The determination Ginny had ignited felt like a small, fragile flame in the vast, cold emptiness Cassian had left behind. Find a way to fix it. But how does one fix something when the other person has vanished into the labyrinthine depths of the Department of Mysteries?
Hermione threw herself into the only thing she knew: research. But this wasn't about ancient runes or magical theory. This was about him.
She started with the Hogwarts archives, buried deep in the castle's underbelly. It was a long shot. Cassian Thorne was a Ravenclaw, a few years ahead of her. He would have left Hogwarts just as she was starting. Their paths had never crossed.
The air in the records room was thick with the dust of centuries. Rows of ledgers contained the mundane history of the school—house points, detentions, Quidditch matches. She found his name in a Prefects' log from his seventh year. C. Thorne - Ravenclaw. There was a note next to his name, a single comment from the then-Head of House, Professor Flitwick: "Exceptional magical intuition, but a troubling propensity for solitary pursuits. Dislikes group work."
A small, sad smile touched her lips. Some things never changed.
She found his N.E.W.T. results. They were, as expected, flawless. Outstandings in every subject, including Muggle Studies, which surprised her. But there were no awards for "Most Likely to Become a Brooding Unspeakable." The official record was a silhouette, a outline of a person with all the interesting details missing.
Frustrated, she turned to the one person who might have seen more than the records showed. She found Professor Flitwick in his office, surrounded by chirping, miniature musical instruments.
"Miss Granger! A pleasure!" he squeaked, his eyes twinkling. "To what do I owe the honor?"
"Professor," she began, choosing her words carefully. "I'm working on a project with the Department of Mysteries, and I was hoping you could tell me about a former student of yours. Cassian Thorne."
Flitwick's cheerful expression sobered. "Ah. Cassian. A brilliant, brilliant boy. One of the most naturally gifted I've ever taught." He sighed, a tiny, wistful sound. "But a closed book. He had a small group of friends, other very bright Ravenclaws, but he was never one for the common room. He preferred the Restricted Section. Even as a prefect, he was... detached."
"Did he ever get into trouble?" Hermione asked, trying to paint a fuller picture.
"Not the kind you're thinking of," Flitwick said, shaking his head. "No rule-breaking. But there were... incidents. A fourth-year, he managed to accidentally animate an entire shelf of books on advanced arithmancy. They started rewriting their own theorems in mid-air. Took me a week to get them back in order." A faint smile returned. "He wasn't showing off. He was just... curious. His curiosity sometimes outpaced his control."
His curiosity sometimes outpaced his control. The words resonated deeply. It was the same man who had wanted to thread a probe into the heart of the Vault.
"Thank you, Professor," Hermione said, her heart heavy. The picture was becoming clearer, but it was still a portrait of an isolated genius. It didn't tell her how to find him.
Her next stop was the Ministry's personnel files. As the co-lead on a high-level project, she had some clearance. She found his file. It was thin. Date of birth. Hogwarts house. Date of Ministry recruitment. Department of Mysteries. There was no home address listed. No emergency contact. The file was a fortress of privacy.
Defeated, she returned to her flat. The flame of determination was guttering, threatened by the cold wind of reality. He didn't want to be found. He was an Unspeakable. He was a ghost.
In a fit of desperation, she did the only thing she could think of. She went to the one place that still held his essence. The Vault chamber.
It was as sterile and empty as before. But she didn't come to work. She came to listen. She sat on the cold stone bench, closed her eyes, and let the low hum of the Vault wash over her. She thought of his hand in hers, the way he had guided her to feel the magic, not just analyze it.
"Magic has a voice, Granger, if you're quiet enough to hear it."
She wasn't trying to listen to the Vault this time. She was trying to listen to the echo of him. The memory of his magic, the unique signature she had felt during the probe, during their joined spells. It was a fool's errand, a hopeless, romantic fantasy.
But as she sat there, emptying her mind, a different kind of whisper came to her. Not a magical one. A memory. His voice, dry and amused, in the Leaky Cauldron.
"The next time we have to write a report," he had said, "let's just tell them it screamed."
And before that, in the Restricted Section, holding the strange, flesh-bound book. "This one is... sad."
The book.
Her eyes snapped open. The book that had "called" to him. The one with no title, written in a soul-language he could feel but not read. He had been captivated by it. He had checked it out. Where was it now?
She all but ran to the Hogwarts library. Madam Pince eyed her with deep suspicion as Hermione hurried to the checkout ledger for the Restricted Section. Her fingers trembled as she traced back the dates to when they had been working together.
There it was. "Untitled Folio (Grey Binding)." Checked out to C. Thorne. And it had never been checked back in.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. It was a thread. A tiny, fragile thread, but it was something. He still had the book. A man on a "research sabbatical" would take his research with him.
She didn't know where he was. But she knew what he was studying. And for the first time since he'd left, Hermione Granger had a direction. The flame of determination flared, bright and steady. She would find a way to speak his language. She would find a way back to him, even if she had to learn to read a book that had no words.