mon étoile

Hermione was twitchy.

Too many Pepper-Ups in too little time, too many hours without sleep, and for the first time all week—Harry and Ron weren’t here.

Robards at the DMLE wasn’t buying that they needed a fifth day to develop wards, and she wasn’t about to argue. Not when she had already arranged for Healer Fields to pull a double so she could complete her evaluations without leaving Theo and Draco alone.

By the end of the week, she had been promised unrestricted access to Azkaban. That meant she would be getting up to the 13th floor today, come hell or high water.

She barely made it to the stairwell before running into her first obstacle.

Two figures stood in her path.

The first was Warden Ascroft.

The second—a broad, red-headed CO built like a fortress.

Hermione had met many Weasleys in her lifetime. None quite like this one.

He had Charlie’s build, Ron’s height, and the same piercing blue eyes she had come to associate with warmth.

But there was no warmth in this man’s expression.

Only cold, disinterested authority.

The sound of her heels must have alerted them to her approach. They turned in unison, twin glares meeting her own.

She adjusted her posture and forced a professional smile.

“Good morning, Warden Ascroft. And—” She turned to the second man, extending a hand.

He glanced at it.

He did not take it.

Prick.

“Weasley,” he said, his voice clipped. “Montgomery Weasley. Head Guard of the Death Eater Division.”

His tone was flat, his posture rigidly upright, hands clasped behind his back like a Muggle military officer.

“Ah,” Hermione said, lowering her hand. “That explains the hair. The Weasleys are like family to me. I don’t believe we’ve ever met before?”

His lips curled ever so slightly, like the very suggestion disgusted him.

“My family doesn’t associate with that branch of the family.”

Hermione blinked.

Molly, Arthur, and their seven children had many, many qualities—none of which could possibly warrant the sheer vitriol in his voice.

“……..Okay,” she said, deciding that wasn’t a battle worth fighting right now.

Instead, she pivoted to the man at his right.

“I’m glad we ran into one another, Walden Ascroft, I’d like to request access to the 13th floor today.” She turned to address the red head, “I assume you’ve been briefed on my case?”

Montgomery nodded once.

“You may have two supervised hours.” His tone made it clear there would be no negotiation.

Hermione tilted her head.

“And if I require more time?”

“You may have two supervised hours.”

“Right. And if my investigation requires more than two hours?”

His jaw flexed.

“This is not a babysitting service.”

The dismissiveness curdled something inside her.

“Oh, trust me, I wouldn’t entrust you to babysit a Blast-Ended Skrewt, let alone my patients,” she said coolly. “But let’s be clear. This is not a courtesy you’re extending me. I’m here on official assignment from the Ministry of Magic, and I expect to be accommodated accordingly.”

Montgomery’s eyes flashed.

"You can dress it up however you like, but you're not fooling anyone. I won’t let you turn this place into a safe haven for your pet projects."

Ah.
There it was.

The insinuation.

That she wasn’t here as a healer.
Wasn’t here as an Unspeakable.
That she was here as a girl—too young, too soft, too easily swayed by aristocratic heirs with sharp cheekbones and tragic eyes.

Not for the work.

She turned her entire body, slowly, deliberately, and faced him full-on.

“CO Weasley,” she said, voice even, controlled, but dangerously sharp. “These men are my patients. They are in critical condition and require constant supervision. Had my team not arrived this week, they would be dead on your watch.”

Montgomery opened his mouth—but she didn’t let him.

“I do not care,” she continued, “how you feel about them, or how your colleagues feel about them, or how you think I feel about them.”

She took a single step forward.

“I care about ensuring they live long enough to serve the full length of their sentences.”

Silence.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

Good.

She shifted her attention to Warden Ascroft.

“I expect full access to the 13th floor by the end of the day,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have patients to attend to.”

And without waiting for a response, she turned sharply on her heel and strode away, ignoring the muttered protests behind her.

As she ascended the stairs, her heels clicking sharply against the stone, she allowed herself the barest hint of a smirk.

She’d be ready in an hour.

And CO Montgomery Weasley was going to hate every second of it.

She made a direct line for the two cots closest to her office when she made it up to the hospital wing, scanning the diagnostics hovering over them hungrily.

Stable. Asleep.

Her breath came a little easier.

Healer Fie—Gideon—handed her their files, which she immediately devoured. He had turned out to be an excellent partner on the case, his notes meticulous, his observations thorough.

“How are they?” she asked, eyes still flicking between the reports.

CO Weasley’s talent for being an unbearable prick knew no limits.

When he finally stomped into the ward, he grunted—like a caveman—to announce his presence. Then, instead of holding the door, he let it slam behind him, forcing her to lunge forward to catch it at the last second.

She barely caught a glimpse of his heels as he took off down the hallway at an absurdly aggressive pace, legs covering the distance with the kind of exaggerated swagger that screamed compensating for something. He took the stairs two at a time, sprinting up all ten flights without so much as a deep breath.

Hermione, meanwhile, did not sprint up ten flights. She climbed them at a reasonable human pace, fully aware that she had actual work to do once she got there.

We have literal magic. Why is there no bloody elevator in this hellhole?

By the time she reached the 13th floor landing, she resisted the very real temptation to brace her hands on her knees to catch her breath. Instead, she swiped a few stray beads of sweat from her brow, trying to ignore how winded she felt.

Across from her, CO Weasley stood as if he had leisurely floated up the stairs instead of sprinting—not a hair out of place, expression impassive.

Arse.
Said arse flicked his wand, the doors unlocking with an effortless silent charm. Hermione watched as Montgomery Weasley stepped aside, expression unreadable. She took the moment to examine him—really examine him.

The resemblance to her Weasleys was there—Ginny’s widow’s peak, Bill’s long lashes—but the similarities ended at individual features. This one was different. Sharper. Like someone had filed down anything soft or warm until all that remained was a man-sized slab of reinforced stone.

A troll in Weasley skin.

She had spent so much energy preparing for Weasley’s attitude that she hadn’t braced herself for this—for stepping into a space that felt like a graveyard long after the bodies had been buried. A place occupied by the very people who had hunted her, tortured her, murdered those she loved.

She squared her shoulders. Shoved her hands into her pockets to resist the urge to rub the faint, silvery scar along her left forearm.

And then she took the first step.

Azkaban’s general population floor had been unpleasant, but this—this was inhospitable. The temperature had dropped significantly, a damp chill creeping into her robes. The storm outside had left the scent of rain seeping into the walls, but it was wrong—metallic, stale—like the remnants of a battlefield long after the blood had dried.

Merlin. They lived in this.

She adjusted her grip on her wand and lifted it, casting a detection charm. A shimmering mist expanded outward, curling along the stone corridor. It would take a few minutes to register any foreign contaminants.

She turned toward the nearest cell.

"This one occupied?"

Weasley grunted. "Nott."

Hermione stepped inside before he could protest.

It was bare. The mattress was paper-thin, the blanket more threadbare than the standard-issue ones she had seen in the hospital wing. No other personal belongings. No window.

The air was heavier in here, staler. It reeked of confinement.

She set another air quality charm in the center of the cell, watching the second mist hover in place. Then she moved to the sink, running the water for a few seconds before siphoning some into a vial for later testing.

"Next cell," she said, straightening.

"No."

Hermione turned to Weasley, gaze sharp. "We’re doing this properly. You want these prisoners out of the hospital wing? Then let me do my job."

A tense pause.

Then—a sharp flick of his wand.

The cell beside Theo’s creaked open, and a prisoner—one of the Kissed—was yanked out and shoved unceremoniously into the hallway.

She repeated the same process inside, her methodical movements at odds with the growing knot of frustration in her gut. The results, when they finally solidified, were exactly the same.

No contaminants. No toxins. No airborne curses.

Hermione turned on her heel, marching toward the CO office at the far end of the corridor, where two officers sat at a desk, lazily flipping through logbooks.

Both men stiffened as she approached the room, leaning inside the door jam.

"Morning," she said, coolly. "I have a few questions regarding the illness affecting the inmates on this floor."

The guard on the left—a stocky man with graying hair—leaned back in his chair. "They’re prisoners, Healer. They’re always sick with something."

"Because according to your logs, the reported symptoms amounted to mild fevers and the occasional muscle ache." She let the silence hang for a beat before continuing, her voice sharpening. "Yet two of those prisoners are in my hospital wing are in critical condition. Explain that."

Silence.

The other guard scoffed. "They’re lying. Trying to get better rations or extra potions—"

"Right," Hermione drawled, folding her arms. "Because it makes perfect sense that every single prisoner on this floor—each in isolation—just so happened to develop the same fever, the same tremors, the same black tendrils creeping from their tattoos." She let the words settle, watching their expressions. "And yet, every other floor? Not a single case. So tell me, did they coordinate this mass deception through the walls? For another piece of moldy bread?”

Silence.

One of the guards shifted uncomfortably. The other had the nerve to look bored.

Hermione exhaled sharply. "Either this is the most elaborate, least rewarding con in Azkaban history—or something is very, very wrong on this floor."

She pressed forward. "Tell me, when was the last time you actually looked at them?"

"Every day," the stocky guard said gruffly.

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "And yet… you missed the fact that Draco Malfoy was minutes away from organ failure last night?"

That made them shift.

She exhaled sharply. "Start talking. Any behavioral changes before symptoms appeared? Increased aggression? Lethargy? Anything?"

The younger guard cleared his throat. "Some… stopped eating. At first, we thought it was just standard depression—happens all the time. But a few of them were dropping weight faster than normal. And—" He hesitated.

"And?"

"A few of them started moving strangely. Jittery. Twitchy. Like something was wrong with their nerves."

That tracked with the timeline she was building.

Before she could push further—

A deafening alarm blared through the corridor.

She barely had time to turn her head to see the cause of the alarm before being shoved further into the office by CO Weasley.

And then—

SLAM.

The door behind her locked with an audible click.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" she hissed under her breath.

Hermione jerked towards the door, jiggling the handle.

The metallic taste hit the back of her throat—a reflexive response to being shut in, locked away, penned in with no control. She had her wand. She had her beaded bag. Logically, she knew she wasn’t in immediate danger.

But her body didn’t seem to care.

From behind the desk, the older guard smirked. "Lockdown procedure, Healer. No civilians on the floor during an incident."

Hermione clenched her jaw, listening to the heavy thuds of running feet beyond the door, the muffled shouts of orders being barked.

She hated this place.

And she hated that, somewhere down that hall, she was certain someone was bleeding.

And she couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

When she was finally released from the office, Hermione wasted no time descending to the second floor, heading straight for the kitchens.

The visit yielded no answers—just an alarming amount of snacks.

The house-elves had nearly collapsed in distress when they thought she was insinuating they were responsible for the inmates’ illness. Accepting the mountain of food had been more of a peace offering than anything else.

Still, at least it eliminated another potential factor—the meals were identical across the prison, delivered directly into cells, with no deviation between the thirteenth floor and general population.

With her arms overflowing with baked goods and wrapped sandwiches, she backed into the hospital wing, dropping everything onto an empty cot with a call to Gideon and Healer Aldecrest to help themselves.

A quick glance at the boys’ cots—still asleep.

Good. They needed it.

It was incredible what basic nutrition and uninterrupted sleep could do. Theo’s skin was still sickly pale but not quite as sunken, his cheekbones a little less severe. Even the lines around his mouth had smoothed in sleep, as if his body had finally given up the act of pretending to be fine.

Draco was still too pale. His body curled toward the cot’s edge, unnaturally stiff, even unconscious. A defense mechanism, probably—like his muscles refused to believe they weren’t bracing for something.

They had a long way to go.

With the banana in hand, she stepped into her office, transfiguring one of her Muggle pens into a standing whiteboard.

RRon and Harry always mocked her for clinging to Muggle stationery, but she refused to abandon her post-it notes. The Wizarding world simply hadn’t invented anything better.

Grabbing a stack, she quickly divided the board into three sections: “What She Knew,” “What It Isn’t,” and “What Else It Could Be.”

Forty-five minutes later, the board was a riot of scribbled notes and overlapping arrows—chaotic to anyone else, but to her, it was perfectly clear.

The pattern was undeniable.

Every thread led back to one common denominator—Death Eater magic.

The pieces were all there, aligning into something close to an answer. But one question still gnawed at her:

Why—out of thirty-three Death Eaters—were only Draco and Theo the ones at death’s door?