Harry Potter exhaled deeply and massaged his temples, seeking some relief from yet another throbbing headache. They kept returning: grating, pulsating pains in the back of his head - the result of too much stress and too little sleep. Ron Weasley, looking just as worn out and crestfallen, sat beside him.

Before them, strewn out over the floor and the battered table of Grimmauld Place, were dozens of reports and summaries that all led to only one, single conclusion: Hermione Granger could not be found. Magical traces failed to yield her location, ministry inquiries came up as duds, and the unquantifiable rumors that spread like wildfire in both taverns and tabloids ('I saw her in Hogsmeade, I swear, right by the Shrieking Shack' or 'Hermione Granger Spotted Riding Pregnant Unicorn Near Belfast', etc.) all led to dead ends. Their only clue so far was a single letter, addressed to them two months before she was officially declared missing. Harry had memorized it word for word and recalled it once again:

Dear Harry and Ron, it read,

I know I haven't seen much of you recently; it's my fault and I'm sorry. I've been working on a personal project, and it's occupied all of my time. It's also the reason behind my departure from the Ministry. I know you've all been worried about me, but I'm afraid this is too important. I believe I've discovered a certain relic of our war, one left forgotten in the aftermath of the victory. I'm not yet ready to disclose what information I have gathered, but if I'm correct in my suspicions, then our worlds - both muggle and magical - are in grave peril.

There is some research left to conduct, and it will take me abroad for several weeks. Expect my owl around midsummer, because if my fears ring true, then we must move quickly. I'll tell you everything when we see each other next.

Love,

Hermione

P.S. Give my best to everyone and tell Ginny that, no (!), I am not interested in another blind date. We all know how the last one went.

When the second week of July passed, with no owl and no news, Harry and Ron opened an official investigation at the Ministry. August first, a press conference was held, asking anyone with any information regarding her whereabouts to come forward. A reward had been issued.

Neither route delivered any tangible result.

In fact, the investigation produced more questions than answers. Details of the project she referred to in her letter were unobtainable, as access to her house had been rendered impossible by wards that were as paranoid as they were powerful. Hermione had always been a skillful witch, and she had outdone herself here: even the most experienced ward-breakers the Ministry had on staff capitulated before her protective enchantments.

Her travels couldn't be traced as well. No floo or portkey had been registered to her name; no travel agency had ferried her. A plea for assistance to the muggle government was made, as it was plausible that Hermione, as a muggle-born herself, could have left the country via non-magical means. Action on the request had been delayed for weeks, as the muggle government seemed perpetually embroiled in one crisis after another these days. Finally, Harry and Ron, exasperated by the holdup, took a personal day from their jobs at the Auror Department and visited Downing Street themselves, magically coercing the muggle authorities to prioritize their request. Illegal, yes, but when your best friend goes missing, you bend the rules.

Unfortunately, that didn't help either. No Hermione Granger could be tracked leaving Britain by boat, plane, rail, or any other way at all.

And so, Harry and Ron (sometimes, some of their friends too) spent the nights either following rapidly vanishing leads, or sitting on the shabby couches in what had once been the Order's headquarters during the war, desperately trying to find an acorn of truth in a field that was laden with lies, gossip and misinformation.

"We'll find her." Ron's voice broke the suffocating silence.

"When?" Harry glanced down at the stacks of parchments littering the floor. They were all useless.

"I dunno, mate, but we will. It's Hermione we're talking about here; whatever trouble she's in, you know she can find a solution."

"Yeah, it's just… it's the unknowing that kills me. With Voldemort, at least, you knew where the evil came from. Now… she could be anywhere, she could be..." Harry trailed off, unwilling to articulate the fears that had begun to torment him when he closed his eyes at night. The nightmares, where Hermione's lifeless body, bruised and torn, stared at him accusingly.

"Why didn't you save me, Harry?" her deathly-pale lips would whisper. "If only you'd tried harder, you could have prevented this. You could have found me in time."

"I know, Harry." Ron gave his friend a look that said he understood what was better left unsaid; he carried a very similar guilt.

Another heavy silence descended upon the inhabitants of The Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. What could you do, when every avenue you turned onto proved to lead you nowhere? When every flame of hope in your soul was dimming, if not being extinguished altogether?

A sharp and persistent tapping suddenly tore through the old townhouse. Harry and Ron both jumped, wands at the ready.

"Over there." Harry mentioned towards one of the windows, where the sound was coming from. A shape, blurry from the dirt and grime covering the glass, could be seen fluttering outside.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.

"An owl? It's 3 in the morning. Could there be some emergency?"

Sharing a confused look, both men hurried over to the window. Opening it revealed a regal-looking owl that glided into the room with an indignant hoot and perched itself on a grimy armchair. A letter was tied to one of its legs.

"Well, that's definitely not a ministry owl," Ron assessed. "Look at that glossy coat. That's one well-bred beast."

Harry, more interested in what news had literally flown into his home, quickly trotted to the kitchen and returned with several treats and a bowl of water.

"Here you go." He kneeled by the animal, placing the food and water on the table. The owl glared at him, but then, deeming the offering worthy, hopped off the chair (leaving torn shreds where claws had been) and took several sips from the bowl. Harry cautiously untied the letter, noting that the handwriting on the front end seemed vaguely familiar.

With Ron peering over his shoulder, he opened it and quickly skimmed the contents.

By the end, his fingers were trembling.

Potter,

Something you've been looking for is currently enjoying the Manor's famed hospitality. Do hurry and retrieve it.

Malfoy

P.S. It seems to share a condition with one Gilderoy Lockhart, so you might want to bring a specialist.

"Harry," Ron croaked out in a hoarse whisper. "Harry, he means it's her."

Harry's eyes, wide from hope and disbelief, barely met Ron's before he disapparated with a resounding crack.

Weasley's vanishing form was only a second behind.