Chapter 15
Draco was back in the damp, shadowy warehouse in Brooklyn. Dust swirled in the air, illuminated by flickering fluorescent lights overhead. Shouts and spells echoed off the crumbling concrete walls, the cacophony of a raid gone terribly wrong.
“John!” Draco shouted, his voice sharp, cutting through the din. His wand was a blur, sending out defensive spells and curses as figures moved like shadows around him. His heart pounded as he spotted his partner on the far side of the room, holding off two attackers with a precision that Draco had always admired.
But something was wrong.
A bolt of sickly green light streaked through the air, barely missing John as he ducked behind a stack of crates. Draco’s stomach twisted as he saw the panic in John’s usually calm eyes.
“Fall back!” Draco yelled, trying to make his way toward him. But the space between them seemed to stretch, growing impossibly long as if the warehouse itself was conspiring to keep them apart.
John’s voice rang out, strained but determined. “I’ve got this, Malfoy! Go after the target!”
“No!” Draco barked, his wand cutting through another opponent with a stunning spell. “Not without you!”
But John didn’t listen. He never did when he thought he was doing the right thing. He lunged out from his cover, his wand aimed with deadly precision at the dark figure near the exit.
It happened too fast.
A curse from the shadows hit John square in the chest, sending him crashing backward into the crates. His wand clattered to the ground, rolling out of reach as he slumped, motionless.
“John!” Draco screamed, his voice raw with desperation. He fought his way toward him, every step a battle against the nightmare’s shifting reality. When he finally reached him, John’s eyes fluttered open, but they weren’t the vibrant, determined eyes Draco remembered. They were clouded, accusing.
“This is your fault, Malfoy,” John said, his voice eerily calm, a ghostly echo of itself.
Draco froze, his knees hitting the ground beside John’s broken body. “No… no, I—”
“You left me,” John continued, blood seeping from his mouth. “You hesitated. And now I’m dead. I’ll never get to marry her, Draco. I’ll never get to live.”
Draco shook his head, his hands trembling as he tried to cast a healing spell, but his wand wouldn’t work. The magic fizzled and died in his hands. “I didn’t—John, I didn’t mean for this to happen!”
John’s ghostly figure leaned closer, his pale, lifeless face inches from Draco’s. “You killed me.”
“John, no!” Draco screamed, his voice tearing through the dreamscape as the world around him shattered into darkness.
His own voice jolted him awake.
Draco’s breath came in ragged gasps as he shot upright, his heart hammering in his chest. For a moment, he thought he was still in the nightmare, the darkness around him feeling as oppressive and suffocating as the warehouse.
But this wasn’t the warehouse.
It was cold and damp, the air thick with the musty smell of mildew and stone. The dim light from a single flickering torch barely illuminated the small, windowless room he found himself in. Iron shackles hung from the walls, their chains clinking faintly as he moved.
A dungeon.
Draco’s head throbbed as he tried to piece together what had happened. The motel room. The ambush. Hermione.
“Hermione,” he muttered, his voice hoarse as he looked around the room. But she wasn’t there. He was alone.
Dragging a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, Draco forced himself to take a deep breath. The nightmare’s echo still lingered, the weight of John’s words pressing against his chest. He shook it off, focusing on the present.
His wand was gone, his pockets empty. He stood slowly, his movements stiff, and began to test the walls of the dungeon, his fingers running over the rough, damp stone. He needed to find a way out.
And he needed to find Hermione.
Draco froze when he heard it. A piercing scream ripped through the oppressive silence of the dungeon, raw and desperate. It cut straight through him, dredging up something deep and instinctual. He knew that voice.
“Granger,” he whispered, his blood running cold.
The scream echoed again, faint but unmistakable, sending adrenaline surging through his veins. Draco rushed to the iron door of his cell, slamming his fists against it, the clang reverberating in the small room. “Oi! Whoever’s out there, let her go! Do you hear me? Let her go!”
His only answer was the distant echo of his own voice.
Frantic, Draco’s mind raced as he inspected the room again, searching for anything—any weakness in the stone, any looseness in the iron door. The chains on the wall rattled as he yanked on them, testing their strength. Nothing gave.
“Granger!” he shouted, his voice hoarse with desperation.
The screams stopped. The sudden silence was deafening, more unnerving than the cries. Draco’s breath came in sharp gasps as he leaned against the door, his forehead pressed to the cool iron.
Then, footsteps.
Two sets, slow and deliberate, drawing closer. Draco backed away from the door, his fists clenched, his heart pounding. The door creaked open, and two masked figures stepped inside, dragging a limp Granger between them. Her head hung forward, her curls obscuring her face, but Draco could see the faint rise and fall of her chest. She was alive.
“Put her in there,” one of the figures growled, jerking his head toward the neighboring cell.
Draco surged forward, but the iron bars stopped him short. “What the hell did you do to her?” he barked, his voice low and dangerous.
The masked men ignored him, roughly depositing Hermione onto the floor of the cell and locking the door behind her.
“Answer me!” Draco demanded, gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Do you have any idea who I am? Who she is? You’re making a bloody mistake.”
One of the men turned to him, his eyes gleaming with amusement behind the mask. “Oh, we know exactly who you are, Malfoy. But you? You’re not the one we’re interested in.”
Draco’s lip curled in fury.
The men laughed, a low, mocking sound that made Draco’s blood boil. Without another word, they turned and left, their footsteps fading into the distance as the heavy door slammed shut behind them.
Draco’s fists crashed against the bars. “Cowards!” he roared, his voice echoing through the dungeon.
He turned to see Hermione stirring, her head lifting slightly as she pushed herself into a seated position against the wall. Her face was pale, and there was a thin cut along her temple, but her eyes were sharp, focused.
“Granger,” he said, his voice softening as he leaned as close as he could to the bars separating them. “Are you alright? What did they do to you?”
She gave a small, strained smile. “I’m fine, Malfoy. They didn’t get much out of me.”
“Much?” Draco’s jaw tightened. “What the hell did they want?”
“They’re after Alina,” she said, her voice steady despite the exhaustion that tugged at it. “They think I know where she is.”
“Do you recognize them?” Draco asked urgently. “Their voices, their movements—anything?”
Hermione shook her head. “They’re good. They kept their masks on the whole time, and their voices were magically distorted. I couldn’t tell who they were.”
Draco cursed under his breath, pacing his small cell like a caged animal. “They’re wasting their time. You don’t know where Alina is, and neither do I.”
“I told them that,” Hermione replied. “But they don’t believe me.”
Draco stopped pacing and leaned against the bars again, his eyes locking with hers. “We’ll get out of this,” he said, his tone resolute.
Hermione smirked faintly, despite the situation. “You sound awfully confident for someone locked in a cell.”
Draco’s lips twitched into a grim smile. “Confidence is what gets you through. Besides, they don’t know who they’re dealing with.”
Hermione gave a quiet chuckle, but the sound was short-lived. She shifted slightly, wincing as she adjusted her position.
Draco noticed and frowned. “They hurt you.”
“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” she said quickly, brushing him off.
But Draco didn’t miss the way her hand trembled slightly as she rested it on her knee. His jaw tightened, and his mind worked furiously, already planning their escape.
He leaned closer to the bars, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “They don’t realize they’ve made a fatal error.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“They locked us up together,” he said, a glint of determination in his eyes. “And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that you and I make a bloody good team when we have to.”
Hermione gave him a tired smile, her confidence flickering just enough to match his. “Let’s hope you’re right, Malfoy. Because I don’t plan on staying here long.”
****
The grand library of Nott Manor was bathed in the pale, gray light of dawn filtering through the tall, arched windows. Dust motes floated lazily in the air as Theo paced between towering shelves, his fingers trailing absently along the spines of ancient tomes. A stack of books lay open on the long mahogany table in the center of the room, pages bristling with hastily scrawled notes and barely legible diagrams on mental fortification.
He hadn’t gone home to sleep. Instead, he’d thrown himself into studying Occlumency, determined not to let anyone get the better of him again—especially not someone like Alina. She’d slipped away too easily, and he wouldn’t let it happen a second time.
The library was deathly quiet, the faint scratching of Theo’s quill the only sound as he jotted down notes from a particularly dense passage. Most of what he’d found so far was unhelpful—abstract theories about detachment and clarity of mind that did little to explain the practical mechanics of defending one’s thoughts. Frustration gnawed at the edges of his focus, but he pushed it aside, determined to make progress.
His breath came slowly as he closed his eyes, picturing the empty space of his mind—the vast, silent expanse that he had to protect. The goal was simple: shut out everything, push it aside. The flickers of memory, the doubts, the incessant buzz of his thoughts. He needed to create a barrier so strong that not even the sharpest Legilimens could break through. Alina had shown him how easily she could read the smallest flickers of his intentions, and he hated it.
He was so absorbed in his work that he didn’t hear the faint click of heels against the marble floor until it was too late.
“Theodore.”
Theo’s head shot up, his hand instinctively moving to his wand before his eyes landed on Narcissa Malfoy standing in the doorway. She was dressed impeccably, as always, her pale hair swept back into an elegant chignon. Her icy blue eyes flicked over the mess of books on the table before settling on him with a look of mild disapproval.
“Aunt Cissa,” Theo greeted, quickly straightening up. He offered her a polite smile, though the exhaustion etched into his features was hard to hide. “This is a surprise.”
“I should think so,” Narcissa replied coolly, stepping into the library. Her gaze lingered on the open books for a moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. “I was looking for Draco. He missed an appointment with our solicitors this morning—an important one. I assumed he might be here.”
Theo’s heart skipped a beat, but he kept his expression neutral. “Draco?” he said, feigning nonchalance as he moved to close one of the books on the table. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday. I imagine he’s... preoccupied.”
“Preoccupied,” Narcissa repeated, her tone sharp. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and Theo had the distinct impression that she could see right through him. “With what, exactly?”
“Oh, you know,” Theo said lightly, waving a hand in the air. “Chasing down leads, doing whatever it is Draco does when he gets his mind set on something. You know how he is.”
Narcissa’s gaze didn’t waver, and Theo resisted the urge to squirm under her scrutiny. Finally, she let out a soft sigh and stepped closer to the table, her fingers brushing against the edge of an open book.
“Occlumency,” she said, her voice cool but tinged with curiosity. “A curious choice of study for this time of day.”
Theo hesitated, trying to gauge her tone. “Just brushing up,” he said with a faint smirk, attempting to deflect. “Can’t let my mind be an open book, can I?”
Narcissa’s lips curved into a faint smile, though her eyes remained as sharp as ever. “If you’re truly looking to improve, Theodore, you should focus less on detachment and more on discipline. Occlumency isn’t about emptying your mind—it’s about mastering it. Control, not avoidance.”
Theo blinked, caught off guard by the advice. “Right,” he said slowly, nodding as though her words had only just occurred to him. “That’s... good to know.”
Narcissa stepped back, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from her sleeve. “Do pass on the message to Draco when you see him,” she said, her tone brisk as she leaned in and he kissed her cheek. “His absence this morning has been noted.”
“I’ll let him know,” Theo promised, though he wasn’t entirely sure how he was going to explain Draco’s apparent lack of communication.
Narcissa gave him one last assessing look before turning on her heel and gliding toward the door. Just before she disappeared from view, she paused and glanced back at him.
“Oh, and Theodore,” she said, her voice soft but pointed. “Be careful what you let slip through the cracks. A weak mind is as dangerous as an open door.”
With that, she was gone, leaving Theo alone with the stack of books and the uneasy feeling that Narcissa knew far more than she was letting on.
He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Salazar,” he muttered, glancing at the clock and realizing just how late it was. If Draco was out chasing Alina, Theo needed to be on the same page. And to do that, he needed to go see Potter.
With a quick flick of his wand, Theo gathered the scattered books into a neat pile, grabbed his coat, and headed for the Floo.
****
Theo stepped out of the floo in the ministry atrium and headed straight for and Harry Potter's office. The space was cluttered with files, reports, and half-empty mugs of tea, but the unmistakable aura of organized chaos that surrounded Potter made it feel oddly functional. Harry himself sat at his desk, his glasses slightly askew, scribbling something furiously on a roll of parchment.
“Morning, Potter,” Theo drawled, brushing soot off his coat as he took a seat uninvited.
Harry looked up, blinking as though he hadn’t noticed someone entering. “Nott,” he said evenly, setting down his quill. “I assume this isn’t a social call.”
“Not quite,” Theo replied, leaning back in the chair and crossing one leg over the other. “We’ve got a problem. I lost her last night.”
Potter’s brows furrowed, and he set the parchment aside. “Alina? What do you mean, you lost her?”
“I mean exactly what I said,” Theo replied, his tone tinged with frustration. “She slipped right through my fingers. The girl’s a bloody natural at Legilimency. She was reading me the entire time—knew exactly what I was doing and what I was planning before I even had a chance to act.”
Harry rubbed his temples. “And Draco?”
“He and I searched the area after she gave me the slip,” Theo said. “Spent hours combing the streets, but she was long gone. Draco said he was going to check in with Blaise this morning and then continue looking."
Potter let out a slow breath, clearly weighing the situation. “So she knew you were following her the whole time?”
"Yep." Theo said, popping the p.
Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “If she’s that good at reading people, we can’t afford to keep fumbling around. We need to move carefully, but we also need to move quickly. She’s a risk to herself and everyone around her if she’s untrained and using magic instinctively.”
“I know that,” Theo muttered. “But I’m not sure how to track someone who always seems to be one step ahead.”
Harry thought for a moment before raising his voice. “Pucey! Get in here.”
The door opened a moment later, and Adrian Pucey strode in. A tall, well-built man in his late twenties, Adrian had the polished look of a professional Auror, but his easy smile hinted at a certain charm that softened the edges.
“Morning,” Adrian said, nodding at Harry and sparing Theo a curious glance. “What’s up?”
“We’ve got a situation,” Harry began, gesturing for Adrian to sit. “How’s your Occlumency these days?”
Adrian raised a brow as he took the seat beside Theo. “Sufficient,” he replied cautiously. “Not exactly my specialty, but I can hold my own. Why?” Harry gestured toward Theo. “Nott and Malfoy are trying to track down someone—her name is Alina. She’s got a lot of secrets, and she’s not easy to pin down. I’m suggesting you lend a hand.”
Adrian tilted his head, intrigued. “Muggle Relations is usually my beat, but... Alina, you said? Is this about a magical disturbance or something?”
“Not directly,” Theo said smoothly, cutting in. “But she’s a Muggle-raised witch, new to the magical world. She’s got a knack for slipping away and, apparently, a bit of talent in Legilimency. Maybe you can help to start piecing together her movements without spooking her.”
Harry nodded. “We need to keep this task force level—low-profile. No wide-scale investigations, no drawing attention. If she’s using magic, we need to figure out where and when. Look for unexplained magical bursts near Muggles. That might give us a trail to follow.”
Adrian frowned thoughtfully, his brow furrowing as he processed the information. “Unexplained bursts near Muggles... That really narrows things down for us. I’ll pull some recent reports from our department and cross-reference them with her profile. Is there anything specific I should be looking for in those reports?”
“Her history’s a bit of a black hole,” Theo admitted, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Malfoy is checking in with Blaise Zabini; he has some connections in the Muggle world that could give us access to that kind of information.”
"Zabini isn’t officially part of the task force, though," Pucey interjected, his tone suspicious as he raised an eyebrow.
Harry answered this time, his voice steady and authoritative. "In this specific instance, he is informed. He was there when we first brought Alina in, so he is well aware of her situation." He stood, the weight of his responsibilities evident in his posture, prompting the other two men to follow his lead. "Nott, report back to me later or if anything else of immediate importance comes up. And make sure to send Malfoy my way if you run into him."
****
The door to Hermione's lab swung open with a soft creak, the scent of faintly charred parchment wafting in as George Weasley stepped inside. He wore a worn, navy-blue coat with the faintest hint of ash clinging to the cuffs, as if he'd walked straight out of a spell gone awry. His gaze swept the space, taking in the cluttered workbenches and rows of neatly labeled potion vials lining the walls.
Behind one of the benches stood Pansy Parkinson, a slim brow arching at the unexpected guest. She crossed her arms and tilted her head, her dark hair spilling over one shoulder.
“George Weasley,” she said, her tone a touch sardonic. “Not the usual sort of visitor for Granger’s fortress of intellect. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
George’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something close. “I’ve got a meeting with Hermione. Prearranged.” His voice was calm but carried a slight edge, subtle but noticeable, as though Pansy’s presence wasn’t entirely welcome. “She asked me to bring something for testing.” He gestured to the satchel slung over his shoulder.
“Well, lucky her,” Pansy replied, her sharp tone softening just slightly. “She’s not here. Malfoy whisked her away earlier for something, the sky was falling I believe," she flicked her wand and multiple vials darted from the shelf to table in front of her. "Or at least that's how he usually conducts himself anyway."
George’s brow furrowed briefly, but he quickly masked it. His eyes flicked briefly to the array of half-finished potion flasks and magical devices scattered across the workbench, then back to Pansy. “Mind if I wait?”
Pansy hesitated, as if weighing whether she actually did mind. “Suit yourself,” she said finally, gesturing to a chair in the corner of the room. “Just don’t touch anything. Some of it bites.” George moved toward the chair without a word, his gait unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. He set his satchel on the floor and sat down, crossing one ankle over his knee.
For a moment, the lab was silent save for the faint hum of magical energy emanating from one of the nearby devices. Pansy busied herself with organizing a tray of vials, but the weight of George’s quiet presence was hard to ignore.
“So,” she said after a long pause, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, “what exactly are you and Granger testing? Exploding sweets? Self-propelling dungbombs? Or is it something even more juvenile?”
George looked at her, his expression unreadable, though his tone carried the faintest hint of sarcasm. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” Pansy smirked, but the faint tension in the air didn’t ease. “You’re very funny. Do the customers at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes appreciate that dry wit, or do they only care about the fireworks?”
George didn’t respond right away, his eyes drifting to a stack of research notes on the table. When he finally spoke, his tone was even but distant. “Mostly the fireworks.”
The dismissal was subtle, but it landed. Pansy straightened slightly, her smirk vanishing as she focused on the vials in front of her.
“Well,” she said after a beat, “don’t let me get in the way of your riveting contribution to magical innovation.”
George leaned back in the chair, the hint of a smile returning to his lips, but he didn’t reply.
Another stretch of silence passed, the awkwardness palpable. Pansy glanced over her shoulder at him again, her curiosity finally overriding her irritation. “So, how long do you plan on waiting? Because I’m not her keeper, and she’s been scarce lately.”
For the briefest moment, something flickered in George’s expression, but before he could respond, the door creaked again, and both turned instinctively toward it.
Harry Potter pushed open the door. He glanced around quickly before spotting Pansy and George seated at a table, both looking a little too tense for comfort. Pansy was fidgeting with a small vial in her hands while George was tapping his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair.
“Good to see you, Potter,” Pansy said disingenuously, her eyes narrowing as she took in Harry’s expression. “Looking for Hermione?”
"Yeah, I’ve been trying to get hold of her,” Harry said, his tone casual but his brow furrowed. “I’ve sent a Patronus twice now, and I’ve been trying to reach her, but no luck."
“I’d say she’s probably in the middle of one of Malfoy’s ‘missions,’” Pansy replied coolly. "He stopped by early this morning and she left with him."
Harry pondered this for a moment, weighing his options before mustering a response. "Alright, well please let her know I'm looking for her." His words were steady, though a hint of urgency underscored his request.
As he turned to leave, Pansy’s voice cut through the air, halting him in his tracks. “He said the situation’s related to the... fun stranger from last night.” Her tone was laced with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism, as if she were probing for more than just a simple confirmation.
Harry paused for a moment, taken aback by her inquiry and uncertain if he should expand or sidestep. The gravity of the last night’s occurrences lingering.
George glanced between the two, his expression shifting from confusion to annoyance as he realized he was entirely out of the loop. He rolled his eyes at the theatrics unfolding before him, a silent plea for the conversation to move on.
“Just send her my way when she arrives.” Harry exhaled in frustration before turning to leave. After a brief pause, George finally broke the silence, his curiosity evident in his voice as he spoke up from the side. “Who is ‘she’?”
Pansy, forever the mysterious character, batted her eyelashes at him with a playful gesture, a sly grin teasing her lips. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you,” she responded, her voice laced with playful allure, making him question whether she was joking or genuinely serious.