Chapter Text
For months now, Hermione Granger’s desk had been buried beneath the weight of other people's tragedies.
Each folder, bound with official Ministry tape, contained the fragments of a life, whittled down to a litany of grim facts and bleak reports. She opened the third of the morning.
CASE FILE: #734-D
Name: Coriolan Burke.
Age: 58.
Status: Pure-blood.
Last Known Location: Knockturn Alley, vicinity of the entrance to the establishment known as "The Pale Serpent."
Date of Disappearance: 14 October.
Financial Standing: Indebted to Gringotts for the sum of 870,000 Galleons. Several unofficial loans totaling upwards of 500,000 Galleons. Ancestral manor mortgaged.
Hermione traced a finger over the bank statement attached to the file. The figures screamed of desperation. Burke, the scion of a once-proud family, had been squandering the dregs of his fortune in the hope of a miracle.
She opened the next folder.
CASE FILE: #735-D
Name: Eliza Rowley.
Age: 32.
Status: Half-blood.
Last Known Location: Knockturn Alley, vicinity of the entrance to the establishment known as "The Pale Serpent."
Date of Disappearance: 21 October.
Financial Standing: Family home sold. Indebted to Nocturne Alley loan sharks for an unspecified sum. According to an informant, she had gambled away everything, down to the last Knut.
And another file. And another. Ninety-eight witches and wizards had vanished in the last two months alone. Ninety-eight lives, erased as if they had never existed. They were all different: old and young, pure-blood and not. But two things united them all: crippling debt and the last place they were ever seen — the threshold of the underground casino, "The Pale Serpent."
Hermione leaned back in her chair, rubbing at the constant, throbbing pain in her temples. The official investigation had ground to a halt. "The Pale Serpent" was a fortress, impenetrable to Aurors. Any attempts to approach had proven utterly futile. Tracking spells guttered and died long before reaching their target. Infiltration under Disillusionment Charms or Invisibility Cloaks failed; unseen wards simply expelled them. Even the house-elves dispatched for reconnaissance returned empty-handed, muttering of "bad magic" and a "Master who sees all."
The establishment was operating right under the Ministry's nose, devouring people, and no one could do a damned thing about it.
“Another one for the collection,” Ron said, tossing a new folder onto the desk. It landed with a definitive thud. Weasley sank wearily into the chair opposite her, the usual good nature of his face strained and taut. “He was in our year at Hogwarts. The Nott family's youngest son. Vanished last night. Last seen walking into that damned hole.”
Hermione opened the file. A photograph of a young, smug-looking wizard stared back at her from the page.
CASE FILE: #736-D
Name: Theodore Nott, Jr.
Age: 24.
Status: Pure-blood.
Last Known Location: Knockturn Alley, vicinity of the entrance to the establishment known as "The Pale Serpent."
Date of Disappearance: 2 November.
Financial Standing: Gambling debts, according to informants, exceeding 700,000 Galleons. Pawned family heirlooms on several occasions.
“Harry and I tried to get close,” Ron continued, his voice low. “A hundred yards out, all our tracking charms just... gutter out. This isn't just standard warding, Hermione. It’s something fucking unnatural.”
“It’s absorbing any magic aimed at investigation,” Hermione corrected, her gaze distant as she studied a schematic of Knockturn Alley. “I’ve been going through the reports. The magic protecting that casino… it’s based on contracts. On consent. It doesn't build a wall; it establishes a rule: ‘You cannot enter unless you are invited or have come to play.’ It targets intent. An Auror arriving with the intent to investigate is classified as a threat. Their magic is nullified.”
"Brilliant. So we just sit on our hands and wait for them to swallow up another soul?" Ron asked, his voice laced with bitterness. "We've been sitting long enough, if you ask me. Ninety-nine wizards, Hermione. And there’s no end in sight unless we do something."
Granger lifted her gaze to his, and a fire kindled in her eyes.
"If we can't break down the door," she said, her voice low and steady, "then we'll walk through it as guests. But we'll do it on our own terms."
Their plan, which they presented to Head Auror Robards, was as audacious as breaking into Gringotts. It was a two-pronged operation, requiring two operatives with distinct missions: "The Bait" and "The Hook."
Ron was to be "The Bait." His objective: to enter first, in an unrecognizable guise, and create a spectacle. He would make an outrageous, ludicrously high wager — a bet so insane it would stun the entire casino and draw the eye of its management. A bet they would be talking about for the rest of the night. His job was to stir the waters, to manufacture chaos, and then to leave immediately, leaving in his wake a flurry of astonishment and whispers.
In his shadow, Hermione — "The Hook" — would follow. While all attention was fixated on debating the madman's stunt, she could slip inside unnoticed and begin her own performance. Her objective was to lose spectacularly, to project an aura of pure desperation and vulnerability, all to compel the proprietor to take the bait: to offer her a deal.
Their lifeline was a paired artifact of Hermione’s own design. It didn't transmit an active signal, which would be detected, but instead wove a subtle empathic thread between them, allowing Ron, from a secure location, to see and hear everything that she did.
Knockturn Alley. Later that evening.
“My entire magic. Down to the very last drop. I wager that Auror Ronald Weasley won’t be returning from this mission alive!”
The voice, cracking into a shriek, belonged to a wizard whose grease-painted face gleamed with sweat. He stood at the bookmaker's counter in The Pale Serpent, and the crowd around him fell silent. The croupier wordlessly slid a smoking parchment and a blood-quill towards him.
“The House accepts your wager. The odds are five to one. Your magical core against one million Galleons. Your signature. Your consent.”
The wizard snatched the quill. It bit into his skin, tasting his blood with a greedy thirst. With a trembling hand, he scrawled his signature on the parchment, flung the quill back onto the counter, and marched towards the exit without a backward glance.
The moment the ebony door swung shut behind him, he doubled over, gasping for air. The illusionary charms melted away, and in the next instant, it was Ron standing in the alley. He straightened up, wiped the sweat from his brow, and set off at a brisk pace. Two minutes later, he was climbing the steps of an inconspicuous van parked on an adjacent street.
Hermione was inside. She was already Charlotte Beverley — a stranger with flame-red hair and poison-green eyes.
“Well?” she asked.
“The Bait phase is complete,” Ron breathed out, a faint tremor still running through him. “They took the bet. Now they’ll be talking about the madman who wagered his magic on my death for the rest of the night. The way is clear for you.”
“Excellent.” Hermione picked up a delicate, serpentine earring and fastened it to her lobe.
“Now it's your turn to be my eyes. And remember: don’t try to speak to me. Just watch.”
Ron nodded, fitting a slender silver circlet over his head, which was linked to the matching earring. His surroundings dissolved, replaced by the image of a grimy Knockturn Alley wall. He was seeing through her eyes.
Phase two of the operation had begun.
Hermione stepped into the casino. Just as they'd calculated, the hall was humming, its patrons abuzz not with her arrival, but with the recent, outrageous wager. She strode confidently to the bar.
"Firewhisky. Double."
With the burn of the spirit still on her tongue, she made her way to a wizarding poker table and took a seat opposite the croupier — a man whose face was a roadmap of scars, his eyes vacant and glassy. Hermione tipped a pouch of Galleons onto the felt. In silence, he exchanged them for a stack of heavy chips, cold to the touch. Three others were already seated: an elderly goblin, his fingers thick with rings; a young witch with a sharp, vulpine gaze; and a silent, masked figure in a dark, hooded robe.
The croupier gave a wave of his hand. The deck of cards shuffled itself in mid-air, shedding iridescent sparks, before five cards dealt themselves to each player. Hermione gathered hers. The rules were similar to Muggle poker, but with one crucial, magical distinction. One card in the deck, the "Chameleon," bore the faintly luminous image of a crimson devil's mask. Through sheer force of will, a player could attempt to alter its suit and value into whatever they needed to complete their hand. Success depended on concentration and magical power. It was a game not merely of bluff and calculation, but of raw willpower.
The first hand was dealt. Hermione was holding absolute rubbish. But Charlotte Beverley, desperate and impulsive, wouldn't have folded. She would have risked it. Granger placed a small bet. The goblin immediately tripled it. It was a clear signal to fold, but feigning a nervous resolve, she called, pushing her chips into the pot. When the cards were revealed, the goblin showed three kings with a smirk. Hermione surrendered her chips without a word, feeling the witch’s appraising gaze on her. She was losing, and it was perfect.
The second deal brought her two pair — aces and eights. A decent hand. She made a confident bet. The witch and the masked man folded. The goblin hesitated, but ultimately folded as well. The small pot of chips was pushed toward her. She allowed herself a brief, greedy smile. She needed to show a glimmer of hope, to make the subsequent fall all the more dramatic.
Nearly an hour passed. Her stack of chips ebbed and flowed. She won just enough to stay in the game, but she lost more, projecting an air of pure recklessness. Finally, the hand she had been waiting for was dealt.
In her hand were four diamonds, including the King and Queen. And the fifth card was the Chameleon. She was one card shy of a royal flush — the most powerful, virtually unbeatable combination in the game. A once-in-a-lifetime hand. The perfect lure for a player on the verge of betting everything.
She made a show of trying to hide her excitement, biting her lip as the betting began. The goblin folded at once. The hooded man made a heavy bet. The witch, scrutinizing Hermione's face, called him. The action was on her now. The moment of truth. Hermione glanced at her small stack of chips. There was nothing for it but to bet everything.
"All in," she said, her voice catching with a deliberate tremor. She slid her entire stack into the center of the table.
The hooded man froze for a beat, then mucked his cards. It was down to her and the witch. For several long seconds, the woman stared from the mountain of chips to Hermione, trying to peel back her façade. At last, with a predatory smile, she called the bet, shoving her own mountain of chips forward.
"Showdown," the croupier announced.
The witch revealed her hand with a triumphant flourish. A full house: three jacks over two tens. A monster of a hand. Every eye in the room swiveled to Hermione. Slowly, she laid out her four diamonds. A hush fell over the hall. Everyone waited to see what the Chameleon would become. She laid her palm over the card, closed her eyes, and focused her will. She had to make it the Jack of Diamonds.
In the van, Ron felt every muscle in her body go taut. He could sense the torrent of her magic as she channeled it into the card. Beneath her palm, the card began to glow, the crimson devil's mask pulsing brighter. She almost had it…
But in that instant, a drunken wizard behind her roared with laughter, and someone dropped a tray of glasses. The shattering of glass pierced her concentration for a fraction of a second. It was all it took. The glow on the card flickered and died.
She lifted her hand. The Chameleon was gone, its form now fixed and immutable. It was… the two of spades.
A worthless, pathetic two.
Her royal flush was gone. She was left with nothing but a King-high. A collective sigh swept through the onlookers. The witch shrieked with laughter, raking in the enormous pot. Hermione sat motionless, staring at the empty felt before her. The croupier regarded her with a blank, emotionless gaze.
She had lost everything.
Inside the van, Ron felt an icy void — her emptiness — mingled with the sharp triumph of a role perfectly played. Hermione rose slowly from the table, swaying on her feet. She looked broken. And she was perfect.
It was at that precise moment that the atmosphere in the hall shifted. A wave of imperious magic rippled through the room. From the shadows by the staircase, he emerged.
Is that…?
Bloody hell.
The broad-shouldered man glided across the floor, his path aimed directly at her. He stopped beside her, plucking a glass of something dark red from a nearby counter.
"Not your night," he said, his voice low.
"Luck's a fickle bitch," she whispered, not lifting her head. A tremor ran through her. It can't be.
Then he turned to face her fully, a slow, deliberate movement that compelled her to finally lift her head, as if she were a marionette and he were pulling the invisible strings.
And she met his gaze. Hermione's heart faltered and, for a moment, it stopped. The grey eyes she remembered from her very first year at Hogwarts— petulant and spiteful — were gone. These were the color of polished silver, reflecting nothing but the void. They were as cold as a winter sky, as the space between the stars, and in their depths lay not a single flicker of emotion, only the detached, appraising consciousness of a predator that looked not *at* her, but *through* her, seeing every one of her fears and desires.
His face… Merlin, his face
His boyish angularity had been supplanted by an inhuman, honed beauty. His skin, as pale as a marble statue, seemed to hold a faint, inner luminescence. The aristocratic Malfoy lines had sharpened in him to an impossible perfection: high cheekbones, a straight nose, a clean-cut jaw — all as if carved by a master sculptor. Even his platinum hair seemed different — not merely fair, but utterly devoid of warmth, as if spun from moonlight and hoarfrost. And his lips… perfectly defined, they curved in the ghost of a smile, yet it held no mirth, only the awareness of his own absolute, undeniable power.
He stood perfectly still, and that stillness was more menacing than any movement. It was the poise of a hungry predator that has already chosen its prey and knows there is nowhere to run. This was not the Draco Malfoy she had known. That boy was dead. In his place stood something else, beautiful and lethal.
"Luck has nothing to do with it," his voice was low and velvety, cutting through the casino's din. For Hermione, it became the only sound in the universe. "The House always wins. But sometimes… the House is willing to extend a second chance. Especially to those who are prepared to stake something more valuable than money."
"I have nothing left," she whispered, unable to tear her gaze from his hypnotic eyes.
His lips curved a fraction more.
"You are mistaken, Miss Beverley. You have the most important thing of all."
He gestured to the bartender, who placed a new stack of chips in front of Hermione. It was far larger than the one she had started with.
"A line of credit. From the house," Malfoy said. "But we will discuss the interest on it privately. In my office. Should you lose again, of course."
The bait was taken. And now, the real game would begin.