By the time they arrived at the headmaster's office, the torches along the corridor had already been lit.
Professor Dumbledore did not refuse them. Faced with Draco's request, he agreed after a moment's thought, opened the cabinet behind his desk, and beckoned Hermione to the Pensieve—pouring in the silvery strand of memory that preserved his first meeting with a young Tom Riddle at the Muggle orphanage.
"Have a look, Miss Granger," he said gently. "Perhaps a fresh perspective will reveal something I've overlooked."
While Hermione submerged herself in the Pensieve, Dumbledore turned to Draco and told him quietly that he planned to hand Barty Crouch Jr. over to Azkaban once the Graveyard operation was concluded.
"Abandon him entirely?" Draco said. "I wouldn't have expected that."
Dumbledore was known for his extraordinary patience with people. If even he had reached the limit of that patience, it could only mean one thing: Barty Crouch Jr. was beyond reach.
"I tried, for quite some time, to reason with him. But I'm afraid the poison Voldemort poured into his mind over the years has made him irreparable." Dumbledore's gaze moved to the large, seven-locked trunk belonging to the real Professor Moody, standing in the corner of the office.
The trunk sat completely still. But Draco knew that opening one of its locks would reveal a basement concealed beneath layers of shielding charms—and inside it, Barty Crouch Jr., bound and petrified beneath a cascade of Incarcerous, Stunning, and Full Body-Bind Curses.
"Was he able to provide any useful information?" Draco asked.
"Veritaserum only works reliably when the subject is caught off guard. He is a skilled Occlumens—it had limited effect once he understood what was happening." Dumbledore opened a large parcel on his desk stamped with the Honeydukes logo. A bag of Cockroach Clusters tumbled out. He held one up and examined it in the light of the windows. "Nevertheless, I managed to learn a few things."
Draco tilted his head, watching Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles catch the light, and allowed himself a small flicker of interest.
"Your expression looks rather like Miss Granger's at times," Dumbledore observed with a smile, looking at him with evident curiosity—Draco rarely showed anything other than studied indifference. "Crouch didn't reveal a great deal. But certain details were particularly interesting."
"Such as?" Draco asked.
"He mentioned that Voldemort has a snake—a large one, named Nagini—that he keeps with him at all times." Dumbledore met his gaze.
"He's a Parselmouth. A snake isn't surprising." Draco was not surprised by Nagini herself—she had been the Dark Lord's constant companion in his past life—but the length of time she had apparently been with him gave him pause.
"Would you like one?" Dumbledore pushed the Cockroach Clusters toward him. Draco shook his head.
"There was something else that surprised me more: Crouch knew about Voldemort's patricide. It seems our suspicion was correct—Morfin was framed." Dumbledore's expression was quietly complicated.
Draco nodded. Morfin Gaunt, the Dark Lord's uncle, had died in Azkaban for a crime he did not commit—the last of the Gaunt bloodline, extinguished in the dark.
"Crouch knowing about the patricide suggests he was trusted to an unusual degree," Draco said. "That's not something Voldemort would share easily."
An interesting detail. Most Death Eaters believed, or at least assumed, that the Dark Lord came from a distinguished pure-blood family. Few knew his true origins. Even his father being a Muggle was whispered about, rather than confirmed—and that he had murdered that father was another matter entirely.
Even Lucius and Narcissa had not known that. Did Bellatrix?
Was Barty Crouch Jr. more deeply trusted than Bellatrix herself? And why hadn't he appeared among the Death Eaters in the past life, if he had been so central? Something had clearly shifted.
"He is fanatical in his loyalty, beyond almost anyone I have encountered," Dumbledore said. "I believe it was a combination of that absolute devotion, his sharp intelligence, and his considerable magical ability that earned him a place in Voldemort's confidence." He produced a bag of lemon drops, tilted it toward Draco with hopeful enquiry, and received the same refusal. A small look of regret crossed his face. "I also noticed that Crouch holds an intense hatred for his own father—Bartemius Crouch Senior—and that he expressed genuine approval of Voldemort's patricide."
"Ah," Draco said, with deliberate blankness.
He was increasingly convinced that Hermione's analysis had merit. The Dark Lord and some of his most devoted followers appeared to have developed—through very different circumstances—rather similar psychological wounds.
He made a mental note to look at that Muggle book Hermione had mentioned. The one by Freud. Something about fathers.
"Furthermore," Dumbledore said, "Crouch referred to him as 'Voldemort.' Not 'the Dark Lord.' Not 'Master.'" His eyes were sharp behind their half-moon lenses. "In all the Death Eater trials I have witnessed over the years, they called him one or the other—out of fear, out of devotion, or both. Very few would simply use the name."
Draco touched his nose, with a trace of guilt. He himself defaulted to "the Dark Lord"—partly a residual habit from his past life, and partly because it was the safest title. No one had thought to place a Taboo on it.
"Young Crouch doesn't fear Voldemort," Dumbledore said. "He idolises him." He attempted a bag of Sour Pops in Draco's direction. The boy's expression made his opinion plain.
"I'm not surprised. I've always thought Bartemius Crouch Senior had significant failings as a father—too rigid, too selfish, far more concerned with appearances than with his son," Draco said. "It wouldn't have been easy to grow up under him."
"He was, after all, among the most resolute opponents of Voldemort," Dumbledore said, mildly. "I would have expected a more favourable assessment."
"He sent Sirius Black to Azkaban without a trial." Draco said it plainly. "A man who makes a public spectacle of upholding the law while privately discarding it when it's inconvenient—I find it very difficult to feel any admiration for him, whatever his stated convictions."
"You seem quite protective of Sirius," Dumbledore said, watching him with that particular quality of attention that made one feel seen rather too clearly. "I have a feeling that if I were to step too close to Sirius Black, you would shortly be telling me to keep my distance."
"You needn't worry." Draco's expression settled back into its usual composure. "He's a grown wizard. I think he can look after himself."
With that, Hermione surfaced from the Pensieve, pale-faced, and thanked Dumbledore quietly.
"Any new discoveries?" Dumbledore asked, with real interest.
Hermione shook her head, looking faintly troubled. "Nothing I can name yet. I need to think about it."
"There's no urgency," Dumbledore said. "The most significant realisations often need a long time to accumulate before they arrive all at once."
"A very witty observation, sir." Draco pushed open the headmaster's office door. "Come on, Hermione."
---
On a Monday in early May, Hermione was still turning that memory over in her mind.
She sat at the Gryffindor table eating lunch without tasting any of it, her thoughts drifting somewhere between the Pensieve and a stubborn dead end in her research. The work of combing through index cards and cross-referencing library texts had become relentlessly tedious, and she had nothing new to show for it.
There was also a smaller, more personal irritation: Draco had been oddly elusive lately. Every day, there was a short window during which she simply could not find him.
"Where did you go?" she had asked him more than once.
"Nowhere, really. I got held up," he would say, vaguely, without troubling to come up with anything more convincing.
She knew perfectly well that couples needed their own space—let alone two people who were only just finding their way through this. She should not ask questions. She had no right to track his every movement.
But she couldn't help it. She always wanted to know where he was. When she couldn't see him, a faint, persistent anxiety settled under her skin.
"This is completely unfair," she had told him. "You have the Marauder's Map, which means you can find me anytime you want. I have nothing. I just have to wait."
"Life is inherently unfair," Draco had replied, in a tone specifically designed to be infuriating. "Tell you what: I'll lend you the Invisibility Cloak. You can appear at my elbow at any time, without warning. How does that sound?"
"What does the Invisibility Cloak have to do with the Marauder's Map?" Hermione had said. "And it's yours—I don't want it."
"Keep it for me for a while," he'd said, and had produced the cloak and pressed it into her hands before she could object. "I've noticed you creeping down to the kitchens late at night to visit the house-elves. We can't have sharp-eyed Hufflepuffs catching Gryffindor's model student in the act, can we?"
"What about you? What if Filch catches you?"
"I can manage a Disillusionment Charm well enough," he'd said, easily.
"When did you learn that?" The words had come out before she could stop them.
"You've gotten ahead of me again, haven't you," she said, a shade accusingly.
Draco had shaken his head—somehow unsurprised by this reaction—and produced a stack of books on the Disillusionment Charm, which he set in front of her like an offering.
She had been completely won over, of course. She'd started using the Invisibility Cloak two nights later and had discovered she rather enjoyed it—the peculiar, secret satisfaction of walking past Mrs Norris without so much as making the cat's ears twitch.
Hermione Granger, it turned out, was fairly easily managed when you understood what she actually wanted.
And then it was noon, and she was scanning the Slytherin table—Parkinson, Zabini, Crabbe, Goyle, the rest of the usual group—and there was no platinum blonde hair to be seen.
What, exactly, was he up to?
Just then, Ginny Weasley dropped down beside her and said in a stage whisper, "Hermione. Hermione! Krum is staring at you again."
"Yes, I know," Hermione said quietly. "He always seems to be looking for an opportunity to talk to me."
"Hasn't he tried yet?" Ginny asked, grinning.
"Draco makes it rather difficult for him," Hermione said, with a slight air of resignation. "He treats Krum like some kind of personal nemesis, though I honestly don't see why. Krum just wants to be friendly."
"Your boyfriend isn't wrong," Ginny said, with unusual authority. "I've thought for ages that Krum fancies you. Do you think just any girl gets his full attention every day at the dinner table?"
"Perhaps," Hermione said, distractedly. "I still don't have much to say to him."
Krum probably did have some interest in her—she had, after all, been set up as his hostage. But the fact that he hadn't come to rescue her had been, if she were honest, something of a relief. She had realised by then that she didn't want to be rescued by anyone other than Draco. If Draco hadn't come, she thought, she would have preferred to swim up from the bottom of the Black Lake herself.
"Such a popular Quidditch champion, and you won't even glance at him," Ginny said, studying Krum across the hall with anthropological interest. "Look at the state of the Slytherin girls near him. Absolutely transfixed."
Hermione kept her eyes on her book. "I don't want to encourage anyone unnecessarily."
"He's about to stand up," Ginny said, sotto voce. "I think he's going to come over."
"I have to go," Hermione said quickly. "Cover for me, Ginny."
"Why is it always me?" Ginny complained.
"I'll tell you Harry's personal preferences tonight," Hermione offered, already pushing back her chair. "Every detail."
Ginny immediately produced a notebook from somewhere about her person. "Fine. And I'll want Ron's too, since you're asking. I've given Krum about ten autographs covering for you—I deserve something in return."
Hermione gave her a parting smile and slipped out.
The plan failed. Krum appeared to have seen through the decoy entirely, and simply walked around Ginny without acknowledging her.
As Hermione slipped out of the Great Hall, she glanced back and found Krum striding through the door with focused purpose, Ginny furious in his wake.
His intentions were perfectly clear. She had become something he intended to catch.
Merlin—where was Draco? If he were here, Krum would think twice.
She ran. Up the marble staircase, and then the next, and stopped on the third floor landing, gripping the banister and catching her breath. She peered down the staircase, and then thought hard.
She needed somewhere to hide. Somewhere Krum would never think to look.
And then she heard it—a soft, familiar, self-pitying sob coming from somewhere just to her left.
Myrtle. And her bathroom.
Hermione had a sudden inspiration. She pushed open the door and slipped inside.
Krum would never imagine she was hiding here. And even if he did—he was hardly going to walk into the girls' bathroom to find her.
The perfect solution.
Hermione let the door swing shut behind her, allowed herself a small moment of smugness—and turned to find the bespectacled ghost standing very close, watching her with a look of quiet reproach.
"Hermione! It's been ages..." Moaning Myrtle said, dabbing at her eyes with unnecessary drama. "I thought you'd forgotten all about me."
"I'm sorry, Elizabeth. It's been a very busy few months," Hermione said, with genuine apology. "The Tournament has rather consumed everyone."
Myrtle brightened considerably. "Oh yes—the Triwizard Tournament! That dark-haired boy was here the other day, studying the golden egg..." Her expression went coy. "He was rather sweet. I'd be perfectly happy to share this bathroom with him on a more permanent basis."
"Harry?" Hermione asked.
Myrtle didn't confirm or deny. She drifted to the mirror and gazed at her own reflection. "He's kind. And he's got very nice eyes." A small, shy smile. "I think he might appreciate me, given the chance."
"I'll pass that along," Hermione said, with a very straight face.
She turned aside to hide whatever her expression was doing—and noticed, through the gap in one of the cubicle doors, something that had no business being in a girls' bathroom: a rather fine cauldron, with a low, steady flame burning beneath it.
"What's that?" she asked, startled.
"That's a secret," Myrtle said, cheerfully and firmly. "I promised him I wouldn't say."
Him. A boy. Coming to the girls' bathroom. Hermione was briefly indignant on principle.
"I think he might have particular feelings for me," Myrtle added, covering a giggle. "Boys are always more sentimental than they seem."
Clearly, Myrtle's ideas about male behaviour had evolved. Hermione decided not to comment.
"So, tell me—should I choose Harry, or the mysterious one?"
"Whoever makes you happiest," Hermione said sincerely.
"Yes. Whoever makes me happiest." Myrtle looked dreamily at her reflection.
Hermione frowned. Someone was brewing a potion in a girls' bathroom and charming the resident ghost into keeping the secret. That was deliberate. That was careful. That was not innocent.
Her instinct to investigate flared immediately. She looked around to confirm she was the only living person in the room, then took a few careful steps toward the cauldron.
A scent reached her.
She stopped. She had prepared this particular potion before; she would know it anywhere.
Hermione crouched, lifted the cauldron lid, and confirmed it.
"Wolfsbane Potion," she said softly.
She straightened up, staring at it, mind working quickly.
Someone was brewing Wolfsbane Potion. That meant there was a werewolf somewhere at Hogwarts—possibly more than one. The thought sent a cold thread of fear through her.
And whoever was brewing it was not an ordinary student.
To produce Wolfsbane Potion required exceptional skill at Potions, access to expensive and difficult-to-acquire ingredients, and enough composure to maintain the complex, time-sensitive process without anyone noticing. On top of that, they had managed to befriend Myrtle well enough to earn her discretion—no small achievement—and had been clever enough to choose a location that no one else would think to look.
Hermione carefully replaced the lid.
Wolfsbane Potion was not the kind of thing to interfere with. Destroying it would mean a werewolf in the castle going untreated during the full moon—and whatever else was true of the situation, she could not risk that. She had no intention of sabotaging it.
But she had to know who was brewing it.
"Elizabeth—you really can't tell me anything about the boy?" she asked, turning back to Myrtle with a careful smile.
"I cannot say." Myrtle's chin lifted with surprising dignity. "A promise is a promise."
She's quite taken with him, Hermione noted. That made the usual tactics useless.
Or did it?
"All right, I won't ask about the potion." She strolled to the mirror and stood beside Myrtle, keeping her voice light. "You said you can't decide between Harry and this other boy. I can't help you without knowing the basics. Just tell me—between the two of them—who's more handsome?"
This was one of Draco's conversational techniques. She'd learned it from watching him. Change the angle; arrive at the same destination.
"Oh, if it's just that—" Myrtle abandoned her dignity completely. "The mysterious boy, I think. He's extremely elegant. There's something almost noble about him. Though Harry is dear. Very sweet. Very sincere." She sighed. "I've even seen Harry take a bath."
"You've—what?"
"It was all bubbles, I couldn't see anything," Myrtle said quickly, going faintly translucent with something resembling embarrassment. "We were both very shy. It was entirely accidental." She recovered herself. "In any case, it might be useful to see the mysterious boy in a similar situation, for a fair comparison. Perhaps I could arrange a broken tap..."
"You could send a jet of water directly at him," Hermione suggested pleasantly. "Completely without warning. Catch him entirely off guard."
"That's not a bad idea," Myrtle said, looking tempted. "But I'd like to know him a little better first. He seems quite shy, and I wouldn't want to frighten him. We're not yet on joking terms."
"Hermione, would you like to help me make up my mind?" Myrtle said, brightening. "You could take a peek at him yourself today. Girls are always better at these judgements."
"Why not," Hermione agreed, with studied ease.
"He should be here any moment," Myrtle said happily. "He comes at this time every day, without fail."
Hermione slipped into the cubicle beside the cauldron, climbed onto the seat, gripped her vine wand, and waited.
The bathroom door opened.
Slow, unhurried footsteps. The sound of leather-soled shoes on stone.
"You're here!" Myrtle said, with undisguised warmth. "Right on time, as always."
No reply from the boy. Footsteps crossed the floor, entered the next cubicle. The lid of the cauldron was lifted with a practised hand. There was a careful pouring sound—the potion being transferred into smaller vessels.
Now.
Hermione steadied herself, stood up on the seat, and peered through the gap between the cubicle doors.
Her eyes went wide.
Platinum blonde hair.
Draco Malfoy stood over the cauldron with complete composure, decanting the Wolfsbane Potion into several small crystal bottles with the focused satisfaction of someone who had just achieved something difficult. He sealed each one, tucked them into the pocket of his robes, and then emptied the dregs into the adjacent toilet.
The potion had come out well. He could tell. He allowed himself a brief, private smile.
He tipped the last of the dregs out and reached for the tap, and in the pattering of the water, his gaze drifted upward—to the ceiling—and caught, quite suddenly, a pair of brown eyes peering at him through the gap in the door.
The cauldron struck the cubicle floor with a resonant clang and spun.
His smile died.
He stared.
He knew those eyes.
He had simply never, in any version of his life, expected to see them here.
He blinked. He thought for a moment that exhaustion and excessive preoccupation with a particular girl had finally produced a hallucination.
He blinked again.
The brown eyes were still there.
Bright, curious, and unmistakably Hermione Granger's—filled with curiosity, a thread of doubt, and what appeared to be the very beginning of real anger.