Chapter 1
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How is it that my hair remains impervious to literal magic? Hermione refused to let the unruly mess of frizz atop her head trigger a full-blown panic attack today. She closed her eyes, muttered the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration under her breath, took three deep inhalations, and then slathered on a generous dollop of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion—her last-ditch effort to wrestle her curls into a tight bun. Two hair ties, because one always snapped midday.
She dropped her tired arms to her sides, cooling charm at the ready, and took a final look in the mirror. The lime-green healer robes, mercifully well-fitted around her newly filled-out figure, still had the unfortunate effect of making healthy witches appear slightly jaundiced. Whoever chose this bile-colored fabric had to be the bane of every Healer’s existence. Shifting the robe’s fitted waist, she glanced at the spot threatening to invade her chin and practiced her “healer face”—a neutral, reassuring expression that might conceal the roiling anxiety beneath. She hoped it would hold steady enough for the day ahead.
This mission felt different. She’d already devoured every scrap of information on her new patients—no butterflies about the magical maladies themselves. But the patients? That part had her stomach in knots. Muggle doctors swear an oath to do no harm, maintain integrity, and so on, but what did the ancient Greeks know, really? All Hermione could promise herself at this point was: Don’t pass out or get arrested.
As Hermione descended the final basement stairs, she was greeted by a cascade of vibrant red curls sprawled across a pink tablecloth on the kitchen table. Beneath that tangle of hair lay a grumpy Ginny, who never fully adapted to Hermione and Harry’s early morning schedule, but stubbornly refused to miss seeing them off to work each day.
“Morning, Gin.” A muffled groan was all Hermione received in return. At least her tea—prepared precisely as she liked it—waited under a stasis charm until she made it down to the kitchen.
“Miss Hermione will eat this morning. Kreacher has prepared her favorite: fried eggs and white toast,” the ancient house elf croaked, his tone leaving no room for argument.
“Thank you, Kreacher, but I’m not very hungry.” Hermione broke off as she noticed the elf fold his frail arm, and tip his pointy chin upward as though daring her to refuse. She dutifully picked up the toast he’d placed on a heart-shaped paper plate and nibbled at it to appease him.
From across the table, Ginny flung the latest issue of the Prophet in Hermione’s general direction, followed by a few inarticulate grumbles of complaint. The headline blared:
Shacklebolt Selects Stark, Storm-Swept Sanctuary for Suspect Species
Intrigued, Hermione started reading the piece, pausing every so often to take a bite of her toast. After a couple of minutes, Kreacher passed by, freshening her teacup, and Hermione noticed Ginny stirring beneath her curtain of red hair. Finally, the younger witch emerged from the shelter of her arms to tuck into the French toast that Kreacher had placed before her.
“Gin, when can we take these decorations down? It’s nearly the end of February.”
“When it stops annoying Harry,” she said with a sleepy smirk.
Right on cue, the door at the top of the stairs opened. A sputter and a crash followed as Harry missed the second step, receiving a face full of pink confetti courtesy of the giggling fairies hovering overhead. One would think that two weeks of this routine would have taught him better. The tiny creatures circled him gleefully, making his hair stand on end and dumping another flurry of confetti before retreating to the ceiling, weaving in and out of the streamers. Behind them, Kreacher dutifully swept up the bits of paper left in their wake.
Harry, looking thoroughly disheveled, dropped onto the bench next to Hermione, trying to shake the stubborn confetti out of his hair. Without so much as a greeting, he pulled the middle section of the Prophet from Hermione’s hands and summoned a Muggle pen to tackle the daily crossword.
“Good morning, menaces.”
Ginny beamed in response; Hermione feigned a gasp of horror.
The next twenty-eight minutes moved too slow. Ginny and Harry launched into a lively debate about Quidditch stats, while Hermione skimmed the paper from front to back (forgoing the comics and crossword pages Harry had commandeered). Unfortunately, her focus faltered as her gaze kept darting up to the clock.
“I’m heading upstairs to grab my bag,” she said, rising from the table. “See you up there, Harry?”
His reply came out garbled, his mouth still full of French toast. Ginny reached across the table, catching Hermione’s hand and squeezing gently, offering a small, warm smile.
“Hermione, please stop pacing. Either go grab a cuppa to occupy yourself or just Accio him from the bathroom,” Harry’s weary voice called from the doorway.
“RONALD BILLIUS WEASLEY, IF YOU DON’T GET DOWN HERE IN THE NEXT TEN SECONDS, I WILL HEX YOUR—”
“Oy, keep your pants on! I’m here,” Ron shouted, hobbling into the sitting room while still shoving one foot into his boot. He exchanged a knowing look with Harry—no doubt having a silent conversation—which Hermione caught from the corner of her eye.
As they made their way to the Floo, Hermione’s nerves began to spike. She caught the unruly mass of her hair frizzing in her peripheral vision. “I don’t know how you two can be so calm,” she muttered, forcing herself to breathe more steadily.
Ron grinned, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “After a lifetime of near-death experiences, Hermione, we’ve got this. We’ve got your back—remember?”
Hermione nodded at that, a rush of gratitude cutting through her anxiety. She inhaled deeply, threaded her fingers with Harry’s as they moved as a unit into the fireplace.
“The Anchorage Café,” Harry called out, Hermione tried to swallow her nerves as the familiar whoosh of emerald flames enveloped her, but her heart pounded in her ears. By the time they tumbled out onto the café’s hearth, the queasiness in her gut told her all she needed to know about how anxious she really was.
They hadn’t even stepped out of the Floo before the barrage of camera flashes blinded them, and the roar of questions began.
“Hermione, how are you feeling? Scared? Angry?”
“Harry, how’s the scar feeling?”
“Ron, are you worried you won’t be able to protect Hermione?”
“Hermione, what lipstick shade is that?”
Hermione grabbed Ron’s elbow, dragging him along behind Harry as they moved toward the double doors leading to the security building. The crowd of reporters and photographers pressed closer desperate for a reaction.
“Mr. Potter, is it true you’re under threat again?”
“Ron, any comment on the rumors you’re leaving the Auror office?”
“Hermione, do you think your Muggle upbringing puts you at a disadvantage?”
“Harry, has the Ministry failed to protect you three?”
Smile, gods damnit. Do not murder them, think of the oath! Do not get arrested. Dear lord, Ronald do NOT engage!
Usually, they tried to push Harry’s buttons, while others aimed to say something incendiary to trigger Ron. But the three of them had learned their parts long ago: Harry would lead them to their destination, Ron would scan for threats, and Hermione would plaster on a diplomatic smile to distract and appease the press. As much as she hated “PR-duty”, she was simply the only one of the three who had a backbone and the patience to deal with the vultures.
The small brick security building didn’t allow press inside—thank Merlin. Once they slipped through the doors, the three of them were winded and warm from their brisk escape. Hermione handed over the necessary documents to a tired-looking wizard behind a small window. After a brief wait, they were each ushered into separate rooms for inspection.
Hermione entered a sterile space furnished only with a wooden bench and a simple desk lit by a fluorescent light that buzzed from above. Atop the desk sat a vial containing just a few drops of clear liquid. Before she could even sit, a wizard in an ill-fitted uniform entered and pushed the vial into her hand.
“Three drops of Veritaserum,” he mumbled. “Just enough to last a few minutes while I ask you questions—only for your first visit.”
She hesitated but ultimately tipped the vial into her mouth. The wizard waited a moment for it to take effect before starting his interrogation. The truth serum had no detectable reactions as per its design, but whether in her head or not, Hermione felt her brain go a little fuzzy and relax. She was brought back to the moment as the wizard started slipping through her documents, then asked her to confirm her magical history, whether she had any shape-shifting abilities such as a Metamorphmagus or Animagus, and details about her assignment.
By the time Hermione emerged, Ron and Harry were already waiting. Together, they navigated the labyrinthine security process until they could finally pause in a quiet corridor.
“You doing okay, ‘Mione?” Harry asked gently.
“No, Harry James Potter, I am far from okay. I’m freaking the fuck out, but here we are!” she blurted, eyes going wide the second the words were out. She slapped her hands over her mouth. “Oh! Guess the Veritaserum hasn’t completely worn off yet. No more questions.”
Harry chuckled beside her, while Ron threaded his fingers through hers and gave her hand a comforting squeeze.
“You’re brilliant, Hermione Jean Granger,” Ron said, “we’ll be in and out of here in an hour—tops, if it’s a bad day.”
She huffed, rolling her eyes at him. She wasn’t sure if this show of support was merely because of the truth serum or just Ron’s attempt at reassurance. Either way, she clamped her mouth shut to keep from letting anything else slip. She couldn’t remember the last time she doubted herself this much. Then again, this assignment’s “participants” didn’t exactly create a safe, supportive work environment.
Hermione checked her watch anxiously, tapping her foot and craning her neck to see what was holding up the security line. Once the two men ahead of them stepped away from the desk, she thrust their approval paperwork at the witch on duty, who seemed to have all the time in the world. Hermione, meanwhile, felt like she was vibrating out of her skin. Before the witch could even fully extend her arm to return the documents, Hermione snatched them back, thanked her—perhaps a bit too briskly—and sped through the charmed barrier toward the dock.
The cold air that hit her was a relief, briefly clearing her head. She caught sight of the ferry awaiting them, its exterior a smoker’s-yellow against the vibrant waters. They boarded with the small crowd and found three seats near the front of the compartment. Hermione and Harry settled down, while Ron stood, shifting from foot to foot like he’d absorbed some of her anxiety. Muttering about the kiosk they’d passed, he headed off in search of caffeine and, knowing him, pastries.
Hermione noticed Harry’s demeanor shift, his gaze distant as he stared out at the horizon. “Sirius,” he said tersely, when he realized she was watching.
It dawned on her that she hadn’t considered how this mission might affect her best friend. She hummed in response, looping her arm through his and resting her head on his shoulder. They sat in companionable silence as the ferry’s engine roared to life and pulled away from the dock. Ron soon returned, juggling two cups of coffee, a tea, and a flaky pastry perched between his teeth. Even in the worst of times, something to eat is guaranteed to cheer this man up.
They were long past small talk—months in a tent had made them comfortable with silence. Hermione couldn’t form a coherent sentence even if she tried. Instead, she clutched Harry’s arm, sipping her coffee in tense gulps. The waters stayed calm until they neared their destination.
Ahead, a stark V-shaped structure rose like a wound in the serene backdrop, its sharp lines looming ever closer. Despite the ferry’s engine chugging insistently through the waves, Hermione’s ears felt stuffed with cotton, as though a hush had fallen over them. Even the photographs she’d studied hadn’t captured its eerie presence. The weather seemed to shift abruptly, and the sun’s slow climb appeared to reverse, plunging the ferry into deepening shadows. With every passing second, Hermione felt the knot in her chest tighten, the weight of their mission pressing down on her.
A tinny voice crackled over the ferry’s speaker system: “The time is 6:56 AM. We will be docking within the next minute. Welcome to Azkaban Prison.” The boat thumped to a halt, and Hermione’s heart climbed into her throat.