A/N: This chapter is nearly double the usual length but I think you'll understand why by the end. Thank you so much for your reviews and I can't wait to hear your thoughts of where we're going. Extra shout-out to anne for this one, too.


The arrival of Slughorn's Christmas party came with tentative dread from those invited and ravenous curiosity from the rest of the school, some of whom spent breakfast surveying known members of the club who may have had a sudden vacancy in their plus-one. Harry kept sparing tragic glances at Ginny, who steadfastly ignored them, and Hermione privately longed for Christmas morning when she would be with her family and away from all this nonsense. After all, last year, she'd spent the holidays at the Burrow as Mr Weasley recovered from Nagini's attack in the Department of Mysteries.

Of course, it all makes sense now: The Order's patrols by the Hall of Prophecy… Voldemort's fixation on the door… the way it made Harry fixated, too… all part of his plan… And it bloody well worked, didn't it?

A year ago, it had seemed like a freak attack, or even an isolated incident in a broader, murky context she couldn't piece together and did not feel entirely relevant, not yet. These sorts of things happened all the time during wartime, didn't they? And Arthur Weasley had painted a glow-in-the-dark target on his back with his brazen affection for Muggles and affiliation with the Order of the Phoenix.

She'd been so stupid, not taking Harry seriously, and then taking him too seriously when he'd decided to fly off to the Ministry himself. What about next time? Hermione never, ever again wanted to feel the cold, nauseating dread which had struck her when McGonagall told her of Mr Weasley's condition. And next time, she knew, it would almost certainly be something far worse. The anxiety she'd felt as Professor Snape had abruptly departed had not nearly been enough for the magnitude of what had really happened.

Oddly, she hadn't thought about that part of that night in a long time. Looking back, it was a wonder she and Draco hadn't wrecked the Wolfsbane; they'd hardly been in the best mindset to work on such a recipe on their own for the first time. Was that the first time they'd got along? In the loosest sense of the phrase, of course. They'd bickered and snarked, yes, but she also remembered waking up on the cold floor beside him and feeling… comfortable. She hadn't noticed it at the time, not with everything else going on and the debilitating sleep deprivation. But that morning when they parted ways, she'd almost wanted to stay.

He was very deliberately not looking at her now. And she, to her horror, was looking directly at him. She couldn't help it; her eyes always wandered to the Slytherin table these days, to that morbid look that never seemed to leave his face. Scolding herself, she plucked another piece of toast from the rack and steadfastly did not look away from her breakfast until she had consumed a whole sausage.

She needed to stop doing that, stop watching him in public. It wouldn't take much more for people to realise she had a habit.


The day passed too quickly for Hermione's liking. Too soon, she found herself staring at her own reflection, a knot of anxiety twisting in her gut. She looked alright, she thought; she'd rubbed a fair bit of Sleakeazy's into her hair and pinned it out of the way, save for one elegant tendril. Letting it hang free seemed like tempting fate and she wasn't about to go to the most intriguing social event since the Yule Ball looking like a bird's nest. Her dress robes were understated yet elegant, and when she met Ron in the common room, she felt more or less ready.

The four of them — Hermione, Ron, Harry, and Neville — set off for the dungeons with curiosity rather than eagerness. Harry and Ron were talking about Quidditch, naturally, while Neville hung behind with Hermione in comfortable silence. Ginny had left earlier, presumably to escort Luna from Ravenclaw Tower. It was very gallant of her, Hermione thought.

They arrived not-quite-fashionably-late and found themselves in a jungle of shimmering decorations, music, and chatter. Piles of delicate hors d'oeuvres and petit fours floated around the room, making Hermione's mouth water.

"Blimey, Harry," murmured Neville, "if this is what you get invited to, I might have to be your date more often."

Ron snorted while Harry merely looked a bit dazed. "Yeah, sure thing, Neville."

Hermione scanned the room as they made their way to the table bearing the most food. Ginny and Luna were indeed there already; Luna was doing an odd dance that didn't seem to follow the music at all, but Ginny watched her with shining eyes. Seeing them together properly, it was truly impossible to imagine it any other way.

Hopefully Harry would come to the same conclusion.

"Ah! Mr Potter! Miss Granger! I've been wondering if you'd got lost!" Slughorn bellowed across the room, effectively making the four of them cringe. Their professor was rosy-cheeked and seemed a little too merry for a school function, in Hermione's opinion. "Merry Christmas! And would you remind me who you've brought, hm?"

"Right — er, this is Neville Longbottom, sir."

"Ah, yes," said Slughorn with some dismay as he looked Neville up and down. "I do believe I remember."

Harry hastened to add, "He isn't taking N.E.W.T. Potions but he's brilliant at Defence, professor."

Neville blushed furiously, but Slughorn had already moved on.

"And, ah, Mr Weasley! A pleasure to see you outside of the classroom. I hear you're quite the adept Quidditch strategist? Steering your house to victory, eh?"

Ron's ears turned pink. "Er — thank you, professor."

"And with your sister on the team! Must be something in the blood!"

Behind Slughorn, on the opposite side of the room, the door opened and quickly shut again, admitting two reserved-looking wizards in dark robes. Hermione's eyes followed them as they sought out a vacant corner in which to lurk; Draco's eyes scanned the room and her heart thrilled as he found her just before someone moved, blocking him from her sight.

Still, her pulse throbbed a few beats faster knowing he was nearby. How ridiculous.

Slughorn had departed in favour of some other new arrivals, leaving the four of them with nothing but food for company. Ron picked up a small cake and yelped when the decorative curl of chocolate on top exploded into a soft powder.

"Merlin, even the bloody pudding's pretentious," he muttered and popped it into his mouth anyway.

While Ron gingerly assembled a plate for himself, Neville poured them each a goblet of punch. A sip confirmed that someone had indeed dosed it with at least a full bottle of Firewhisky and Hermione wondered how long it would take for its effects to become evident in the rest of the guests.

"Which ones do you want, Hermione?"

"What?"

Ron looked at her expectantly, a new empty plate in his hand.

"Oh — just, erm, a few I suppose. Whatever you think looks good."

With a thoughtful frown, Ron carefully placed a few of the more interesting looking tarts and cakes onto her plate and it suddenly occurred to Hermione that he may have forgotten the nature of their… well, non-date.

"Ron," she began with care, "you know you don't — you don't have to do any of this."

"Yeah, well…" He shrugged, dropped the last little pastry on her plate, and handed it to her. "I owe you, don't I? For inviting me."

"Oh, don't be silly!" The plate was heavier than she wanted, but she took it with a smile. "I'm glad to bring you. You don't owe me anything. Go talk to other people, if you like."

To his credit, Ron stayed with her, and the four of them retreated to a corner to watch the escalating merriment of the rest of the party. Despite the hype that had consumed nearly the entire student body, Hermione wasn't particularly impressed. Overall, it felt like a posh common room party, just with more House diversity. Was it really worth all the excitement? The younger students certainly seemed to think so.

And, as her eyes nervously sought out Draco, she couldn't help but be selfishly grateful for it all, anyway. Biting her lip, she stared at the shimmering streamers and festive decorations and felt oddly guilty. And anxious.

Maybe this was a bad idea. What did I think would happen? I'm not going to be able to talk to him at all, not without being noticed. Stupid!

"I've been an idiot, haven't I?"

Hermione jumped so violently she nearly sloshed her drink over Harry's front. He didn't notice; he was too busy staring at the clump of students dancing on the Persian rugs.

"What do you mean, Harry?" Her cheeks were scorching; how was she ever going to have normal interactions with her friends again? She couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom. She wouldn't be able to keep this secret forever. Not from them.

Harry jerked his head to where Ginny and Luna were dancing, Ginny's arms wrapped securely around Luna's waist. "I've been a total twat."

"Oh, Harry —"

He waved his hand dismissively. It did nothing for the cool sinking sensation in her chest.

"It's fine, Hermione. I'm fine." His frown didn't budge as he took a long drink from his goblet.

"I'm really sorry, Harry. I wanted to tell you, but —"

"You knew? I — no. Never mind. Doesn't matter." He pushed his hair back and adjusted his glasses. "It's better this way, anyway."

Hermione scrambled for words, but it was too late. Across the room, Professor Slughorn gesticulated wildly.

"Looks like Slughorn wants me," said Harry, "but I'll see you later?" He gave her a weak smile before leaving her alone. Hermione had barely registered he'd gone when a trio of fourth years made it clear she was blocking their access to the many bottles of Butterbeer and she scurried away, apologising, until she found herself alone by a tapestry.

Harry would have found out eventually. It was inevitable. And, she assumed, this was the easiest way. But it didn't change how hurt he'd looked when she'd said she'd known, and how it broke her heart to see him lose one of the only things that seemed to be keeping him aloft lately. And he'd done it with such… dignity, too.

And then here she was, keeping her own something a secret. Selfishly. Greedily. While her friends scraped by in misery.

They're going to find out eventually.

And then what?

They'll kill me. They'll hate me. And I hate myself already and — oh. That's odd.

She scrunched her nose and took another sip. The drink which had, at first, been some sort of spicy, fruity concoction, had shifted. With each taste, it lost its citrusy sourness and became creamier, developing stronger, earthy notes of cinnamon and nutmeg. She peered into her goblet; it was changing colour, too, and thickening a little. The heat of the Firewhiskey was different now, warming her palate against the heavy eggnog.

"By the time you get to the bottom you'll find you're drinking espresso."

Every part of her froze, as though the slightest movement might scare him off. Draco stood just far away enough to appear as though he hadn't noticed her at all, yet near enough for her to hear his murmuring — just barely, though — over the cacophony of the party.

"Although I'm not sure how the Firewhisky will affect it." She heard him sneer. "Why not just serve it straight? It's not like Slughorn will care, and then it won't spoil the drink for the rest of us."

A grin tugged at her lips. "I hardly think that was their priority. Besides, now Professor Slughorn has plausible deniability in case anyone asks how over two dozen underage students got sloshed at his party. One would think you would appreciate such discretion."

She covered her smile with another sip from her goblet when Draco conceded with a sly tilt of his head.

They stayed like that for a long time. Several minutes, at least. Hermione felt that deep, contented pulsing that always happened whenever he was nearby. It made her heart feel bigger, somehow, and every one of her senses reached for him, always longing for more. She held her breath, hoping to hear his, but the music and chatter made that impossible, so she settled for knowing he was nearby, feeling he was nearby, and wondered how much closer they could move before it raised suspicions.

He must've thought the same thing; she heard him shift half a step nearer, his robes rustling.

"I see the cream puff got the best of you," he remarked, and Hermione scowled at the sticky tendril of hair hanging over her shoulder.

"How was I meant to know it would inflate like that?"

"Seems Potter's discovering that as we speak."

Hermione quickly spotted Harry with Ron, the pair of them negotiating with an éclair that did not seem willing to part with the pastry arrangement on the table. A moment later, Ron had his wand out, quickly cleaning away the dollop of cream on Harry's front, laughing hysterically. Hermione wished her hair could be cleaned as easily.

"At least Weasley's enjoying himself."

Before Hermione could remember why she shouldn't, she was glaring at him. Draco merely shrugged and casually shifted to create more distance between them. "Easy, Granger. I was being serious. Though I'm not sure anyone's having more fun than his sister."

Hermione's eyes went once again to where Ginny and Luna stood together, now eating and drinking with some Hufflepuffs in their year.

"You know, you really don't have to worry about me blabbing. It's fairly obvious to anyone in the castle that they're together at this point."

Well, at least that's one positive.

The coffee flavour hit her suddenly and she realised that she'd anxiously drained most of her goblet. "You were right," she observed, licking her lips.

"Of course I was."

"You're insufferable."

She couldn't see him, but she heard his scoff. It was quickly replaced by a sound of disgust and Hermione winced when she also spotted Lavender and Cormac getting increasingly amorous on their shared armchair. Lavender was sat on Cormac's lap, arms around his neck and tongue thoroughly in his mouth. Cormac's hand played with the hem of her dress robes where it ended just above her knee and Hermione thought she saw his fingers flirt with going underneath it. No-one else seemed to mind. Perhaps it was the Firewhisky. She looked away.

"You think that's bad? Wait until you come across them shagging in a dark corner while doing your rounds."

"Oh God, please don't say that," she moaned, already overwhelmed by mental images.

Draco snorted and she heard the beginning of a word leave his mouth before it abruptly stopped. The volume in the room muffled, too, and when Hermione looked up, she saw a third of the party's attendance watching the sudden appearance of Professor Snape with guarded expressions. He stood in the doorway looking sour as ever, eyes sweeping the room. Why would he possibly choose to attend a Christmas party, of all things, Hermione wondered?

His dark eyes halted to her right and she saw Draco straighten in her periphery. Hermione sensed him stiffen, bracing, and chanced a glance to find him locked in a staring contest with Professor Snape. Draco's jaw clenched just as Snape took a single step forward, as though to approach. A threat. Then the moment broke; Draco murmured, "I'll be back in a moment," and he brushed past, his movement barely disturbing the edge of her robes. "Don't wait up."

Before Hermione could register it, Draco had slipped out the door with Snape and the party was as loud as ever, as though he'd never even been there at all.

Her goblet was practically empty now; she upended it and drained the rest before she could second-guess herself. The general cacophony and messy decorations would make it easy to slip out undetected for a moment. She just wanted to make sure Draco was alright, maybe speak with him in private for a moment… And then they would come back (staggered, of course) and no-one would even notice she'd left.

Hermione moved toward the door with as much nonchalance as she could manage and, when a blessedly tall student stepped into view, ducked behind them and out the door.

Coming from the party, the corridor was dark and cold and unsettlingly silent. The emptiness flooded her senses, effectively stunning her as cool air filled her lungs and prickled her skin.

Then, the sound of scuffing shoes. Keeping to the shadows and the balls of her feet, she crept along the wall in the direction of the sound, the hissing whispers and swishing robes. As she neared a corner, the deep murmurs of Professor Snape clarified into words.

"…mustn't waste time, Malfoy…"

"…I told you… on my own!"

"You're a fool if you think… without consequences!"

"I know what I'm doing —!"

"…playing with your life… with hers…"

Hermione peeked around the corner and saw the two of them, shrouded in shadow, arguing with a kind of cold ferocity that struck her with a fear so primal it momentarily took her breath away. She could not pretend to understand what they argued about, but she knew it was more than petty Slytherin disagreements or homework corrections. When the light flickered just right, she saw that same vacant panic in Draco's eyes which followed him at mealtimes. To her surprise, her scar twitched across her sternum, and her heart rate ticked up a notch.

Either in frustration or resignation, Snape released Draco abruptly and stalked off. Hermione watched him go, infinitely grateful that he had not chosen to walk towards her; there would have been no place for her to hide.

In the heavy silence, Hermione saw Draco watch their teacher leave, and as soon as Snape disappeared around the corner, Draco hunched against the wall. She could see his chest heaving, forcing him to take uneven, desperate breaths that echoed off the cold flagstones.

He'd never looked smaller, and she wanted to run to his side, to comfort, somehow, but the inquisitive fear which had been lurking since the start of term burst forth with a ferocity that took her by surprise.

Draco was nearly recovered and appeared to be bracing himself to return to the party. Hermione emerged from the shadows before he could move, chin high and eyes blazing.

When he spotted her, all his false calm disintegrated. "Granger?" he hissed. "What are you doing?"

"What am I doing?" she repeated in a frantic whisper. "What are you doing, sneaking out of Slughorn's party to argue with Professor Snape in a deserted corridor?"

"It's nothing — not important —"

"Don't you dare insult me, Draco." Her words, stony and cold, hung heavy in the air. Perhaps this had been bothering for longer than she realised; rage was mounting faster than she could articulate it. "I know you're up to something. You're not nearly as discreet as you think you are. I've seen you sneaking around odd parts of the castle and working on your cryptic diagrams during lessons when you think I can't see. And now — now you're quarrelling with Snape? Who seems to think you're going to die, by the way! And you want to tell me that it's not important?"

"Granger — quiet!" His clammy hand seized her wrist and dragged her into the shadows. "Stop shouting, at least!"

"Why won't you tell me what you're doing?!"

"Because I can't, alright? Look, I —"

"What do you mean you can't? Of course you can!"

"No, I —"

"Draco, I am not leaving until you tell me what's going on." She hadn't realised it was true until she said it aloud.

He had the gall to roll his eyes. "Don't be silly —"

"Malfoy." He thought she was being silly, did he? "If you want me to go, you'll have to Imperius me."

It was as though she had struck him. He recoiled so strongly she felt the spasm of his fingers on her wrist. That look of wild fear from a few minutes earlier returned, blowing his pupils wide while his eyes flickered across her features, searching for something.

She wasn't sure if he found it. Nevertheless, she saw his decision in the slouching of his shoulders and the hardening of his jaw. Resigned. "Come with me," he instructed, except it sounded more like a plea than an order.

He tugged her along at a quick, staggering pace, down the corridor and in the direction of the nearest stairwell. His sudden shift in demeanour had taken her by such surprise that she followed without a word.

As they climbed the stairs, silent but for Hermione's panting, she realised that this was not what she had expected from him. Frustration, yes. Anger. Maybe fear. But this was different: He was falling apart at the seams, his fingers trembling and clenching around her wrist. This was the terror of a cornered animal unsure how to fight its way free, and something horribly akin to dread began to brew in Hermione's stomach.

What he could possibly want to show her somewhere higher up in the castle, she couldn't fathom. And certainly not something that would frighten him like this. But she didn't ask, only followed obediently as he stumbled around a corner and hurried through the shadows.

Outside of the Christmas party, Hogwarts felt empty. The rest of the student body who hadn't been lucky enough to snag an invitation were in their dormitories, packing and preparing to leave for winter holidays. It was an oddly normal thing to do, Hermione thought, and yet the chill in the dark air was much more eerie than in years past.

It all made some terrible sort of almost-sense when she finally realised where Draco was bringing her. Of course. What else is there on this part of the seventh floor?

Draco released her abruptly to pace in front of the wall, never slowing his frantic tempo. The door materialised faster than Hermione had ever seen. It looked the same as every other time she'd passed through it on the way to D.A. meetings, but looking at it now, it felt like a stranger.

She couldn't imagine why Draco could possibly need the Room of Requirement, or why he would be so afraid of whatever was in it. After all, how could one need something awful so desperately that the Room would provide it?

He looked at her, eyes wide. "I'll explain, I promise. I'll tell you anything you want to know. Can you just help me first?"

She had to swallow twice before she could speak clearly. "Help you with what, exactly?"

"I'll show you, inside. Just —" He blew air out of his mouth and ran fingers through his hair. "I've been trying to… repair something," he said eventually. "I've been doing all sorts of research and experiments, but I just can't get it to work right. It's — it's driving me mad, and I need you to help. You're brilliant, and you're great with weird magic…"

This was all moving quite swiftly in a way she hadn't anticipated. She took a moment to weigh her options, before ultimately conceding. "And if I 'fix' it for you, then you'll tell me what's going on?"

"I'll tell you anything you want to know," he nodded quickly.

She gestured to the door, which opened, and followed him into more darkness. Perhaps she ought to have negotiated — insisted he tell her what exactly he was up to before she set foot anywhere near his little project. But what was the point? Draco clearly was not prepared to tell her anything in the open, and the Room of Requirement was perhaps as private as they could get in the castle. (Except for the laboratory of course — now why hadn't she thought of that? They could be there now, instead of —

Hermione blinked, waiting for her eyes to make sense of the overwhelming chaos they'd just stepped into. But there was no time: Draco's hand was around her wrist and dragging her deep into the room before she could figure out which way they were going. Soon, she couldn't even tell in which direction the door was; the endless pillars and piles of stuff seemed to stretch on infinitely in all dimensions, dwarfing her. Without him, she was certain she would be lost in here forever. Yet Draco strode through it with such practised ease that she wondered if he'd made the path himself.

She let him pull her along, around corners and over oddities which had spilled into the pathway. She saw books and robes, furniture and statues, all of it in various stages of decay or semi-transfiguration or a hundred other things. Much of it looked old. Decades, at least, and some much, much more than that. Yet some looked as though they'd only been stashed yesterday. How much history could be found here?

Perhaps that's what Draco had found? Some sort of relic? Something straight from the pages of Hogwarts: A History

He slowed down and released her, coming to a nervous trot while Hermione rubbed the wrist he'd held. It was clammy and numb from his sweaty grip. Now that she moved under her own power, she took a moment to truly look around, drifting nearer to the wall of things on her right-hand side.

That was definitely a Charms textbook. Likely from about thirty years ago, if the edition was anything to go by. Someone had spilled a very sticky potion on it which had only calcified over the decades. Beside it, an overturned end table whose legs had been unsuccessfully charmed to walk stuck up unnaturally. They reached into the air, jerking; it gave the impression of a spider on its back.

Further along, catching the dim light, sat something else entirely. Hermione couldn't identify it at first glance, but it felt familiar, somehow, and she couldn't shake the feeling that it knew her already.

"Come on — it's just 'round here —"

Hermione jumped, saw Draco disappear around the corner, and followed after. The odd feeling of being watched melted away.

Before the two of them stood the cupboard-like thing from Draco's diagrams. Tall, dark, and wooden, Hermione eyed it blankly.

"This is a Vanishing Cabinet."

"A 'Vanishing Cabinet?'"

"It makes things disappear."

"I figured that much," she retorted. "I've never heard of one."

"Not surprised. They're not that common."

Slowly, Hermione moved closer, arm outstretched. When Draco didn't move to stop her, she brushed her fingers against the cabinet's door. It was cool and hard; the grains of the wood felt like any other. "You said it's broken?"

"It's not — not working right."

"So things aren't… disappearing?"

"Look, I'll just show you and —"

"Draco, how am I meant to be able to repair it when I have no idea how it works or what sort of magic —"

"Just try, alright?" That frenzied panic had returned to his eyes again and Hermione swallowed back any other protests she'd had. She would give it her best go, just to say she had, and then he'd have to deal with it himself.

A Vanishing Cabinet? Honestly, she wasn't convinced it was real. If such a thing could work, why didn't everybody have one?

More importantly, why did Draco need it to work so badly?

I need you to help… I'll tell you anything you want to know…

"Fine. What do you need me to do?"

"Grab something — anything — and I'll show you how it's supposed to work."

Easy enough. Hermione wandered to the nearest pile of detritus, from the way they'd come, searching for a suitable item to potentially disappear. That odd feeling returned, of being seen, and before she could think about it, she was back where she'd been before.

The glittering thing was actually a crown of some sort, she could see now. Or perhaps tiara was a better word. The dark gemstones looked like liquid, the light reflecting off them like little pools. Her whole body prickled with awareness, and she could have sworn she felt some dormant thing stir in her mind.

It was the most beguiling and unsettling thing she'd ever felt.

She wanted to make it go away.

"It doesn't matter what you pick, Granger! Just grab an old vase or something —"

"Coming!" She plucked the tiara from the pile and hurried back to Draco's side, ignoring the unnatural chill against her skin.

He opened the cupboard and directed her to place her trinket inside. She did so carefully, like the jewels might scold her for not treating them with proper care. Briefly, she wondered if she was about to banish a priceless heirloom of some sort, then dismissed the thought. After all, if it truly mattered to someone, they wouldn't have left it here.

Draco closed the door and Hermione stood back to watch as he placed his wand against it, closed his eyes, and murmured an incantation she couldn't understand.

For a long moment, nothing happened.

Then, the most vile sound threatened to tear her head apart, like a sickly scream that scraped her bones and pulled her soul up through her throat. She felt her own hands cover her ears — her eyes — wrap around herself as she fell to her knees, gasping for breath. On and on it went, wailing and clawing at the inside of her skull, desperate to drag her along into its own destruction —

And then it stopped, leaving behind a hollowness so cold she wondered if she would ever feel warm again.

Her eyes were open, she realised, and she was looking at the cabinet — or what remained of it. Its sides were splintered, buckling from the inside out. She could see claw marks in the wood, lashes left behind from whatever attack it had suffered. One of the door's hinges had nearly broken clean off. Hermione stood on her shaking legs and turned to Draco, who looked more pale and ill than she had ever seen.

"I see what you mean by 'broken,'" she croaked, utterly foolish. The air still felt — felt evil. Maybe humour would clear it away.

Draco didn't blink. He didn't even look like he was breathing, and Hermione began to panic that maybe whatever had happened had affected him more — maybe his spell backfired somehow —

Then he spoke, and all the life rushed back into him in the worst possible way.

"What did you do?" It was a demand, low and predatory.

"What do you mean? I did what you told me to —"

"No — no you didn't — that — whatever that was — that was not supposed to happen —" He spluttered for a moment, chest heaving and hands shaking. "Hermione? Hermione, what was that?"

"I don't — I told you I d-don't —"

"Hermione, what the FUCK DID YOU DO?"

"I don't know!"

"What did you put in it?"

"It was just — just an old piece of jewellery! You saw it! It was just —"

He lurched to the cabinet and wrenched open the door. It came away in a grotesque splintering and landed on the ground beside him. Hermione hurried to his side, nauseous and angry and confused and afraid —

Together, they looked into the remains of the cabinet. There, at the bottom, sat the black, twisted remains of the tiara, its stones cracked and jagged.