The familiar chaos of Grimmauld Place was a welcome shock to Hermione's system after the silent, intense hours in the dungeon. The scent of firewhisky and the Weasleys' signature fireplace smell—a mix of soot, cinnamon, and something uniquely magical—had long since overpowered the old, dark magic of the house.
Ron's laugh boomed from the kitchen, followed by Padma's lighter, melodic one. As Hermione hung her cloak, she felt the day's tensions begin to unknot from her shoulders.
"There she is!" Ron announced, pulling her into a one-armed, brotherly hug. "We were starting to think Thorne had you chained to a desk in the Department of Mysteries."
"It feels like it, some days," Hermione grumbled, but she smiled as she accepted a glass of red wine from Harry.
Padma smiled warmly from her perch on a kitchen stool. She looked elegant and composed, as always, her long dark hair flowing over her shoulders. "Ron's been telling us all about this mysterious curse-breaker. He makes him sound like a cross between a vampire and a particularly clever Erklings."
"He's not far off," Hermione said, taking a long sip of wine. "He's… insufferable."
"Go on then," Ron urged, leaning forward with a grin. "Give us the details. Is he as much of a git as Bill says?"
Hermione launched into the story, the words tumbling out. She told them about his dismissal of her research, the "prove it" note, the silent competition in the chamber, and his grudging, one-word acknowledgment of her work.
"He actually said 'hmph'?" Ron repeated, barking with laughter. "Blimey. Sounds like a right charmer."
"It's not funny, Ron! He's impossible to work with. He thinks books are for people who can't do 'real' magic."
"Well, he's wrong, obviously," Harry said, ever the diplomat. "But from what you're saying, he's not incompetent. Just a prick."
"A brilliant prick," Hermione corrected with a sigh. "Which is the most annoying kind. It's hard to completely dismiss someone when they're consistently, infuriatingly right about the things that matter."
Padma, who had been listening quietly, swirled the wine in her glass. "It sounds like he's met his match, though. He's used to being the smartest person in the room, and now he's not. He probably doesn't know how to handle it. Some men are like that—they can only express professional respect through aggression."
Hermione looked at her, surprised. It was a more charitable, and perhaps more astute, reading of the situation than she'd considered. "You think it's a compliment?"
"A very backhanded, immature one, but yes," Padma said with a shrug. "He's testing you. You passed the first test. Now he'll probably try something else."
"Great," Hermione muttered. "Something to look forward to."
The conversation shifted to easier topics—Ginny's latest Harpies match, the new joke shop product Fred and George had sent Ron that was turning his hair different shades of orange, the latest Ministry gossip. It was comfortable and warm, and for a few hours, Hermione forgot about the humming Vault and Cassian Thorne's stormy eyes.
But as the evening wound down and Ron and Padma prepared to leave, Ron clapped a hand on Hermione's shoulder.
"Listen, if this Thorne bloke gives you any real trouble, you just say the word," he said, his tone shifting to one of genuine, protective brotherliness. "Me and Harry will have a little chat with him. Nothing scary, just… a friendly warning from the Chosen One and his right-hand man."
Hermione felt a surge of affection for him. "Thank you, Ron. But I think I can handle one arrogant curse-breaker on my own."
He grinned. "I know you can. But the offer stands."
After they left, Hermione helped Harry tidy up the kitchen in companionable silence.
"Padma's good for him," Hermione observed, vanishing a stack of empty bottles.
"She is," Harry agreed. "She calms him down. Makes him think before he speaks. Most of the time, anyway."
"And you and Ginny?" Hermione asked softly. "Still good?"
A slow, easy smile spread across Harry's face, the kind that reached his eyes and made him look like the carefree boy he'd never really been able to be. "Yeah, Hermione. Still good. Really good."
It was the answer she'd hoped for. She was truly, deeply happy for them. But as she Floo'd back to her own quiet flat later that night, the silence felt heavier than before. Her friends were building their lives, their partnerships. And she was building a professional rivalry with a man who communicated mostly in grunts and challenges.
---
The next morning, she arrived at the Vault chamber determined to be the bigger person. She had her friends' support. She had proven her worth. She would be professional and collaborative.
Cassian was already there, studying a complex, three-dimensional magical schematic that hovered in the air before him. He didn't look up as she entered.
"Good morning," she said, her voice deliberately pleasant.
He flicked his wand, and the schematic rotated. "Your 'adequate' analysis from yesterday," he began, his tone flat, "it led me to re-calibrate the baseline for the dampening field. It seems the Vault isn't just dormant. It's in a state of magical stasis. A self-induced coma."
Hermione's professional curiosity instantly overrode her resolve to be pleasant. "A coma? Why? To preserve itself? To hide?"
"Or to contain something," he said, finally glancing at her. His expression was unreadable. "I've encountered stasis charms before. Never one this powerful, or this old. It's… elegant."
It was the first time she'd heard him use a word of admiration that wasn't directed at himself.
"What could it be containing?" she asked, moving closer to study his schematic.
"That's the question, isn't it?" he murmured, his eyes fixed on the swirling patterns of light. "A treasure? A monster? A disease? A memory?" He paused, then added, almost to himself, "The most dangerous prisons are often the ones we build for ourselves."
The statement was so unexpected, so philosophical and… personal, that Hermione was struck silent. She looked at his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his gaze. For a fleeting moment, the arrogant curse-breaker was gone, replaced by a man utterly captivated by a mystery.
Then, as if sensing her scrutiny, he shut down. The schematic vanished with a wave of his wand.
"I'll need access to the Hogwarts Restricted Section," he said, his voice all business again. "The Headmistress requires a co-signature from a Ministry lead. See to it."
And just like that, the door to any further conversation slammed shut. He had given her a glimpse of the mind behind the arrogance, and then immediately retreated behind his walls.
As she turned to leave and find Professor McGonagall, Hermione felt more confused than ever. Who was Cassian Thorne, really? And why did the thought of figuring him out feel as compelling as the mystery of the Vault itself?