The silence in the chamber was no longer companionable. It was a heavy, accusing thing. Hermione spent the rest of the day there alone, not working, just sitting on the cold stone bench, staring at the door through which Cassian had disappeared. The hum of the Vault, which had once felt like a shared secret, now felt like a mockery.
She had replayed the fight in her head a hundred times, each repetition making her feel sicker. "An arrogant, condescending man who pushes everyone away..." She had aimed for his most vulnerable spot, the one he guarded with sarcasm and arrogance, and she had hit it with the precision of a sniper.
He had looked at her with such cold finality. "My apologies for the... complication."
The word had become a curse.
She dragged herself back to her flat that evening, the cheerful lights of London feeling like an intrusion. Her rooms, usually a sanctuary of books and order, felt suffocating. She tried to read, but the words were meaningless shapes. She tried to sleep, but her mind was a relentless courtroom where she was both prosecutor and condemned.
The next morning, a memo zoomed into her kitchen, a bright pink Ministry envelope. Her heart leapt, a foolish, desperate hope that it was from him. She snatched it from the air.
It was from the Department of Magical Games and Sports, reminding her that her annual Quidditch World Cup ballot was due. She crumpled it and threw it into the bin, the gesture violent and uncharacteristic.
The day at the Ministry was agony. Every time her office door opened, she looked up, expecting to see him standing there with that unreadable expression. He never came. The silence from his end was absolute. No owls. No memos. No sudden appearances in her doorway.
She thought about going to the chamber, but her pride—and her shame—held her back. What would she say? I'm sorry I called you a condescending arsehole who pushes people away? It was true, but the way she had said it, in the heat of anger, had been designed to wound.
Three days passed. Three hollow, endless days. She went to dinner at the Burrow, forcing smiles and laughter that felt like plaster on a cracked wall. Ron, perceptive in his own blunt way, nudged her.
"You alright, Hermione? You've been quiet. Is it that Thorne bloke? Did he do something?"
The concern in his voice, the immediate, brotherly readiness to defend her, made her want to cry. "No, Ron. He didn't do anything. It's... it's just work."
She saw the skepticism in his eyes, but he let it drop.
On the fourth day, she couldn't take it anymore. The silence was a physical pressure in her chest. She had to see him. She had to try, however awkwardly, to mend the fracture she had caused.
She left work early and went to Hogwarts, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She walked the familiar path to the dungeon, her footsteps loud in the quiet corridor. She took a deep, shaky breath and pushed the heavy door open.
The chamber was empty.
Not just empty of him. It was sterile. His floating orbs were gone. The stone bench was clear. The faint, lingering scent of his magic—ozone and old parchment—had vanished. It was as if he had never been there at all.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through her. Had he abandoned the project? Had he asked to be reassigned?
Then she saw it. A single piece of parchment, folded neatly and placed in the exact center of the bench. It was weighted down by a small, smooth, dark stone.
Her hands trembled as she walked over and picked it up. It was his writing, but the script was tighter, more controlled than usual.
Granger,
The long-term baseline monitoring is complete. The data confirms the Vault's state is stable and non-hostile. My official recommendation to the Department of Mysteries is that the site requires only periodic check-ins, no longer a dedicated presence.
All relevant data and my final report have been filed with your office. You will find my work... adequate.
There is nothing more for me here.
—C.T.
The world tilted. She sank onto the bench, the parchment crumpling in her fist. There is nothing more for me here.
He wasn't just talking about the Vault. He was talking about her. About them.
He had taken her cruel words and accepted them as his verdict. He was the complication, and he was removing himself from her orderly world. He had finished the job she had started, severing their connection with a finality that was far more effective than any charm.
She had gotten what she'd supposedly wanted. The chaos was gone. The complication was resolved.
And as she sat alone in the silent, hollow chamber, the ghost of his presence everywhere and nowhere, Hermione Granger realized with devastating clarity that she had never wanted anything less in her entire life. The victory felt like ashes in her mouth. She had won the argument, and in doing so, she had lost something she hadn't even known she'd found.