The Harry Potter universe and its characters are the sole property of J. K. Rowling. By using them below, I am in no way claiming ownership.

It had taken several combinations of unlocking spells before Hermione had been able to force the door open with her shoulder. The wood was swollen and rotting from the dampness in the dungeons, and required a few good kicks before it swung free on its hinges. Hermione used the Lumos spell to light up the room, her heart racing at the thought of her potential discovery.

When its contents were revealed, she squealed in delight.

The room was a mish-mash of old furniture, mostly tables and chests, with lop-sided shelves hanging from chains against the walls. On every available surface and in every nook and cranny - dark artefacts. This was something Hermione could easily turn into a story. There were several items she recognised as being illegal to possess, such as the stuffed Manticore head or Hippogriff beak. Some items simply required a licence, such as the large collection of poisons, and that would be a simple letter to the Ministry of Magic to check. She was betting Draco didn't have the necessary paperwork. Hermione walked into the centre of the small room and turned a full 360 degrees, taking it all in. In the far corner, she recognised the vanishing cabinet which before the destruction of its pair, linked to Hogwarts. On one of the shelves above it, the hand of glory. There were several other items sealed under glass domes, bottles of old wine or ornate jewellery, probably cursed.

The gilded edge of some paintings caught her eye, wedged in the gap between the cabinet and wall. She inched forwards and extracted the largest piece, brushing the dust from its surface with the edge of her hand. The Malfoy family glared back at her. Lucius and Narcissa stood in the centre, their hands placed on the shoulders of a younger Draco. Lucius sneered at her, gripping his son in a possessive manner. Draco simply looked morose, staring at the floor of the portrait. Hermione's eyes roamed across the faces, most of them unrecognisable as she wasn't familiar with the family genealogy. Bellatrix was stood to the left of her sister, looking threatening. Hermione felt a brief moment of victory at the witch's death, and childishly stuck her tongue out at the former death-eater. She leant the portrait up against the cabinet and reached for a second painting.

Her breath caught in her throat, as her eyes surveyed the portrait of a younger Draco. He was as exactly as she remembered him from her youth, arrogant and dressed in black. He didn't sneer but looked out at her, curious. She felt a flash of guilt about her trespassing. Everything in the room was thick with dust, so it were possible that the items were simply relics of his father. Somebody had certainly gone to some effort to seal everything in this room. Was it Draco, burying a past he no longer wanted to be associated with? Would it really be fair of her to bring his shame out into the light?

But if she didn't use what she had found, it might mean her career.

She bit her lip. Perhaps, just in case, she should wake Susan up and bring her down here. They could photograph and catalogue the items as a back-up, if the interview the next day ended up being unsatisfactory. She nodded her head, resolute.

As she moved back towards the doorway, her eyes fell onto an elaborately-carved table. In its centre was a small glass sphere, held up from the table surface by a simple wire stand. Black smoke swirled within the sphere, its contortions mesmerising. She knelt down to get a better look. There was an almost invisible gilding on the sphere surface, which suddenly lit up as if the gold had caught the light. She gasped as she read the name 'H. Potter.' Why would Harry's name be engraved on an item in Draco's basement?

The cool breeze moved through the room again, tousling her hair in a tempting manner. She was certain that the cold was emanating from the sphere and moved her face closer. The breeze appeared again almost like a caress, welcoming her to touch the item. Her eyes locked onto the swirling smoke and her hand moved forward. She had no capacity for thought, being so focused on the strange item. Her rational self tried to battle for control underneath the obsession and for a moment, it looked like it might win. Her fingers paused a few centimetres away from the glass.

Her hand clasped the dome and she screamed. It had definitely been the source of the chill, the cold stinging her skin and making her grip falter. The glass sphere fell from her grasp and onto the stone floor, where it shattered.

Draco ran down the stairs as fast as he could, his hand already gripping his wand, prepared to fight. The valley was known for its key position in the yearly troll migration, and it wasn't unheard of for trolls to sneak into houses to hibernate. He'd had to deal with them before. What if Hermione had stumbled across a sleeping troll and was now at its mercy?

Light pooled out from a room at the bottom of the corridor and he ran towards it, unthinking. He couldn't believe it, when he realised what must have happened. Stupid girl. Hermione had somehow broken into the store room of the dungeons, where Draco had hidden many of his father's artefacts and other possessions he could no longer bear to look at. The door had been sealed since his father's death and with the passage of time, he had almost forgotten of its existence.

Hermione had her back against the door and sat in a slouch, one hand cradling the other in her lap. She wasn't crying, but she looked in pain.

'Let me see,' he asked, kneeling down in front of her. She reluctantly held out her hand, revealing the angry red welt across her palm. He frowned. 'What did you touch? Was it the hand of glory?' She shook her head, her lips pursed tightly closed. 'I need to know, Hermione, or I can't treat the wound.'

Ashamed, she glanced back at the shattered remnants of the glass sphere. His eyes followed her line of sight and upon noticing the smashed glass, his heart skipped a beat. Oh no... oh no no no no no...

Hermione had turned her eyes back to his face, her own mimicking the look of horror as she tried to understand what she had done. He forced his expression to become neutral, not wanting to worry her prematurely, and wrapped his arm underneath hers to lift her up. 'Keep the wound clean,' he instructed, trying to remain stern and hide his true feelings.

Hermione let herself be led away from the room and back up the stairs to Draco's study. He let her down gently into the leather armchair she had previously occupied, then pointed his wand at the fire to reignite it. Draco abandoned her to move to his desk, reaching for the bottom drawer. It had been his father's hiding place for his own alcohol, and Draco had kept it for the same purpose. He pulled out a small flask of firewhiskey and two glasses, filling them both to the brim.

Hermione held her good hand out for the glass but he side-tracked her, instead placing it on the hearth near the flames. He sat down on the floor by the fire and downed his glass in one. They waited in silence as the untouched firewhiskey warmed up by the fire. When he was sure it was warm, he grabbed the glass and dumped its contents unceremoniously over Hermione's injured hand. She let out a shriek and then swore at him. It was so unlike the girl he knew that he had to suppress a grin.

'It's your own bloody fault,' he chastised, sitting back down.

'What was that thing?' She demanded, cradling the alcohol-soaked hand to her chest. Draco grimaced and shook his head.

'Of all the things you had to touch in that room...' Hermione's anger faded into worry. 'You're really screwed.'

'Draco, what was it?' She asked, wide-eyed.

'Voldemort's secret weapon.'