Chapter 19
Harry Potter leaned back in his chair, the weight of the day pressing heavily on his shoulders. His office was a cluttered mix of case files, parchment, and stray quills. The magical clock on the wall ticked softly, each movement of its hands reminding him how long Hermione and Malfoy had been missing. A week. Seven days of silence, seven days of leads that went nowhere, and seven days of staring at the photograph on his desk—Hermione grinning as she held up a certificate marking her latest achievement, surrounded by Ron and himself.
He raked a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the gnawing dread in his chest, when the blaring alarm erupted, shattering the quiet.
The sound—shrill, urgent, and unmistakable—filled the room, making his heart lurch. The Red Hand alarm. Someone had triggered the secrecy clause.
Harry shot to his feet, his wand already in hand. “Ron! Pucey!” he bellowed, his voice magically amplified to reach his Aurors. Within seconds, the door to his office slammed open, and Ron burst in, his wand drawn, Adrian close behind him.
“What is it?” Ron demanded, his face pale but focused.
Harry didn’t waste time explaining. “The Red Hand. It’s been triggered.”
Adrian’s eyes widened. “In the cells?”
Harry nodded sharply. “Let’s move.”
The three of them sprinted through the halls, their footsteps echoing against the cold stone walls. Harry’s mind raced. What else could go wrong?
The magical locks on the door to the secluded cells disengaged as Harry waved his wand. He stormed in, the others close behind. His breath caught at the sight before him.
In the far corner of the cell, Draco Malfoy sat on the floor, cradling Hermione Granger against his chest. His pale face was marred by bruises and dried blood, and his shirt was stained where Hermione’s head rested against him. She was barely conscious, her face swollen and discolored, her robes torn and bloodstained. Her breathing was shallow, and she flinched at the sudden intrusion, though Draco tightened his hold protectively.
“Bloody hell,” Ron whispered, his voice thick with horror.
Harry stepped forward, his heart pounding. “Hermione,” he called softly, flinging the cell door open and crouching by her side. Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of his voice, and a faint, pained smile tugged at her lips.
“Harry,” she rasped, her voice barely audible.
“We’re here,” he said firmly, his voice steady despite the storm of emotions churning inside him. He turned to Adrian. “Get a healer. Now.”
Adrian frozen in the doorway finally nodded and ran out the door again.
Harry turned his attention to Draco, who was struggling to sit upright. “Malfoy, what happened?”
Draco’s gaze flicked to Hermione, then back to Harry. “They were after information,” he said hoarsely. “They... they didn’t care about me.” His voice broke slightly, but he quickly composed himself. “We used the clause to escape. It was the only way.”
“Who?” Harry pressed, his voice hard. “Who did this to you?”
Draco hesitated, his expression guarded, but before he could answer, Ron knelt beside Hermione, his hands trembling as he brushed her hair out of her face. “We’ve got you, ‘Mione,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”
Hermione’s eyes fluttered closed, her body sagging as she slipped into unconsciousness.
“We need to get her out of here,” Harry said sharply. He turned back to Draco. “Can you stand?”
Draco nodded grimly and forced himself to his feet, though it was clear the effort cost him.
“Ron, help me with Hermione,” Harry ordered.
Ron carefully lifted her into his arms, his jaw tight with fury and worry. Harry turned to Draco. “We’ll get answers later. Right now, let’s get both of you taken care of.”
****
Draco paced down the cold stone hallway, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. The silence of the late hour enveloped the corridors, amplifying the sound of his sharp, deliberate footsteps. Hermione Granger had been discharged from the hospital—against the express orders of the healers—and now she was nowhere to be found.
He had a sinking suspicion of where she might be.
Reaching the door to her lab, he shoved it open with more force than necessary. The hinges creaked in protest as the door slammed against the wall. The small space was dimly lit, filled with bubbling cauldrons and stacks of notes scattered across the tables. And there she was, hunched over a workstation, her face illuminated by the faint glow of a magical flame. She looked pale, fragile, but her eyes were alight with determination as she scribbled furiously in her notebook.
“Granger,” Draco snapped, his voice sharp and cutting. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Hermione startled, nearly dropping her quill. Her head whipped around, her expression flashing with surprise, then annoyance. “Working,” she said tersely, as if the answer were obvious.
“Working?” Draco repeated, his anger igniting further as he strode toward her. “You just spent a week in captivity, got beaten half to death, and the first thing you do after leaving St. Mungo’s, against healers advice might I add, is sneak off to your lab?”
Hermione straightened, her expression hardening. “I’m fine, Malfoy. And this is important.”
“Fine?” Draco echoed incredulously. His hand swept toward her bandaged arm and the faint bruises still visible on her face. “You call this fine?”
“I don’t have time to sit around recovering,” she shot back, her tone sharp with frustration. “Not when we’re dealing with whatever twisted plot those bastards are planning. Do you have any idea what’s at stake?”
Do you?” Draco countered, his voice cracked, dropping low, “Because if you collapse in this bloody lab, you’ll be no use to anyone—not to this research, not to me, and certainly not to yourself.” He shuddered faintly, slamming his Occlumency shields into place to steady himself.
For a brief moment, her gaze softened, but her hands didn’t stop moving. She turned back to the workstation, carefully dropping a vial of blood onto a slide. Muttering an incantation under her breath, her wand emitted a faint golden glow over the sample.
Draco’s eyes narrowed as he watched her. The tension in the room was palpable, crackling like static in the air. “Granger,” he said again, this time his voice quieter but no less insistent. “Why are you so frantic about this all of a sudden? Is that—” He leaned closer, catching a glimpse of the label on the vial. “Is that your blood? What aren’t you telling me?”
Hermione froze for the barest second before turning to face him fully. Guilt flickered across her features, though she quickly masked it. “Nothing,” she said, but her voice wavered.
“Don’t lie to me,” Draco demanded, stepping closer. “Out with it.”
She sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “While we were indisposed,” she began carefully, Draco scoffing at the choice of word, “they injected me with something. I didn’t know what it was at first, but... i have a suspicion it’s connected to the bacteria we’ve been studying. The same killing muggle children.”
Draco’s breath hitched, his anger briefly giving way to concern. “And you didn’t think to tell anyone?”
“I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure,” she admitted defensively. “But now I am. This—” she gestured to the sample, her notes, the chaotic workstation around her—“is proof. The bacteria isn’t just a coincidence. They’ve weaponized it, and they used me as a test subject. And the fact they mentioned the prophecy and they were looking for Alina… All the pieces are coming together."
Draco’s expression darkened. “You’re saying you're... infected?”
“I don’t know yet, there's really no clues on how it would behave in adults” Hermione admitted, her voice trembling slightly. “But if I can isolate it, if I can figure out how it works, we might be able to stop them before they use it again.”
The room fell into a tense silence. Draco’s mind raced as he processed what she had said. Finally, he broke the quiet. “When?”
Hermione didn’t answer, her attention already back on the sample in front of her.
“Granger,” he pressed, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t avoid the question. When did they inject you?”
“Does it matter?” she replied tightly, her fingers gripping the edge of the table.
“Yes, it bloody well matters!” he snapped. “When?”
Hermione sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. "In the very beginning," she said quietly, still refusing to meet his eyes. She gestured vaguely toward the blood sample. "I didn’t think much of it at first, not until I started connecting the symptoms and—"
Draco didn’t let her finish. He stalked around the workstation, grabbing her elbow and turning her to face him. “You’re lying to me,” he accused, his stormy grey eyes locked onto hers.
Hermione attempted to free her arm, but his hold was strong. "I’m not," she maintained, though her tone trembled beneath his gaze.
"Dammit, Hermione!" He seized her with both hands, gently shaking her. The slate gray of his eyes, a clear indicator of his occlusion, started to shift back to silver. "It was when they took me, wasn’t it?" he implored.
Before either could say another word, the door to the lab slammed open. Theo Nott stormed in, his expression thunderous. “Are you two completely mental?” he snapped, slamming the door shut behind him. “I went to St. Mungo’s to check on you, and what do I find? Empty bloody beds! You’ve both left against the healers’ advice. Have you lost your minds?”
Draco’s grip on Hermione loosened, but his attention remained on her for a moment longer. Finally, he turned to Theo. “This isn’t the time, Nott.”
“Oh, the hell it isn’t,” Theo shot back, stalking toward them. He jabbed a finger at both of them. “You’re in no shape to be doing... whatever this is! And instead of resting, you’re sneaking off to play mad scientist. Do you have a death wish?"
Draco ignored him, his attention shifting back to Hermione. He studied her with an unreadable expression before muttering under his breath, “I hesitated again.” His voice was low, full of self-loathing, as he stepped back.
Hermione’s eyes widened as she reached for him. “That’s not—”
He yanked his arm free from her light grip and turned away, heading for the door. She called out to him, but he didn't stop.
"Alina is asking to speak with you," Theo remarked.
Draco halted, his hand resting on the doorknob. Without looking back, he forcefully shut the door, leaving Hermione and Theo in tense silence. Hermione bristled, her fists clenching as she stared at the spot where he had disappeared.
****
Draco strode into Grimmauld Place, the heavy door creaking shut behind him as the air shifted from the chill of London to the warm, slightly stuffy interior of the ancient house. He adjusted his coat and stepped into the hallway, the faint sound of distant voices carrying from somewhere deeper in the house.
But before he could take another step, a small figure appeared at the foot of the staircase. A boy, no older than four, with a shock of messy black hair and wide hazel eyes that sparkled with mischief, stared at Draco with a curious intensity.
"Are you Alina's sister?" the boy asked, his tiny voice echoing in the hall.
Draco froze, momentarily stunned. "What?"
"You look like her. Are you her sister?" the child repeated, tilting his head in an exaggerated manner as though this would help him make sense of Draco’s presence.
Draco’s brow twitched. "I'm not her sister," he said, emphasizing the last word. "I'm a boy. Clearly."
The boy squinted at him skeptically. "You’ve got hair like her and Luna, though, and my cousins and they're all girls. And you’re kinda pretty. Like Alina."
Draco blinked, caught completely off guard. Pretty? Did this child just—
"James. You are supposed to be in bed." A sharp but amused voice cut through the hallway. Ginny Potter emerged from one of the adjoining rooms, her hands on her hips and an exasperated smile on her face. "Leave Mr. Malfoy alone and go fetch Alina for him."
"But Mum, I just wanted to know—"
"Now, James. And then march yourself straight back to bed." Ginny’s tone brooked no argument.
James let out a dramatic sigh that would’ve made any theatre director proud, then turned to Draco and shrugged. "Fine. But I still think you could be her sister." With that, he scampered off, leaving Draco standing in the hallway with an expression torn between confusion and mortification.
Ginny smirked as she approached him, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "Sorry about that, ferret. He’s in a bit of a phase. Wants to know everything about everyone. Last week, he asked Kingsley if he was older than dinosaurs."
"Charming, Ginevra" Draco drawled, his composure slipping back into place. "Do you always let small children roam freely around your headquarters of clandestine activity?"
Ginny arched an eyebrow. "Do you always make it a habit to terrify small children with your presence?"
"I didn’t terrify him," Draco retorted, though he was sure his usual scowl hadn’t exactly screamed ‘friendly stranger.’
"No, but you certainly left him with some interesting questions about gender identity. That’s progress for you," Ginny quipped, clearly enjoying herself.
Draco rolled his eyes. "Is Alina here, or did I Apparate to this madhouse for nothing?"
Ginny waved a hand dismissively. "She’s here. James is fetching her. Try not to scar her for life too while you’re at it."
Before Draco could formulate a suitably cutting reply, the sound of footsteps announced Alina’s arrival. She appeared at the top of the stairs, her expression a mixture of surprise and apprehension as her gaze locked onto Draco’s.
"Draco," she said, descending the stairs quickly. She paused at the bottom noticing Ginny's presence.
"You're welcome to use the sitting room," Ginny said walking toward the kitchen. "Wouldn't want to interrupt this odd family reunion." She said over her shoulder.
Draco ignored Ginny’s jab, though his jaw tightened just slightly. Turning his attention to Alina, he gestured toward the sitting room. "Let’s talk. Somewhere less...chaotic."
Alina nodded hesitantly, glancing back at the kitchen doorway where Ginny had disappeared before leading Draco into the sitting room. The room was modest but comfortable, lined with worn bookshelves and anchored by a faded rug that had clearly seen better days. Alina perched on the edge of an armchair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, while Draco took his place on the couch, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees.
There was a moment of tense silence before Draco finally spoke, his voice low but direct. "I need answers, Alina. No games, no distractions. Start talking."
The room felt heavier than before, the silence stretching as Draco collected his thoughts. Alina’s voice, soft and uncertain, broke the stillness.
"Draco," she said tentatively, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. "Can you—can you stop… blocking or whatever its called? Please?"
Draco’s gaze snapped to her, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly before softening. He took a deep breath, leaning back against the couch.
"It’s called Occlumency," he said, his voice quieter now, though still tinged with the weight of his recent ordeal. "And I… I can’t, not right now. I can’t drop it too much. Please, just understand."
Alina nodded quickly, her expression a mix of understanding and guilt. "I didn’t mean to push… I just—"
"I know," Draco cut her off gently. His hand scrubbed over his face as he sighed. "It’s just… everything in here—" He tapped the side of his temple. "It’s a bloody mess right now. And if I let it all out..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
"I get it," Alina said softly. "I do."
For a moment, they sat in a fragile silence.
Alina’s voice wavered when she finally spoke again. "Was it because of me? Did they take you and Hermione because of me?"
Draco’s jaw tightened as he nodded. "To an extent, yes. They wanted information about your whereabouts."
Alina swallowed hard, her voice barely audible. "I’m so sorry."
"It’s not your fault," Draco said firmly, leaning forward. "You didn’t ask for this. None of this is on you."
She nodded again, though the weight of guilt didn’t leave her face. After a moment, she hesitated before asking, "Your mother… how is she?"
Draco blinked, caught off guard. "You met my mother?"
"Yes," Alina said timidly. "When I… uh… when I shot Theo."
Draco stared at her, his expression a mix of disbelief and exasperation. "You shot him?"
"It was an accident!" Alina said defensively, her cheeks flushing.
Draco groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Merlin’s sake."
"It ricocheted!" she added hastily. "I didn’t mean to hit him, and your mother showed up with an elf afterwards. She helped heal him."
Draco shook his head, muttering under his breath. "Unbelievable."
Alina hesitated again, biting her lip. "I… I’ve been talking to Theo a lot since you and Hermione went missing. He’s come to see me almost every day. I’ve told him everything—everything I can remember, hoping it would help find you. But I can tell he hates me."
Draco frowned. "Theo doesn’t hate you."
"Yes, he does," Alina insisted. "I can feel it. Every time he’s here, it’s like this storm of anger and frustration. He barely looks at me."
Draco sighed, leaning back on the couch. "Theo’s like a brother to me. And he’s good friends with Granger. He probably doesn’t hate you—it’s more likely misplaced emotions, dealing with the fact that we were missing."
Alina frowned but didn’t argue, her fingers nervously twisting together in her lap.
After a moment, she looked up at him, determination flickering in her eyes. "I want to learn how to control my magic. Draco, I can’t let people get hurt because of me. I’m all in—whatever it takes."
Draco studied her for a long moment, her resolve clear despite the weight she carried.
"That's excellent to hear." Harry Potter stepped into the sitting room just then. "Because I've called an order meeting."