"My father went missing about ten days ago," Luna Lovegood said.
Hermione, Luna, and Harry sat in mismatched armchairs in the Lovegood living room, the air thick with the scent of baked goods and ink. Hermione cast Dictascribium on a quill and set it to work transcribing Luna's story.
"He just…walked out," Luna said, her voice soft with its usual dream-like quality. "He was sleepwalking… I think… Or off to see one of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack. He's always writing about those these days." She gestured vaguely, her radish earrings swinging.
"Did he say anything?" Hermione asked, sipping her tea. Her hand trembled, the floral pattern on her teacup blurring. She set it down quickly, before any tea spilled.
Not a word," Luna replied, her gaze drifting to a chipped teacup perched atop a precarious stack of The Quibblers. "Odd, really—he's usually quite chatty after a few Gurdyroot tonics." A wistful smile touched her lips. "That night, I was finishing an article on Blibbering Humdingers. Rolf said the illustrations needed more… wubbulousness. I thought they were—"
Luna," Hermione interrupted gently, her tone firm but kind, honed from years of mediating Ron and Harry's bickering. "Your father?"
Luna blinked, her silvery eyes sharpening for a moment. "Oh, yes. The front door opened. Late, very late—past midnight. It sounded like a Werewolf under a full moon. I called out, but…" She paused, a crease forming between her pale brows.
"No answer. I went to the window and saw him hurrying down the street. In his nightshirt," she added, her wide eyes fixing on Harry. A flicker of concern pierced her usual whimsicalness. "Harry, would you ever venture outside in such a state of undress? In the middle of the night?"
Harry choked on his tea, sputtering as lukewarm Earl Grey sprayed across his robes. He shot Hermione a desperate look, silently pleading for rescue.
Hermione raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge. "Well, Harry?"
"I suppose if there was a fire… or something," he muttered, brushing at his damp robe. "But no. Not normally."
Luna sat back in her puffy armchair and mused aloud, "If there was a fire… hmm." She blinked, clarity flashing across her face. "There was no fire, Harry, but he clearly had a mission. No matter how many times I called out to him, he kept walking. I followed him for a long time."
A stutter in the quill's movement caught Hermione's eye. It looped erratically across the page, drawing jagged, meaningless lines. She canceled the spell with a flick of her wand, catching the quill with a trembling hand. That tremor again. She set it aside and steadied herself. "Go on."
"Well, Father decided he wanted to walk to the Ministry that night."
Hermione frowned.
"The Ministry is easily an hour's walk from here," Harry said.
"Exactly," Luna replied. "And that's why I'm so tired. We walked for ages. It would've been nice to stop and chat with the creatures, but he just kept walking and walking."
"Why didn't you stop him?" Hermione asked.
"Well, if I stopped him, then I would have never known where he was going."
"But you filed a missing wizard report?" Harry pressed.
Luna smiled serenely. "Yes, after I saw him enter the Ministry."
Hermione frowned. "You watched him walk into the Ministry? Late at night? In his pajamas?"
"And he never came out," Luna finished.
Harry groaned, rubbing at his temples. "How do you know he didn't leave while you weren't looking?"
"I put a trace on his wand while we were walking. For a while, the trace worked inside the Ministry, and then suddenly, it was gone."
"Gone?" both Hermione and Harry echoed.
"Blipped out of existence," Luna confirmed serenely.
"Maybe the trace just failed," Hermione suggested.
"Perhaps," Luna conceded, her gaze drifting upward. "Perhaps. Or maybe Father's trapped with a Nogtail. Hard to say."
Hermione sighed, "And the Ministry hasn't done anything?"
"I submitted a missing wizard report, and nothing happened. Father is stuck in the Ministry, and I cannot get him out. So I called you both."
Harry looked to Hermione, guilt flickering across his face. "I mean, we can try—"
"We'll find him," Hermione said, quiet but firm.
"Wonderful. I guess you had better be on your way then," Luna said.
Both Hermione and Harry blinked. "Ahh, Luna—" Hermione began.
"There is no time like the present. If you go now, Father could be home for Jellycakes. "
Hermione started, "Well—"
"Absolutely, Luna. We will go check on him right now," Harry said, standing up and motioning to Hermione. "We'll be in touch."
Luna beamed. "Thank you! I knew you two were the right people to call."
~0~
The whimsical charm of the Lovegood home faded as they stepped outside. The cobblestones beneath their feet gleamed in the dim light.
"Why doesn't she have a Floo connection?" Harry grumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets. His shoulders hunched against the biting wind.
Hermione laughed, "If she did, we'd have even less of a lead, Harry. At least this way, we know he walked to the Ministry." She glanced at him sideways, her expression softening. "Besides, a little bad weather never hurt anyone."
They walked in silence, their footsteps tapping against the narrowing street. The air grew heavier, damp with an oppressive chill.
"No one took her seriously when she filed the report," Harry said, breaking the silence.
"It's Luna, Harry. No one takes what she says seriously," Hermione said.
"So why did you come today, then?"
"Because," she said, adjusting her scarf, "if what she's saying is true, Mr. Lovegood is the thirty-third wizard to vanish like this in the last two years."
"Thirty-three wizards?" Harry stopped abruptly. "And no one thought to tell me? Or the Aurors?
Hermione resumed walking, forcing Harry to catch up. "Not everyone files a report. Some vanish quietly—no family, no friends to notice. But the Ministry has been tracking the pattern."
"Go on," Harry said, frustration leaking into his voice.
"The others vanished without a trace," Hermione said. "No evidence, no links, no witnesses—until now. "
Harry paused, eyeing Hermione warily, "The Ministry's supposed to be the safest place in the wizarding world. Wards, security charms, Aurors, the works. People don't just disappear there."
Hermione cast him a dry look. "And yet, here we are."
"So where is he, then?" Harry asked.
"If I knew the answer to that, we wouldn't be out here in the cold."
They turned sharply into an alleyway, the walls pressing close around them. The shadows deepened, and the faint light from the streetlight barely reached the alley.
"Him disappearing inside the Ministry is unusual," Hermione said, her voice echoing. "It doesn't match the pattern of the others."
"Unusual isn't the word," Harry muttered, kicking a loose cobblestone down the alley. It clattered against the grimy brick walls, the sound amplified in the stillness. "Impossible."
Hermione's lips quirked into a small, humorless smile. "Statistically improbable, but not impossible."
Harry grumbled something incoherent under his breath as they reached the apparition point.
"So, what obvious thing am I missing, Hermione?" he asked, his voice low, a sense of foreboding settling over them.
"As of this morning," she said, pausing just long enough to meet his eyes, "this became an official case for the Department of Mysteries."
With a loud crack, she vanished, leaving Harry standing alone in the damp alleyway.
~0~
Hermione sat hunched over her desk in her too-small office.
Thirty-three files sat before her. Thirty-three missing wizards. She tapped a slender finger against Xenophilius Lovegood's—the latest addition to the grim collection. His photograph moved before her, stuck in an endless loop of presenting a flower to the camera.
"Honestly," she muttered, running a hand through her unruly hair. "Muggles invented security cameras centuries ago. Why are we still relying on faulty wards and vague witness accounts?"
She sighed and pushed the file away. Would wizards even use security cameras if they had them? Probably not. A ward is enough, they'd argue. Magic should be enough. Clearly, it wasn't.
A timid knock echoed through the quiet office. Olen, her painfully shy intern, poked his head around the door.
"Your robes… they suit you," he stammered, his cheeks flushing a delicate shade of pink.
Hermione glanced down at her plain, regulation robes. "They're just my usual robes, Olen."
Olen shuffled his feet. "Yes, of course. But… they… enhance your… aura."
Hermione suppressed a sigh. "What is it, Olen? Just spit it out."
"The Veil," he blurted out, eyes wide. "Something's… happening."
Hermione's head snapped up, the weariness in her eyes replaced by a flicker of interest. "The Veil?"
"Yes," Olen confirmed, wringing his hands. "I… I think you should see it."
Hermione rose from her chair, grabbing her wand. "Lead the way."
The click of the door echoed in the quiet corridor as they left her office. Olen struggled to keep pace as Hermione descended the grand, gleaming staircase toward the lobby of the Department of Mysteries, her brisk strides unrelenting.
"Where were you this morning?" he asked hesitantly. "You missed the briefing."
"Following a lead," Hermione answered curtly, her focus already on the task at hand.
"Oh," Olen hummed awkwardly. "You missed Reynards getting a right bollocking from the boss. He's in a foul mood."
Hermione grunted in acknowledgment. They entered the circular entrance chamber, where twelve unmarked black doors loomed, radiating an aura of unsettling power. The air crackled faintly with unreleased magic.
"So," Hermione asked, turning to Olen, her voice sharp. "What's so different about the Veil today?"
"I… I overheard things," Olen stammered, his gaze darting nervously around the room. "Whispers."
Hermione frowned. "Some people always hear whispers from the Veil. Is this new for you?"
"I can always hear the voices… but these are different," Olen insisted, his voice trembling slightly. "Not the usual rambling. These are… clearer. More… urgent."
Hermione paused, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the revolving doors. A strange sensation washed over her—a faint prickling awareness of the magic shifting around them. She closed her eyes briefly, letting her own magic rise and mingle with the room's energy. When she opened them, her gaze fixed on the third door to the left.
"That one," she said, pointing.
They moved toward the designated door, the air thickening with each step. Hermione pushed it open, revealing the amphitheater structure of the Veil Room. The shimmering archway hung in the center of the sunken pit, an ethereal curtain separating the world of the living from the dead. Walking into the Veil Room always gave Hermione pause. It reminded her of Divination, something she didn't quite understand but knew held significant power.
They approached cautiously, the silence amplifying the Veil's aura. Hermione's gaze lingered on the archway, frustration tightening her chest. The Veil had always been a source of irritation, a constant reminder of her limits. Unlike others in the Department, she couldn't hear the whispers, the murmurs of trapped souls. It felt like a judgment—a silent condemnation of her inability to connect with this particular magic.
The Veil looked no different than usual, its eerie shimmering archway unchanging. She turned to Olen, who stood beside her, trembling violently. His face had drained of all color, his eyes wide with a stark terror that mirrored the chill in the room. He pointed a shaky finger toward the Veil, his breath catching in his throat.
"What's wrong?"
"Can't you hear it?" Olen whispered.
"Hear what?" Hermione asked, her brow furrowing.
"The begging," he breathed. "The souls…"
"Whose begging, Olen?" Hermione pressed, her tone sharper. "Speak clearly."
"The souls," he repeated, his voice strained.
As if summoned by his words, a thin, smoky wisp curled out from the Veil. It drifted into the room, floating aimlessly for a moment before making a sharp, predatory turn and hurtling toward Olen.
"Run!" Hermione shouted, her voice echoing.
Olen froze, rooted to the spot as the wisp closed in. He stared, paralyzed, his terror rendering him immobile.
"Protego!" Hermione yelled, casting a shield charm around him. A shimmering barrier sprang up, but the wisp passed through it effortlessly, as though it weren't even there.
Think, think, think. Hermione's mind raced. This was unlike anything she had seen. The Veil had never shown such… aggression.
Olen stared at the oncoming wisp, his eyes wide with a horrified fascination. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, unable to comprehend the danger hurtling toward him.
"Flatius!" Hermione shouted, conjuring a gust of wind. The wisp wavered briefly, then corrected its path, resuming its relentless pursuit. Desperate, Hermione tried again, pouring all her strength into the spell. "Flatius Maxima!"
Her wand erupted with red sparks, scorching her hand. Pain shot up her arm, and she dropped the wand with a sharp cry. The wisp reached Olen, entering his body with deadly precision.
Olen's body rose from the ground, his eyes glowing an eerie white. His face, once frozen in fear, now held an unsettling calm. When he spoke, his voice was distorted and hazy, reverberating through the room.
"Release us."
The phrase repeated, louder each time, echoing against the stone walls. Then Olen's eyes shifted—the white glow replaced by a blood-red glare. His voice deepened, taking on a demonic resonance.
"Your service to me is eternal."
Hermione scrambled for her wand, panic racing through her. Before she could grab it, the wisp exited Olen's body and vanished into the ceiling. Olen began to fall.
"Arresto Momentum!" Hermione shouted, halting his descent. His body landed softly on the stone floor. She barely had time to check his pulse when the amphitheater doors slammed open.
Chief Hemlock, his thinning hair disheveled and his robe askew, strode into the amphitheater with the hurried energy of a man stretched too thin.
"Granger! The Minister is breathing down my neck about—" Chief Hemlock's footsteps echoed as he descended the stairs. He stopped abruptly, his gaze snapping to Olen's unconscious form. "Why is my intern unconscious?"
"Well, sir, the Veil just—"
"I don't have time for theories about the Veil." He cut her off, running a hand through his remaining strands. "I need answers about these disappearances. Thirty-three missing wizards, Granger. Thirty-three!"
"With all due respect, sir," Hermione said, forcing herself to calm down, "this is more pressing." She gestured toward Olen. "The Veil attacked him. Something came out of it. Something that spoke through him."
Hemlock paled. He flicked his wand, sending a silvery patronus streaking away. "Medical team to D13," he barked. Kneeling beside Olen, he muttered, "What exactly did it say?"
"'Release us.' Then, in another voice, 'Your service to me is eternal.'"
He sighed and uttered, "Well, fuck me then." His jaw tightened. "This stays between us for now. You guys had a training accident."
"Sir, if you'd just listen—"
"The Minister still needs answers on the missing wizards," he snapped, cutting her off. Medi-wizards burst through the doors, rushing toward Olen. "Take him to St. Mungo's," he barked at the Medi-wizards, before turning to Hermione. "I want answers on my desk by morning."
~0~
Hermione stepped out of her fireplace, the soot and disinfectant clinging to her rumpled robes. She didn't bother cleaning either—just collapsed onto her sofa, Luna's words echoing in her mind: "He just... walked out."
2:00 AM. The glowing numbers on her clock mocked her. Crookshanks leapt onto her lap, kneading her legs and purring. She stroked his fur absently, trying to push away the image of Olen's vacant eyes, his body suspended in the air.
The Healers had no answers. They had been maddeningly vague, muttering about "magical trauma" and "soul disturbance." Hours of tests, and all they could tell her was that Olen wouldn't wake up.
But something a young mediwitch had said nagged at her. The cracks in Olen's soul hadn't spread outward like typical spell damage. They'd spiraled inward, as if something had tried to pull at his magical core.
Her chest tightened—a familiar warning sign. She needed tea. And her potion.
"Just a quick cup," she muttered, pushing herself up. Crookshanks gave a disgruntled meow as she displaced him.
The kitchen was dark, the faint glow from the streetlight outside filtering through the window. She reached for her wand to light the lamps, but her hand trembled. No magic. Not tonight. She'd do it the Muggle way.
She filled the kettle manually and set it on the stove, her movements sluggish. As the water heated, she spread the case files across the kitchen counter. Sorting through them chronologically, her vision blurred. Xenophilius Lovegood was the only missing wizard who'd been seen entering the Ministry. The others had simply vanished. She blinked hard, trying to focus, but the photograph in his file—of him presenting that ridiculous flower—swam before her eyes.
The kettle's shrill whistle cut through the silence, making her jump. Her chest constricted further, the pain spreading through her ribs like shards of ice. She needed Snape's potion.
Hermione gripped the edge of the counter, her breaths shallow. The edges of the room wavered. Slowly, she turned toward the medicine cabinet.
"Just… a few more steps…" she whispered.
A sharp pain knifed through her chest, forcing her to her knees. Her wand slipped from her hand, clattering against the tiles. Black spots danced in her vision, her body refusing to obey her commands.
She crumpled to the floor, the relentless scream of the kettle filling the room as darkness claimed her. As she closed her eyes, she saw Crookshanks' bandy legs rushing toward her.