Moondew Veil
By the time Hermione returned to The Leaky Cauldron, dawn was breaking. She had barely slept since the investigation began, and at this point, she felt practically nocturnal—like a vampire herself.
Her body ached, her eyes burned, and all she wanted was to collapse into bed, bury herself under the sheets, and slip into a world untouched by pain. No spilled blood. No chaos.
Safe.
But there was no time for that.
Though the framework of her beaded bag had been repaired, inside was still a disaster. After informing Draco of the attack on Seamus Finnigan—and receiving nothing but a disinterested shrug—she spent the next few hours sorting through the wreckage.
To her surprise, even Draco helped—lifting, sweeping, tidying—though he didn’t look remotely happy about it. He couldn’t cast Repairo charms or mend the fabric walls that only magic could fix—that was Hermione’s job.
She worked tirelessly, reinforcing every ward, especially the Protego and Vinculum charms on Draco. After seeing what a powerful Dilacrian was capable of, she wasn’t taking any chances—especially with the safety of the creatures inside her bag.
They moved around each other in silence, working in an unspoken rhythm. But a thought had been gnawing at Hermione—so persistently, so uncomfortably—that she finally broke the quiet.
“Malfoy…” She hesitated, watching him carefully. “When Goyle woke up and saw you… he said he found you.”
Draco didn’t react. Seated on the travel bed, he was polishing a bloodstain from his golden goblet. But at her words, his eyes flicked up to hers.
Hermione looked away quickly, pushing down the strange, dizzying feeling that crept up whenever they locked eyes.
“So he was looking for you,” she continued. “He knew you were missing. And where to find you.”
Draco set the goblet down, his breath still. “I know.”
Hermione frowned. “And he asked if you were coming back—like you’d been together before I found you.”
Draco exhaled sharply, gripping the goblet again and scrubbing at an invisible stain. “It was news to me too, Granger.”
“I thought you said you hadn’t seen Goyle in years?” she pressed, arms folding.
“And I haven’t.” His tone was clipped, his focus locked onto the goblet.
She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. Her nose twitched.
Scourgify
The stain vanished with a flick of her wand.
Draco blinked. Then, with a little too much force, he set the goblet down and fixed her with a glare. “What is it, Granger?” His voice was sharp. “Still think I’m up to something?”
She looked away. “No. Actually.”
Suspicious as it was, she had finally accepted that Draco hadn’t chosen to become a Dilacrian. If he and Goyle had been together, one thing was clear—he truly didn’t remember.
“But I do think you’re in denial.”
Draco pushed off the bed, closing the distance between them in two easy strides.
Hermione kept her gaze down, but she felt him—his presence pressing in, heating the air between them.
“You have no idea what I think.” His voice was quiet, dangerously close, his breath skimming her skin.
Then he was gone, moving past her toward the scattered tomes, leaving the scent of amber and crisp winter air in his wake.
Hermione swallowed, forcing herself to ignore the way her skin still tingled where his breath had touched. I just need sleep.
She exhaled slowly, grounding herself. “Then maybe you should start talking.” Her voice was steady, despite electricity humming within her fingertips.
Draco crouched, stacking the heavy tomes with effortless strength. He didn’t look at her. “You act like I haven’t already considered all of this. You’re not working with Dumb and Dumber anymore. I don’t need you spoon-feeding me every idea and decision.”
Hermione bristled. “I’m not trying to start a fight. Merlin knows you’ve had enough of those already.” She gestured to the books. “But you could at least tell me what you’ve thought about Goyle.”
“No offense, but you’re not exactly known for your listening skills.”
“Offense taken,” she shot back, scoffing. “You do realise this isn’t just about you anymore, right? Finding a cure is the only way to stop Goyle.” She sighed. “Until he can’t break through wards we don’t stand a chance.”
Draco’s expression was unreadable. “Killing him is a good alternative.”
“Yes, well, we can’t do that. Seeing as it’s illegal.”
Draco turned, slamming a heavy tome onto the pile. “Says the one who nearly cast an Unforgivable Curse.”
Hermione stiffened. “I didn’t.”
Draco arched a brow, his smirk hollow. “You’re forgetting. I’ve seen it before. I know what it looks like.” He watched her intently. “And I saw it… in your eyes.”
Silence stretched between them.
Draco broke it first. “And I thought you didn’t let emotions interfere with your investigations?”
“I never said that.” Her voice was tight.
He shrugged. “Didn’t have to.”
Hermione clenched her jaw. He thinks he has me figured out.
She wouldn’t let him.
“So maybe I’m not great with listening, or emotions, or whatever—” she admitted, waving a hand dismissively. “But you’re worse at sharing. If you know something, you need to start talking.”
Draco let out a humorless laugh. “You want to know what I think?” He smirked, but there was no real amusement behind it. “Get yourself to St. Mungo’s, Granger. Someone’s fucked with your head.”
“Maybe they have!” she snapped, throwing her hands up. Frustration burned through her as she dropped into the armchair, pressing her fingers to her temples. “Look. We both want this over with. The sooner we work together, the faster we get there.”
Draco exhaled, steadying himself against the pile of books. “Fine.”
His voice was quieter now.
“I think Goyle and I were turned at the same time—by the same thing.” His jaw tensed. “I don’t remember him being there. I don’t remember anyone being there. Just… blackness.” His fingers pressed against the scar on his neck, face twisting. “And pain.”
Hermione’s heart clenched.
“When he showed up in Diagon Alley—somehow knowing exactly where to find me—he thought I’d just… pick up where we left off. Just like the good old days.” Draco scoffed, his voice laced with sarcasm.
He exhaled slowly, as if sorting through his own memories. “I think we were turned for the same reason. The same purpose. Except Goyle embraced it, and I didn’t.” His gaze flicked to hers. “I don’t know why. I don’t know how. All I know is—” His expression hardened. “I need my magic back.”
Hermione opened her mouth, but no words came.
Draco stepped around the tomes, making his way back to the golden goblet and a bottle of blood. He kept his eyes on the liquid as it poured, glimmering in the lamplight.
“You don’t have to believe me. You don’t even have to listen.” He turned to her. “But don’t you dare think you’re the only one trying to figure this out. Trust me when I say this—” his eyes flickering with that moonlight, “I want these Dilacrians eradicated more than anyone.”
~*~
After a restless, unsatisfying nap, Hermione was summoned to the Ministry. Exhaustion clung to her like a second skin, but she forced herself up, splashed cold water on her face, and set off.
Her beaded bag, still fragile at the seams, stayed at The Leaky Cauldron—something she had never felt comfortable doing before. But with Draco inside, it was safer with him than anyone else. He needed a cure, and she doubted he’d let anything ruin that.
She barely had time to brace herself before being ushered into a meeting with Kingsley Shacklebolt and Gawain Robards. The air was thick with tension, the weight of the case pressing down on all of them.
Harry stood at the head of the table, relaying everything they had learned about Gregory Goyle and the Dilacrians. By the end of it, the Ministry had no choice but to issue a warrant for Goyle’s arrest.
Under no circumstances was he to be confronted. He was too powerful, too unpredictable. If anyone in the wizarding world spotted him, his whereabouts would be relayed directly to the Auror Office, where a controlled strike could be planned.
How they were supposed to capture him, however, was an entirely different problem.
Gregory’s ability to break through wards had been explained, along with an equally alarming fact—he could use Compulsion on witches and wizards. A power that, until now, had only affected Muggles.
But, the attack on Seamus Finnigan had made one thing clear—though Gregory Goyle was dangerous—he was dumber than a sack of flobberworms. His downfall wouldn’t come through brute force but through strategy. Distraction, deception, and precision.
Harry, with a new fire in his eyes, headed straight for the Auror Office to plant a fresh tracker on Goyle—the last one obliterated the moment he crashed onto the examination table.
That left Hermione to get on with her own challenge:
She had a cure to find. And fast.
~*~
“Ernie.” Hermione plastered on a saccharine smile, her voice as sweet as honey. She had caught him mid-stride, pacing the corridor as he always did—as if he were far too important, far too busy. “Would you mind opening the Vampiric Encyclopedia for me again? Harry's been going on about some vampire-unicorn hybrid, and I need to—”
“No.” The word boomed through the corridor, catching her off guard.
“I… I—” She stuttered, blinking.
Ernie squared his shoulders, hands on his hips. “I won’t do that, Granger. Not this time.”
“But Ineed to—”
“Well, the last time I did that for you,” Ernie cut in, his gaze sharpening, “I felt a little unwell after. Care to explain that, Granger?” His voice pitched higher, edged with accusation.
“Unwell?” she echoed, a thread of nervous energy in her voice. Her eyes flicked over his face, searching for any sign he knew—that he’d figured out she’d hit him with Confundo Charm last week to read the Encyclopedia without his prying eyes. She forced a casual shrug. “How should I know, Ernie?” And to her surprise, the lie came easily. “I’m a Magizoologist, not a healer.”
His face twisted. “Then tell me why it took me three tries to put on my pyjama trousers that night? Felt like someone hexed me. Someone who happened to have made it very clear I’d annoyed them—”
Hermione clapped a hand over her mouth, barely stifling the laugh that threatened to escape. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Ernie—if I hexed everyone who irritated me, half the Ministry would be walking around sprouting tentacles.”
“I won’t do it, Granger. I won’t open it for you. I shouldn’t have even done it last time—”
She frowned. “Why not? Surely Ministry employees are allowed access to the Encyclopedia—”
“No. They’re not.” He blurted it out, his face flushing red. “Hence the lock on it…? I didn’t take you for an idiot, but here we are.”
“I beg your pardon?”
But Ernie had already turned, robes swishing as he spun on his heel and marched off—head high, self-important as ever.
Hermione had the urge to truly hex him this time. But she resisted—just barely—and turned sharply on her heel, storming straight into the Vampire Relations Office, slamming the door hard behind her.
The two towering bookcases flanking the heavy desk stood like sentries, mockingly. Both were crammed with invaluable knowledge—just out of reach. If the universe did send signs, this one was truly a cruel joke, designed specifically for her.
Hermione clenched her jaw. She hadn’t come this far to stop now. What was the point of sneaking, lying, and Confunding Ernie if she couldn’t even access the books?
No—the universe didn’t make decisions. She did.
Vinculum
With a flick of her wand, Hermione gave the tether a sharp tug, and a moment later, Draco Malfoy came hurtling out of the enchanted bag, stumbling as he landed. He swayed on his feet like a newborn foal—or, more accurately, a drunk.
“What the fuck—” He caught himself against the Registry plinth, blinking wildly before his gaze locked onto her. “Granger,” he growled.
“Keep your voice down.” She shot him a sharp look. “I need your help.”
Draco ran a hand through his disheveled hair, smoothing it back into place. “You know, it’s generally polite to ask before yanking someone out of relative tranquility.”
"Oh, because you were so busy?" she snapped, eyeing him swiftly up and down. He was dressed in his new clothes from Twilfitt & Tattings. His pale skin and hair were stark—almost luminous against the midnight black fabric. "I didn’t have time," she added a little too quickly, her voice tightening into a squeak.
He exhaled, exasperated. “I could’ve been doing anything—” But he cut himself off, straightening his t-shirt with a resigned sigh. “Fine. What do you want?”
Hermione pointed to the enchanted bookcase lined with leather-bound tomes of vampiric knowledge she hadn’t yet explored. “I need you to open this.”
Draco arched a brow. “Your dainty little hands not strong enough?” he purred, sauntering toward the glass cabinet.
Her cheeks flushed. “It’s enchanted. I don’t know the password.”
“And you think I do?”
“I think, once you’ve stopped being a sarcastic arse, you would be able to break it open for me.” She folded her arms.
Draco hummed, trailing his fingers over the glass. “Well,” he murmured, “you’re not wrong.”
He tapped once—listening—as if sensing something within the ward that Hermione would never understand.
“It’s also polite to warn someone before making them an accomplice to Ministry theft.” He murmured.
Hermione blinked. “We’re bringing it back.” She grumbled before frowning. “Wait. How did you know where we are?”
Wordlessly, he pointed to a thick tome behind the glass, its spine gleaming with gold lettering:
PROPERTY OF THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC.
“Oh.” Hermione let out a small, awkward laugh. “I’m sleep-deprived, okay?”
Draco sighed dramatically. “Granger failing at basic reading comprehension—again. Tragic.”
She shot him a glare. “Just get it open before someone walks in and realises what we’re up to.”
He wasted no time. Seizing the handle, he gave it a hard tug, his shoulder muscles shifting beneath his shirt, but the cupboard door didn’t budge.
“Hmm.” He pondered, adjusting his grip, shifting closer.
Hermione watched—despite herself—as he braced against the door, his fingers flexing, veins prominent along his forearms. Then, with a low grunt, he thrust forward—his body contracting under his strength.
An unwelcome heat crept up her neck, pouring into her bones. She gave a quick shake of her head. Sleep deprived, she told herself.
There was a sharp clatter, and the cabinet doors swung open—the glass, somehow, remaining intact.
She tore her gaze away, desperately fixating on the tomes, now finally within reach. “Right. Good. Now move.”
Draco exhaled unevenly, moving out of the way. He dragged a hand through his hair. “These wards are useless—” he muttered, almost to himself. “thinner than moondew veil,”
But Hermione barely heard him, still trying to banish the ghost of his movement from her mind.
Quickly, she yanked a tome off the shelf and wrangled it into her beaded bag—but not before casting an Illusion Charm that made it appear, to an oblivious passerby, as though the book still sat on its shelf, undisturbed.
She pulled at the bookcase, and it shifted down like an upright conveyor belt. Its edges glimmered with magic, the shelves cycling downward.
Hermione's eyes flashed across the spines, scanning efficiently. Her fingers darted out, plucking a tome that caught her attention—dismissing anything that wouldn't give her what she needed.
She moved fast, efficient and focused—grabbing a tome, casting the Illusion Charm, and then stuffing it into her bag—all in one seamless rhythm. Stray curls slipped loose from behind her ear, but she ignored them, her attention fixed on the task.
Draco only watched, silent—unbreathing.
When she had snapped up every tome worth her time, she turned toward him, speaking abruptly. “Right, your turn."
"Huh?" He blinked, looking as if she had caught him red-handed.
"Get back in the bag." She held it open, its wide opening yawning in his direction.
“Oh.” He breathed, his usual blank, shadowy expression returning. He slipped his hands into his pockets, and slowly, a smirk began to curl at the edges of his mouth. “You really have no manners, do you?”
Hermione arched a brow. "Funny, I was just thinking the same about you—seeing as you're still standing here instead of doing as you're told.
Draco scoffed. "Maybe you should use that rope you love so much." He sneered but stepped toward the bag nonetheless.
Hermione rolled her eyes, ready to fire back—but the sound of the door handle to The Vampire Relations Office clicking froze her in place.
Someone was coming.
In an instant, Draco vanished—a black blur, diving headfirst into the beaded bag—so fast that a gust of cool air brushed against her skin.
She quickly returned to the bookcase, gently shutting the doors, forcing her hands to remain steady.
It was too late for her to hide now.
As the door creaked open, heavy footsteps sounded over the threshold.
A deep, rumbling voice spoke. “Ms. Hermione Granger?"
She turned to face the voice—to face her fate.
“Minister.” She breathed. It was Kingsley Shacklebolt. Her arms snapped to her sides, her face burning. What was he doing in here?
He lifted a hand, his tone calm. “All is well, Ms. Granger. I’m only passing.” Kingsley’s gaze swept the office, lingering on the bookshelves, before drifting to the oil painting of Hesphaestus Gore. His brow furrowed.
Hermione nodded stiffly, her throat too tight to speak. She prayed the Illusion Charm was holding strong.
He turned back to her. “Striking painting, isn’t it?” He gestured toward the artwork.
“Oh.” She forced herself to breathe, tilting her head up. Gore’s gaze bored into her, unblinking. “Very.”
And then it clicked. The painting of Hesphaestus Gore knew. He had seen her, Draco, the theft. Even possibly the Confundo Charm on Ernie Macmillan.
Her stomach clenched. Don’t tattle. Please don’t tattle. But Gore only tapped its foot meditatively—silently watching.
Kingsley’s voice pulled her back. “I wanted to speak to you about your work.”
A roiling churned through her constricted gut. It was now becoming highly possible that she might throw up.
But Shacklebolt continued, voice steady. “Your work on the murder case has been excellent. Exemplary, even.”
“Oh.” She breathed, stunned. “Thank you, Minister. That’s very kind of you…” She shook her head, her voice quieter. “But… Gregory Goyle… he escaped.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Even so—I’m impressed by your dedication. You went far beyond what was required of you.”
She gave a small smile. He had no idea what she’d sacrificed to get this far. “No work-life balance, more like,” she chuckled awkwardly, shaking her head. “I mean… I did what I should. People died. It’s only right to do everything you can.”
Kingsley’s lips quirked. “A Gryffindor through and through.”
Hermione huffed a small laugh, rubbing the back of her neck. “I did the best I could.” She admitted. Now, that part was definitely true.
Kingsley studied her for a moment, then nodded. “That’s exactly why we need people like you. Keep this up, Ms. Granger, and there may be a way further up for you.”
Her gaze dropped to the floor, her breath catching.
A promotion.
She suppressed the grin threatening to break free. Moving up in the Ministry had been her lifelong dream. Could it finally be within reach?
Kingsley gave her one last approving nod. “You’ve earned it.” With that, he turned and strode toward the door.
Hermione forced a smile as he left, but as soon as the door clicked shut, it dropped. Had she earned it? Would Kingsley still say those words if he knew what she had done—what she had taken, the lines she had crossed?
Would she still say them to herself?