Chapter 1
Hermione tapped her wand nervously against her thigh as she walked. Golden sparks illuminated the tip of the faithful vinewood stick before fizzling out against the thick wine-red wool of her outer robe. The February wind was ice against her skin, and she used her free hand to wrap the robe more tightly around her. Her heeled boots were clicking loudly against the cobbled stones of Diagon Alley as she walked to the Leaky Cauldron, a slight shiver in her step.
She could practically hear Ron – “Are you a witch or not? Just cast a Warming Charm, Mione!” A small smile graced her lips; Ron had never grasped her preference for experiencing some things the Muggle Way. Hermione adored the winter; the cosy nights in on the sofa, the soft spiced aromas of cinnamon and citrus, the ice-cold wind making you yearn for a warm fire. And a warm fire was exactly what was waiting for Hermione at the Leaky.
She had moved into a flat on Diagon Alley not long after graduating from Hogwarts – but a lingering sense of discomfort of being too easily accessible stopped her from linking her flat to the Floo Network. She wanted one place – just one – that was completely self contained and hers. Thankfully Harry and Ron had been more than understanding of her need for privacy and safety and promised only to use the charmed galleons that let them through her wards in cases of dire emergency. Her particular stance on property access did however mean that she had to use the Leaky’s publicly accessible Floo to get to work. It was only a short walk from her flat, so it wasn’t too much of a hardship; but today she rather felt she could have done without.
She was more nervous than she had been in years – possibly since sitting her NEWTs. Today was her first day as a fully fledged Unspeakable. She’d been working in the Department of Mysteries on an internship for the last year and they were finally promoting her to her own assignment – it was both a daunting and exhilarating prospect. She had toyed with several possible career paths after the War; and whilst she could have done as expected and tried to make the legislative changes so sorely needed in the Wizarding World she felt than a bureaucratic career would be too soul-destroying. She was under no illusions that the red-tape at the Ministry would forced so many compromises as to make her intended policies virtually unrecognisable. Instead, the prospect of spending her life researching and learning some of the deepest secrets of magic was a much more attractive prospect.
The last year had seen her apprenticing several more senior Unspeakables in various different rooms; the Room of Knowledge had by far been her favourite; a small antechamber attached to the Brain Room it was focused specifically on magicks connected to the acquisition of knowledge and the presence of the room’s main artefact – Merlin’s Wand – was awe-inspiring. She confessed to struggling with the Love Room – it’s magic was by far amongst the most powerful she’d ever encountered, but often she just felt inadequate somehow. Other Unspeakables had said that to truly connect to the magic in the room one had to be fully open to love: familial or otherwise, and that Hermione was perhaps simply not ready. Not that it mattered too much now anyway - Hermione’s internship was over, and she was finally going to be researching on her own.
“Reverte” Hermione whispered from behind her magazine, her vinewood wand was shaking slightly as she surreptitiously pointed it to the middle aged couple who sat outside the little café. She waited – expecting their conversation to cease and for a glass eyed expression to mist over their faces as their memories returned.
“Do you know Wendell,” said Monica Wilkins, “I just had the strangest feeling. Like I’ve forgotten something dreadfully important”
“As did I Monnie, but there can’t be anything. We’ve seen all of our patients for the day.”
It hadn’t worked. They were still Monica and Wendell Wilkins.
Perhaps they need a jolt, Hermione thought, desperate not give up hope just yet. She stood from her chair and made to walk past her parents, dropping her glass as she did so.
In a heartbeat her mother, no – Monica, has leapt from her seat and was helping Hermione pick up the broken glass.
“Oh you poor dear! Have you cut yourself? Be careful of the shards!” Hermione looked into Monica’s eyes – so very like her own – and saw … nothing. No hint of recognition. No warm motherly gaze. No love. Her heart broke.
Hermione shook the memory away as she turned the corner towards the Leaky Cauldron. Today was the first day towards making sure the next time she saw her parents they would be the Grangers again. She was thankful that Chief Unspeakable Bulder had accepted her application to the Memory Room. She nursed tentative hopes that researching the depths of memory magic would help her reverse her parents memory loss. Unlike many departments in the Ministry the Department of Mysteries made significant use of its employees personal motivations for research. Their view was that a lack of emotional involvement diminished the drive to succeed.
With a gloved hand she quietly pushed into the Leaky Cauldron – the dusty air swirled around her in the cold light of the morning sun; mingling with the fog of her breath. The pub was, unsurprisingly, empty at this early hour. Heavy wooden chairs sat high on the tables as a mop lazily wiped the grey stone floors. Hermione approached the large fireplace in the centre of the room and took a deep breath to calm the roiling nerves in her stomach. She threw a handful of Floo Powder to the floor and with a decisive “Ministry of Magic Atrium” she was whirled away in the enveloping warmth of the emerald green flames.
The Ministry’s Atrium was bright and airy as Hermione span into view. Clearly Magical Maintenance were in a good mood given the bright sunlight streaming in through the palatial windows. She hoped they remained as such through until lunchtime – the Department of Mysteries had no windows, which Hermione was fairly sure was a purely aesthetic decision to ensure the department lived up to its name. Her nerves were settling in her stomach as she walked towards to the elevators; as ever the anticipation of her first day was worse than actually being here.
As the lift shuttled around the complex paths Hermione’s recalled the terrified wonder she felt the first time she had entered the Department of Mysteries.
Her heart hammered in her chest as they stood in the Entrance Room – faced with blank doors. No hint or understanding of what my lie beyond their frames. They walked on, her limbs felt like lead as she dragged one foot in front of the other. Each room they entered was more enigmatic than the last – even in her abject terror she felt a wave of curiosity. What did they do here, in this most mysterious of places.
As Hermione passed the Time Chamber her chest ached with the echo of the curse Dolohov had cast within it’s walls. She kept walking. The first time she had returned, at the start of her internship, she had struggled under the weight of her memories. How so much had been lost that night – but gradually the more she saw it as her workplace, the easier it was to dismiss her recollections. That did not mean that the Death Chamber did not still give her the chills. She was so thankful her first assignment was not in that eerie chamber!
Shaking her long chocolate curls back; Hermione pushed the large walnut door and entered the Memory Room.
It was a fairly small space; a little larger than the Gryffindor girls dormitory where she had spent her youth. But where her dormitory was cosy in its darkness, with warm wood and comfortable hangings, the Memory Room was coldly beautiful. The curved walls glittered with vials that swirled with a silvery smog; illuminating an otherwise gloomy space. It brought to Hermione’s mind some sort of ice cavern. In the centre of the room was a large, ornate Pensieve. Much larger than the one that had lain in Dumbledore’s office, it was adorned with runes of a silver filigree which stood out prominently from the black marble vessel. Hermione stepped forward to trace the runic outlines lightly with her fingers. A rustling distracted her and she looked up to the desks that sat on the far side of the room.
There, stooped and scribbling away, was a blonde figure. Not just blonde – that white hair was viscerally familiar to Hermione, who felt the reverberations of childhood insults echo in her memory.
For once, Hermione’s mouth moved faster than her brain.
“MALFOY?!”
The blonde head looked up – and sure enough Hermione saw his sneering pointy face clearly in the shimmering lights. His grey eyes widened slightly before he settled his face into a pinched expression.
Hermione’s heart sank to the floor.
What was he doing here?