In Two Minds

Hermione had barely slept that night. The hours dragged on, each one more restless than the last. Every time she closed her eyes, the image of Daphne—her quick, desperate movements as she slipped away from the Aurors—flashed in her mind. It gnawed at her, the quiet, insistent pull to find Draco, to demand answers. Her thoughts were a tangle of confusion and dread, the weight of everything happening around her settling heavily on her chest.

But every time she thought about it, the walls around her—built from her carefully cultivated distance and discipline—seemed to shrink. There was something about the way he'd looked at her in the Ministry, something that made her feel as though, even if she found the answers, she wouldn’t know what to do with them.

Her mind was fighting a battle between her instincts and her reason, and neither side was willing to back down. But what could she do? She couldn’t just waltz into his life again, demanding answers like some vindictive ex-classmate. It wasn’t as simple as that. It never had been.

That evening, after another day at the Ministry, she’d stayed behind in a quiet corner of the building, hoping to catch some hint of the truth. Maybe she could sneak past the tight security, get a glimpse of the Severed Floor. But instead of answers, she found herself watching from the shadows, her heart pounding in her chest.

And that’s when she’d seen Daphne.

The young woman didn’t look like herself—she wasn’t the poised, composed figure Hermione had seen before. No, tonight, she was desperate. The kind of desperate that screamed of something darker than she could comprehend.

For a split second, Hermione had been paralyzed. She’d wanted to call out, to warn her, to make sure she was okay. But then, the Aurors chasing Daphne came into view, and Hermione’s heart lurched. If she made a sound, if she drew attention to herself, everything would be blown. She couldn’t explain herself, couldn’t give any reason for why she was still there, lurking after hours.

So, Hermione stayed hidden. She watched in silence as Daphne was caught again, this time with more force than before. The Aurors didn't hesitate; their movements were swift and precise, guiding her down into the darker, less traveled corridors of the Ministry. Hermione’s stomach churned as they vanished from view, their footsteps echoing in the stillness. The knot of unease tightened in her chest, the feeling of helplessness suffocating her.

She knew she couldn’t follow. Not without risking her own exposure, her own secrets unraveling in the process. She wasn’t supposed to be there, not at that hour, not in the shadows. If anyone saw her, it would raise too many questions—questions she didn’t have the answers to, and didn’t know how to explain. But she also couldn’t let it go. The unease, the feeling that something important had slipped through her fingers, stuck with her. It was like a weight in her gut, impossible to ignore.

The night dragged on, and as the hours passed, Hermione’s thoughts only grew more tangled. She couldn’t shake the image of Daphne slipping away, couldn’t stop the gnawing sense that she had missed something. Something vital, something that would have made everything clearer. But it was already too late. Whatever it was, it was lost now.

Eventually, the morning crept in, dragging Hermione from her restless thoughts. She had barely slept, but there was no time to dwell on that. She had a job to do, so she forced herself out of bed, her muscles stiff from the uncomfortable sleep, and made her way through the motions of the morning.

Her frizzy hair was a tangled mess, but she didn’t have the energy to do anything elaborate. A tight half-up, half-down style would do—quick, efficient, and functional. It had become her go-to over the last few days, the perfect compromise for those long days that her innie spent at the Ministry. She pulled on the navy pencil skirt-style office dress, it wasn’t her style, but when she first got her job at the Ministry, Ginny had insisted on helping her shop for "office basics." This dress had been among the haul—simple, professional, and, at least in Ginny’s eyes, chic.

Hermione dressed quickly, applying just the basics of makeup—concealer, a bit of mascara, and lip balm. It wasn’t about looking perfect; it was about blending in, keeping up the appearances that the Ministry expected. Once she was ready, she moved downstairs, expecting to find Harry and Ron still fast asleep. Neither of them were particularly morning people, especially when the workday didn’t start until later for them. Hermione had long since adjusted to their late-night habits and their tendency to sleep in.

As she entered the kitchen, she was met with the smell of eggs, and Ginny, standing by the stove, flipping omelets. "The doctor says they're good for me and the baby," Ginny explained with a smile, gesturing to the eggs. "Do you want one?"

Hermione smiled faintly but shook her head. "No, thanks. I’m running late."

Ginny didn’t look surprised. "You’ve got time. Sit down and eat your eggs," she said firmly, sliding a perfectly cooked omelet onto a plate and pushing it toward Hermione. "It's not really an option, Hermione. You need something in your stomach, you don’t know what you eat in there and knowing you, I bet your innie is too focused on work to eat a lunch."

Hermione glanced at the plate but didn’t argue. She knew better than to refuse, especially when it came to Ginny’s insistence on proper care. With a sigh, she sat down and took the fork, poking at the omelet. Her stomach churned in protest, but she forced herself to take a bite, knowing Ginny wasn’t about to let her leave without eating something.

As Hermione chewed slowly, her mind wandered back to Daphne and the strange, unsettling events that had unfolded yesterday. She couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in her chest, the nagging sensation that something was off, something she hadn’t yet understood. The questions kept piling up—what had happened to Daphne? Why had she been taken to the Ministry? And why had Draco Malfoy been involved?

She sighed, pushing her plate away slightly as her thoughts spiraled. She wanted to know more, to dig deeper, but the more she tried to piece things together, the more tangled everything became. It felt like she was trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle with pieces that didn’t even belong to the same set.

“Hey,” Ginny’s voice cut through her thoughts, and Hermione glanced over to see her friend already cracking eggs into a pan. “Have you seen the Prophet yet this morning?” Ginny asked, her tone suddenly softer. She gestured to the newspaper that was resting on the kitchen counter, next to the stove. “It’s just awful. I only saw her the other week.”

“Saw who?” Hermione asked, standing up and moving toward the paper. Her stomach twisted slightly as she sensed that whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be good news.

“Daphne Greengrass,” Ginny responded, her voice tinged with sadness.

Hermione’s heart skipped a beat as she reached for the paper and flipped it open. She recognized the obituary page immediately, but it still felt like a punch to the gut. There, in bold letters, was the headline:

Daphne Aurelia Greengrass (24) Passes Away

Her eyes scanned the words, each one hitting her like a wave crashing over her. She barely registered Ginny’s soft sigh from behind her as she continued reading:

"Mr. Magnus and Mrs. Selene Greengrass are devastated to announce that their daughter Daphne Aurelia Greengrass (24) passed away on Saturday, 4th March, 2004. She was a beloved daughter and sister, leaving behind her younger sister Astoria. Her boyfriend of four years, Marcus Flint, stated that Daphne was the love of his life and her loss will be felt forevermore. Daphne was kind, loving, and funny, and will leave a hole in the lives of everyone she met. Daphne was an intelligent witch, rising to the role of Intermediate Unspeakable at the Department of Mysteries after two years of dedicated work. Mr. Vance, speaking on behalf of all of her colleagues at the Ministry, stated that she will be missed by all those who knew her."

Hermione’s hands were trembling slightly as she stared at the words on the page, but she barely registered them anymore. Her chest tightened, her throat constricting as though invisible hands were squeezing the air from her lungs. She tried to take a breath, but it caught halfway, sharp and jagged.

No. No, this wasn’t right.

The words blurred slightly as her eyes locked onto them again, desperate to find some sort of explanation, some reasonable justification for the absurdity in front of her. But there wasn’t one. Her mind reeled, flashing back to the Ministry, to Daphne’s panicked eyes, to the way she had fought so fiercely against the Aurors. She had been alive—alive—less than twenty-four hours ago. She was certain of it. She hadn’t imagined it.

But according to the Daily Prophet, Daphne Greengrass had been dead for four days.

Her eyes darted back over the obituary, scanning the lines again and again, as though they might somehow change if she read them enough times. But they remained the same. 

Her hands clenched around the paper, crinkling the edges slightly. She felt as though the world around her had momentarily shifted sideways, making it impossible to find her footing. The sounds of the kitchen—the wooden spoon against the pan, the faint sizzling of eggs on the stove—faded into a distant hum.

No. This isn’t true.

She swallowed hard, her voice hoarse with disbelief. “Ginny…” she whispered, barely aware that she was speaking. “This—this isn’t true.”

Ginny, who had been leaning casually against the counter, glanced over. She frowned slightly, the casual ease in her expression shifting to mild confusion. “What do you mean?” she asked, lowering her fork.

Hermione’s breath came in shallow, uneven bursts as she looked up, her eyes wide with certainty. She placed the newspaper down with a deliberate, shaking hand, then turned to face Ginny fully.

“This says Daphne’s been dead since Saturday,” she said slowly, enunciating each word carefully as though saying it aloud might somehow make it sound more plausible. “But I saw her last night.”

Ginny blinked, her head tilting slightly. “What?” she asked, her voice a little sharper, as though she hadn’t heard correctly.

“I saw her,” Hermione repeated, louder this time, the words tasting almost absurd on her tongue. “At the Ministry. She was running. She was scared. She was alive. And now the Prophet is telling me she’s been dead for four days?” Her voice cracked slightly at the end, the disbelief turning into a shaky exhale.

Ginny’s brows pulled together in confusion. She glanced at the newspaper, then back at Hermione, clearly searching for some sort of rational explanation. “Are you sure it was Daphne?” she asked carefully. “I mean—it could have been someone who just looked like—”

“No,” Hermione cut in sharply, shaking her head. “It was her. I saw her face. I heard her voice. She was right there.” She pressed a hand to her temple, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment as though trying to steady herself. “Unless I’m hallucinating and seeing witches that have been dead for four days,” she added bitterly, her voice trembling with frustration, “then something else is going on.”

Ginny set her fork down with a quiet clatter and moved closer, her expression no longer just confused—it was cautious now, a small line forming between her brows. She lowered her voice slightly, as though afraid of being overheard despite the fact they were the only ones in the kitchen.

“Okay…” she said slowly, testing her words carefully. “But if you’re sure it was her—really sure—then…” Her eyes searched Hermione’s, her voice trailing off slightly.

“Then what?” Hermione demanded, exasperation bubbling to the surface.

Ginny exhaled sharply, looking briefly at the paper again. “Then… either the Prophet has this incredibly wrong,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her fingers brushing the edge of the obituary, and then she met Hermione’s gaze. “Or someone’s lying.”

Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She didn’t need Ginny to say it out loud. She already knew. This wasn’t just an error in reporting. This wasn’t some administrative mistake.

Someone had gone through a great deal of trouble to tell the world that Daphne Greengrass was dead—and they wanted everyone to believe it.

And worse, they were getting away with it.

Hermione suddenly felt like she couldn’t stand still. Her legs were tense, her hands twitching slightly with restless energy. She turned and paced to the far end of the kitchen, then back again, her arms crossing tightly over her chest.

“They’re covering it up,” Hermione muttered under her breath, her voice barely louder than the crackling sound of the eggs still cooking in the pan. The words came out hoarse, uneven, but the realization hit her like a splash of ice water, shocking and unmistakable. Her fingers curled tightly around the edge of the counter, knuckles white. She lifted her gaze, her eyes sharp and burning with certainty.

“They’re covering it up, Ginny.”

Her voice was louder now, cutting through the quiet hum of the kitchen. She turned back to face her friend, her eyes blazing with a rare, unshakable resolve.

“Whatever happened at the Ministry last night—whoever took her—” her voice was low, steady, almost trembling with conviction, “this is them.”

Ginny’s lips parted slightly, her fork halfway to her mouth, forgotten. She stared at Hermione, watching the sharpness in her eyes, the unmistakable steel edge of conviction tightening her expression. She could see it—the shift—the moment when determination locked into place.

Hermione Granger had made up her mind.

“Gin,” Hermione’s voice was firmer now, lower, as though she were afraid that saying it too loudly would make the truth somehow more real. She moved toward her, closing the space between them, her eyes unwavering. “I know what I saw.”

Her hands were trembling slightly as she pointed sharply at the Daily Prophet, the obituary still spread out across the counter like a cruel taunt. Her finger pressed firmly against the page.

“Daphne wasn’t dead,” she said, her voice shaking slightly but resolute. She stabbed her finger against the newsprint again. “She’s not dead. She worked in the Department of Mysteries. She’s severed.”

She took a step back, shaking her head slightly as her voice grew breathless. “This is it, Gin. This is the break in the case. It has to be.”

Her chest rose and fell quickly, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts, as if she was struggling to keep herself grounded. She could feel it now—the nagging pieces that hadn’t fit together before were finally clicking into place. The hidden corridors at the Ministry. The veiled movements of Vance and the others. Daphne slipping away from the Aurors only to be dragged back into the bowels of the Ministry. And now, this.

It was no coincidence.

Ginny’s eyes remained locked on hers, silently absorbing her words. She watched the way Hermione’s hands shook slightly at her sides, the frantic energy behind her eyes barely restrained. For a moment, she said nothing.

And then, after a long beat, Ginny let out a slow breath. Her expression softened, her eyes steady, calm.

“Okay,” she said softly.

Hermione blinked, startled slightly by the simplicity of the response. Her mouth opened slightly as if she had expected more pushback—more skepticism.

“Okay?” she echoed faintly, almost uncertainly.

Ginny gave a small shrug, her voice steady and unwavering. “Okay,” she repeated, more firmly this time. She set her fork down with a quiet clatter, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and met Hermione’s gaze with quiet determination. “Then let’s go to the memorial tonight.”

Hermione stared at her, momentarily thrown. She blinked once, then again, her brows knitting slightly in confusion.

“What?” she asked, not sure she’d heard correctly.

Ginny’s lips pressed into a faint, grim line. She crossed her arms loosely over her chest and tilted her head slightly. “We go to the memorial,” she said again, more deliberately this time. “We talk to her friends, her family. Someone there will know something—something the Prophet won’t say. We start there.”

Her words were calm, measured—but Hermione could hear the unmistakable weight behind them. Ginny wasn’t just suggesting it. She meant it.

Hermione’s breath caught slightly. She stared at her friend, surprised by the practicality of her plan—surprised by how quickly Ginny was willing to believe her. She hadn’t expected it. She had been prepared to fight for her certainty, to plead her case, to convince Ginny that she wasn’t imagining things.

But she didn’t have to.

For the first time since she had read the obituary, a flicker of clarity broke through the frantic storm of disbelief swirling in her head. It wasn’t much—just the faintest glimmer of direction—but it was enough.

Her shoulders loosened slightly. Her jaw unclenched. And she exhaled slowly, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

“Yeah…” she murmured faintly, nodding slightly, as though testing the word. Her voice was quieter now, steadier, but there was still a sharp edge of determination in it. “Yeah, we’ll go.”

But as she spoke the words, she knew the truth that she couldn’t say aloud—not yet, not even to Ginny.

She wasn’t going to the memorial tonight to mourn Daphne Greengrass.

She was going to find out who had written her death into the pages of the Prophet.

And why they wanted the world to believe she was gone.

____________

Hermione and Ginny had agreed on one thing that morning with unspoken certainty—they needed to act normal. If they wanted any hope of finding out what had really happened to Daphne Greengrass, they couldn’t raise suspicion. Not yet. Not until they had something real.

So, Hermione went to work.

The day came and went as it always did, Hermione stepped in the lift and then out again 8 hours later with not a memory of anything in between.

She barely exchanged a word with Ginny as they hurried to change once she got back home. Hermione peeled off her navy dress and replaced it with a nearly identical one in black—a simple, sleek, knee-length piece.

When they apparated to the Greengrass Estate, the familiar suffocating sensation of twisting space clutched Hermione’s chest. Her feet hit the ground with a slight stumble, her knees bending to steady herself.

Ginny, however, let out a small, strangled noise the moment they landed. She clutched her stomach, exhaling sharply through her nose as she pressed a hand against her swollen bump.

“Ugh—Merlin,” she muttered, screwing her eyes shut for a second. “Apparating when I’m this pregnant is awful.” She winced slightly, rubbing small circles over the curve of her belly. “It’s like it’s my first time all over again.”

Hermione turned quickly, her brows knitting together in concern. “Are you alright?” she asked, touching her friend’s arm.

Ginny waved her off with a weak smile. “Yeah,” she huffed, straightening up. “Yeah, just makes me feel like I’m going to vomit my guts out.” She let out a short breath, grimacing slightly before giving Hermione a lopsided grin. “But you know, nothing unusual.”

Despite her words, Ginny looked stunning—perfectly respectable in her sleek, fitted black dress. The fabric clung elegantly to her figure, accentuating the curve of her bump without hiding it. The dress was simple, modest, but stylish, its smooth lines effortlessly elegant. She had swept her hair into a tight bun, the simple, classic style making her look effortlessly poised.

Hermione glanced down at herself, feeling momentarily self-conscious. Her own black dress was plain—practical—and she realized, with a flicker of irritation, that she probably looked more like she was heading to a meeting than a high-society memorial service. She tugged slightly at the hem, but Ginny’s voice pulled her attention back.

“Let’s go,” Ginny said softly, her hand briefly resting over her belly in a protective gesture before they started walking.

They made their way down the long, gravel path leading toward the Greengrass Estate gates, which stood open, flanked by elegant wrought iron archways. The tall stone walls, carved with intricate magical runes, loomed around the property, protecting the pristine grounds beyond.

The estate itself was massive—a grand manor made of smooth, pale stone, its tall, symmetrical windows glowing faintly with candlelight. The sprawling gardens around it were still and eerily perfect, with perfectly manicured hedges and elegant marble statues rising from the trimmed grass.

As they approached, they could see others arriving, the silhouettes of witches and wizards drifting in clusters along the path. The faint rustle of conversation hung in the cool evening air, broken only by the occasional crack of Apparition behind them.

Hermione’s eyes trailed over the small crowd, cataloging each face without meaning to. She recognised several ministry officials and half a dozen pureblood families she had seen in the society pages of The Prophet. Most were dressed in sleek, elegant mourning attire—women in black silk gowns or tailored dresses, men in sharply cut robes with discreet mourning pins on their lapels.

There was no wailing or keening grief. The crowd was somber, dignified, and restrained. Too restrained.

The whole thing felt meticulously performed—like a stage production where everyone knew their role.

As they passed through the gates, Hermione’s gaze drifted up toward the sprawling Greengrass Manor, its elegant stone face expressionless against the growing dusk. The large arched windows glowed faintly with warm light, but even from the path, she could see the heavy black drapes drawn in mourning.

Her breath caught slightly as her eyes lingered on the windows, and a chill slid down her spine.

For a brief, fleeting moment, she could almost imagine Daphne standing there—in one of those windows—alive and watching the crowd gather below.

But then she blinked, and the window was empty.

She pressed her lips together, forcing her feet to keep moving.

Beside her, Ginny shot Hermione a brief glance, her sharp eyes noting the subtle shift in her friend’s energy. Hermione’s steps had slowed, her shoulders stiffened, and the unspoken tension between them grew thicker by the second. Ginny could tell Hermione was already focused on something, or rather, someone. Without a word, Ginny reached out and gave Hermione's hand a quick squeeze. It was a silent gesture of support, one that said I’m here without needing to be said aloud.

Hermione, grateful for the quiet reassurance, squeezed her friend’s hand back before letting her fingers slip away. Her gaze was locked ahead of her, scanning the crowd. And there—just ahead—was a flash of blonde hair she couldn’t mistake: Draco Malfoy. The sight of him made her stomach tighten with a mix of frustration and dread. She hadn’t expected to see him here, but somehow, it felt inevitable.

As they made their way through the crowd, an older woman standing beside Draco nudged him lightly. He turned slightly, his eyes meeting Hermione’s as if he’d expected her arrival—but there was no mask of casual indifference. The tension on his face was unmistakable. A cloud of dread hung over him, and he was as uncomfortable as she was.

“Granger,” he greeted her, his tone almost… resigned. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” His voice was careful, but there was something in his eyes—something Hermione couldn’t quite place.

“Malfoy,” she replied, keeping her voice even. It wasn’t an overtly cold greeting, but the edge was there. There had to be.

“I didn’t know you knew Daphne,” Draco continued, his words measured as if he were carefully testing the waters. The bastard, Hermione thought. He had seen Daphne alive and well just last night, just like she had. They both knew something wasn’t right here, and she wasn’t sure if she could trust him with the questions swirling in her mind.

Before she could respond, the older woman beside Draco cleared her throat and nudged him again. Draco gave her a distracted glance and then shifted his attention back to Hermione.

“Oh, how rude of me,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of forced politeness. “Granger, this is my landlady, Miss Weaver. Miss Weaver, this is Hermione Granger, and—well, I barely recognised her, but this is Ginny Weasley,” he introduced, a small, almost dismissive nod directed at Ginny.

“Potter,” Ginny corrected him firmly, her voice cold. “Ginny Potter.”

Draco blinked, his lips twitching into something like an awkward smile. “Of course,” he said, trying to recover. “How is he? Potter? He’s not joined you?”

Ginny’s response was flat, the edge of a long-simmering frustration in her voice. “No. He’s working.”

A faint, unspoken tension lingered between them, the question of why Harry wasn’t here hanging in the air. But Draco didn’t seem inclined to press it, turning instead to the woman beside him.

“My,” Miss Weaver said with a raised brow, her eyes settling on Ginny with a slightly bemused look. “I didn’t know I’d be in the presence of a celebrity.” She paused, her smile widening a little. “Dear, do tell your husband... well, you know.”

Ginny’s jaw tightened, but she nodded stiffly, well aware of the constant messages she was asked to pass along to Harry, even when it came from strangers. She wasn’t surprised that Miss Weaver had heard of Harry. His fame followed him everywhere, even when he wasn’t present.

Miss Weaver smiled again, but there was an odd, almost patronising glint in her eye as she looked at Ginny.

“Miss Weaver is a squib,” Draco explained casually.

"Yes," Miss Weaver agreed smoothly, her voice almost too polished, as if the words had been rehearsed. "I run a small apothecary business. None magical, of course. Just out of my flat." She glanced around the room, her eyes narrowing slightly as they scanned the guests. There was an air of quiet distaste on her features, as though the entire affair was beneath her. "And I had seen the late Miss Greengrass once or twice, she had terrible headaches. I thought it proper to come and pay my respects," she continued, her tone now somewhat dismissive. "Just my luck that I’d run into Draco here." She gave a thin smile, her lips curling at the edges.

Draco’s lips tightened ever so slightly, but he didn’t react overtly to Miss Weaver’s words. In fact, there was something in his demeanor that suggested he was almost relieved by the diversion. It was as though Miss Weaver’s harmless chatter and overt politeness were a shield, one that protected him from something—or someone—more uncomfortable, more revealing.

"I need to find somewhere to sit," Ginny said, breaking the tension. She ran a hand over her stomach with a wince. "That apparating really took it out of me." There was a faint but genuine discomfort in her voice, the physical toll of travel exacerbated by her pregnancy.

Miss Weaver perked up at this, a glint of what could have been concern flickering in her eyes, though it quickly turned into something more opportunistic. "I have something in my purse that should help, dear," she said smoothly, her smile broadening. "Come with me, and I’ll have you right as rain in no time." She placed a hand on Ginny’s arm as if to guide her, her touch light but insistent.

Ginny hesitated, looking over at Hermione, a silent question in her eyes. "I’ll see you inside?" she asked, her voice slightly strained but polite.

Hermione nodded, a reassuring smile flickering on her lips. "I’ll be fine. Go with her." Ginny, still looking a little uncertain, was quickly ushered away by Miss Weaver, who seemed more than eager to play the role of the helpful, maternal figure. The two of them disappeared into the crowd, leaving Hermione standing alone.

Hermione turned back to Draco, the questions that had been swirling in her mind rising to the surface again. She could no longer ignore the gnawing sense of unease. She wasn’t here just to mourn Daphne—she was here because something didn’t add up, and Draco Malfoy was one of the key pieces to the puzzle.

"Are you going to explain any of this-?" Hermione asked, her voice quiet but sharp, her eyes locked on him as she tried to read his expression. Before she could finish her sentence, Draco cut in, his voice low but filled with tension. "Why are you even here?"

It was as though the words hung in the air between them, suspended by the weight of everything unsaid. There was an edge to his voice, though Hermione couldn’t decide whether it was suspicion, frustration, or something else entirely. Her pulse quickened, the silence between them now thick with anticipation.

"Draco?" A high, sharp voice interrupted them, breaking the fragile moment. Hermione turned sharply to see Astoria Greengrass approaching them. Tall and blonde, with a sleek, statuesque frame, Astoria moved with a fluid grace, her black gown flowing around her like shadows. Her appearance was flawless—perhaps too flawless for a memorial service for her sister. The perfection of her presence seemed almost calculated, a stark contrast to the sorrowful gathering around them.

"Thank you so much for coming," Astoria said, her voice smooth but with an undertone of something Hermione couldn’t quite place. She reached Draco in an instant, her arms wrapping around him in a hug that seemed far too intimate for the occasion. Draco stiffened slightly, his discomfort visible despite his attempts to mask it.

Hermione’s gaze shifted between the two of them, her brow furrowing. There was a coldness in Astoria’s eyes, a polished kind of detachment that sent a chill down Hermione’s spine. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but it wasn’t this.

The hug lasted just a moment too long, and when Astoria pulled back, her eyes flicked to Hermione. She gave her a polite, distant smile, as though Hermione were simply another face in the crowd, not someone who might be carrying an entirely different understanding of the situation.

"Astoria," Draco muttered under his breath, as though the name itself had weight. His expression had already shifted, a wall of indifference replacing the tension from moments before. "It’s good to see you."

Astoria smiled at Draco, but it was cold, the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her gaze flicked over him with an almost predatory precision, the corners of her lips curling just slightly. "Is it?" she asked, her voice dripping with sweetness, but it carried a sharpness that felt more like a blade hidden beneath silk. "I do hope you’re not causing trouble, Draco."

Draco’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching under his skin, but he didn’t respond immediately. His eyes flicked briefly toward Hermione, as if searching for an escape from the thinly veiled confrontation. It was clear he wanted to move away from the uncomfortable tension, but Astoria was unyielding, and her presence was as sharp as ever.

"Granger?" Astoria turned her full attention to Hermione, the shift in her demeanor instantaneous. The sweetness in her voice felt almost too contrived, as if she were savouring the moment, enjoying the discomfort she could stir. "I didn’t expect to see you here."

Her words hung in the air, almost syrupy, but Hermione could feel the underlying tension, the subtle dissonance that sent a shiver down her spine. There was something unsettling in the way Astoria regarded her, something that made Hermione’s skin prickle uncomfortably. Was it just polite interest, or something more sinister lurking beneath the surface?

"I’m sorry for your loss," Hermione said, her voice carefully measured, trying to keep her own discomfort in check. She could hear the stiffness in her tone, but she couldn’t help it. She needed to remain neutral, to gauge Astoria’s reaction.

Astoria’s smile widened just a fraction, but it didn’t soften her expression. Her eyes remained cold, calculating. "Oh, thank you," she said, her voice smooth, but it lacked any genuine warmth. "I appreciate it." She turned back toward Draco, her gaze lingering on him for a moment before speaking again, as though sharing a private sentiment. "Oh, isn’t it just awful? Mummy and Daddy are besides themselves. And poor Marcus..." She trailed off, her voice taking on a rehearsed tone, as if she were reading from a script she had perfected.

Draco added something under his breath, barely audible. "And you, of course."

Astoria’s reaction was swift, though not particularly heartfelt. "Yes, of course," she said, dismissing her own grief with a flick of her wrist, as if it was little more than an afterthought. "And to think only a week ago, we were all sat at Pansy and Blaise’s engagement dinner, not a worry in the world. And now this." She gave a delicate shake of her head, as if the mere thought of such a drastic change was more than she could bear. But her voice lacked the weight of true sorrow. It sounded rehearsed, too polished for genuine mourning.

"Are they here?" Astoria continued, her gaze shifting away from Draco and landing on Hermione with the same calculating look. "Pansy and Blaise? They would have to be here, wouldn’t they? She was family to them."

"They said they were on their way," Draco answered, his tone guarded, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes as he glanced at Astoria.

"Good," Astoria said, nodding firmly as though satisfied. "She would want her friends here." She paused, then dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief, her gesture exaggerated and theatrical. 

"But to think," Astoria continued, now shifting into something closer to ire, "no one from the Ministry has come. After all she gave that department." Her voice grew sharper, her eyes narrowing as her frustration bubbled to the surface. "So much for the notion that severed workers are no different from regular workers. But at least you’re here, Draco. I wonder if you were on the same team."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked, her voice steady, though the flood of thoughts in her mind threatened to spill over. She could feel the tension in the room building, thick and palpable. There was something too deliberate in the way Astoria had phrased her words, as if she had been waiting for the right moment to reveal the truth.

Draco’s expression hardened instantly, his eyes narrowing, and for a brief moment, he looked caught off guard. There was a flicker of hesitation, as if he hadn’t planned to divulge that information, but he spoke anyway. "I’m severed," he said, his tone short, clipped, almost as if it were an inconvenience to him.

The air seemed to shift in that instant, the revelation hanging heavy in the room. Severed. Draco Malfoy, of all people. The weight of it pressed against Hermione’s chest, her heart pounding in her ears. 

Before Hermione could respond, Astoria cut in with a sharp, almost disinterested tone. "Ooh, we’re being called in," she said, her voice carrying a hint of forced brightness. With practiced ease, she hooked her arm through Draco’s, pulling him away from the conversation and toward the gathering crowd. Without another word, they began to make their way toward where the ceremony was taking place.

Hermione stood there, rooted to the spot, her mind racing with questions she didn’t even know how to voice. Severed? What did it mean for Draco? Did her innie know his? Could their paths have crossed without them even realizing it? The implications were dizzying, and a wave of uncertainty washed over her. The questions piled up faster than she could process.

She was so lost in thought that she barely noticed the crowd around her shifting. People began moving toward the ceremony, the murmurs of conversation rising in a soft hum. Her feet felt like lead, her mind too tangled in the revelation to follow the others. Could it be? Was there a connection?

Just as the weight of it all threatened to crush her, Ginny appeared at her side. She looked concerned, sensing the shift in Hermione’s energy almost immediately. "What’s wrong?" Ginny asked, her voice low, but filled with quiet urgency.

"Hermione?" Ginny repeated, her brow furrowing when Hermione didn’t immediately respond.

"Draco Malfoy is severed," Hermione said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. The words felt strange in her mouth, too heavy, like they didn’t quite fit into the world she thought she knew.

Ginny blinked at her, clearly taken aback. "What? Severed?" She repeated, as though she couldn't quite believe it. Her gaze flicked toward the couple ahead of them—Draco and Astoria, moving purposefully toward the front of the room. "But that doesn't—how? What—" She stopped herself, taking a deep breath, and looked back at Hermione. "Are you sure?"

Hermione nodded, her thoughts still reeling. "He said it himself." She paused, pressing her hand to her forehead, the confusion threatening to overtake her composure. "It makes no sense, Ginny. Why would he be severed? What does that even mean?"

Ginny’s eyes flicked back to Draco and Astoria, who were now moving through the crowd, seemingly unbothered by the weight of their presence. "Well, you’re not the only one who’s got secrets," Ginny said, a trace of frustration in her voice.

They stood there for a moment, watching as Draco and Astoria disappeared into the crowd, their figures blending in with the others attending the memorial. Despite the gathering of mourners, the weight of the truth hung heavy in the air, suffocating in its quiet intensity.

Ginny squeezed Hermione’s shoulder, breaking the silence. "Come on, let’s go in," she said gently. "We can’t change anything now, but maybe we can find some answers."

Hermione nodded, grateful for the grounding presence of her friend. They both moved forward, joining the crowd as they made their way to the memorial service. The ceremony was set to begin, but for Hermione, the real questions had just begun. And with Draco Malfoy’s unexpected admission, Hermione’s certainty about everything she thought she knew was beginning to crack.