The Ministry of Magic had changed.
The marble floors were still polished, and the enchanted windows still flickered through their magical weather cycles. But the air was different—tenser. Tired. Like the building itself had seen too much and didn't trust peace to last.
Hermione Granger adjusted the collar of her black Auror robes, her eyes flicking to the golden lift doors in front of her. They dinged open with a hollow echo, and she stepped inside, nodding briskly to the two witches already within. Neither greeted her. She didn't blame them. Nobody smiled anymore—not here.
The lift rattled downward.
"Level Nine. Department of Mysteries," the cool voice announced.
She stepped off.
The hallway was dim, torchlit, humming with magic that buzzed faintly under her skin. This wasn't her usual turf. Hermione preferred facts, procedures, logic. But when Magical Artifacts requested her specifically, she didn't say no. Not after what she'd done to win this world.
She pushed open the black door at the end of the corridor.
Inside, Unspeakable Cassandra Vale stood waiting, pale as parchment and cloaked in raven-black robes that swallowed her frame. Her voice was like old paper crumpling.
"You're late."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware I'd been summoned with urgency."
"You weren't. But the Vault was."
Hermione frowned. "What vault?"
Vale led her without another word.
They passed through shifting corridors, doors that vanished behind them, and silence so thick it tasted metallic. Finally, they reached a domed chamber she'd never seen before. In the center stood a single stone vault—plain, rectangular, unmarked.
Hermione's heart slowed.
The door to the vault was open.
"I was told it was sealed," Hermione said, stepping closer.
"It was. Blood-protected. No wand, no spell, no creature could open it. Until two nights ago."
Hermione peered inside. The vault was mostly empty.
Except for a tall, ornate mirror resting against the wall—its surface black as night—and a scroll sealed in crimson wax, resting atop a velvet pedestal.
She approached slowly.
The mirror didn't show her reflection.
Hermione froze. "Is this…?"
"We don't know what it is," Vale said coldly. "But it responded to your name when we tested it with identification charms."
Hermione turned sharply. "You tested it?"
Vale gave a sharp smile. "Cautiously."
Hermione stepped forward, reaching for the scroll.
"Wait—" Vale began, but it was too late.
The moment her fingers brushed the wax, the vault pulsed with a silent thrum. The mirror shimmered. Then—Hermione gasped. A voice whispered inside her head:
"The Heir of Nothing shall unmake the known.
Born of both war and old blood's throne."
Hermione staggered back.
"What did you hear?" Vale demanded.
Hermione didn't answer. She couldn't. Her mind reeled—not just from the prophecy, but from the faint sensation blooming in her chest.
A pull. A connection. A presence she hadn't felt since…
A knock echoed from the far end of the corridor.
Vale stiffened. "Who the bloody hell—?"
The door creaked open, and a voice as cold and sharp as glass cut through the room.
"Well," it drawled. "I suppose the rumours were true."
Hermione spun around.
Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway.
Older. Leaner. Still pale as frost, with steel-grey eyes that scanned the room like a hawk. He looked tired. Weathered. But somehow—less cruel.
He held up his hands, wandless.
"I'm not here to fight," he said. "I'm here to turn myself in."
Hermione's hand went for her wand. "For what?"
Malfoy's eyes landed on the mirror. Then on her.
"For knowing what that is," he said quietly. "And for the crimes I haven't committed yet."