Chapter 12
Time in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor flowed differently. Without sunlight, without a clock, without any point of reference, Hermione quickly lost track. She only knew that each passing day drained Ron's strength and her hope.
The guards came rarely, leaving dry, moldy bread and a bowl of water. They never spoke a word, they even avoided looking in their direction, as if they were already dead. Perhaps in their eyes, that's exactly what they were—two lost souls, waiting only for final release.
"You must eat," she kept repeating, holding a piece of bread to Ron's lips.
He shook his head, turning his face away.
"You... eat," he whispered, his voice growing weaker. "You need... strength."
She forced him to drink, holding his head and pouring water in small sips between his cracked lips. It was the only thing he agreed to—as if he instinctively knew that without water he would die faster, and he wanted to stay with her as long as possible.
The wound on his leg wasn't healing. Despite Hermione's efforts to change the makeshift bandage, using more parts of her clothing, the infection was spreading, devouring his body from within. The skin around the stump was hot, swollen, in some places pus mixed with blood oozed from it. The stench of decaying tissue filled the cell, mixing with the smell of dampness and excrement.
One day—perhaps the second, perhaps the fifth—Ron began to run a fever. His skin was a burning desert, his eyes shining with an unnatural brightness. Hermione dabbed his forehead with water from the jug, whispering soothing words that she herself didn't understand.
"Cold," Ron mumbled, shivering despite the fever. "So cold, Hermione."
She held him tighter, sharing the warmth of her own exhausted body.
"I'm here," she whispered, rocking him gently. "I'm with you, Ron."
Drip. Drip. Drip.
That sound became her companion, her clock, her nightmare. The monotonous dripping of water from the cracked ceiling measured the seconds of Ron's life, which were relentlessly slipping away.
The next day, the fever intensified. Ron began to rave. His eyes were open but vacant, his gaze wandering across the cell ceiling, seeing things that weren't there.
"Harry," he mumbled, reaching out a trembling hand into the air. "Harry, watch out. They're coming."
Hermione squeezed his hand, trying to bring him back to reality.
"It's me, Ron. Hermione. Harry isn't here."
But Ron couldn't hear her. He was trapped in a world of delirium, where the battle was still raging, where his friends were in danger.
"Protect Ginny," he said suddenly, his voice surprisingly strong. "Harry, you must protect Ginny. And Hermione. Promise me."
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she nodded, pretending to be Harry.
"I promise, Ron," she whispered. "I'll protect them."
That seemed to calm him. For a moment, his eyes regained lucidity; he looked at her with a faint smile.
"Hermione," he said quietly. "You're here."
"Always," she replied, swallowing tears.
For the rest of the day, he came and went—sometimes recognizing Hermione, other times speaking to her as if she were Harry, Ginny, even his brothers. As if his mind was jumping between times and places, desperately seeking escape from pain and fear.
In the evening—or perhaps it was morning, Hermione wasn't sure anymore—Ron began shaking again. But this time it was different. It wasn't trembling from cold or fever. These were convulsions—violent, uncontrolled spasms that shook his entire body.
"Ron!" Hermione screamed, holding him to prevent his head from hitting the stone floor. "Ron, please!"
But he couldn't hear her. His eyes rolled back, showing the whites, foam mixed with blood flowed from his mouth. The convulsions lasted several minutes, which seemed like an eternity to Hermione. When they finally stopped, Ron collapsed limply in her arms, his breathing shallow and irregular.
"Don't leave me," she begged, holding him to her chest. "Please, Ron, fight. For me. For Harry. For all of us."
But she knew. She knew this was the end. Sepsis, blood poisoning—whatever it was, it was winning. Ron's body was giving up, organ by organ.
That night she didn't sleep. She sat holding him in her arms, listening to his increasingly shallow breathing, feeling his heart beating slower and slower under her hand. She told him stories—about Hogwarts, about their first meeting on the train, about all the adventures they had shared. She didn't know if he could hear her, but she kept talking, as if the words themselves could keep him alive.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Finally, Ron opened his eyes. They were bright and lucid, as if the fever had suddenly subsided. He looked at Hermione with such tenderness that she felt her heart breaking.
"Hermione," he said, his voice barely a whisper.
"I'm here," she answered, squeezing his hand.
"You know...," he began, pausing to catch his breath. "You know that I love you, right?"
Tears flowed down her cheeks, falling onto his face.
"I know," she whispered. "I love you too, Ron. I always have."
He smiled weakly.
"I wish...," another pause for breath, "I wish we had more time."
"We will," she said feverishly. "We'll get out of here. Together. I promise."
Ron shook his head, this simple movement seeming to cost him his remaining strength.
"Not this time, Hermione," he said quietly. "But you... you must live. You promised."
"I promised I'd escape if I had a chance," she replied, her voice breaking. "But I don't have one. And I don't want one without you."
Ron raised a trembling hand to touch her cheek. His fingers were ice-cold.
"You were always... so stubborn," he whispered affectionately. "That's one of the things... I love about you."
Suddenly his body tensed, his face contorted in a grimace of pain.
"Ron!" Hermione cried, holding him tighter.
"Tell Harry...," he gasped as the spasm passed. "Tell him I don't regret it. Not a single moment."
"You'll tell him yourself," she replied, though she knew she was lying. "When we get out of here."
Ron smiled for the last time—a pale, tired smile that nevertheless contained all his love. And then his body relaxed, his breathing stopped, and his eyes—those eyes that had always looked at her with such love—became empty and still.
"No," Hermione whispered, shaking him gently. "No, Ron, please. Don't leave me. Don't leave me alone."
But Ron could no longer hear her. He had gone where she could not follow—at least not yet.
Hermione cradled his body, rocking back and forth, her sobs echoing off the stone walls of the cell. She cried until she had no tears left, until her throat was raw and her eyes swollen. She cried for Ron, for herself, for the life they could have had if the world had been different, if the war hadn't taken everything from them.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Water dripped from the ceiling, indifferent to her suffering, to death, to loss. A monotonous sound that now seemed like mockery—life went on, even when Ron was gone, even when her heart had shattered into pieces.
She didn't know how long she sat holding his body. Hours? Days? Time had lost all meaning. There was only pain—sharp, piercing, all-encompassing.
Finally, she gently laid Ron on the straw. She closed his eyes, folded his hands on his chest. He looked as if he were sleeping—if not for the paleness of his skin, if not for the unnatural stillness of his chest.
"I love you," she whispered, kissing his cold forehead one last time. "I will always love you."
She moved away, leaning her back against the cell wall. The emptiness that filled her was almost physical—as if someone had torn out part of her soul, leaving a bleeding wound that would never heal.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The water dripped incessantly, and she felt as if it wasn't water but blood from her broken heart.
* * *
Kingsley Shacklebolt's office was spacious and elegant, but that morning it seemed decidedly too cramped to Hermione. The three people waiting for the Minister sat in silence, each occupying a strategic point in the room.
Harry stood by the window, staring at the magically generated view of London. His back was stiff, his shoulders tense. Since entering the office, he hadn't spoken a word, not even nodding in her direction.
Draco occupied a chair in the farthest corner, reviewing some documents with such concentration as if they contained the secrets of the universe. Occasionally he would furrow his brow, writing something in the margin with an elegant fountain pen.
Hermione sat at the conference table, arranging her notes in perfectly even stacks. She had prepared carefully for this meeting, knowing she would have to prove her competence—not only to Kingsley, but to herself as well.
The door opened and Kingsley entered, carrying several thick folders.
"Thank you all for coming," he began, taking a seat at the head of the table. "We officially begin the first meeting of the Claritas Investigation Team. Time to take action."
Harry finally turned from the window, but instead of sitting at the table, he leaned against the windowsill, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Miss Granger," Kingsley addressed Hermione. "Please summarize our findings so far."
She nodded, standing and moving the first stack of documents to the center of the table.
"Since Claritas appeared on the market, we have fifty-three coma victims, all still unconscious at St. Mungo's," she began in a confident voice. "Tests have shown that the potion contains dangerously modified ingredients, including a rare subspecies of dragon's blood."
She moved the second stack of documents.
"Harry confirmed that the Romanian company whose name and trademark were used has nothing to do with the production. This is a classic false-flag operation. The potion was distributed through standard distribution channels, with complete documentation that turned out to be perfectly forged. This suggests that someone knows our procedures perfectly."
"Someone from the inside," Harry muttered, speaking for the first time.
"Possible," Hermione agreed. "Or someone who has access to internal information."
Draco finally closed the folder he was reviewing and joined the conversation.
"I've analyzed the potion's composition," he said, not looking at anyone in particular. "It's a sophisticated mixture. Whoever created it is a master of their craft. The level of complexity suggests years of experience."
"And that excludes you from the suspects, Malfoy?" Harry asked sarcastically.
"Potter," Draco raised an eyebrow. "If I had created this potion, it would be perfect. No one would end up in the hospital. Or everyone would die. Depends what my goal would be."
Hermione noticed Kingsley struggling to suppress a smile.
"Enough," the Minister said firmly. "We're here to collaborate. We've received information that may move the investigation forward."
He pulled from his folder a photograph of a small, dingy apothecary. A sign with its name fluttered lightly in the wind.
"This is The Mandrake Apothecary at the end of Knockturn Alley. According to our informant, Claritas can still be obtained there, despite the official ban."
Harry pushed away from the window, clearly interested.
"We'll check it out."
"Precisely," Kingsley agreed. "But it needs to be done discreetly. Undercover. Without badges and official papers."
Hermione nodded, already forming a plan in her head.
"I suggest that Mr. Potter and Miss Granger go there as customers," Kingsley continued. "With the help of Polyjuice Potion, of course. Looking for Claritas for... let's say, their child with learning difficulties."
Harry clenched his jaw, and his fingers gripped the windowsill so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He looked at Draco, who was observing him with an expression bordering on boredom and condescension.
"With all due respect, Minister," he began, weighing each word. "I think my skills would be better utilized elsewhere. I have contacts in Romania who could help trace the source of the potion."
His tone was professional, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees. She knew Harry too well—she knew that behind that polite facade was fury.
"It seems to me that this mission..." Kingsley began, but Harry interrupted him, still maintaining a semblance of calm.
"I received an owl this morning with information about a Romanian lead," he lied smoothly. "This could be a breakthrough. Besides..." he glanced briefly at Hermione, "I'm sure Miss Granger and Mr. Malfoy will manage this task perfectly. After all, they've already... collaborated before."
He pronounced the last word with barely masked bitterness. Hermione felt her cheeks burning.
Kingsley frowned, clearly sensing the tension, but after a moment he nodded.
"All right," he decided. "Check out that Romanian lead."
Harry nodded, and his gaze softened slightly when he turned to Kingsley.
"Thank you, Minister," he said, then headed for the door without a single glance at Hermione.
The door closed behind him with a soft click. Hermione straightened in her chair, pressing her lips into a thin line.
"With all due respect, Minister," she spoke up, trying to control her voice, "but didn't we establish a completely different division of tasks during the banquet? Harry was supposed to work in the field, and Malfoy was supposed to focus on studying the composition and developing an antidote."
Kingsley sighed, interlacing his fingers on the desk.
"The situation is dynamic. We must adapt."
"Adapt?" she repeated in disbelief. "This isn't a matter of adaptation, it's a complete reversal of the plan! Malfoy is a potions master, he should be in the laboratory, not—"
"Keep talking like that and I'll think you'll miss me, Granger," Draco interrupted her, a note of amusement in his voice. He leaned back comfortably in his chair, looking decidedly too pleased with himself.
She measured him with a sharp look.
"Don't be ridiculous," she replied coldly. "It's about effectively utilizing the team's skills. You should be working on the antidote, not pretending to be... who exactly are we supposed to be in this apothecary?"
"A pair of desperate parents?" Draco suggested, raising an eyebrow. He looked as if this thought gave him a peculiar pleasure. "Husband and wife seeking help for their child? That's the most credible cover."
Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but Kingsley was faster.
"Malfoy is right," he stated firmly. "A couple will arouse less suspicion. And as for the change in task assignments..." the Minister looked meaningfully at Draco, "Mr. Malfoy himself suggested that he could participate in this field mission."
She turned abruptly toward Draco, who was no longer hiding his smile. He sat relaxed, playing with his expensive pen.
"Really, Malfoy?" she asked in disbelief. "Suddenly you yearned for fieldwork? You, who always strived for elegant solutions away from the dirt?"
"What can I say?" he shrugged, his eyes flashing with something she couldn't read. "People change. Besides, a little variety will do me good after yesterday spent at St. Mungo's."
He put down his pen, and his smile became almost predatory.
"Don't complain, Granger," he added casually. "I'll have a little fun outside the laboratory. And you'll finally be able to see how someone who isn't Potter works. Maybe you'll learn something."
Hermione straightened in her chair and looked directly at Kingsley.
"Minister, I register an official objection," she said in a tone she used in court. "I fear my colleague is not of sound mind. His sudden desire for fieldwork is clearly a symptom of some disorder."
"Note that this was just said by someone who recently defended me before the entire Wizengamot," Draco replied, shaking his head. "Make up your mind, Granger. Am I a dangerous criminal or a mentally unstable lunatic?"
"One doesn't exclude the other, Malfoy," she shot back instantly.
"Enough," Kingsley interrupted them, this time not hiding his amusement. "The decision has been made. Tomorrow at 10, you'll meet in the Special Operations Department to collect the Polyjuice Potion and other materials. Today, develop a plan."
Hermione nodded stiffly, gathering her notes with exaggerated care. She didn't trust herself enough to look at Draco.
"In that case, I suggest we start planning, Mr. Malfoy," she pronounced the last two words with greater emphasis. "Unless you have more pressing matters?"
"Nothing more pressing than a national crisis, Granger," he replied, but there was no longer sarcasm in his voice, just a strange intensity that made her look at him despite herself. "Lead the way."
Kingsley watched them as they left his office. Hermione felt her heart accelerating, despite her best efforts to stay calm. She would spend the entire day alone with Draco Malfoy, devising an undercover mission plan.
And tomorrow they would have to pretend to be a couple buying an illegal potion.
Life could be ironic.
The next day, she waited impatiently in a small office in the Special Operations Department. The Polyjuice Potion was already working—she felt the characteristic tingling under her skin that always accompanied transformation. She examined herself in a small mirror she had brought.
Looking back at her from the reflection was a woman around thirty—with soft, shoulder-length brown hair, hazel eyes, and a lightly freckled face. She looked... ordinary. Exactly how someone who doesn't want to attract attention should look. Average height, average figure, nothing special.
"Perfect cover," she thought, adjusting her new clothing, also provided by the Ministry—a modest floral dress, beige coat, and comfortable shoes. Everything perfectly suited to the person she was now pretending to be—Kate Jenkins, housewife.
The bathroom door opened, and Hermione turned, waiting for her mission partner to appear.
She froze.
From the bathroom emerged a tall, athletically built man with dark, slightly wavy hair and intensely blue eyes. He had a clearly defined jaw, straight nose, and lips that even in a dispassionate expression seemed to be slightly smiling. He was dressed in well-tailored dark pants and a gray shirt that emphasized the width of his shoulders.
Draco Malfoy, hidden under this new shell, raised an eyebrow in a familiar gesture that seemed strangely mismatched with this new, handsome face.
"What is it, Granger?" he asked, his voice also different—slightly deeper, with a subtle accent she couldn't place. "See something you like?"
Hermione narrowed her eyes, controlling her expression.
"Yes, the very beautiful door behind you," she answered acidly. "I wonder if it leads to a room where they keep Polyjuice Potions for the privileged. Because we clearly weren't using the same supplies."
Draco laughed, running his hand through his dark hair, which immediately returned to its perfect arrangement.
"Not my fault your gaze stopped on those papers describing 'average, unattractive woman who doesn't attract attention,'" he replied, putting on his jacket in one fluid motion. "I chose a more... ambitious option."
"Ambitious?" she snorted. "More like idiotic. We were supposed to not draw attention to ourselves, and you look like a model from the cover of 'Witch Weekly'!"
"Thank you," he replied with a smile that made his new face even more irritatingly handsome. "I appreciate the compliment."
"That wasn't a compliment, Malfoy," she growled, grabbing her purse. "It was criticism of your ability to perform basic operational work. But what can you expect from someone who's spent his entire life shining in a crowd?"
Draco—or rather Marcus Wilson, as his false identity stated—shrugged, still smiling.
"Everyone has their methods, darling," he said, pronouncing the last word with exaggerated emphasis. "And since we're pretending to be a couple, I have to be convincing as your husband. Who would believe that such an average guy like... I don't know, Ronald Weasley... could win you over?"
Hermione froze, feeling the blood drain from her face. He should never, ever have mentioned Ron. It was too personal, too painful, too...
"You've crossed a line, Malfoy," she said quietly, her new voice sounding strangely foreign even to herself.
A shadow passed across Draco's face—the first sign that he might regret his words. But the moment passed as quickly as it had appeared.
"You're right," he said stiffly. "That was unnecessary."
Hermione nodded, accepting the 'apology,' but the atmosphere became even more tense. She checked the time.
"We have forty-five minutes before the potion starts to lose its potency," she said matter-of-factly. "Let's review the plan. We're married. Our son has learning problems, we need something to help him."
"And if the apothecary asks why we're not going through official channels?" asked Draco, getting into character.
"We'll say we've tried, but the bureaucracy takes too long, and our son has important exams in two weeks."
"Good," Draco nodded. "And if he's suspicious?"
"We'll offer more money," Hermione replied. "And suggest discretion. Everyone likes discreet, wealthy clients."
"Speaking from experience?" Draco asked with a crooked smile.
Hermione ignored the jab.
"Ready, Mr. Wilson?" she asked, offering her hand in a forced gesture.
"As always, Mrs. Wilson," he replied, taking her hand. His grip was strong and sure, exactly as she remembered.
They disapparated with a soft crack, landing in a narrow alley near Knockturn Alley.
Time to begin the mission.
Knockturn Alley hadn't changed much since the war. Despite the Ministry's efforts to "clean up" this part of magical London, the street still emanated darkness and danger. Narrow, crooked buildings leaned toward each other as if exchanging secret messages above the heads of passersby. Shop windows were dark, often covered with dirty curtains, behind which loomed disturbing shapes of merchandise.
"Stay close," Draco muttered, embracing her at the waist with a gesture meant to look protective. His hand rested on her hip in a disturbingly familiar way.
"You don't need to instruct me," she replied quietly. "I've been here before. And unlike you, not to go shopping."
The corner of his mouth twitched, but he suppressed a smile.
"Be nice, darling," he said louder, in case someone was watching them. "We'll be there soon."
The Mandrake Apothecary was located in one of the side alleys of Knockturn. Unassuming, with a faded sign on which one could barely recognize the outline of a mandrake root. The windows were so dirty that it was impossible to see what was inside.
Draco pushed the heavy, creaking door. The bell at the entrance chimed softly, but it sounded like a false note in the gloomy symphony of this place.
The interior was exactly as one might expect—dark, filled with the smell of herbs, mold, and something that Hermione preferred not to identify. Shelves were bending under the weight of jars with ingredients, and rows of bottles of various shapes and colors stood in glass cabinets.
Behind a high counter stood an older man with a face so wrinkled that he resembled a dried plum. He had thinning, gray hair and eyes that seemed too large behind thick glasses.
"How may I help you?" he asked, and his voice reminded Hermione of the rustle of dry leaves.
Draco stepped forward, placing his hand on the counter with a gesture that suggested confidence and money.
"We're looking for something special," he said in an ostentatious whisper. "Our son has... learning problems. Exams coming up soon."
The old apothecary didn't answer immediately. Instead, he narrowed his eyes behind the thick glasses, examining them long and carefully. His wrinkled hand slowly slid under the counter, where—Hermione was certain—he must have kept his wand.
"Lots of people asking for 'something special' lately," he finally said, measuring his words. "Especially those who've never set foot in here before."
He ran his eyes over their carefully chosen clothes.
"And they all have some son, daughter, grandmother, or mother with problems," he added, shaking his head. "Strange times have come. Very strange."
Hermione felt her stomach tying into a knot. The apothecary suspected them.
"I don't understand your insinuations," Draco replied, perfectly mimicking offended dignity. "If you don't want to sell us the potion, just say so."
The old man laughed hoarsely.
"And what potion did you have in mind, Mr...?"
"Wilson," Draco replied quickly. "Marcus Wilson. And this is my wife, Kate."
"Wilson," the apothecary repeated, as if tasting the name and finding it distasteful. "And you're looking for a concentration potion for your son, is that right? Perhaps we should just ask about Claritas, hmm?"
He pronounced the last word almost in a whisper, and his eyes narrowed even more.
"How did you know that's what we were thinking of?" Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows in feigned surprise.
"Because that's all people like you ask about nowadays," the apothecary muttered. "In suits and dresses worth more than my monthly takings. With hair too well-styled and hands too smooth. The Ministry thinks I'm stupid?"
Draco sighed heavily, exchanging glances with Hermione.
"All right," he said quietly, leaning over the counter. "We don't have a son. But we're not from the Ministry either."
"Marcus..." Hermione began warningly, perfectly slipping into the role of a wife concerned about her husband's talkativeness. Although she didn't have to pretend to be concerned. She didn't know what would pop into his head.
"Relax, Kate. The apothecary doesn't believe us anyway," Draco replied, then turned again to the older man. "The truth is that... we need this potion for personal reasons."
"Personal?" the apothecary repeated skeptically. "What kind of personal?"
Draco glanced at her hesitantly, then back at the apothecary.
"It's embarrassing," he admitted, lowering his voice. "But... my wife and I, well... we have a certain arrangement."
"Arrangement?" the apothecary raised his eyebrows so high they disappeared under wisps of gray hair.
"Kate meets with... other men," Draco explained, and his voice sounded so sincere that Hermione had to stop herself from rolling her eyes. "And I... observe."
The apothecary froze, clearly surprised by this confession. His hand emerged from under the counter.
"That's... unusual," he said cautiously.
"But exciting," Draco added with a smile that had something perverse about it. "The problem is that Kate sometimes... loses focus. She worries about someone catching us, thinks about the consequences. And that ruins all the fun."
"And you think Claritas will help?" the apothecary asked, his voice now more disgusted than suspicious.
"We've heard it works wonders," Hermione replied, deciding to join this absurd farce. "It allows you to focus only on... pleasure."
The old man shook his head, but a barely perceptible smile appeared on his lips.
"Young people," he muttered. "In my day, Firewhiskey and a Silencing Charm were enough."
He ran his hand over his chin, clearly considering their request.
"Unfortunately, I don't have Claritas anymore," he said after a moment. "The Ministry... confiscates all supplies as soon as they learn about them. Too many spies everywhere."
Draco nodded with understanding.
"I see," he replied, and his disappointment seemed genuine. "That's too bad. We'll have to go back to the old methods."
They were about to turn away when the apothecary cleared his throat discreetly.
"Although..." the old man began, "if you really care about Claritas, I know someone who might have what you're looking for."
He pulled a small piece of parchment from under the counter and began scribbling something on it.
"It's a shop with imported ingredients," he explained quietly. "The owner brings in various... exotic things. Sometimes he has access to special mixtures."
He handed the note to Draco, who accepted it with obvious gratitude.
"Mention Herbert Mulpepper," the old apothecary added. "And be discreet. Very discreet."
"Thank you," Draco replied, slipping the parchment into his pocket. "We appreciate your help."
"And your discretion," Hermione added with a smile that was meant to be seductive.
The apothecary merely shrugged.
"Everyone has their... interests," he muttered. "Who am I to judge?"
When they left the apothecary, Draco was still embracing Hermione with his arm in a gesture that was supposed to look intimate. Only when they found themselves in a safe alley did he move away from her.
"A marital arrangement? I entertain myself with men, and you watch? Seriously?" she hissed as soon as they were certain no one could hear them. "That was your brilliant solution?"
"It worked, didn't it?" he replied with a smile that seemed too satisfied. "He stopped suspecting we were from the Ministry. And that was the point."
"There were hundreds of other possible excuses," she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. "You had to choose that one?"
Draco raised an eyebrow.
"And what better idea did you have?" he asked. "Say that we're looking for a potion because I suffer from a rare disease that makes me forget my own name? Or that we're food critics and need to sharpen our senses? The old man was suspicious. We needed something that would completely surprise him."
Hermione sighed, knowing he was right.
"Fine," she conceded. "But next time, I come up with the cover."
"So you can say we're potion researchers writing an academic paper?" Draco snorted. "That would be so... predictable."
He pulled the parchment from his pocket and looked at the address.
"Oriental Imports," he read. "That's a shop near Gringotts."
"Let's get back to the Ministry," Hermione decided, glancing at her watch. "The potion will stop working in a few minutes, and we need to prepare for the meeting with the owner of this shop."
Draco nodded and extended his hand to disapparate. She placed her hand on his, trying to ignore the feeling that flowed through her at this simple touch. With a soft crack, they disappeared, leaving behind an empty alley.
Upon returning to the Ministry, they immediately went to Kingsley's office. Hermione could feel the Polyjuice Potion beginning to lose its power—her skin was tingling, and bones were shifting uncomfortably beneath her skin as she slowly returned to her true form.
"We have a contact," Draco announced as soon as the door closed behind them.
Kingsley, sitting behind his desk, looked up from his documents.
"So quickly?" he asked, putting down his pen. "I thought it would take you more time."
"All thanks to... Malfoy's creative story," Hermione replied, unable to suppress her sarcastic tone. She had just completed her transformation—she was herself again.
"We'll tell it at the next social dinner," Draco muttered to Kingsley with a crooked smile. "What matters is that the apothecary gave us a contact used by clients looking for Claritas."
He placed a small piece of parchment on the desk.
"Oriental Imports," Kingsley read, furrowing his brow. "That shop with exotic ingredients on Diagon Alley? We know it. The owner has all the necessary licenses."
"It can't be a coincidence. We need to talk to him as soon as possible."
"If the apothecary warns him, we'll lose the element of surprise," Draco pointed out. "Better to keep operating undercover."
Kingsley thought for a moment, then nodded.
"You're right," he agreed. "You've already proven yourselves in this role. You can set out when you're ready."
They went directly to the Ministry's potion storeroom. Kingsley gave them a golden badge that provided access to special resources.
"Two hours should be enough for a visit to the shop," Hermione said, glancing at her watch. "Let's meet at the exit in fifteen minutes."
"Don't be late, Granger," Draco replied, heading toward the men's section of the storeroom.
Fifteen minutes later, she stood at the side exit of the Ministry, waiting for Draco. She felt strange in her new body—differently balanced, taller, aware of the glances she attracted from passing ministry employees.
The door opened, and there stood a tall, athletically built man with light, almost platinum hair and intensely green eyes. Draco. His new form had something familiar about it—the same loftiness of posture, though in a more physical, less aristocratic version.
He stopped when he saw her, and his gaze slowly moved from her face downward, across her entire figure.
"What?" she asked, feeling a strange tingling under his gaze.
"Nothing," he replied, still examining her. "Interesting choice."
Hermione involuntarily looked at her reflection in the door's glass. Looking back at her was a tall, slender woman with olive skin and dark, almost black hair that fell in waves to the middle of her back. She had large, brown eyes surrounded by thick lashes, high cheekbones, and full lips. The body was slim, but with perfect proportions.
"I'm starting to wonder if you actually enjoy this game," Draco observed, standing beside her.
"This isn't a game, Malfoy," she replied coolly, though she couldn't deny there was something exciting about being someone completely different. "It's a mission. Let's go, the shop will only be open for two more hours."
"As you wish, Miss...?" he asked as they headed toward the disapparation point.
"Blackwood," she answered. "Laura Blackwood. And you?"
"James Carter," he introduced himself, extending his hand in a pretend greeting. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Blackwood."
"Remember," she ignored his hand. "We're there for information. We need to find out where the owner gets Claritas and who else is involved."
"I know how to complete a mission, Granger," he replied, his voice suddenly serious. "This isn't my first assignment of this kind."
Hermione raised her eyebrows, surprised.
"You've been in the field before?" she asked.
"There are many things you don't know about me," he replied enigmatically as they reached the disapparation point.
A moment later, they appeared on Diagon Alley. They walked side by side, not touching, but close enough to give the impression of a couple. Hermione was very aware of the glances they attracted—both she in her new, attractive body, and Draco, now drawing even more attention than usual.
"Get ready," Draco muttered as they approached a small, elegant shop with the sign "Oriental Imports." "The owner has always been intelligent. This won't be an easy conversation."
"Did you know him from school?" Hermione asked, glancing at him from the corner of her eye.
"Sufficiently," he replied briefly. "He kept to himself, even among Slytherins. But he always knew what was going on."
Hermione nodded, accepting this information. They stopped in front of the entrance, where through the display window they could see the inside of the shop. Behind a tall, richly decorated counter stood a young man, not much older than her, with dark hair and a concentrated expression. He was currently serving an elderly witch, packaging some exotic-looking herbs for her.
"Change of plan," she said suddenly. "I'll go in alone."
"What?" he frowned. "No way. We go together, as planned."
"Think logically," she replied, discreetly pointing to the owner. "He's young. I have a better chance of getting information out of him on my own."
Draco looked through the window, then at Hermione in her new body, and his lips tightened into a narrow line.
"It's too risky," he stated firmly. "We don't know if he has security, if the shop is being monitored. Besides, our cover..."
"I can be a lone customer," she interrupted him. "It's not a problem. Wait here, I'll have a better chance if I go in alone."
"Granger," Draco's voice lowered to a warning whisper. "This is not a good idea. We should stick together."
"Why?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "Are you afraid I can't handle it? Or maybe you don't trust me enough to let me act independently? Wait outside. If I don't come out in twenty minutes, then you can intervene."
Without waiting for his response, she opened the door and entered the shop. The bell at the entrance chimed softly, drawing the owner's attention. Hermione noticed over her shoulder how Draco cursed under his breath, then moved toward the neighboring shop where he could observe the entrance.
The interior of "Oriental Imports" surprised Hermione with its elegance. She had expected something like the gloomy Borgin and Burkes shop, but instead found herself in a carefully arranged place that resembled an exclusive boutique more than an ingredients shop. The shelves and display cases were made of dark wood, and the lighting was subtle but sufficient to highlight the beauty of the displayed goods.
The shop owner looked at her from behind the counter. For a fraction of a second, an expression of genuine surprise appeared on his face, quickly replaced by a professional smile.
"Good day," he greeted her, his voice low and melodious. "How may I help you?"
Hermione approached the counter slowly, consciously allowing herself a slight smile. It had been so long since she had last tried to be... charming. Since Ron's death, she hadn't flirted with anyone. She didn't know if she could still do it.
"I'm looking for something special," she replied, leaning lightly against the counter. "Something that can't be found in ordinary shops."
The man examined her carefully, as if trying to guess her intentions.
"We have many rare ingredients," he said cautiously. "Some imported directly from Asia and Africa. Do you have a specific ingredient in mind?"
She tilted her head slightly, allowing her long, dark hair to fall on one shoulder. This body she was in was a tool—she knew that, but still felt strange using it this way. As if she were betraying herself, her seriousness, her intelligence, for the sake of trivial femininity.
"I've heard about a potion that supposedly works wonders," she said quietly, leaning a bit closer. "Claritas."
The man's face stiffened, but he didn't look away.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," he replied, though his eyes betrayed something else.
"Really?" Hermione raised an eyebrow, allowing herself a slight smile. "That's interesting. Herbert Mulpepper was convinced you would be able to help me."
At the sound of the name, the man narrowed his eyes, examining her even more carefully.
"Old Herbert always liked to joke," he muttered, but his tone became more open. "Why are you looking for this potion in particular? There are many legal alternatives."
She ran her finger along the smooth surface of the counter, frantically thinking about her answer. How long had it been since she'd played these games! Seduction, flirtation, all those subtle signals people send each other. Since Ron's death, her life had been devoid of this dimension—there was only pain, work, and that self-destructive arrangement with Draco. She had almost forgotten what it was like to talk to a man this way.
"I was told it's exceptionally effective," she answered, raising her eyes and meeting his gaze. "My... occupation requires complete concentration, and lately I find it hard to focus."
"What occupation would that be, if I may ask?" he asked, and something that might be interest appeared in his voice.
"I'm a reporter," she lied smoothly. "I'm working on a book. The deadline is approaching, and I have... writer's block."
The owner nodded, as if this explanation made sense to him.
"I understand," he said, and then, after a brief pause: "Claritas is an experimental potion. It was available for a short time, but after... incidents, the Ministry banned its distribution."
"I'm aware of the risks," she replied, leaning even closer. She felt strange, manipulating her body—or rather, someone else's body—to obtain information. But she had to admit it was working. The man was clearly reacting to her proximity.
"Even so," he continued, his voice becoming quieter, "we're talking about a serious violation of the law. If I were really selling this potion—and I'm not confirming that I am—it would be a crime punishable by Azkaban."
"Old Herbert wouldn't have sent me to you if he wasn't certain..." she began, but the man raised his hand, interrupting her.
"I'm not saying I can't help," he explained. "Just that I need to be sure you're not working with the Aurors. I have to protect my business."
"I understand," she lifted the corner of her mouth slightly. "What can I do to convince you?"
The man observed her for a longer moment, as if considering different options.
"Perhaps you'd care to reveal what book you're working on?" he asked. "I've always liked literature."
Hermione hesitated. This was a test—he was checking if her cover was solid.
"It's a historical novel," she replied fluently. "About Morgan Le Fay. I'm trying to capture her complexity—she was neither a villain nor a hero, but everything in between."
"Fascinating," the owner murmured, and his gaze softened somewhat. "I've always thought that the history of our world is written by the victors, who too often simplify the motives of the losers."
"Exactly!" Hermione allowed herself genuine enthusiasm. "That's why I want to show her true story, without prejudice. But lately I can't concentrate. Too many... distracting thoughts."
The owner looked at her for another moment, then nodded, as if he'd made a decision.
"I think I may have what you're looking for," he finally said. "But you'll have to wait. I'll check in the back."
He glanced at the door, then back at Hermione.
"Is someone accompanying you?" he asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.
"No," she lied without blinking. "I'm alone."
He nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer.
"In that case, please wait a moment," he said, coming out from behind the counter. "I'll check our stock."
As he passed by her, she caught the subtle scent of expensive perfume. It wasn't unpleasant, but it evoked a strange feeling of discomfort in her. As if she were playing in a play for which she didn't know the script.
"Please make yourself comfortable," the man added before disappearing through the door leading to the back room. "I'll be right back."
As soon as the door closed behind the owner, Hermione quickly looked around the shop. She didn't have much time. What should she check first? Maybe the counter? There might be some documents there, a customer list, anything that would help them understand who else was buying Claritas.
Or perhaps the cabinets along the wall? The glass display cases looked locked, but she knew a few simple spells that could open them without leaving traces.
She hesitated for a few seconds, wondering if she would even have time to check anything before the man returned with the potion. If he caught her searching the shop, the entire mission would be wasted...
Suddenly, a muffled cry and a dull thud came from behind the back room door. Hermione froze, listening. After a moment, she heard the sound of something being knocked over and another, muffled shout.
Without thinking further, she drew her wand and moved toward the door leading to the back room. She pushed it carefully, prepared for anything.
Behind the door was a small stockroom—a cramped space with several shelves filled with boxes and vials. At the other end of the stockroom, she saw doors wide open to the outside. Cool air was rushing in, moving some loose papers on a desk against the wall.
She heard another thud, this time clearly coming from the alley behind the shop. Without hesitation, she moved in that direction, running through the stockroom and jumping out through the back door.
The narrow alley between buildings was poorly lit, but what she saw left no doubt. The shop owner was lying on the ground, his face pale, eyes widened with fear. Next to him were overturned boxes and vials of ingredients, several of them broken. Above him stood Draco—still in his new form—with his wand pointed at the man's throat.
Malfoy looked at her with a smile that was too familiar to belong to James Carter's face.
"I think I'm actually quite good at fieldwork, don't you?" he asked with a mischievous glint in his eye.
Hermione stood in the doorway with disbelief painted on her face. She felt a mixture of irritation and—though reluctantly admitting it—relief that Draco had ignored her order.
"You were supposed to wait outside," she replied, approaching closer with her wand extended. "What happened?"
"Our new friend apparently realized you weren't an ordinary customer," he explained, not losing his self-assured smile. "I saw through the storeroom window how he was hurriedly packing up. With this."
He nodded toward a small bag filled with vials that lay a few feet away, apparently dropped during the struggle.
"Claritas," he added, noticing her questioning look. "He was trying to escape with the evidence. Lucky I decided to ignore your order and check the back exit, isn't it?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she crouched next to the fallen man, took over from Draco, and placed her wand against the owner's throat.
"Listen to me carefully," she said in a quiet, controlled voice. "I don't have time or patience for games. You will tell me everything you know about Claritas now. Who supplies it to you? When do you receive deliveries? In what quantities? Who else is involved in distribution?"
She pressed her wand into his throat with each question.
"I don't... I don't know..." stammered the man, his eyes widening with fear.
"Don't lie," she hissed. "You have a bag of vials. Where did you get them? Who is your supplier?"
"I..." the man suddenly trembled, and his face contorted in a grimace. Tears welled up in his eyes. "I really don't know!"
She pressed further, but to her surprise, the shop owner completely broke down. Big tears flowed down his face, smearing across his cheeks. He sobbed so intensely that his entire body shook, and his words were barely comprehensible between spasmodic breaths.
"I b-bought a s-supply!" he choked out between sobs. "When it was s-still legal! I swear! I don't know any m-manufacturers!"
She looked at Draco, clearly surprised by the man's reaction. He also seemed thrown off—they had prepared for resistance, threats, negotiations... but not for such an emotional collapse.
"Why are you crying?" Hermione asked, softening her tone somewhat, though her wand still remained at his throat.
"I don't want to go to Azkaban!" the man wailed, and a new wave of tears flowed down his face. "I have a wife! And a little son! He's three years old! Who will take care of them if I'm locked up?"
He was now sobbing openly, completely ignoring the wand that was still at his throat. His reaction was so authentic and unexpected that even Draco looked uncomfortable.
"I bought Claritas legally when it first appeared," he continued, trying to catch his breath between sobs. "Everyone wanted it, it was a hit! I bought a larger supply because it was selling well. And then... then those comas started... and the Ministry banned it..."
"So you continued selling illegal merchandise?" she pressed, but her voice had lost its earlier sharpness.
"What was I supposed to do?" the man cried. "I invested all my savings! And customers kept coming, offering three times more than before! I just... just wanted to earn a better life for Timmy..."
"Timmy?" Draco repeated skeptically.
"My son," the man reached with a trembling hand into his robe pocket. "I have a picture... may I?"
Hermione withdrew her wand an inch, allowing him to reach into his pocket. He took out a moving photograph of a smiling toddler with curly hair, waving a little hand at the photographer.
"This is Timmy," he said, his voice breaking on his son's name. "And his mother, my Sarah."
Next to the boy stood a young woman with a gentle smile.
Hermione looked at the photograph, then at the tearful face of the man, and something in her eyes changed.
"All right, we're taking him to the Ministry," she said matter-of-factly to Draco, standing up. "It's another dead end. He fell apart too easily."
"What?" the shop owner looked at her in disbelief, still clutching the picture of his son. "But I told you everything! I swear!"
"Perhaps. But it's equally possible that this is a perfectly staged performance. These tears, the family story... Too convenient. Too formulaic."
She turned to Draco again.
"I'll call the Aurors to search the entire shop thoroughly," she continued. "There are surely more traces here than this one vial. And him," she nodded toward the owner, "secure him. They'll interrogate him officially at the Ministry."
"But what about my family?" the man moaned, trying to get up. "What about Timmy? You promised..."
"We didn't promise anything," Hermione interrupted him. "And if you're really telling the truth, you have nothing to fear. The Ministry will take your cooperation into account."
Hermione returned to her apartment late in the evening, exhausted both physically and mentally. The effect of the Polyjuice Potion had worn off during the interrogation of the shop owner at the Ministry, and the formalities related to his temporary detention dragged on for hours. Kingsley was pleased with their progress, but she felt only exhaustion.
She closed the door behind her, threw her bag on the floor, and lit the lights with one wave of her wand. Her apartment was quiet and empty, as always. She took off her coat, put her wand on the table by the entrance, and then she saw it.
The black rose.
It lay in the middle of the coffee table in the living room, perfectly black, with drops of dew still glistening on the velvety petals. The same as all the previous ones she had received over the past months.
Her heart stopped, then accelerated violently. Her hands began to tremble, but not due to lack of calming potion. Because of a mixture of fear, excitement, and something she didn't want to name.
"This is impossible," she whispered to the empty apartment, slowly approaching the table.
After everything that had happened—after the trial, after their recent meetings, after the search of his estate... after how tenderly he had embraced Celestine at the banquet... And yet, there it was. The black rose. Their signal.
With trembling breath, she reached for the flower. Hesitantly, she touched the velvety petals, prepared for the familiar flash of magic.
The rose trembled, but did not turn to ash—it transformed into parchment. This was a real letter, elegant and ornate. And on it—the handwriting she would recognize anywhere. The sharp, decisive letters of Draco Malfoy.
Granger,
Our past is complicated, even by wizarding world standards. There's no point denying it. But now we face a new challenge as colleagues. For the good of the investigation, I suggest we leave the past behind.
What was between us should remain in those anonymous hotel rooms. I am ready to behave professionally if you are.
Time to move forward.
D.M.
P.S. Let this rose be the last from our past.
Hermione read the letter over and over, and each word drove into her heart like an icy shard.
"Time to move forward," she repeated in a whisper, her voice breaking on the last word.
She slowly sank onto the couch, still clutching the parchment in her hands. The rational part of her mind—the one that always planned, analyzed, and made logical decisions—said this was good. It was wise, mature, and responsible. Draco was right. They were now colleagues. They should leave behind this toxic, destructive relationship that brought more suffering than joy.
But another part of her—the one she so desperately tried to suppress with potions—screamed in pain.
Because what did she have left? What did she have in life besides this perverse game with Draco? Work that had long lost its meaning and had become just a way to occupy her mind. Friendships that had shrunk and faded after Ron's death. An empty apartment where the echo of her steps was the only sound breaking the silence.
And vials of potions. The only way to survive the nights.
Those meetings with Draco—brutal, humiliating, devoid of tenderness—were the only thing that reminded her she was still alive. The only thing that broke through all the emotions.
And now even that was about to end.
Tears, which she didn't expect she still had, began to flow down her cheeks. She cried silently, as she had learned to cry after Ron's death, when she discovered that loud sobbing only deepened the feeling of loneliness.
"It's good," she tried to convince herself, wiping away tears with a trembling hand. "It's the right decision. An end to a toxic relationship. An end to self-destruction."
But the more she repeated it, the less she believed it.
Because if this was the end, then what was to come now? What was to fill this emptiness? Who would look at her the way Draco did—seeing all her secrets, all her dark desires, all her weaknesses, and still coming back for more?
She crumpled the letter in her hand, then immediately straightened it out, smoothing the creases with exaggerated care. She folded it into four and put it in her pocket.
She needed a potion. Now. Immediately. A double dose.
But when she reached for the cabinet where she kept her mixtures, her hand stopped halfway. The memory of Draco's cold smile as he held her empty vial like a trophy pierced her through.
"Consider who's really destroying you, Granger," he had said then. "Me? Or perhaps you yourself, with each successive vial?"
And now he was ending their arrangement, as he had done before, and again she was alone.
Alone with her demons, alone with her potions, alone with her guilt and shame, alone with memories of Ron and all those she had failed.
Did she really have a choice? Could she refuse? Write a response saying that no, she wasn't ready to leave the past behind? That his tender hands on Celestine's body still haunted her? That every thought of him with his wife made her nauseous?
No. That would be beneath her dignity. Even in this destroyed, empty shell she had become, there still remained a shadow of former Hermione Granger's pride.
She would respond to him. Professionally. Agree to everything. And she would have to learn to live without this last, toxic connection that kept her alive.
She had to find another way to survive.
But for now, tonight, she could allow herself weakness. To mourn the loss of something that never had a name, should never have existed, and yet had become the central point of her survival.
"The end," she whispered, looking at the parchment she was holding in her hands again. "This is the real end."
She sat like that for a long time, until dawn began to penetrate through the curtains, and her tears had long dried, leaving only an empty shell that she would now have to fill with something new.