Chapter Text
Chapter One:
A Knock at the Door
The Auror Division’s east wing was a fortress of silence.
Not even the parchment rustled. Not here. This was where the worst cases came to rest—classified files, black vaults, names that never made it to the Prophet. And at the end of the long, warded corridor sat a heavy ironwood door bearing a simple brass plaque:
- Malfoy, Senior Investigator
Restricted Access — Level 7
Inside, the lighting was dim. Draco preferred it that way. Harsh light always reminded him of courtrooms and interrogation cells. The kind where your soul got weighed against your worst decisions.
He sat at his desk, quill suspended midair, eyes unfocused on the case report in front of him. The silence was doing its usual job—summoning memories. Some had sharp teeth.
A knock broke it.
Three quick raps. Precise. Familiar.
Draco didn’t look up. “It’s open.”
The door swung inward on a low creak.
Harry Potter stepped in first, looking as if he hadn’t slept in days. His black Auror robes were streaked with soot, and his wand hand flexed at his side like it was bracing for impact. Behind him, Ron Weasley filled the frame—taller, broader now, eyes darker than Draco remembered. Both carried the same look: desperate and determined.
Draco arched an eyebrow. “The world must be properly ending if Potter and Weasley are darkening my door.”
“Hello to you too, Malfoy,” Harry said grimly, stepping inside.
Ron followed, shutting the door behind them with a soft click.
Draco leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “So? What crisis finally called for the villain of the sixth-floor wing?”
Harry didn’t smile. “It’s Hermione.”
That stopped everything.
Draco straightened, tension flooding his spine. “What about her?”
Ron moved forward and dropped a thin file onto Draco’s desk. It landed with the quiet weight of something unbearable.
Draco opened it.
At first, it looked like a standard psychiatric record—magical stability assessments, sleep tracking, arithmancy residue scans. But as he skimmed further, the language shifted.
“Cognitive loop entrapment. Severe occlusion layering. Subject exhibits fragmented behavior, nonverbal rituals, and identity slippage…”
“Emotional anchor instability. Suspected mnemonic overload…”
“Name repetition. Subject’s only coherent word in the last 72 hours: Malfoy.”
Draco’s throat tightened.
He looked up sharply. “What happened to her?”
“She disappeared six months ago,” Harry said. “Told no one. Not even Ron. Said she had a lead on something—something dangerous. Experimental. Said she’d write.”
“She didn’t,” Ron added bitterly.
“She was found in a warded safehouse outside Brighton two months ago,” Harry continued. “Alone. Disoriented. Completely locked in her own mind. The Healers call it over-occlusion—too many layers, too much emotional suppression. She’s pacing the same twenty feet like it’s a battlefield.”
Draco’s fingers curled around the edges of the file. “Why come to me?”
“She drew your name,” Harry said quietly. “Over and over. On the walls. In the steam on the glass. On her own arm.”
Draco blinked. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Ron gave a humorless laugh. “Tell us about it.”
Harry stepped closer. “She’s clinging to something in her mind, and whatever it is—it’s got your name written all over it. The Healers think her mind built anchors, emotional ones, to keep from fully collapsing. People. Moments. Memories. We’re trying to reach her through them.”
“Let me guess,” Draco said coldly. “You need someone who’s part of her trauma.”
“Or part of her way back,” Harry replied. “We’re not here because we like you, Malfoy. We’re here because she chose you.”
Draco stood. Slowly.
“She saved my life once,” he said. “Testified at my trial. Called me more than I deserved.”
Ron’s expression softened. “Yeah. We remember.”
“And you came here…for me to…?” Draco asked, voice low.
“We want you to find her,” Harry said.
Silence stretched.
Then Draco nodded once, sharp and certain. “Take me to her.”