Chapter Text
Excerpt from Veela Lore, Vol. I: On Blood, Bondage, and Bewitchment by Acacia Buttonwood
“Of all Creatures born of Magic’s breath, none so confound the mortal scholar as the Veela. Neither wholly Beast nor wholly Wizard, they walk the dusk between. Among the most mysterious of magical creatures, their blood sings with a Power that answers to none but Itself, and to the One for whom it was made.”
Acacia Buttonwood: 1791
2nd May, 1999
Heat and shadow surrounds her. She’s standing in a narrow stone chamber looking at an immense being, the walls trembling alongside the creature’s ragged breaths. She feels them as if they scrape through her very own lungs. Tall with wings, it paces frantically, all the while enveloped in a silver fire that flickers in a way that is beyond mesmerising. Magic is lashing out in waves that shake the floor beneath her bare feet. She can’t see its face - only a gleam of talons flexing as the monster turns towards her though compelled to seek her out the moment she appears. Molten eyes find hers through the flames and a sound rumbles from where its chest must be that’s not quite a growl, not quite an intelligible word. But she understands the meaning. Come. The command crashes through her like a pulse that is at once protective, consuming and ancient. Walls crack and wings flare while his talon comes ever closer. As if in a trance she steps forwards into the darkness, towards the silver. Its body is trembling from restraint, like it’s taking every ounce of control not to pounce on her. Yet she’s not afraid. Excitement courses through her veins as she stretches her hand towards the talon, reaching…reaching…
Hermione woke mere seconds before her magical alarm charm was set to warm her back into consciousness. She’d crafted it to feel like a gentle embrace - more sentimental than practical - an echo of the kind of hug her mother used to give her on sleepy weekend mornings. A small luxury from a life that no longer existed. She was a grown woman now, living alone. There was, too, the slight issue of her parents currently living on the other side of the world, blissfully unaware of the daughter who had once filled their home with books and chatter. They had no memory of her. Absolutely no reason to wake her. Certainly no reason to miss her. Normally, the charm’s soft warmth was a comfort.
Today, she shrugged it off with an impatient swipe, the phantom embrace dissolving like mist. Remnants of a recurring dream were also fading rapidly, though she was left with a deep yearning at the pit of her stomach. She put it down to her sentimental alarm and vowed to change it soon. Her body was already humming, restless beneath the sheets. She knew she wouldn’t have the most restful night’s sleep. Today marked a year since the Battle of Hogwarts. Noon would bring the memorial. Her name was on the programme. She would be expected to speak about bravery, sacrifice, rebuilding, hope. But none of that was why she felt as if sparks were crackling beneath her skin.
Hermione sat up sharply, heart beating faster than it should and made her way towards the bathroom. Today was important for another reason - one she hadn’t breathed to anyone but Kingsley and Croaker. She was closer than she had ever been to finishing her project at the Ministry, the new piece of legislation that could finally unblock the flood of post-war trials and bring the endless, purgatorial limbo in Azkaban to an end. So many trials on hold for this - and those dreary soul sucking cells were no place to enable rehabilitation - something Hermione was a firm believer of. And she hoped to Merlin it would mark a significant shift in how fairness could be implemented so that closure could happen and everyone could finally move on.
Veritarium was nearly ready, at least Hermione’s part. And she would give her report to her superiors today so the first official test shouldn't be too long after. It was the newly mandated, more powerful truth extractor now legally required for post-war trials to commence. While veritaserum, the traditional serum, had its uses, there had always been loopholes - antidotes, advanced occulumency training, the imperius excuse. Too many ways for people like Lucius Malfoy to slip through the cracks in 1981, proclaiming innocence while helping the darkest forces of their world regrow in the shadows. Kingsley was adamant that not happen again. They wanted something reliable, consistent, legally binding, incorruptible and above tampering. And Hermione was responsible for the first stage. She’d written the entire skeleton of the runic-magic alternative to serum herself. And if she was right, and she really hoped she was, then any withheld wartime truth would be illuminated with absolute magical certainty.
As for what after Stage One…well, that was less clear. Hermione hadn’t been told and Croaker had danced around the topic in that infuriatingly vague, Unspeakable way. Kingsley had been warm, reassuring even, but with a touch of evasiveness that Hermione had detected only because they had fought together and so knew his tells. What if -
The cold snap of the shower water hit her like a slap and cut the thought clean in half. She tilted her face into the stream and inhaled sharply as the stream washed the night’s tension from her skin. No. Today was not for doubting, not for mentally wandering into anxious hypotheticals. Today was for finally finishing what she had poured nearly every drop of herself into for months. And Great Morgana had it cost her. Her friendships were strained, her relationship with Ron had imploded - painfully and publicly (Rita had had a field day with that one) - though they'd managed to salvage a tentative truce for the sake of their friends. Social life was practically reduced to polite waves in Ministry corridors. Hermione couldn’t count the number of times she’d fallen asleep at her desk, ink-stained fingers curled around crumpled parchment. She’d given her whole self to this and today she’d finally see whether any of it had been worth it.
Hermione arrived at the Ministry before the sun had fully risen, the atrium still hushed and blue-tinted with early morning light. Her footsteps echoed against the polished tiles, the emptiness amplifying the metallic hum of the anti-intrusion wards that were being reactivated for the day. She nodded to the lone security wizard at the desk, his weary smile tinged with fatigue as a result of a long night shift, and stepped into the lift that seemed to groan after probably hours of inactivity. As it rattled upward, Hermione caught her reflection in the brass panel: tired eyes, determined set to her jaw, a woman half-held together by purpose alone. The doors opened with a reluctant clank, spilling her into the quiet hallway of the Department of Magical Law. Most office lights remained dark, stacks of parchment waiting patiently on desks for their owners to arrive and resume the endless work of rebuilding the world. Hermione’s office was tucked near the end of the corridor, cosy, smelling of ink and parchment and, of course, filled to the brim with books. Navigating the many towers of dense tomes without them toppling like the seasoned expert she was, Hermione set her bag down and lit the lamps with a flick of her wand. Lowering herself into the chair with a sigh tinged with nervous, frenetic energy, she took a moment to compose herself in the stillness.
Hermione cleared a space on her desk, set a blank square of parchment in the centre, and raised her wand. “Revelio Veritas,” she murmured, letting the syllables roll off her tongue with a precise emphasis honed after many attempts. A fine thread of silver light spilled from her wandtip, sinking into the parchment like ink into cloth. Slowly, the runes began to surface, initially faint and vague but soon sharpening into clean, crisp strokes that glowed softly against the cream parchment background. An errant curl escaped from the bun she’d hastily assembled this morning as she leaned in to get a better view, impressed as she always was by the magnificence of magic. Fides, Bellum, Tenebrae, Maledicere, Casusarum Nexus. Runic symbols for truth, warfare, dark arts, harmful intent and causality. The last one was the trickiest and the most important for Hermione to have weaved in successfully. It unfurled across the parchment in a delicate spiral that broadened as it grew, lines wove deftly between the other runes, an elegant cascade of cause and consequence guiding the others. The Causarum Nexus would ensure that only actions tied to the war were flagged, provided the caster framed the precise wartime context in their mind at the moment of casting. Hermione had practiced that mental discipline for months, anchoring her intent with perfect clarity each time; the process was so familiar now, so ingrained, that she barely had to think about it. She had no reason to believe her focus would falter. Regardless, it couldn’t hurt to keep practicing. Hermione retrieved a fresh parchment sheet, and began again…
A gentle knock - far too polite to belong to anyone else - broke Hermione’s concentration. She straightened just as Kingsley Shacklebolt eased her office door open, the deep lines of exhaustion softened by his warm, steady smile. Even in simple robes, he looked every inch the Minister of Magic: dignified, composed, and bracing himself for a day the entire wizarding world would be watching.
“Good morning, Hermione,” he said, voice low and even. “Big day, isn’t it?”
She nodded, feeling an unexpected knot of emotion coil in her chest…grief, resolve, and the heavy, aching memories from last year. She’d been so focussed on her project she had all but buried those feelings whenever they surfaced. Somehow, though, just a few words from her old battle partner and friend had briefly floored her.
Kingsley’s gaze softened. “We’re all in this together,” he assured her quietly, before turning to more practical matters.
“Now - and I’m sorry to be so brief but I’m already late for a meeting - your project. Croaker tells me the runes are holding beautifully.” A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Which means it’s time for a final test. Ten o’clock today to be exact.”
Hermione blinked. “Already? Before the Memorial?”
“Already,” he confirmed with that calm gravitas she trusted implicitly. “We’ll borrow an Unspeakable for a human guinea pig…someone durable enough to survive Croaker’s enthusiasm. I want you in the Department of Mysteries before ten to run through the testing protocol.”
He paused at the doorway, expression softening again in the morning light. “Good luck, Hermione. Truly. What you’re doing today… it matters.”
Then he was gone, leaving her office subtly altered. The energy around her felt thicker somehow, thrumming with the knowledge that within mere hours the hard work done within its walls was finally coming to fruition.
The corridor outside the Department of Mysteries was colder than the rest of the Ministry, the air holding that strange, low hum Hermione always associated with layers upon layers of ancient wards. As she approached the great black door, she spotted Croaker waiting beside a tall young man in Unspeakable robes. Theo Nott stood with arms loosely crossed, posture deceptively relaxed, the sort of stillness that suggested both boredom and the ability to react in a blink. Croaker, head of the Unspeakables for longer than most people had been alive, looked almost exactly as Hermione expected: ink-smudged fingers, travel-worn robes, a face set into permanent contemplation. She’d interacted with him a few times, but rarely face to face. Hermione had essentially been “on loan” to his department to collaborate on the truth spell. Given her specialism was in Advanced Runic Theory & Applied Magical Law, she was perfect for the first stage of Veritarium. Considering what happened from there on out was strictly unspeakable business for now, she just had to trust the process and that Kingsley wouldn’t lead her astray.
Croaker gave her a brisk nod, though his dark eyes were already flicking to her wand-hand, to the parchment tucked under her arm, to the subtle tension in her shoulders. He was assessing her intent even before she spoke.
“Granger. Right on time,” he said.
He didn’t bother to hide the way his gaze lingered on her. Croaker knew better than anyone that truth magic lived or died on the caster’s intentions, and Hermione - for all her brilliance - was still human enough to have unexamined corners. If her Veritarium could hold steady under real pressure, it would change everything; if not, he’d bury the project before the Wizengamot even tasted the power of it. Theo Nott flicked his eyes toward her, expression unreadable but annoyingly perceptive. He didn’t greet her. He didn’t even uncross his arms. He simply looked, calmly, like a man assembling pieces of a puzzle only he could see.
“Theodore will be your tester,” Croaker announced, tone clipped and efficient.
Theo inclined his head a fraction. “I’m evidently expendable enough to be volunteered.”
Hermione blinked. “I’m sorry you see it that way but-”
“I don’t need your sympathy,” Theo said mildly, his voice as smooth as cut marble. “Unspeakables rarely require it.”
Croaker snorted lightly, as though this were a familiar dance. “He’s being dramatic. Truth is, Nott’s clean. Cleared of wartime crime himself though connected to it, magic steady, no anomalies. Best baseline we’ve got.”
Theo’s mouth twitched - not quite a smile, but close. “Whoopdeedoo, lucky me.” His face went back to being neutral.
Hermione squared her shoulders. “I appreciate your help.”
“You don’t need to appreciate anything,” Theo replied with a tilt of his head. “You just need to cast accurately.”
Croaker’s eyes sharpened at that. Not because Theo was rude, but because accuracy was the fulcrum on which everything rested. A wobble in Hermione’s intent, a fraction’s slip in focus, and Veritarium could shift its frame entirely. Runes were loyal, often to a fault.
“I always cast accurately,” Hermione said, perhaps a touch too sharply.
“Mm,” Theo hummed. “We’ll see.”
There was no challenge, just plain certainty. And when Hermione met Croaker’s gaze again, she had the uneasy suspicion that he, too, expected that at some point, something would not go according to plan.
“All right,” Croaker said briskly. “The testing chamber is prepped. Minister wants results before the memorial, so we’re on the clock.”
He pushed open the heavy black door, the wards thrumming as they parted.
Theo stepped aside, gesturing Hermione forward with a precise, almost ceremonial sweep of his hand. “After you, Granger.”
His eyes followed her as she stepped through. They were curious, calculating, and far too perceptive.