The Veil of Forgotten Spells

Draco Malfoy stroked a gloved hand across his jaw, exhaling. The alleyway at the back of Knockturn Alley was unutterably quiet, the kind of quiet that was stifling—like the world was breathing its breath and waiting for something to happen.

"This is definitely related to the case."

Blaise Zabini, who stood beside him, clicked his wand, displaying the faint remains of a shattered ward. The light struggled weakly on the red brick wall and died as if sparks struggled against the cold.

"Outdated blood magic," snarled Blaise, his eyes narrowing. "And something else."

Draco got down on one knee, pulling a crude marking in the ground with his wand. The rune was deformed, wrong—like a rune, but malformed, tainted with something wicked. His stomach coiled. He recalled having seen something like this before. It symbolized pain then. It symbolized death.

A shudder of fear contorted in his chest.

"You think this is related to the artifact?" Blaise asked, tilting his head a fraction of an inch to one side. "Or—"

"—Granger."

Her name slipped from Draco's lips before he could stop himself.

Blaise's eyes flew to him, his expression unreadable. "Still mooning over her?"

Draco's glare sent him leaping to his feet. "I don't have time for this."

"Apparently," Blaise sneered sarcastically. "But it is interesting that she is the first person who comes to your mind when you think of something dirty."

Draco tuned him out, his thoughts already in a spin. He needed to find her.

***

Hermione was trying to write. Trying is the keyword.

The candle's flame flickered and trembled on her writing desk as she glared at the parchment in front of her. Her quill rested between her fingers, not blinking in the past five minutes. She had rewritten one sentence five times and still detested it.

A soft knock interrupted her block.

Before she could respond, the door to her flat groaned open.

"Granger."

She didn't need to turn around to know who it was. That voice, rich and with some implied something wound through it, was unmistakable.

"Malfoy?" She swiveled in her chair, scowling. "What the deuce—?"

"I need to ask if you know this."

His fur was damp from the fog on the outside, his otherwise flawless appearance slightly skewed. He had decided not to talk, his wand flashing out to create a picture between them.

A rune. Unstable. Writhing like a snake.

Hermione's breath held.

A shivering spookiness crept along her spine. The form, the curl of the ink. She knew. She recognized it.

Her hands tightened on the arms of her chair.

"Where did you find this?" Her whisper was just a breath.

Draco's eyes narrowed. "You know it."

She hesitated. A slip. He caught on.

"I—" She breathed sharply, pushing away her curls with her hand. "It's. complicated."

"Then simplify." There was evenness in his voice, but there was something beneath. Something that tugged at her.

Hermione's heart pounded.

This wasn't some residual memory. This was more. This was alive.

She swallowed hard. "I have to show you something."

Draco was firm as a stone, but she sensed his shift, the point of his attention. He looked at her like she was an issue—one he had no desire to fix.

She spun around, dropping to the floor beside the trunk hidden beneath the bookcase. The lock clicked free with the soft-spoken charm, and the scent of magic and parchment filled the room.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she sorted through the papers. And then there it was.

A brown crisped piece of parchment, faded ink but legible.

She held it up to him.

Draco's eyes swept the lines—and then he just stood.

"This is—"

"Yes," he said to Hermione. "It's the war. And I think someone is trying to use it again."

The jaw tic returned to Draco's face.

"We have to figure out who."

Darkness contained, shadows writhing as they read over pages of old text, concealed behind layers of information better left uncovered. The world beyond retreated to a haze—nothing but the scratching of quills, the rustle of parchment, and the occasional scrape of a chair as one of them sat a fraction closer.

Finally, Hermione noticed how close he had come.

She could feel the warmth of him, the soft nudge of his shoulder against hers as they pored over the texts. She barely knew until his breath touched her temple, his voice low.

"I think I know where we need to go next."

Her throat tightened.

"Where?"

Draco's eyes collided with hers, and in them, she saw something dark. Something knowing.

"The Department of Mysteries."

The past was not merely knocking.

It was bursting in.