Veil of Shadows

The rain battered against the stone streets of London, a dull, rhythmic drumbeat that seemed to echo the growing unrest in the wizarding world. Hermione Granger didn’t mind the rain. In fact, she found it oddly comforting, the relentless downpour mirroring the way her thoughts had been clouded for weeks. But tonight, the air felt heavy—charged with something dark, something that gripped at her heart and made the weight of her responsibilities feel that much heavier.

The Ministry of Magic had long been a home of sorts to Hermione. She had once thought that she would work there for the rest of her life, making a difference, righting wrongs, bringing justice to the wizarding world. But that was before. Before the shadows started to creep back into their world, before whispers of something terrible—something far darker than they had imagined—began to emerge.

Two Muggle-born diplomats, a man and a woman, had been murdered this morning, their bodies found in a desolate warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The deaths were brutal, precise. And the most chilling part? They had been invited by the Minister of Magic himself.

The Minister. Kingsley Shacklebolt. Hermione’s friend, the calm, measured man who had led them through the war against Voldemort all those years ago. The same man who had been working tirelessly to maintain peace in a wizarding world that, it seemed, was on the verge of tearing itself apart again.

As Hermione approached the entrance to the warehouse, her footsteps echoed in the otherwise silent street. She had seen death before—too much of it. But something about this felt different. It wasn’t just the brutality of the murders, or the methodical way they had been executed. It was the symbolism. A message was being sent. And if there was one thing Hermione had learned over the years, it was that when wizards and witches like this went to such lengths to make a point, they meant it.

She pulled her cloak tighter around her, the chill of the evening seeping into her bones. The world around her seemed muffled, distant. The air tasted of ozone, as if the storm itself was charged with anticipation. In moments like this, when the world seemed poised on the edge of something terrible, she felt a deep, cold sense of dread.

The Ministry hadn’t sent her here alone, of course. But she had insisted on taking the lead. Harry, now the Head Auror, had wanted to come himself, but the responsibility of leading the Auror Department, managing multiple cases, and coordinating efforts at the Ministry kept him tied up. Instead, he’d assigned a team, but Hermione had asked for a moment alone to survey the crime scene. She trusted her instincts—her experience—and right now, the Ministry’s bureaucracy felt too slow. If there was one thing Hermione Granger had learned from the years of fighting dark forces, it was that sometimes, the most important things happened when you acted first.

The warehouse loomed ahead, an imposing structure of rusted metal and cracked brick. It looked abandoned, but Hermione knew better. These were the kinds of places dark wizards chose for their most secretive dealings. Places hidden in plain sight, just out of reach of the Ministry’s watchful eye. She approached the massive, iron door and, with a quiet flick of her wand, it creaked open.

Inside, the air was thick, musty with age and damp. It smelled like mildew and dust, but underneath that, the distinct, metallic tang of blood lingered in the air. Hermione felt her pulse quicken as she stepped inside, her hand tightening on the wand in her pocket. The silence was deafening.

The first thing she noticed was the bodies. They lay in stark contrast to the grey, lifeless surroundings. The woman was crumpled in the far corner, her body twisted unnaturally, eyes wide open in eternal shock. The man was sprawled across the floor, his limbs splayed in an unnatural, grotesque position, as though his death had been a violent afterthought. Blood pooled beneath them, pooling into dark stains on the cold concrete.

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. It was the kind of sight that never left you. But she had learned to push those reactions aside, to focus on the facts. These weren’t just two innocents caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whoever had done this had a plan. A very specific purpose.

She crouched beside the woman’s body, her fingers tracing the edges of a torn sleeve. There was something methodical about the scene. The bodies had been positioned with an unsettling precision, their limbs arranged in ways that didn’t quite make sense. Hermione knew that she would have to report the details of the scene to Harry and the rest of the team, but first, she needed to understand it herself.

The woman’s face, though frozen in terror, revealed no signs of struggle. Her fingers, though stiff and cold now, had been clenched tightly before death. A defensive posture. And yet there were no signs of bruising or marks where she might have tried to fight back.

The man, too, had no signs of forced entry or resistance. There was a strange calm about the way their bodies lay, despite the grotesque nature of the scene. It was as though they had known it was coming. And that thought made Hermione’s heart race. What if this wasn’t just a random attack? What if they had been chosen?

Before she could dwell on that unsettling idea, a figure appeared in the doorway. Hermione’s hand instinctively went to her wand, but she lowered it when she saw who it was.

"Harry," she said softly, standing up to meet him as he stepped inside. His face was pale, drawn with fatigue, but his presence was steady. Harry Potter, now the Head of the Auror Department, looked every bit the part, his eyes constantly scanning for danger, his every motion purposeful.

"I shouldn’t have let you come here alone," Harry said, his voice low. "You okay?"

Hermione nodded, though she could feel her insides twisting. She didn’t want to worry him—not yet. They had a job to do, and she couldn’t afford to be distracted. "I’m fine. But something’s not right, Harry. Look at the way they’re arranged. It’s deliberate. They knew this was coming."

"That’s what I’m afraid of," Harry said, his brow furrowed as he surveyed the room. "This isn’t just an isolated attack. This is part of something bigger. I’ve seen these kinds of tactics before—used by dark wizards."

Hermione turned away from the bodies, her thoughts racing. The blood purity ideology that had plagued the wizarding world for centuries was becoming more vocal, more dangerous. She had been hearing whispers of a new group, a new leader rising from the ashes. The attacks were more frequent now, more coordinated. Muggle-borns were being targeted—mercilessly—and the world seemed to be slipping back into old patterns.

"Harry," she said quietly, "there’s something else."

He glanced at her sharply. "What?"

"I think this isn’t just a group of radical wizards," Hermione said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I think we’re dealing with someone who’s been planning this for a long time. Someone with power. Someone with… connections."

Harry stepped forward, his eyes narrowing. "You’re saying this is bigger than just another hate group?"

"I think it’s bigger than anything we’ve faced," Hermione replied, her gaze returning to the bodies. "This feels… methodical. Precise. Like whoever did this wanted to send a message. Not just to the victims, but to everyone."

Harry looked at the bodies for a long moment, then back at her. "I don’t like where this is going."

"Neither do I."

They were interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing down the hallway. Hermione and Harry both turned instinctively, but Harry’s expression softened when he saw who it was.

"I’ve got your back," came the voice from the doorway. Draco Malfoy stepped into the room, his presence filling the space like a sudden storm. He was dressed in his usual dark, impeccably tailored robes, his platinum blonde hair slicked back, his eyes sharp and calculating. As always, he looked out of place in the midst of death—detached, almost clinical.

Hermione’s breath hitched in her chest, her hand instinctively tightening around her wand. She had no idea why he was here, or what his involvement was. But there was something unsettling about seeing him standing here, in the thick of this investigation. The last time she had seen him had been at the Ministry, when they had barely exchanged words. But now, here he was, an Auror, standing in the same room with them.

"Malfoy?" Harry said, clearly surprised but not unwelcoming. "You were assigned to this?"

"I’m here because I was told to be," Draco replied, his voice smooth, unaffected. "We all have a part to play in this, Potter."

Hermione shot him a glare, but he ignored her. Of course. It was hard to say why she was more upset by his presence here than Harry was. Maybe because, deep down, she feared that Draco Malfoy was right—that the wizarding world was slipping back into something dangerous and familiar, and that no one, not even her, could stop it.
"Any new information?" Malfoy asked, stepping closer to the bodies.

"We’re still processing the scene," Hermione replied coldly. "But it’s clear this is just the beginning of something far bigger."

Malfoy nodded. "I’ve been tracking some unusual movements in Europe. It’s not just here in Britain. There’s something stirring—more coordinated than any attack I’ve seen before."

Hermione’s heart sank. "What are you suggesting?"

Draco’s eyes met hers, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something in his gaze. Was it respect? Or something else? It was hard to tell. "I think we’re dealing with the return of someone… powerful."

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. "Voldemort."

Draco nodded, his expression grim. "And if we don’t stop him soon, it will be too late."
Hermione’s eyes never left Draco, her jaw clenched. There were a thousand things she wanted to say to him—things she had thought about in the privacy of her own mind. He was an irritating, arrogant, smug, entitled—pureblooded—pompous prat, and those were just the more polite things she could call him. But right now, she didn’t have the time or the inclination to get into it with him. Not when lives were at stake, and not when they were already standing in the middle of a crime scene that screamed danger and dark magic at every turn.

"So, you think this is connected to Voldemort?" Harry asked, his voice tight. "Is this a resurrection of some kind, or a new group pretending to be him?"

Draco shook his head, his silver eyes narrowing slightly as he looked around the room, taking in the scene. "I don’t know, Potter. But whoever’s doing this has the same kind of murderous intent that Voldemort used to have. If it’s a copycat, they’ve got a bloody good grasp of his tactics."

Hermione stiffened at the mention of the Dark Lord’s name. The very idea of him—the real Voldemort—returning after so many years, after everything they had been through, felt like a betrayal of every victory they had fought for.

She shifted her attention back to the bodies. The diplomats’ deaths weren’t just senseless murders. No, this was something deeper. A statement. The precise positioning of their bodies, the fact that it had been done in an abandoned building, hidden from the world—it was all meant to send a message. But to whom?

She shook her head, trying to clear the fog in her mind. "It doesn’t matter whether it’s the real Voldemort or someone else. We’re looking at someone with enough influence, power, and malice to lead these kinds of attacks. I’ve seen the way the Ministry’s been treating these cases," Hermione said, her voice sharp, "and I’m not convinced they’re taking it seriously enough. If it were just a few rogue wizards causing trouble, they would’ve handled it by now. This—" she gestured to the bodies, "—this feels organized. Coordinated. And that means we’re dealing with someone with a plan."

Harry was silent for a moment, his brow furrowed. "I don’t like where this is heading, Granger. I don’t like the idea that it could be someone with connections to Voldemort, but I can’t deny it’s looking that way."

Draco’s gaze flickered over to Hermione, his eyes calculating. "You’re right, Granger. This is bigger than we thought. But we need more than just suspicions. We need solid evidence."

"Exactly," Hermione snapped, her frustration growing. "And we’re not going to get it standing around here. We need to get to the Ministry’s records, cross-reference the known groups, look at recent developments in the magical community. We need to think." She turned on her heel and began pacing the floor, her thoughts in overdrive.

Draco took a step toward her, his voice low but firm. "And what do you propose we do? Go after every shadowy figure in the wizarding world? You can’t just go charging in, Granger. This isn’t the same as when we were at Hogwarts. We’re not fighting a single dark wizard anymore. We’re dealing with a whole movement—a war."

Hermione rounded on him, her pulse quickening. "I know that! Do you think I don’t understand that? I just—" She clenched her fists at her sides, taking a deep breath to steady herself. "We need to move. Now. This is only the beginning. The longer we wait, the more people will die."

A silence fell between them, thick and uncomfortable. Harry watched them both, his arms folded across his chest. It wasn’t lost on Hermione that the two of them hadn’t been on the best terms—ever. But right now, it was irrelevant. It had to be. Voldemort’s return—or the return of something like him—was more dangerous than old grudges. She had to focus. She didn’t have the luxury of being distracted by Malfoy’s presence, not when innocent lives were at risk.

"We’ll need to work together," Harry said, breaking the tension. "We can’t waste time arguing over tactics. We need a strategy. We need to figure out who’s behind this—now."

Hermione’s heart stuttered. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one bit. But it wasn’t as if she had a choice. The Minister had asked her to lead the investigation into these attacks, and Harry had assigned Draco to the team for his expertise in the dark arts and tracking underground groups. Whether they liked it or not, they were in this together.

Draco’s expression flickered—whether it was annoyance, agreement, or something else, Hermione couldn’t tell—but he didn’t argue. "I’ve been keeping tabs on known pureblood factions, underground cells, and former Death Eater sympathizers in Europe. They’ve been growing, and I’ve seen signs of movement. I’ll pull the files together and see if there’s a connection."

Hermione nodded sharply. "Good. And I’ll focus on the Ministry records. We need to understand the bigger picture, not just the attacks." Her voice turned grim. "We need to understand why they’re doing this."

The weight of the situation seemed to settle on them all at once. No one spoke for a long while. The stillness in the room was oppressive, broken only by the sound of the storm continuing to rage outside.

Finally, Harry gave a short nod. "I’ll contact the rest of the team. We’ll need backup, but right now, it’s all about gathering intel. No unnecessary risks. And no one goes after these people alone."

Hermione exchanged a brief, frustrated glance with Draco. Of course, he wouldn’t follow those orders, but she didn’t have time to argue about it. They were dealing with something too big for petty quarrels. If they were going to stop Voldemort—or whoever was playing at being him—they would need to move quickly and decisively.

The next few hours passed in a blur of activity. Hermione and Draco worked in the Ministry’s temporary operations room, a secure location within the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The walls were lined with stacks of reports, papers filled with potential leads, photographs, and intelligence. Hermione had already dug through the files on the recent murders, cross-referencing them with known targets and possible motives.

She sat hunched over a table, flipping through the pages of records, while Harry reviewed the progress in the other room. The tension between her and Draco was palpable, but it was muted by the urgency of their work.

Draco was on the far side of the room, scanning magical correspondences, running a few spells to detect any signs of hidden messages or coded communications. He worked with his usual precision, his mind obviously sharp, but his presence in the room only reminded Hermione of how much she disliked him. Still, she had to admit that his skill was invaluable. He was an expert at navigating the darker parts of the wizarding world—places she often had no access to, no experience in.

"Any luck?" she asked, not looking up from the files she was reading.

"Nothing substantial yet," Draco muttered, flicking his wand in a bored gesture. "But there’s something... I’ve been running an incantation to track magical movements across the continent. There’s a noticeable spike—mainly in France, Germany, and the Netherlands. It’s not random, Granger."

Hermione finally looked up, her interest piqued. "What kind of spike?"

"Dark magic," Draco replied, his voice low. "Strong, precise. Whoever’s behind this knows how to cover their tracks. But there’s a pattern. It’s like they’re getting ready for something big."

Her heart skipped a beat. They were running out of time.

"We need to move, then," she said, standing abruptly. "We need to find out what that ‘something big’ is, and we need to stop it before it escalates any further."

"Agreed," Draco said, his gaze meeting hers for the first time since they had started working together. There was something in his eyes now—a flicker of urgency, of something that resembled respect. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on her part. "I’ll start contacting the informants I have in Europe. We’ll need their help. And fast."

Hermione nodded, steeling herself for what came next. There was no room for hesitation now. They were standing on the precipice of something far more dangerous than they had ever imagined. Whoever was behind these attacks—whether it was the return of Voldemort or a new dark force entirely—had to be stopped before the wizarding world was consumed by fear and hatred once again.