Chapter 10
[Time Since Leaving Azkaban: 56 Hours, 12 Minutes]
[Last Check-In: Sunday, 3:15 PM]
Hermione stepped out of the Floo into the Ministry’s atrium, arriving earlier than usual to avoid the worst of the morning rush. It didn’t help.
Even without looking up, she felt it—the weight of eyes tracking her movements, the hush of whispered conversations cutting off the moment she passed. She’d spent half her life being stared at—during the war, in the courtroom, even in school—but this wasn’t just scrutiny.
This was an attack.
On her integrity. On her work. On the very core of who she was—her mind, her heart, her purpose.
Her name was back in the headlines, not for war, not for law reform, but for caring too much.
The Prophet article hadn’t said anything unexpected, but that didn’t mean it didn’t sting. It was the same patronizing nonsense that followed her for years—bleeding-heart idealist, naive savior complex, too soft to know better.
"Or is this yet another notch on her belt—a chance to play savior, to prove once again that she can succeed where others have failed?"
Hermione clenched her jaw. It was almost laughable. As if she hadn’t spent half her life failing—as if she hadn’t seen what failure really looked like. As if she had ever done any of this for the recognition.
She tightened her grip on her satchel and made a direct line for the lifts.
Let them talk.
None of these people had seen what she had seen in Azkaban.
None of them had seen Draco burning with fever, Theo trembling in his sleep, magic leaking from their bodies like a wound that wouldn’t clot.
The lift doors slid shut, mercifully cutting her off from the murmuring.
Let them talk. She had work to do.
[Time Since Leaving Azkaban: 59 Hours, 37 Minutes]
[Last Check-In: Monday, 7:00 AM]
By noon, Hermione’s patience had been thoroughly eviscerated by a morning full of meetings.
She sat through every discussion, took every note, nodded in all the right places.
But her mind was still in Azkaban.
Still on the outliers.
Still on the dark magic that had once clung to them, now suspiciously absent.
Still on what could suppress magic so completely—and whether it could be reversed.
When her last meeting of the morning adjourned, she didn’t bother stopping by her office. Instead, she went straight to the small café in the atrium where Harry and Ron were already sitting, coffees in hand and one waiting for her.
Ron was flipping through a Quidditch schedule, absently stirring sugar into his cup, while Harry leaned forward, hands wrapped around his mug like he was considering something far less casual.
Hermione had barely taken a sip before someone nearby muttered, just loud enough to be heard:
"Bet she’d invite You-Know-Who to tea if she thought she could reform him."
She clenched her jaw, exhaling sharply through her nose.
Harry, however, did not have the same restraint.
His chair scraped back sharply, and before Hermione could react, he was already halfway to standing, magic crackling just beneath his skin.
Ron caught his sleeve. “Mate.”
Harry’s nostrils flared, but he sat back down, exhaling through his nose.
Hermione slipped her hand into Harry’s under the table, giving it a quick squeeze.
He looked up, jaw still tight. “I just can’t stand it when—”
“I know,” she said gently, cutting him off. “But I’m fine. Really.”
She tried for a joke, something to break the ice. “This is nothing compared to fourth year.”
Harry huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
Ron, never one to let a moment get too serious, leaned in with a smirk. “Remember when Skeeter was writing about your sexy love triangle? Like we weren’t literal fifteen-year-olds?”
“Creep then, creep now,” Hermione muttered, rolling her eyes.
“Yeah, well, she wrote that article about Harry and Krum a few years back,” Ron added, grin widening. “So, really, mate—you’re the common denominator.”
That earned a real laugh from Harry, sharp and unguarded.
Hermione relaxed.
By the time their break was over, she felt lighter, watching Harry chuckle at some Quidditch joke she didn’t understand, Ron smug with his own wit.
[Time Since Leaving Azkaban: 63 Hours, 44 Minutes]
[Last Check-In: Monday, 4:00 PM]
The scent of old parchment and ink-stained leather surrounded her in the Department of Mysteries library.
Here, at least, she could focus.
She traced her fingers along the spines, pulling book after book from the shelves:
- The Shadow Lingers: Magical Imprints of Unforgivable Spells
- Binding, Branding, and the Blood Oath: Lasting Effects of Dark Magic
- Silenced Wands: Theories on Squibs
- On the Permanence of Magical Influence
Her Quick-Quotes Quill scratched furiously as she flipped through each text, notes forming, reforming into hypotheses.
One book from her own collection, Nature’s Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy, detailed how certain bloodlines retained ancestral magic through rituals. Another suggested that Squibs weren’t born without magic, but rather, their cores were “dormant” due to external factors.
She frowned.
That tracked with Neville—his magic had taken longer to manifest, needing a push, a shock.
Could the same thing be happening to Theo and Draco?
Could dark magic be suppressed just as magic in a Squib could be?
That didn’t explain the black tendrils creeping across their skin, though.
She pulled another book from the shelf, flipping straight to the index.
‘Siphonem Tenebris: The Extraction of Cursed Magic’
A method for forcibly drawing lingering curses from living subjects. Historically used in cases of persistent hexes or improperly removed Dark Marks. Often performed alongside purification rituals to prevent magical contamination.
Hermione narrowed her eyes.
She had seen the spell used before—not firsthand, but in old records of post-war rehabilitation. It was designed for extracting long-standing curses that had embedded themselves into a wizard’s magical core. The process was painful, dangerous, and rarely used anymore because it left behind magical scarring.
But…
Her quill hovered over the parchment as she considered.
What if the spell could be adapted? Not to pull out a curse, but to extract something else?
The black tendrils spreading across Theo and Draco weren’t traditional dark magic. They weren’t reacting like a curse. They weren’t flaring up with spellwork, didn’t respond to standard counter-charms.
They acted like an infection—like something that had spread and taken root in their bodies.
She grabbed another book, flipping furiously through its pages.
Dark Magic & Residual Traces: Studies in Curse Theory
Certain dark magic leaves behind physical remnants—persistent magical matter that continues to degrade a host even after the original spellwork has faded. While some forms of dark magic dissipate entirely, others mutate, becoming something unrecognizable.
Hermione’s pulse quickened.
If Siphonem Tenebris could pull out a curse, then maybe—with the right modifications—it could extract whatever had replaced the dark magic in Theo and Draco.
Her mind worked at breakneck speed, piecing it together.
- Siphonem Tenebris removes curses.
- The tendrils might not be a curse—but they’re magical remnants, something unstable.
- If she could rework the spell to isolate whatever had taken root in them…
The problem, of course, was containment. Even if she extracted the magic, it had to go somewhere.
She grabbed another book, Dark Alchemy & Potion Craft, scanning for anything that could contain unstable magical remnants.
- Adrenaline increases magical circulation, heightening reaction speeds and spell potency.
- Silver nitrate acts as a magical conductor, stabilizing residual energies in potionwork.
- Dragon’s blood enhances spell retention, prolonging effects beyond their natural decay.
A potion.
She could modify the Siphonem Tenebris spell to extract the unknown magical remnants, but it needed to be paired with a potion—one designed to contain and stabilize what was removed.
Something infused with conductive materials, like silver, to act as a buffer. Something with adrenaline to stimulate the magic just enough to separate it from the body.
This was it.
This was how she could stop whatever was happening to them.
Instead of reaching for another book, Hermione dug into her satchel and pulled out her Walkman.
Her head was spinning, and she needed something to ground her.
She snapped the cassette into place, slid the headphones on, and pressed play.
The familiar distortion of cassette static filled her ears before the guitar riff of I’m the Slime kicked in, sharp and unapologetic.
She smirked.
Sirius and Remus had impeccable taste.
Sirius had once called Zappa a “Muggle genius.”
Remus had just rolled his eyes. “He’s a bit of a tosser, but he’s got a point.”
The bass thrummed in her ears as she flipped back through her notes, filling in gaps, drawing new connections.
A modified Siphonem Tenebris, combined with the right potion, could safely extract and contain the magic infecting Theo and Draco.
For the first time in days, Hermione felt like she was getting somewhere.
[Time Since Leaving Azkaban: 70 Hours, 5 Minutes]
[Last Check-In: Tuesday, 3:52 AM]
Hermione woke up to Ginny’s feet in her back.
A sharp, unrelenting press against her spine, as if her body hadn’t been twisted enough sleeping perpendicular in the bed.
She shoved Ginny’s legs off with a groan, but the damage was done.
Her neck ached, her shoulders stiff, and by the time she dragged herself out of bed, she was officially in a mood.
It didn’t help that Ginny breezed into breakfast in last night’s makeup and an unfamiliar t-shirt, smirking when she saw Hermione’s less-than-pleased expression.
“Someone’s grumpy,” Ginny sang, pouring herself coffee.
Hermione pointed a warning spoon at her.
Ginny just grinned, sipping her drink.
[Time Since Leaving Azkaban: 72 Hours, 31 Minutes]
[Last Check-In: Tuesday, 7:48 AM]
She arrived at the Ministry grumpy and stiff, shoulders still tight from the unfortunate perpendicular-sleeping-arrangements incident.
At least her morning had been quiet. No reporters in the Atrium, no one approaching her directly—just whispers, the occasional side-eye, and an entire lift ride spent pretending not to notice a wizard two feet away flipping through Saturday’s Prophet.
It wasn’t until she was at her desk—quill poised above her notes—that the real fight of the day began.
Tracings of the Unseen Hand was open to the spot she left it at at the end of the day but her attention was floating beside her.
“No.”
Hermione blinked, glancing at the enchanted quill hovering over her parchment.
“No?” she repeated, tone already bordering on exasperation.
The Quick-Quotes Quill quivered indignantly.
‘Note is redundant,’ it scratched out in messy shorthand. ‘Already covered under first hypothesis.’
Hermione scowled. “It’s not redundant. This directly contradicts the first hypothesis—”
‘No new supporting evidence.’
“Because I haven’t found it yet!”
The quill scoffed.
Yes. Actually scoffed. A single dismissive flourish.
Hermione snatched it out of the air with a glare, jabbing it onto the parchment manually as she scribbled the note herself. “There. Now it’s recorded, and you can get over it.”
The quill trembled furiously before lying still, defeated.
Hermione smirked. Victory.
Her satisfaction lasted all of three seconds before a memo swooped in, fluttering to a stop directly in her coffee.
She sighed heavily, plucking it out with dripping fingers.
Unfolding the damp parchment, she skimmed the contents quickly.
An update from Healer Starling.
Cassandra Starling started in the hospital wing in Azkaban this weekend—Hermione had been conversing with her to make sure there were no major incidents, but everything was table.
Without hesitating, she reached for another sheet of parchment, dipping her quill (which was still sulking, the petty thing) into ink to draft a response.
Kingsley Shacklebolt knew better than to book anything after a meeting with Hermione Granger.
Still, forty-five minutes over time, she was pacing his office, firing off every issue with Azkaban’s management, barely pausing for breath.
“They’ve falsified the prison renovation reports,” she said, voice sharp. “Kings, they are in this state after one year. How are the inmates expected to reenter society?”
“Hermione—”
“And when was the last time the warden was evaluated? Actually, do you have that paperwork? Because I’d love to have a word with whoever signed off on—”
“Hermione.”
She stopped.
Kingsley leaned back, leveling her with a patient, measured look.
“You can’t fix all of it at once.”
Jaw tight, she exhaled. “Fine. Better food. Better uniforms. It would make a significant difference for the inmates,” she said, voice unwavering. “It already has for the two patients in the hospital wing.”
Kingsley’s expression shifted. “About them…”
Hermione held his gaze, unflinching.
“It was bad, Kings,” she said, voice low, certain. “So much worse than I expected. I wasn’t going to let them continue to suffer.”
“And now?”
“They’re stable… but…”
Kingsley studied her, then nodded. “I trust your judgment. Just… be careful.”
That was enough for her.
She snapped her notebook shut. “I’ve taken enough of your time.”
Kingsley barely had time to sigh before she was already out of her chair.
As she reached the door, he muttered, half amused, half resigned—
“Oh, now she’s in a rush to leave.”
Hermione smirked. “What was that, Kings?”
“Nothing, nothing,” he waved a hand. “Just talking to myself about a scary little witch who bosses me around like I’m not the Minister of Magic.”
[Time Since Leaving Azkaban: 85 Hours, 10 Minutes]
[Last Check-In: Tuesday, 10:25 PM]
She should be winding down for the night.
She should be letting her brain rest.
Instead, she was back at her desk, surrounded by books, flipping through pages faster than she could process them.
Azkaban.
The prisoners.
The magic.
Every theory scratched out, rewritten, reorganized.
Her Quick Quotes Quill lay discarded, abandoned after it started predicting the end of her sentences before she finished them.
Hermione rolled her shoulders, kneading at the tension in her neck. She blinked blearily at the page, willing her eyes to focus. With a slow exhale, she reached for another book.