Threads of the Past
The owl tapped insistently at the window, rousing Hermione from her scattered notes and half-finished tea. She glanced up, her quill poised mid-air, before sighing and rising from her desk. Her flat was dimly lit, the warm glow of a single lamp casting shadows across the piles of parchment that covered her workspace. Books were everywhere, and half burnt scented candles.
“Persistent little thing,” she muttered, unlatching the window. The tawny owl hopped onto her desk, extending its leg with a pointed hoot.
Hermione’s brows furrowed as she recognized the Malfoy family crest stamped into the wax seal. For a moment, she hesitated. The weight of her earlier conversation with Draco still lingered, his sharp words and reluctant concessions replaying in her mind.
You wanted to know how far this curse reaches? I think it’s reaching for us.
The letter felt heavier than it should have. She broke the seal, her eyes scanning the neat, angular handwriting she recognized as Draco’s.
Granger,
Another artifact arrived tonight. It’s unmarked, and the magic on it is unlike anything I’ve encountered before. I haven’t opened it yet—the pulses alone are enough to tell me it’s connected to the others.
This isn’t contained, and it’s not random. Someone—something—is doing this deliberately. You were right about the spread. It’s not just the artifacts. Whatever this is, it’s… moving. Reaching.
I don’t have answers yet, but it’s clear we’re not dealing with isolated incidents. You wanted to know how far this curse reaches? I think it’s reaching for us.
We need to talk.
Hermione read the letter twice, her mind racing as she folded the parchment carefully and set it aside. The implications were clear: the curse was active, deliberate, and escalating. But what unnerved her more was Draco’s tone. Gone was the biting sarcasm, the arrogant detachment. He sounded… worried.
She reached for her wand, summoning a fresh sheet of parchment. If Draco was willing to admit he needed help, she wasn’t about to waste time. Her reply was brief and direct.
Malfoy,
Tomorrow, 10 a.m. Leaky Cauldron. Bring the artifact.
The owl hooted softly as she tied the letter to its leg, sending it back into the night. Hermione leaned against her desk, staring at the empty space where the bird had been. The familiar hum of magical energy from Draco’s letter still lingered in the room, faint but insistent. She closed her eyes, steadying herself. Whatever this was, it wasn’t going to wait.
The Leaky Cauldron was quieter than usual, the mid-morning lull leaving only a handful of patrons scattered across the pub. Hermione sat in a private booth near the back, her fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of tea. Her hair was pulled back loosely, a few stray curls framing her face. She glanced toward the door every so often, the faint crease in her brow betraying her impatience.
Draco stepped through the entrance precisely at 10 a.m., his movements brisk and deliberate. His sharp eyes scanned the room, landing on Hermione almost immediately. She was easy to spot—not because of her position near the back, but because she had always had a way of commanding attention without trying. Even as she sat there quietly, sipping her tea, there was a focus about her that was impossible to ignore.
“Punctual as ever,” he remarked as he approached, sliding into the seat across from her. He placed the small, tightly wrapped package on the table between them with deliberate care.
“You’re early,” Hermione replied, her tone clipped as she glanced at the package. “Is that it?”
Draco leaned back in his seat, taking a moment to study her before responding. There was something different about her now—not in a dramatic sense, but in the way time had refined her. Her features were sharper, her posture more confident, but it was the determination in her eyes that struck him most. She had always been determined, but this was different. It was quieter, steadier, like steel tempered in fire.
“Yes,” he said finally, gesturing to the package. “This is it. The latest addition to our little collection of horrors.”
Hermione reached for the package, her fingers brushing the edge, but Draco’s hand shot out to stop her. “Don’t,” he said sharply, his voice low. “Not here.”
She pulled her hand back, frowning at him. “I assume you’ve examined it.”
Draco smirked faintly. “Thoroughly, if you must know. Though it’s not the sort of thing one can study without consequence.”
“And?” she prompted, her tone challenging.
“And,” he drawled, leaning forward slightly, “it’s tied to the others. The magic is the same—volatile, layered, and distinctly ancient. But there’s something else about this one. Something… personal.”
Hermione’s frown deepened, the crease in her brow returning. “Personal?”
Draco hesitated, his fingers drumming lightly against the edge of the table. “It’s hard to explain. It’s like it’s waiting—for me, for us. As though it’s aware.”
Her eyes narrowed, her mind clearly working through the implications. Draco watched her in silence for a moment, his own thoughts drifting as he studied her face. The years had softened some things and hardened others. There was a light sprinkling of freckles across her nose that hadn’t been there in school—or perhaps he had simply never noticed. Her lips, pressed into a firm line of concentration, twitched slightly as if she were suppressing the urge to speak.
It was strange, seeing her like this. The Hermione Granger of their school days had been a blur of raised hands, bushy hair, and unrelenting know-it-all energy. She had always been a step ahead, always eager to prove herself. The woman sitting across from him now was still sharp, still relentless, but there was a quiet confidence to her that unsettled him. She didn’t need to prove anything anymore, and somehow, that made her even more formidable.
“What?” Hermione asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.
Draco blinked, realizing he had been staring. “Nothing,” he said quickly, leaning back and folding his arms. “I’m just wondering how you manage to look so perpetually annoyed. Is it a skill, or were you born with it?”
Hermione rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. “If I look annoyed, it’s because I’m sitting across from you.”
He smirked, though it lacked its usual venom. “Charming as always, Granger.”
Her gaze flicked back to the package, her expression returning to its usual focus. “We need to open it,” she said decisively.
Draco raised an eyebrow. “Here? Brilliant idea. Shall we invite the rest of the pub to join us while we’re at it?”
“Not here,” she snapped, shooting him a glare. “But soon. We can’t keep dancing around this, Malfoy. If these artifacts are tied to your family, you have a responsibility to—”
“To what?” Draco interrupted, his tone sharp. “Clean up the mess my ancestors left behind? I’m painfully aware of my responsibilities, Granger. You don’t need to lecture me.”
Hermione’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t back down. “If you’re aware, then act like it. Sitting on these artifacts won’t make the problem go away.”
Draco held her gaze, the tension between them crackling like static. She was infuriating, as she had always been, but he couldn’t deny that she was right. He hated that about her—the way she could cut through his defenses with a single pointed look, the way her words had a habit of sticking with him long after they were spoken.
“Fine,” he said finally, his voice low. “But we do this my way.”
Hermione arched a brow. “Your way?”
“Yes,” he said firmly, leaning forward. “Controlled. Calculated. We’re not charging in wands blazing, Granger. Not this time.”
Her lips twitched, though whether it was from amusement or irritation, he couldn’t tell. “Agreed,” she said after a moment. “But the moment we open that box, we’re doing it together.”
Draco inclined his head, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them. For the first time since their uneasy partnership began, it felt like they were on the same page—or close enough, anyway.
Hermione finished the last sip of her tea, setting the cup down with deliberate care. “Let’s go,” she said, her voice steady. “We’ve wasted enough time already.”
Draco picked up the package, its weight unfamiliar but oddly reassuring in his hands. As they stood to leave, he found himself glancing at her again, his thoughts drifting back to their school days. Back then, he had seen her as an annoyance, a rival, an obstacle to be overcome. But now, walking beside her through the dimly lit pub, he wondered if he had been blind to something more.
He shook the thought away as quickly as it came. This wasn’t the time for reflection. Whatever lay inside that artifact was waiting, and he had a sinking feeling they were about to find out exactly what it wanted.
The abandoned wing of the Ministry was silent except for the faint hum of protective wards lining the walls. The room felt cold and lifeless, but Hermione had chosen it for its isolation—an unassuming space far from prying eyes.
The artifact sat in the center of a heavy wooden table, its intricate carvings catching the dim light. Draco stood a few feet away, his wand at the ready, while Hermione meticulously prepared the containment spells. The air between them was tense, charged with unspoken questions.
“This feels like a trap,” Draco muttered, his eyes narrowing at the artifact. “A very deliberate, very personal trap.”
Hermione glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “Personal how?”
He hesitated, his fingers tightening around his wand. “I told you—it’s hard to explain. It’s… familiar. The kind of magic you recognize without knowing why.”
She arched an eyebrow. “That’s vague, even for you.”
Draco shot her a glare but didn’t respond. Instead, he stepped closer to the table, his gaze fixed on the artifact. “Let’s get this over with.”
Hermione nodded, casting a final ward around the room. “Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” he muttered.
With a steady hand, Hermione unwrapped the artifact, the paper falling away to reveal a small, ornately carved box. The runes etched into its surface seemed to shift under the light, their edges glowing faintly. Draco’s breath caught as recognition flickered across his face.
“That’s Malfoy work,” he said, his voice low. “From the vaults.”
Hermione glanced at him sharply. “You’re sure?”
He nodded, his jaw tightening. “Positive. My family used runes like that to conceal the darkest parts of our collection—things that weren’t meant to see the light of day.”
Hermione’s stomach turned, but she kept her voice steady. “Why would this resurface now? Who would have access?”
Draco didn’t answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the box, his expression shadowed. “There were only a handful of people who knew how to navigate the vaults properly. My father, obviously. My mother. And…”
“And?” Hermione pressed, her voice sharp with impatience.
Draco’s eyes flickered to her, a mix of hesitation and something darker lingering in his expression. “Theo.”
“Theodore Nott?” Hermione asked, frowning. “What would he have to do with this?”
Draco exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “He was one of the few I trusted. After the war, when everything fell apart, Theo helped me… salvage what was left of the family estate. He knew the vaults better than anyone outside my immediate family.”
“And you think he might have taken something?” Hermione’s tone was skeptical, but there was a faint edge of curiosity.
“I don’t know,” Draco admitted, his voice tight. “But if anyone had access to this, it was him.”
Hermione considered this, her mind racing. She remembered Theodore Nott from Hogwarts—quiet, intelligent, always lurking in the background of Slytherin’s inner circle. He had been an enigma, neither fully aligned with Draco’s arrogance nor entirely separate from it.
“You trusted him,” she said after a moment, her gaze steady.
Draco’s expression hardened. “I had reason to.”
“Did you?” Hermione pressed, her voice softer now. “Because this doesn’t look like the work of someone who was helping you.”
Draco’s jaw clenched, but before he could respond, the box pulsed with magic. Both of them stepped back, their wands raised as the runes flared to life. A faint glow seeped from the edges of the lid, and the room grew colder, the air thick with tension.
“Ready?” Hermione asked, her grip on her wand tightening.
Draco nodded, his expression grim. “Do it.”
Hermione muttered an incantation, the lid snapping open with a sharp crack. A swirling mass of shadows erupted from within, twisting and writhing as it filled the room. The temperature plummeted, and the shadows began to coalesce, forming the edges of a memory.
The scene that unfolded was blurry at first, but as the details sharpened, Draco felt his chest tighten. They were in the Malfoy Manor vaults—he would recognize the stone walls and intricate carvings anywhere. A cloaked figure moved through the space with practiced precision, their hands skimming over the shelves.
Hermione stepped closer, her wand raised as she studied the figure. “Who is that?”
“I don’t—” Draco started, but his voice faltered as the figure turned slightly. The motion was subtle, but it revealed a glint of metal on their hand—a ring, engraved with a sigil Draco knew all too well.
His stomach dropped. “Theo.”
The name hung in the air, heavy and damning. Hermione glanced at him, her expression sharp. “You’re sure?”
Draco nodded, his face pale. “That’s his family crest. That’s him.”
The memory continued, the figure selecting several items from the shelves and placing them into a satchel. Their movements were deliberate, purposeful, as though they knew exactly what they were looking for.
“Why would he—” Draco began, but the shadows suddenly shifted, the memory collapsing as a surge of magic lashed out. Both he and Hermione reacted instantly, their wands casting a shield to contain the energy. The force of it pushed them back, but the wards held, the room falling into silence once more.
Hermione was the first to speak, her voice steady despite the tension in the air. “We need to find him.”
Draco didn’t respond immediately. His mind was racing, a thousand memories of Theo flashing through his mind. The late-night conversations in the Slytherin common room, the quiet loyalty that had once felt unshakable, the way Theo had always seemed to understand the burden of their bloodlines.
“If he’s behind this…” Draco trailed off, his voice tight. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
Hermione placed a hand on the table, her gaze unwavering. “Then we start with what we know. If Theo had access to the vaults, he might have left a trail.”
Draco nodded slowly, though his expression remained guarded. “This doesn’t make sense,” he said, more to himself than to her. “He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t care about the war—about any of it.”
“People change,” Hermione said quietly. “Sometimes in ways we can’t predict.”
Draco met her gaze, the weight of her words settling heavily between them. For the first time, he realized how much the past still clung to both of them, shaping their present in ways neither could escape.
“Then we’d better find him before this gets worse,” he said finally, his voice steady despite the storm raging in his mind.
Hermione nodded, determination flashing in her eyes. “Agreed.”
The room felt heavier now, the magic from the artifact lingering in the air like a storm waiting to break. Hermione and Draco stood on opposite sides of the table, their wands still in hand, though the immediate threat had passed. The swirling shadows of the memory were gone, but the tension between them remained, sharp and unrelenting.
“We need to move quickly,” Hermione said, her voice brisk as she began to pace the study. “If Theo’s involved—”
“If,” Draco interrupted, his tone biting. “That’s a big assumption, Granger. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
Hermione looked up, her brows knitting together. “You saw what I saw, Malfoy. That was Theodore Nott in your vaults, taking artifacts that are now reappearing cursed. What part of this isn’t adding up for you?”
Draco’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “The part where you assume betrayal comes so easily. Theo wasn’t like that.”
“People change,” Hermione said, her tone sharper than she intended. “You just don’t want to admit it because it means you missed the signs.”
The words hit harder than Hermione expected. Draco’s eyes narrowed, his face pale and drawn. “You don’t know anything about Theo,” he said quietly, his voice low and dangerous. “Or about me.”
Hermione stepped closer, her own frustration bubbling to the surface. “I know enough,” she snapped. “I know that you’ve spent years hiding in your house, burying your head in the sand, while the rest of us—”
“The rest of you?” Draco interrupted, his voice rising. “Don’t pretend you understand what it’s like to carry the weight of a family legacy that poisons everything it touches.”
Hermione froze, the heat in his words cutting through her anger. Draco took a step forward, his eyes flashing with something she couldn’t quite place—anger, yes, but also pain.
“You think it’s easy for me to accept that someone I trusted—someone I considered family—might be behind this?” he continued, his voice trembling slightly. “You think I haven’t spent every day since the war trying to claw my way out from under the shadow of what my family did? You think you’re the only one who lost something?”
Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. For a moment, all she could do was stare at him, the rawness of his confession catching her off guard.
“Malfoy…” she started, her tone softer now.
“Don’t,” he said sharply, turning away from her. He raked a hand through his hair, his shoulders tense. “Just… don’t.”
The silence that followed was heavy, the air between them thick with unspoken words. Hermione hesitated, her hand hovering over the table before she stepped closer.
“You’re not alone in this,” she said finally, her voice quiet but firm. “Whatever’s happening, we’ll figure it out. Together.”
Draco let out a bitter laugh, though it lacked real humor. “Together,” he repeated, shaking his head. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
Before Hermione could respond, the artifact on the table pulsed faintly, a ripple of magic sweeping through the room. Both of them turned, their wands instinctively raising as the box gave off a low, resonant hum.
“What now?” Draco muttered, his grip tightening on his wand.
Hermione took a cautious step forward, her eyes narrowing as she studied the box. “It’s reacting to us.”
“To us?” Draco echoed, his skepticism clear. “That’s absurd.”
“Is it?” Hermione shot back. “The artifact showed us Theo, but maybe it’s trying to tell us something else. Something we’re not seeing.”
Draco frowned, his gaze flickering between Hermione and the box. “Or maybe it’s just another bloody trap.”
Hermione shook her head, her focus unwavering. “No. It’s trying to show us something. We just don’t know what yet.”
Draco let out an exasperated breath, stepping closer to the table. “Or it’s just waiting for the right moment to blow up in our faces. Either way, it’s not exactly giving us directions.”
Hermione frowned, her eyes locked on the faint glow emanating from the box. The runes along its surface seemed to pulse in rhythm with her heartbeat, slow and deliberate. She raised her wand, murmuring another detection spell, but the box remained still, its magic coiled tight like a predator waiting to strike.
“Maybe we’re approaching this the wrong way,” she said, her voice thoughtful. Her gaze flicked to Draco, her eyes narrowing slightly. “The artifact reacts to proximity—when we’re both here. What if it needs… something more?”
Draco arched an eyebrow, his tone laced with skepticism. “Something more? Like what? A heartfelt apology for existing?”
Hermione ignored him, stepping closer to the table. The artifact pulsed again, the runes glowing brighter as if in response to her movement. A thought struck her, wild and reckless, but impossible to ignore.
“Touch my hand,” she said suddenly, the words tumbling out before she could second-guess them.
Draco froze, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and irritation. “What?”
“Just do it,” Hermione insisted, holding out her hand. Her voice was firm, but there was a faint edge of uncertainty in her eyes. “The artifact reacts to us—together. Maybe it’s tied to intent, or… or shared magic. We won’t know unless we try.”
Draco’s jaw tightened, his gaze flickering between her outstretched hand and the box. “This is ridiculous.”
“So is standing here arguing about it,” she shot back, her eyes blazing. “What are you afraid of, Malfoy?”
Draco’s expression darkened, but before he could reply, the box pulsed again, a sharp flare of magic rippling through the room. The air seemed to thicken, charged with an energy that prickled against their skin. With a muttered curse, Draco stepped forward, closing the space between them.
“Fine,” he said curtly, his voice low. “But if this thing kills us, I’m blaming you.”
He reached out, his hand hovering over hers for a moment before finally making contact. His fingers were cool against her skin, his grip firm but cautious. The connection sent an unexpected jolt through Hermione, a flicker of something she couldn’t quite name.
The box reacted immediately. The runes flared to life, their glow bright and pulsing, casting jagged shadows across the room. A low hum filled the air, growing louder and more insistent as the magic within the artifact began to stir.
Draco’s grip tightened instinctively, his gaze snapping to hers. “Granger—”
“I know,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rising hum. “Just hold on.”
The artifact’s magic surged, enveloping the room in a wave of heat and light. For a moment, the world seemed to tilt, the air vibrating with an intensity that bordered on overwhelming. Hermione felt the pull of the magic, a deep, insistent force that seemed to draw something out of her—something ancient and primal.
Draco’s breathing was shallow, his focus fixed on the box as the runes shifted, forming new patterns that pulsed with meaning he couldn’t quite grasp. His hand remained clasped around Hermione’s, and despite himself, he couldn’t ignore the strange pull of her presence—steady, grounding, and maddeningly distracting all at once.
The hum reached a fever pitch, and then, as suddenly as it had begun, the magic subsided. The runes dimmed, the room falling into an eerie silence. Hermione and Draco stood frozen, their hands still joined as they stared at the now-dormant artifact.
“What the hell was that?” Draco asked finally, his voice rough.
Hermione’s lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Her heart was racing, her skin tingling with the remnants of the artifact’s magic. She felt Draco’s gaze shift to her, sharp and searching, and the intensity of it made her stomach twist.
“I think…” she began, her voice unsteady. “I think it’s tied to us.”
Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Tied to us how?”
“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted, her hand still clasped in his. “But the artifact’s magic—it responded to both of us. Together.”
Draco’s jaw tightened, his grip loosening slightly. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“None of this makes sense,” she snapped, her voice rising. “But we can’t ignore it. Whatever this is, it’s trying to tell us something.”
The weight of her words hung between them, heavy and unspoken. Draco’s fingers lingered against hers for a moment longer before he pulled away, the sudden loss of contact leaving the air colder than it had been before.
“We need to find Theo,” Draco said finally, his voice clipped.
Hermione nodded, her own expression guarded. “Right.”
The artifact sat quietly on the table, its runes dim but still faintly pulsing, as if watching them. The tension in the room was palpable, crackling like a live wire as they turned to leave.
But as Hermione reached the door, she glanced back, her eyes meeting Draco’s for a brief moment. There was something unspoken in his gaze—something she couldn’t quite place. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words never came.
Draco broke the silence first. “Don’t overthink it, Granger.”
Hermione frowned but didn’t respond. Instead, she turned and stepped into the hallway, her thoughts a whirlwind of questions she didn’t know how to answer. And at the center of it all was the nagging realization that whatever had just happened wasn’t just about the artifact.
It was about them.