her robes, and in the distance, against the darkening sky, stood the Malfoy residence—exactly as she remembered from the photos. A modern, elegant structure of glass and stone, the complete opposite of the dark Gothic style of the old Malfoy Manor.
Hermione moved forward with determined steps, ignoring the warning pang at the back of her head. What she was doing was insane. Impulsive. Dangerous. Completely unlike the methodical, thoughtful Hermione Granger everyone knew.
But methodical, thoughtful Hermione Granger had died in the dungeons with Ron. Only this one remained—a new version, fueled by fury, potions, and obsession.
When she approached the gate, she sensed strong protective magic—a complex network of security spells. Typical for the properties of high-society wizards—protection against intruders, uninvited guests, journalists.
"Sonitium," she said, pointing her wand at a small brass bell placed at the side of the gate. She cast the spell that made the bell ring quietly, elegantly—as befitting a guest, not an intruder.
She waited. The wind rustled in the treetops, and her mind feverishly prepared arguments, lies, anything that would allow her to get inside.
After a minute that seemed like eternity, she heard a soft "pop" and a small house-elf appeared before the gate, wearing an impeccably clean white pillowcase with the embroidered Malfoy crest.
"How may Mimsy serve?" the elf asked in a squeaky voice, bowing low.
Hermione immediately changed her demeanor. Her squared shoulders dropped, her face softened, and her voice became warm and friendly—completely unlike the furious tone she had used with Harry just moments ago.
"Hello, Mimsy," she said gently, bending slightly to be at the elf's height. "I'm Hermione Granger, Mr. Malfoy's friend. I've come on an important matter."
The elf's eyes widened, examining her carefully.
"Miss Granger? Mimsy has heard of Miss Granger. Miss Granger wanted to free elves," he said, though without any hostility, rather with curiosity.
Hermione smiled, despite her inner anxiety. Even in this situation, there was something moving about the fact that house-elves knew of her work for S.P.E.W.
"Yes, that's me. I only wanted elves to have a choice, Mimsy. To be happy," she said honestly. "Is your master at home? I need to speak with him urgently."
The elf shifted from foot to foot, clearly uncertain.
"Master Malfoy is working. He said not to disturb..."
"It's really important, Mimsy," Hermione leaned even closer, her voice now quiet, almost conspiratorial. "It's about Master Malfoy's potion. There are... problems. People might be in danger. Your master should know about this as soon as possible."
She was betting everything on one card. House-elves were incredibly loyal to their masters. If Mimsy believed that passing on this information would help Malfoy...
As she predicted, the elf's eyes widened with fear, and his long, frail fingers nervously clutched the edge of the pillowcase.
"Problems? Danger?" he repeated in a concerned voice. "Miss Granger must tell master immediately! Mimsy will lead!"
The gate opened with a soft creak. The elf led her along a gravel path toward the house, muttering to himself about "danger" and "poor Master Malfoy."
Hermione felt no remorse for manipulating the elf. Not now, when the stakes were so high. All that mattered was getting to Malfoy and extracting the truth from him—regardless of the means.
The elf led her through a side door straight into the residence. Once inside, Mimsy stopped in a spacious hall.
"Mimsy will inform Master Malfoy of Miss Granger's arrival," he announced, bowing low. "Miss will wait here."
Before she could protest, the elf disappeared with a soft crack, leaving her alone in the enormous, luxurious space.
She looked around slowly. The interior was completely different from the dark, artifact-filled Malfoy Manor she remembered from the war years. Malfoy's new residence was modern, bright, with open space and minimalist decor. High ceilings, cream walls, polished marble floors. Everything emanated cool elegance and perfect taste.
On the walls hung abstract paintings by wizard artists—canvases with forms that moved subtly, changing shapes and colors in a hypnotic rhythm. There were no overwhelming portraits of ancestors, old-fashioned tapestries, or dark artifacts. It was the place of someone who clearly wanted to break from the past.
Her attention was drawn to a small table by the wall, on which stood several framed photographs. She approached closer, curious.
In the first, Draco and an elegant, blonde woman—Celestine—posed against the backdrop of the Eiffel Tower. They were smiling, but even in the photograph it was an official smile, as if intended for publication. The second showed Malfoy in front of a modern building with the sign "Malfoy Potions International." On the third... Hermione felt her heart stop for a moment. Narcissa Malfoy, much older than she remembered, held the hand of a small, perhaps three-year-old girl with fair curls.
Did Malfoy have a child? Why had he never mentioned it?
"That's my niece," a cold, familiar voice cut through the silence. "Daughter of my cousin from France."
Hermione turned abruptly. Draco Malfoy stood at the top of the marble staircase, looking down at her. He wore a dark shirt with rolled-up sleeves and black trousers—clothing more casual than the formal robes in which she usually saw him. He descended a few steps, his movements fluid, controlled.
"What are you doing here, Granger?" he asked, his voice strangely calm, devoid of its usual malice. "Mimsy burst into my laboratory as if the apocalypse itself was about to occur in the next five minutes. What has brought you to my home that has my elf in such a state?"
He hadn't even reached the bottom of the stairs when Hermione erupted.
"YOU!" she shouted, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "You and your damn potion! Padma Patil, Blaise Zabini, Percy Weasley—they're all lying unconscious in St Mungo's! And what connects them? Your fucking Claritas!"
Malfoy stopped mid-step, clearly surprised by her outburst.
"What the—"
"Only today did I find the first concrete lead," she continued, ignoring his attempt to interject. "Parvati discovered a vial among her sister's things. We don't know yet if the others had the same potion, but believe me, I'll find out!"
Her face was now red with anger, and her eyes full of determination. Her hand clenched around her wand trembled with tension, though she still kept it in her robe pocket.
"Were you that desperate to promote your new product?" she asked, taking a step toward him. "Or was it about something more? Padma was working on new import regulations. Percy held a high position at the ministry. Zabini was involved in a project that could bring him fortune and prestige. What did they all know, Malfoy? What did they discover?"
Draco clenched his jaw, and a muscle in his temple twitched dangerously.
"If you would stop for a moment..."
"What? Lying again? Coming up with more excuses?" Hermione raised her voice, no longer able to contain her frustration. "Maybe the potion has some unforeseen side effects? Maybe something went wrong in production?"
Malfoy's face reddened with anger, but she was too consumed by her accusations to notice how much she was balancing on the edge of his patience.
"It's your potion, your responsibility! People are in comas, Malfoy!"
"Granger, if you'll allow me to—" Draco began, clearly struggling to maintain calm.
"No!" she interrupted him immediately, raising her hand in protest. "I don't care about your excuses. I don't care about your lies. For so many years you've been a master of manipulation, but this time it won't work!"
"You have no idea what you're talking about," Draco took a step toward her, his face now red with frustration. "Claritas is—"
"Dangerous!" she cut him off once again. "And I intend to prove it. Harry is already conducting an investigation, aurors will search your laboratories tomorrow, and I will personally ensure that every vial is examined!"
Draco opened his mouth to try to say something again, but Hermione was in such a frenzy that she completely ignored his attempts.
"You know, for a moment I even thought that maybe you had changed," she continued, her voice trembling with emotion. "That maybe this potion business of yours was really an attempt to do something good. But no, a Malfoy will always remain a Malfoy—ruthless, selfish—"
"Is there a particularly important reason why you're shouting at my husband in our own home, Miss Granger? Has the Ministry introduced a new diplomatic protocol? Hysterical accusations in private residences instead of official summons? Or is this just your... personal work style?"
The icy voice with a slight French accent caused Hermione to freeze mid-word. She turned abruptly.
At the top of the stairs stood a slender, elegant woman with porcelain skin and platinum blonde hair styled in an elaborate bun. Celestine Malfoy measured her with a gaze in which condescension mixed with contempt. Every element of her posture—from the slightly raised eyebrow to the delicately contorted lips—expressed sophisticated disapproval.
Hermione felt something heavy drop onto her chest. Malfoy's wife. The woman with whom he spent everyday mornings and evenings. The woman for whom he bought perfumes and flowers. The woman with whom he shared an elegant bedroom and made love on silk sheets, instead of brutally fucking in cheap, dirty hotel rooms. The legal, official part of his life.
"I must have missed some extremely important paragraph of British law," Celestine continued, descending slowly and gracefully, "which allows high officials to make scenes in other people's homes. Or perhaps it's a special privilege of war heroes? Please, enlighten me."
Her tone was polite, almost conversational, which made her words even more crushing.
Hermione, however, instead of feeling ashamed, felt a wave of heat flow through her body. The patronizing tone, her haughty gaze, her perfect appearance—all of it only fueled her fury.
"Paragraph thirty-four of the Wizarding Safety Code," she replied in an icy voice, straightening up. "The head of department has the right to immediate intervention in case of suspected public threat. And Claritas, Mrs. Malfoy, constitutes just such a threat."
Celestine raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the response. She had apparently expected Hermione to burn with shame.
Hermione turned abruptly toward Draco, approaching him by a step. Her eyes blazed with fury.
"Tomorrow morning you'll have an inspection in your office, Malfoy," she hissed through clenched teeth. "Every vial will be confiscated, every document reviewed, every ingredient examined. If even one element of this case is suspicious, if we find even a shadow of a connection between Claritas and these comas—I swear I'll make sure you spend the rest of your life in Azkaban."
Malfoy narrowed his eyes, and that cold smile she knew so well appeared on his face.
"Always so dramatic, Granger," he said quietly.
For a moment she was seized by an almost uncontrollable urge to tear the mask off this couple's perfect marriage—to scream at Celestine that her distinguished husband spent countless nights driving himself into the body of a woman he publicly treated with contempt, that she knew the taste of his sweat and the sound of his moans better than his own wife.
Instead, she appraised the Frenchwoman with a cold look and noticed something she hadn't seen before—a thin, pale scar on her right cheek. It was almost invisible, magically healed, but in the light of the crystal chandeliers it faintly gleamed on her skin.
"Nice memento," she said, nodding toward Celestine's scar. "If you ask him nicely, maybe he'll make you a matching one."
Celestine's face stiffened, and her eyes widened in shock. Draco stepped forward, as if to shield his wife.
"Get out," he said quietly, but every syllable dripped with fury. "Get out before I say something we'll both regret."
Hermione smiled without a trace of amusement, then turned on her heel and headed for the exit. The moment she reached the door, she heard Celestine's voice behind her—quiet, but loud enough for her to hear.
"Mon Dieu, Draco... she's completely insane. Was she always like this?"
She slammed the door so hard that the sound echoed dully throughout the corridor.